With love and gratitude, signing off for the last time

As I sit down to gather my thoughts and reflections, my mind is overwhelmed by this spiraling emotional soliloquy of lament, nostalgia, anxiety and optimism. There’s so much I want to say, both for myself and the communities I’ve come to cherish, yet I, supposably a writer, have a hard time finding the words.

I feel myself reverting to my high school journaling tactics just get my thoughts straight…so, forgive me and my cliché:

Dear Port Chester, Dear Rye Brook, Dear Diary,

I moved to New York from Michigan seven years ago in November 2017, a few weeks after accepting a reporter position at the Westmore News. I don’t think I’ll ever forget the intensity of the adrenaline that consumed me during that 11-hour drive, my white knuckled hands gripping the steering wheel as I listened to a chaotic mix of indie and electronic music like a true millennial. The whole way, I grappled with a borderline crippling fear and anxiety about the unknown I was stepping into coupled with this pure, relentless hope and optimism about what the future might bring. It was a high like no other.

I did not come here for the job.

Rather, I was chasing a Hudson Valley boy I met at a music festival (Bonnaroo in Tennessee) in Summer 2016. I, a hopeless romantic who fell in love more quickly than I’d ever advise a friend to do, was frankly just looking for any journalism gig in New York that would allow me to use my degree and kickstart my career while bringing me closer to him so we could give a relationship a legitimate try.

I did not come for the job. But clearly, I stayed. Even after putting in the two years I initially promised myself I would for solid resumé experience, I stayed. Even after moving to Ulster County in 2020, I stayed. Because by some star-aligning, serendipitous grace, I stumbled into these communities that, as many others can attest to, have this way of pulling you in.

This might be the most special pocket of the world I’ll ever know—a true, fascinating microcosm that somehow captures the issues and beauties that are relevant and relatable all over the U.S. And, for me, it ended up being the perfect spot to land.

Communities suffer without a local newspaper, and it’s heartbreaking that this is the last edition of the Westmore News. At its core, this newspaper has been a representation of the people for decades, promoting civic involvement, local awareness and community connection. Journalism is such an important branch of democracy and enlightenment, and the sad state of the world is we’re seeing less and less of it while figures in power successfully deem it an institutional enemy of the people.

While this newspaper has legitimate reasons for closing—everyone deserves retirement—do not cast away the critical nature of the field. I hope our readers will use our departure as motivation.

Stay vigilant, stay active, stay locally literate.

I was “thrown into the flames,” as they say, when I first arrived at the Westmore News. Around three weeks prior, cement cantilevers had fallen from the exterior of Port Chester Middle School and the district was figuring out what to do, beginning the fraught discussions about whether they should repurpose the $80 million bond that passed earlier that year in March or propose a new bond for the repairs.

I didn’t know what a bond was; I didn’t know how property taxes worked. And at seemingly endless special meetings of the Board of Education, I was witnessing residents show up to animatedly debate (to say the least) the matter, putting forth the good old Port Chester passion that used to define those days.

Very quickly, I had to learn a lot. And I was fueled to master it by that passion of the people.

What I didn’t fully realize in those early days but came to wholeheartedly embrace is that community journalism may be the most important of the news media. It’s the local newspapers with journalists who make it their business to know more about their communities than anyone else—including the politicians and public figures—that inform you with compelling context about what is happening in town, why you should care, and what your community is really all about.

Since I established myself in New York seven years ago, my identity has been defined by the work I do in Port Chester and Rye Brook. And that’s because of the way I totally invested myself in the values and role of a community journalist.

To do my job, I had to become a part of this community. And all of you accepted me. You took me in as one of your own. And in turn, I became deeply, emotionally attached—to the culture, the politics and the people.

It’s hard to admit, but in a way, I know I’m ready to start my next chapter; I’ve probably been ready for a while. But hesitation has always held me back because I know there is so much I will miss.

I’ll miss the thrill of election nights and being in the know through off-the-record gossip from great sources.

I’ll miss the many times I’d come to the office ranting after meetings, fuming because I saw something go down that I felt was wrong, unfair or secretive (I’ve always thrived when I’m worked up).

Most of all, though, I’ll miss the people.

Through my coverage, I’ve grown. I’ve learned to take accountability for my mistakes and stand by my work when I know I’m right. And I think I’ve become a better person. I’m more open-minded, able to understand and empathize with people who think differently than I do and have developed a healthy criticism of those pushing ideas that I typically believe in.

That was exemplified over the last week. Since our closing announcement went live, my phone has been chiming with calls and messages from folks on opposites sides of the ideological spectrum. And frankly, I think that means I’ve done my job well.

Over the years, I’ve made genuine, caring friendships. And I was able to tell impactful stories because of the trust built over that time. I’ll miss the familiar faces that gave purpose to my work.

A few weeks ago, I wrote a story about Port Chester’s first female Eagle Scout—a piece I had sentimental, personal feelings about. I first met Ariana Ayala when she joined the Cub Scouts five years prior, while I was reporting on the trailblazing girls joining the local BSA organization and had crossed paths with her several times since then. From a distance, I watched Ariana grow up to become a confident, precocious young woman with so much to offer this world.

I left my interview with her in tears because of a moment I shared with her mother, Idania.

After chatting with Ariana in Crawford Park about her project, Idania approached with a manila envelope sealing memories. Inside was a packet of scanned Westmore News pages—photos and stories about the Scouts, the community and Corpus Christi-Holy Rosary School where Ariana appeared. My byline was on every page.

In a nutshell, Idania thanked me—communicating that I, whether I know it or not, have been a silent presence at the center of their lives, documenting special moments for them as their children grew up in Port Chester. And she made a point to say they’re not the only ones who feel this way, that she sees me at events, parades and festivals, wielding a camera so I can do the same for others.

I could not handle the gravity of the moment. It’s not the first time I’ve been thanked; I’ve seen many articles I’ve written framed and hung on living room walls, my work has been complimented by folks, sometimes strangers, I’ve run into at the grocery store. Perhaps this time, however, the timing was a little too poignant. At that point I knew what the future of our publication had in store, and I had been in a sappy phase of reflection for a few weeks.

But it also served as a powerful reminder of purpose. I, and this newspaper, have faced our fair share of criticism, usually from elected officials who didn’t like the coverage. And honestly, that’s OK. If anything, it means we’re doing something right. Because we don’t write for them; we write for families like the Ayalas.

I don’t share my story about Ariana to boast. Rather, I’ve been thinking so much about it over the last few weeks because it felt incomplete—I’m the one who should be expressing the most genuine appreciation.

I owe Editor and Publisher Jananne and Richard Abel the sincerest gratitude that can be poured. They took me under their wing, and they always supported me and fostered the type of community journalism I wanted to pursue. Over our years, we grew a relationship akin to family—from the bickering to the late-night philosophical talks to the pure and wholehearted excitement for each other when big life moments happen.

Very few truly understand the work and dedication it’s taken to establish an institution like the Westmore News, and they deserve a very happy retirement.

And of the Port Chester and Rye Brook communities, I’m at a loss for words. Is it even possible to express my thanks?

I don’t know where I’d be or who I’d be if it weren’t for the last seven years.

Thank you for the vulnerability—for welcoming me into your homes, your lives, and sharing your stories with me. I’ve shed tears with many of you over the injustices you’ve seen; I’ve cried alongside parents at every graduation ceremony. We’ve laughed over drinks, and we’ve shared hopes and dreams about our futures.

Thank you for the friendship. Thank you for welcoming me with open arms. Thank you for not just giving me community but teaching me what it means to be a community.

Thank you for allowing me to build a life in New York that I now feel homesick for whenever I visit Michigan.

Something feels cosmic—poetically full-circle—about the circumstances of saying goodbye to the Westmore News. Personally, my life was already hitting a pivotal moment, where I found myself in a regular state of reflection and forward thinking.

As of September, that Bonnaroo boyfriend who I spontaneously moved across the country for became my fiancé. We’re getting married in April 2026, and I could not be more excited for the beautiful life that awaits.

Once again, I’m overcome by intense, clashing sensations of anxiety and optimism for the future.

The tables have turned on me over the last week. Suddenly, I’m the one facing questions about my life and what comes next. I guess now I know what it feels like.

And honestly, I don’t know what the next chapter brings. For now, I’m planning to take a few weeks off over the holidays for a much-needed break and will use it as a time to think and reset.

But I likely won’t be leaving the field. Keep me in the loop. I’m a storyteller at heart, and if I’ve learned anything, this corner of the world is full of stories.

Many of you have my number; I’m active on social media. I trust y’all know how to find me.