On 6 January, I wrote a short memo to our newsdesk: “Something we probably want to keep an eye on are these severe viral pneumonia cases that have been racking up (now 44) in Wuhan – China has said that it is not Sars.”

Since then, I have been reporting on coronavirus from Beijing, Hong Kong, Shanghai and most recently Wuhan. I could not have known then how my life would soon be consumed by this story. I have spent the four months since constantly weighing the risks to my family, my colleagues and the people we interviewed against my responsibility as a journalist.

Reports about a mysterious strain of pneumonia in Wuhan – a city I had only vague memories of from a reporting trip in 2013 – began cropping up in late December. I relayed to my editor the government’s assurance that there was no sign the virus was being transmitted between humans.

Partly, I didn’t think the Chinese authorities would get this wrong after the cover-up and fallout from Sars in 2002-03. But also I wanted to believe them – even as a trained sceptic who has covered China for years. I knew how complicated and difficult life would become if this turned into an epidemic.

Within two weeks, officials announced the virus was contagious. Hospitals in Wuhan were rammed with panicked, sick residents, and the city went into lockdown. I struggled with the decision of when to go to Wuhan, or whether or not to stay in China. We knew very little about how the virus was transmitted and how serious it could get.

For a few weeks, my mum called every day demanding I come back to the US. She would send message after message, including audio recordings of Taiwanese news shows in case I didn’t have access to the news. My husband, also in the US at the time, was more measured and trusted me to make the right call. My editors said to leave as soon as I felt unsafe. I promised to if things got worse.

Over the next few months, I worked in a state of de facto quarantine from my living room in Beijing, in friends’ apartments in Hong Kong and in a hotel in Shanghai with so few guests the staff turned most of the lights off to save electricity. I called people in Wuhan and watched videos of dead bodies in hospitals, health workers breaking down under the strain, residents pleading for help. I scrolled through pages of online posts from people asking for advice after being turned away from hospitals and ignored by overwhelmed government staff. There were several accounts of suicides.

Seemingly small, random details about people trying to care for their elderly relatives would bring me to tears. A woman described putting a blanket down in a hospital lobby for her parents, turned away but too sick for the journey home. They slept on the floor and later both died. A young woman studying abroad talked with her sick father until his phone battery ran out as, unable to find transport, he walked several miles home from the hospital. The last time I spoke to her, he was in critical condition.

Facebook Twitter Pinterest Passengers arriving at Wuhan station for a train to Shanghai after lockdown measures in the city were lifted. Photograph: Héctor Retamal/AFP via Getty Images

These stories were difficult because I could see myself in them. If my mother were dying and police would not let me through a checkpoint to get her help, I would also rage at them – demanding to know whether or not they were human beings.

Then, almost suddenly, the story shifted. The number of daily new infections in China began dropping. After 76 days of people being shut inside their city and their homes, Wuhan would soon begin to let residents leave. I went to witness the end of the lockdown at the start of this month and report on what went wrong in the early days of the outbreak.

Wuhan felt strangely calm. People seemed ready to move on, commenting only that things were “much better”. They were no longer angry at authorities for suppressing early warnings of the virus. Seeing other countries struggle, they were appreciative of their own government’s efforts. “Now we know what the word motherland means,” a nurse said while giving me a throat swab to test if I had the virus – a requirement before coming back to Beijing.

But there were signs of trauma and resentment below the surface. One woman broke down crying during an interview. Even though the lockdown was lifted, she was scared to go out and she was still angry at whoever had allowed this to happen. Others were filing lawsuits, demanding officials be held accountable.

Reporting those stories was also difficult. I was repeatedly told by local contacts that patients, doctors and nurses had been told not to speak to foreign media. “You are Chinese. Don’t have contact with them,” one resident said he had been told by his neighbourhood committee.

Still, people spoke to us and I worried about the impact on them. Several said local police had tried to intimidate them for talking to the Guardian, and that they had been ordered to cut off communication. When I apologised for causing them trouble, one said: “I’m glad I got to share with you. It’s what we should do.” Another told me repeatedly: “I’m not scared of them.”

Recently I was woken up by a phone call from someone I had interviewed in Wuhan. They were frantic. Had I published the story? Could it be deleted? Local authorities had called them in, warning that foreign journalists like me would try to “use” people like them.

“I am just a normal person. I don’t want anything to do with politics,” they said, pausing to apologise for calling so early.

I groggily tried to explain that we had not used a name, given identifying details or printed any comments that could be construed as opposition to the government. Still, they were worried about their job and family, and confused as to why sharing a personal experience was politically sensitive.

That is what has been the hardest, but also most inspiring, thing about covering this outbreak. Not only are people reliving the most painful experiences of their lives when they talk to us, but they are also risking being harassed, or worse, so that the rest of the world can know what really happened in Wuhan. Many of them speak out anyway.