Three years after my brother died by suicide, I started going to wars.

A friend made a phony press pass for me.

I borrowed a video camera, bought some wireless microphones, and snuck into Myanmar to shoot a story about young people fighting

the Burmese government.

Months later I went to Somalia to report on a famine and civil war.

I'd never seen suffering and death on that scale. I was in a town called Baidoa

where about a hundred people were dying every day. As dusk fell, I watched a man and his

wife in a hut made of twigs fill a kettle with what

little water they had.

Between them lay their young son who just died.

His body was covered in a dirty cloth.

The man held the boy's head in his left hand.

The woman poured the water over her son to wash him.

They'd already watched their three other boys die.

This was their last. He was five years old.

It was in Somalia on that trip 32 years ago that I knew I'd found my calling. I couldn't stop the starvation, I couldn't

save people's lives, but I could bear witness to their struggles. I could tell their stories.

I'm not sure if it's been healthy for me to do this year after year, decade after decade,

but I do think in a way it saved me, seeing what others have been through, telling their stories.

It's put my own pain into perspective. It's

helped me survive.

Hey, it's Mel Robbins, and I've got a new podcast.

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