The Hardest Goodble of My Professional Life

[This article was first published on my Medium]

For some reason, my bookmarked work calendar always opens to September 2024 and it brings a bittersweet kind of pain. Let me tell you why.

Each time I log into my computer and click that bookmark, it takes me back to the first week of September 2024. I’m not entirely sure why. Maybe the browser saved the exact time I bookmarked it and assumed that’s the moment I want to revisit forever. It’s like staring at a frozen moment of my life, and instantly, a flood of memories rushes back.

But why does this particular timestamp hurt so much? Well, that’s a long story.

The end of 2024 was a whirlwind. The organization I work with went through a restructuring that triggered a cascade of changes, especially in our team. It wasn’t entirely unexpected. One of the known quirks of working with the government is that every five years, with the political shift, there’s almost always a structural reset. Our organization is closely tied to a government body, so every administrative change up there echoes down here.

When I joined in 2022, I had already planted a quiet countdown in my head, ticking toward the 2024 election. I knew it would shake things up. I thought I’d be prepared. I assumed the eventual goodbye would be just another professional farewell — something I’ve done many times in my decade-long career. But joke’s on me. It turned out to be one of the most painful goodbyes I’ve ever had.

Flashback to March 2022 — my first month on the team. I fell in love with it almost immediately. I was assigned to the Higher Education team, where we worked on programs and tech interventions to support various players in the ecosystem: university students, lecturers, school administrators, even industry partners collaborating on research and internships.

The team? Incredibly smart. Passionate. Purpose-driven. People who understood the systemic problems in Indonesian education and wanted to do something about it. I remember thinking, “Wow, I might be the dumbest person in this room”. And that comforted me because I never want to be in a team where I feel otherwise. It was my happy place.

Later that year, we went to Yogyakarta for a field research trip to measure the impact of the Kampus Merdeka program — a government initiative designed to let students learn beyond campus walls through internships, research, and other real-world programs. We stayed in a rented house together for a week. It was intense and exhausting (we often stayed up late synthesizing insights), but something clicked. I bonded with the team on a personal level. Even though I was still new, they embraced me like I had always been part of it. I felt like a puzzle piece that finally found its spot on the board. I remember telling myself after that trip: This is the team I want to stay with for as long as I can.

Among the millions of things I loved about this team, what I appreciated most was how they treated me as an equal. As a UX Writer, being left out of the design process is sadly familiar — usually brought in as an afterthought. But not here. In this team, everyone stood on equal ground. Regardless of titles.

I remember the first time my designer partner said this during a meeting, “Hi, guys. Today we’ll have a design review of the flow I explored together with Keke.” My heart exploded. It was such a simple statement, but for someone like me who’s used to being in the background, it meant the world. I’ve always advocated to be treated as a design partner, not just a writer. But this was the first time a designer openly acknowledged that partnership. I wasn’t just in the room. I was seen.

That “we’re all in this together” spirit also ran deep in our team. Everyone got along equally— something you don’t always see in design teams. Our Monday stand-ups were the highlight of my week. Sure, we talked about work, but we also shared weekend stories, swapped movie and book recs, even hyped up our favorite snacks. It felt like working with close friends. I’d feel a bit of FOMO whenever I took a day off, not because I missed the tasks — but because I missed them.

Fast forward to the last quarter of 2024, uncertainty loomed. With the upcoming government shift, even our organization’s future was unclear — let alone the team’s. I had faced uncertainty before, but this time it hit differently. I knew this day would come, but I didn’t expect it to hurt this much. Saying goodbye to this brilliant, hardworking, kind bunch of humans? It wrecked me.

That whole quarter felt like a haze. We said goodbye so many times, not because we were dramatic, but because we never knew when would be the last time. Every meeting could’ve been the final one. It was a season full of tears, awkward silences, stares into nothing, and general heartbreak. And even after all those farewells, it still feels surreal to not work with them anymore. I keep hoping it’s just a really long nightmare.

The first working day of 2025, it all became real. The restructure had officially disbanded our team. Of the 10 people in my team, only 3 of us remained — reassigned to completely different initiatives. Our Slack channel went from 10 members to 3. I realized I’d been clinging to the memory of them like sand slipping through my fingers. And now, all that’s left is the memory. A beautiful one, but still — just a memory.

So now, maybe you understand why September hits different.

In September, my calendar was full of meetings with them. In September, my days were filled with laughter, collaboration, and camaraderie. In September, I still had my beloved team.

This post feels a lot like a breakup letter, and I wonder about the similarities — the grief, the nostalgia, the what-ifs. If this was a breakup, it’s the kind where I wasn’t ready to let go. But maybe this is for the better. I hope it is. I hope that someday — 10 or 20 years from now — I’ll revisit this memory and smile.

For now, I think it’s time to change that calendar bookmark. I can’t keep letting grief and nostalgia be the first emotions of my day.