Hello, partner. This is probably the last time you will hear these words from me.

Lately, I have been thinking about grief. Not only the kind that follows death, but the grief that comes with unexpected change, unfulfilled dreams and the realisation that life does not always unfold as we imagined.

We know how to mourn when someone dies. We gather, we remember, we cry and, eventually, we learn to live with their absence. But there are losses that come without funerals, relationships that never become what we hoped they would, opportunities that disappear and chapters that close before we are ready to turn the page. There are no rituals for these things. Often we are expected to carry on as though nothing has happened.

What happens when the life you have spent years building suddenly looks different?

For a decade and a half I have been building my life, brick by brick. Every experience, sacrifice and setback has contributed to the person I have become.

Then, in 20 minutes I watched the walls I had spent years building begin to crumble. What a wave that was.

One moment you are moving through familiar routines, assuming tomorrow will look much like today. The next you are trying to comprehend a reality you had not prepared yourself for, not to mention the uncertainty and the realisation that life may no longer look the way you imagined.

For months I mourned. At my big age I find myself reflecting on how much of life requires us to adapt to circumstances we never chose. We make plans, the careers we will build and the people we expect to celebrate our milestones with. Then life happens and we must find our footing again.

I think about what it means to pack 13 years of my life into a suitcase. Thirteen years of memories, familiar streets and personal history. Thirteen years in a city that has held different versions of me, from the person I was when I arrived to the woman I am today.

How do you fit 13 years into a suitcase?

You cannot. You take what you can, leave what you must and carry the rest in memory.

Leaving is rarely just about the physical place. It means saying goodbye to familiar faces, routines and the comfort of knowing where you belong. We can be grateful for a chapter and still be sad that it has ended. Both can be true.

For those of us who believe in God, these moments can challenge our faith, too. We pray and hope, sometimes believing that faith will spare us the pain of disappointment. Yet scripture makes room for lament, uncertainty and tears. Even Jesus wept.

We can trust God and still be heartbroken. Faith does not require us to deny our pain. Sometimes it gives us the courage to face it honestly.

That is the kind of hope I am holding on to: not the certainty that everything will happen according to my plans, but the belief that my plans are not the limit of what life can offer.

As I prepare to say goodbye to People’s Post I have been reflecting on what journalism has taught me. Behind every headline is a human being navigating circumstances more complicated than we can see. I have spent years listening to those stories in living rooms and community halls, on street corners and at kitchen tables.

The most important part of the work is not the story you publish, but the moment before it, when someone decides they trust you enough to tell it.

110 Edward Road, Bo Oakdale: where it all began. That is where I honed my craft alongside people who became more than colleagues. I will miss our inside jokes, the camaraderie that carried us through impossible deadlines, the late evenings and the shared glances, smiles and bursts of laughter that said more than words could.

You do not simply leave a job when you leave a newsroom. You leave behind a shared language, familiar rituals and people who understand the pressures and joys of the work because they have lived them alongside you.

I mourn that too. Now, I must extend some of that understanding to myself. As I leave this publication I carry gratitude for the work I have done, the communities I have encountered and the stories I have been privileged to tell.

If you are shredding skin, as I am, give yourself permission to acknowledge what it means to you.Then allow yourself to imagine what life might look like beyond it.

I am learning that I can honour the years behind me without trying to recreate them. Even when life dismantles what I thought I knew, I remain capable of building again.

Hello, partner. Thank you for being a partner in my growth, for reading my words, for allowing me into your lives and for trusting me to tell the stories of our communities. Thank you for being part of this chapter.

As I say goodbye, I do so with gratitude for what has been, sadness for what is ending and hope for what is still possible. For the last time, from People’s Post: I am Namhla Monakali.

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