There is a strange tension I have been living in lately.

I care deeply about my work. Not in a casual, clock-in-clock-out kind of way, but in the way that has shaped my prayers, my conversations, my dreams, and the lines on my face. The kind of caring that rearranges your insides. The kind that roots you into a place and into people.

And yet, I am ready to leave.

Both of these things are true at the same time. And for a long while, I felt like they shouldn’t be.

For years, Mercy Ships has been more than a job. It has been a place that felt weighty in the best way. It has been stepping into hard moments at sunrise and holding space for them at sunset. It has been laughter in hospital corridors, difficult conversations in cramped offices, shared meals, shared grief, shared victories. It has been standing shoulder to shoulder with nurses who choose to keep showing up, even when resources are thin, and the system feels heavy.

I have loved this place wholeheartedly.

And that is what makes leaving feel complicated.

Somehow, I had internalised the idea that if you truly love something, you should never want to leave it. That readiness to move on must mean detachment, or burnout, or failure. But that isn’t what this is. I am not leaving because I stopped caring. I am leaving while I still care deeply.

That is the juxtaposition.

There have been days when I’ve leaned too far into my love for this work, clinging tightly, wanting to hold on, wanting to protect what has been built, wanting to keep showing up because it matters so much. On those days, the thought of leaving feels almost disloyal.

And then there are days when I lean too far the other way, imagining the next season, feeling the lightness of change, sensing that my time here is complete. On those days, staying feels like forcing something that has already run its course.

The hard part has been learning not to resolve the tension too quickly.

To sit in it.

To allow myself to say, “I love this deeply” and “It is time to go” in the same breath.

There is grief in that sentence. But there is also health.

I am learning that loving a community well does not mean staying forever. Sometimes loving well means recognising when your role has been to plant, or to water, but not to harvest. Sometimes it means trusting that the work does not depend on you. That it never did.

There is humility in that. And freedom.

I think part of what makes this so tender is that love creates roots. And roots are not meant to be ripped out carelessly. They hold memories. They hold relationships. They hold the quiet, ordinary faithfulness of years.

But seasons change.

In nature, we don’t accuse autumn of betrayal because it lets go of summer. We understand that cycles are part of growth. And yet when it comes to our own lives, we resist that same grace. We want continuity. We want clarity. We want clean endings.

What I am experiencing is not clean. It is layered.

I feel gratitude and anticipation.
Grief and excitement.
Attachment and release.

I am discovering that maturity might look like holding both without letting either dominate. Not numbing my love in order to leave more easily. Not clinging to my love in order to avoid moving on.

Just holding them both, gently.

Perhaps the truest thing I can say is this: the fact that it is hard to leave is evidence that it mattered.

And maybe that is enough.

So here I am. Loving fully. Letting go slowly. Trusting that both can coexist. Trusting that departure does not erase devotion. Trusting that endings can honour what has been without diminishing what is to come.

It turns out you can care deeply and still be ready to go.

And sometimes, that is exactly how you know it is time.