A raging summer sun pressed down on the single-story shops and eateries, each storefront faded in colour, forever fighting for the attention of passers-by.

Heat swelled from the pan-stained pavement. I was reminded of my home – an ocean away – not because of any similarities, but because of its utter contrast to suburban Melbourne. The class stood in the plaza, craning our necks to hear our instructor’s voice over the sounds of morning bustle. This was Jackson Heights, Queens, the most diverse neighbourhood in New York, “if not the world,” my instructor beamed.

I clutched my notepad and pen as determination ceded to nervousness. Our activity was simple. We were to interview the residents of Jackson Heights, collate snippets of their lives, and piece together their story. It was a test of skill and perseverance. 20 students, hopeful would-be journalists, tasked with the rawest practice of the craft. The class ranged in ability. Many were experienced interviewers who were at-ease and confident. On the other end of the spectrum, there were those, like me, frantically scanning the blur of faces, unsure of where to begin, who to approach.

As the group dispersed, I settled on a man who was people-watching by himself. My heart pounded as I neared him.

“Hi! I’m a summer student from The School of The New York Times. Do you have a moment for some questions?” My voice was too cheery. My eyes did not meet his.

The man looked up and paused. Was he annoyed? Confused? Perhaps he didn’t hear what I said over the sound of the traffic. Should I repeat myself? Wait for his response? He’s just taking his time to answer, right? An eternity later, he nodded reluctantly. I looked down on my notepad. The question stumbled in my mouth. He started to talk. I tried to jot down his reply in scrambled handwriting. I was hiding behind my notepad, too closed-off for him to feel comfortable talking to me. Before I could ask my second question, he waved me away.

This happened again and again. At midday, I flipped through my pitiful page of notes. I felt dejected, exhausted. In that moment, it was so easy to surrender to that feeling. I could give in and let the wave of disappointment wash me astray. I do not have the skills to be a journalist. I must accept that as the reality.

But I shouldn’t accept that as my future. I may be defined by my past and present, but my future is defined by myself, my determination and passion. Things change, people change. It is up to me to decide which path to choose. Fight or flight. Improve or give up. If I choose the former, and give it my all, I will be one step closer to my aspiration. This was easier said than done. In my state of desperation, I did not know how to fight, how to improve. Luckily, I did not have to struggle alone. Courage can be found in the support of others. And with a newfound determination, I told my instructor of my predicament.

‘Why are you nervous about interviewing them?’ He asked.

I considered his question. It was the fear of the unknown. The fear of rejection. I have no idea what thoughts course behind a stranger’s eyes. But ultimately, it was the fear of failure. I overthink and doubt my judgement because I try, in vain, to anticipate every possible scenario as I conduct an interview. I scribble frantic notes because I worry that there will not be enough to write about. I don’t want to fail the task, but by becoming so rigid and uptight, I was working against myself.

Courage is embracing this fear. I decided to ditch my notepad. No notes from now on. This meant that in essence, I had already ‘failed’ the task, which went against everything I had intended. Yet it filled me with a great sense of freedom and autonomy. With the notepad locked securely in my bag, I gazed at the people around me. Each of them went about their day. Their lives separate, unique, equally vibrant, intertwined. I wanted to uncover their stories.

There was an elderly lady sitting on a bench, watching a group of kids playing ball. As I approached her, my hands felt empty, but my mind was clear. I sat beside her and asked her questions. Not because I had to, but because I could.

“We come here every day,” she said. “My grandson over there wants to be a soccer champion when he grows up.”

I was reminded of how, years ago, my grandmother would bring me to play outside. She would watch absently, on a bench in the same way. In this stranger’s smile, I could see the same wrinkles in the corners of her eyes. And I listened intently.