I remember the day I first came here (Fyshwick; I'm young enough never to have worked in Mort Street). I'd been working at the Northern Star in Lismore for about six months, and I was homesick, missing my love (who's still my love – where's my piece of paper to mark that occasion?), and wanting to come back to Canberra. I had previously applied for a job here when I graduated from the Canberra College of Advanced Education (I am old enough that my degree doesn't say University of Canberra), but got the thanks-but-no-thanks letter from the then editor Crispin Hull. But there's nothing like a stint on a country newspaper to give you the skills and experience to stand out, so this time at least I got in the door.

I was ushered into a room and Crispin and his deputy, Jack Waterford, came in, Crispin all nerves and energy, Jack booming like he still does. They hauled me over the coals and I think the only reason I got the job was that I impressed Crispin, an avid squash fan, when I knew who had won the world championship of squash that very week. (Fortuitously I had subbed a story on that very topic the night before up in Lismore. For the record, Jansher Khan beat Australia's own Chris Dittmar.)

On my first paid night here, I was given a job as a sub-editor in the sports department. There were two newbies on the desk, myself and Peter Clack, and a fellow called Chris Uhlmann who has gone on to bigger and better things, and somehow we muddled our way through the night and celebrated with a beer that someone had left in the fridge. Those were the days.

And that's what I've been doing ever since – muddling through, not drinking beer; they cracked down on that at some point in the late 1990s. Damn them.

Not that this is a eulogy. Far from it. I plan to be here for a lot longer. And shall remain deliriously optimistic about the state of the industry and the future of journalism. I've outlasted seven or so editors, so I must be doing something right. Perhaps if I get to 50 years of service I might get that gold watch, or a cake at least, a little speech from Jack who has known me longer than most. I want to go before he does as his farewell speeches are second to none. That's the only exit strategy I have.

When I look back at my career I sometimes wonder what I've done. Twenty-five years a journalist and none of those years spent as an actual news reporter. I reckon I could count my page one stories on one hand. The most memorable was a Northern Star story about a rather large snake that someone had found in their kitchen. Hard news. Instead I've worked in the sports department on both sides of the fence, in production and reporting, and spent many a year working under Bill Goodall on the features desk, producing all the pages that filled the space between news and sport. I gave birth to the original Relax in 2000, the year before I gave birth to my first baby. And here I am again. How the world turns.

Many people, when they find out you're a journalist, assume you must cover politics or crime or something that matters. But no. I've loved every minute of my career, my journalism-lite life. I like to tell a story and I've found my place buried in the middle of the paper.

Many people, too, often wonder why I've never left, to look, as many, many colleagues have done over the years, for greener, better paid pastures. It's simple. I really, really enjoy what I do, I think I do it pretty well, and this job, particularly now, affords me the flexibility to be with my flesh and blood family.

But here is like a big family too. We laugh and fight and disagree about things every day. We have each other's backs and bitch behind each other's backs. We hug crying colleagues in the ladies' loo, we fight over the bananas on the fruit plates (Belot!), we gossip about The Bachelor and discuss real issues such as Mr Fluffy and fires and football. I work with smart, funny people. People who are truly concerned about what's happening in this city, this country. Whether you think that or not.

My proudest moments come when I might get a letter, or an email from a reader, telling me how much something I have written has touched them, as they too juggle all that life throws at you. I've got a couple of handwritten ones (yes, actually letters on paper, written by someone's hand) pinned on my wall, a folder in my emails with quick notes from people. It's always nice to know that what you're doing has meaning even if it will never win you a Walkley Award.

For at the end of the day it is about the stories we tell, your stories; sometimes, self-indulgently, our own stories. Stories that matter to people.

Twenty-five years. Who would have thought.