As the pages turn for the final time, I find myself reflecting on a journey that spanned almost three decades—one defined by stories told, lessons learned, and bonds formed.

The criticisms came. I’d like to think I developed a thick skin, but instead, it was my stubbornness (from birth) that made me persevere. We were always told as journalists that if someone praises you, then you aren’t doing something right and that if they don't, then you are doing it right. I’ve had my fair share over the last almost three decades. I thank each and everyone who supported me over the years, who trusted me to tell your stories.

I joined the newsroom towards the end of June 1996, just days shy of my birthday; still a teenager, stepping into a world I was only beginning to understand. I had always known I wanted to be a writer. I wrote stories in old copybooks; it was in my blood. My father was a journalist, and although he left the profession before I arrived, journalism never truly left him. I watched him cut and paste headlines, lay out pages for his advertorials, and hammer away at his trusty typewriter, crafting stories with care. I think I knew then, this was the direction I wanted my life to take. Even after I joined the newsroom, my dad remained my unofficial editor, always calling in the early days with advice.