As I sit here on my final day at the newsroom, surrounded by bare desks and half-packed boxes, a bittersweet feeling hangs in the air. For years, I worked in the background as a sub-editor, shaping stories that informed, inspired, and occasionally enraged our readers.
Today, as I prepare to leave, I realise that each story I edited, every comma carefully placed, is coming back to me in flashes, like distant scenes from a favourite movie. It’s hard to believe that it’s all ending.
This newsroom, once alive with the hum of reporters chasing deadlines, editors debating over headlines, and printers churning out the latest edition, is quiet now. Computers sit in silence, monitors dim, and the phones, once buzzing incessantly, are still.
Newsrooms have always felt like places with a pulse, a sense of urgency woven into the fabric of daily life. This one, where we shared so much more than office space, feels like a second home. And just like a family house, it’s full of memories I never thought I’d have to leave behind.
For many of us, this job was more than a paycheck. It was a calling, a chance to make sense of the world and share that clarity with readers who trusted us to get it right.
The stakes were high, facts had to be verified, sources double-checked, grammar perfected. When breaking news hit, the whole team felt the rush, the thrill of being part of something bigger than themselves.
As a sub-editor, it was my job to polish that raw material, ensuring every story was accurate, clear, and worthy of our readers’ trust.
It’s hard not to get nostalgic about the long nights, where editing sessions stretched into the early hours, everyone leaning on caffeine, smokes and camaraderie. There were the quiet, shared laughs over absurd typos that slipped through on a deadline, the collective sighs of relief when a particularly tricky piece finally made it to print, and the sense of victory when a big story got the recognition it deserved.
Every shift was a reminder of the responsibility and privilege of helping shape the news, even in the smallest of ways.
Packing up my desk today, it’s these memories that fill my mind more than the folders and files I’m placing in boxes. These stories, these people, the shared mission—all of it feels like something you can’t put in a box, no matter how carefully you pack.
But it’s not just the experiences I’m taking with me. I’m also carrying the quiet, valuable lessons I learned here. Working in a newsroom taught me to listen closely, to value the power of well-chosen words, and to understand that every story, no matter how small, holds meaning for someone out there.
Those late nights, the seemingly endless edits, the relentless pursuit of accuracy—all of it has shaped who I am. In a way, this newsroom gave me a voice, even as I spent my days editing others’.
Leaving feels like the end of an era.
The journalism world has seen drastic changes, and maybe this closing is just a symptom of the times, a casualty in an industry struggling to keep up with the digital tide. But I can’t help but think of all the stories that won’t be told here now, the voices that won’t be heard, and the nation that will miss this newsroom’s constant watchful eye.
So as I walk out of these doors for the last time, I do so with a heart full of gratitude and a mind full of stories. Because while the newsroom may be closing, what it taught me will stay with me, shaping how I see the world, perhaps just a little more clearly than before. And maybe, in some small way, that’s a story worth holding onto.
