Thirty years in journalism will teach you a lot.
How to ask questions. How to listen. How to sit in rooms where answers don’t come easy.
It teaches instinct, timing, and when to push a little harder or walk away when your reporting says there’s no story there.
Most of all, it teaches you that truth matters, even when it’s uncomfortable.
Five years ago, I took all of that and stepped into something different, building Davidson Local, a free, daily news source landing in inboxes at 7:05 every morning, seven days a week.
That’s the journalism.
The small business side is something else entirely.
Everybody wants journalism. In a world full of “fake news,” people want real information, real accountability, real reporting. But very few want to pay for it.
And that tension sits at the center of everything we do.
Because building this can feel like a quiet storm. Not always loud, not always obvious, but steady enough to make you pause.
Journalism was already in a fight—with sustainability, with trust, with the system itself. Add running a small business, and you feel it even more.
Giving away free local news sounds simple. It’s not.
There’s a cost, and it’s not just financial.
Sometimes it costs friendships.
Sometimes it costs family.
Sometimes it’s people you grew up with looking at you sideways because you asked a question they didn’t want asked or told a story they didn’t want told.
Sometimes it’s social media trolls saying things you can’t even let your interns read.
Nobody prepares you for that part, because now it’s not just about protecting the work—it’s about protecting your people.
And there was a point where it felt like I almost lost everything.
Maybe that’s why “Let ’Em Know” by T.I. stays on repeat for me.
Because sometimes you have to remind people—and yourself—what you’re built on.
And for the folks who didn’t think we could make it, you can kick rocks.
That line hits different when you’ve lived it.
Still, you keep going.
That’s what these five years have been: showing up anyway when the numbers don’t add up, when support feels uncertain, when you’re trying to sustain something people depend on but don’t always understand the cost of.
I’m not doing this alone.
I’ve got peers at other papers doing the same work in their communities, holding the line and keeping local news alive. We don’t always agree, but there’s respect because we know what it takes.
Along the way, I’ve also worked with government officials who understand that transparency isn’t something you talk about—it’s something you practice.
The ones who answer the phone.
The ones who don’t hide when questions get hard.
That kind of leadership creates space for real journalism, and it matters.
And somewhere in all of this, we learned how to celebrate too.
Proclamations for National Local News Day.
A named beer at Goose and the Monkey Brewhouse.
A community listening session where we actually pause and hear the people we serve.
Whew.
Because if you don’t stop and acknowledge what you’ve built, you’ll miss it.
Here’s the business side, plain and simple.
Sustainability is real.
You can have impact, reach, and trust and still be fighting to keep the lights on.
People are the infrastructure—not just staff, but community, partners, and supporters.
No system replaces real relationships.
And you have to balance mission with margin.
You can’t give everything away without understanding the cost, but you also can’t lose the purpose chasing dollars.
That tension doesn’t disappear. You just learn how to carry it.
And yes, somewhere in the middle of all this, you end up dressing your dog up for a photo op, and even he gives you the side-eye.
You have to laugh.
Those moments matter too.
Thirty years gave me the tools.
These five years gave me perspective.
And I would be remiss if I didn’t say thank you.
To Algenon Cash for the belief.
To BJ Murphy and his team for showing up.
To Kassaundra Lockhart, our co-founder, whose foundation still shapes this work.
To Clarence Hargrave for the late nights when the work didn’t clock out.
To the pastors who poured into me along the way, thank you.
And most importantly, thank God.
The list goes on.
Not everybody will stay.
Not everybody will understand.
And that’s okay.
The ones who believe in this—really believe in it—they show up.
And as we mark five years of Davidson Local, I’m grateful.
Even on the messy days.
Even on the hard days.
Even when it feels like a disaster.
Because it still matters.
Not for the clicks.
Not for the noise.
Not for the moment.
But for the people who wake up every day needing truth they can trust.
It matters when the answers are hard to find.
It matters when nobody else is asking the question.
It matters when a community needs to see itself clearly—not filtered, not spun, just real.
Because in the middle of all the pressure, all the doubt, all the days it feels like too much, the work still stands.
And the truth still deserves a place to live.
So, let ’em know.
Antionette
