No -- I'm not pregnant, I haven't been arrested and I am not leaving Nunavut. After five exciting years of riding the media wave, I'm turning in my News/North press pass for a chair at the government table.

It's true. I'm leaving a job I obsessively love to go work as the communications manager for the Department of Sustainable Development. I'm not exactly sure how this all came about. One day I applied for a job that looked interesting. I like wildlife, I like economic development, I like tourism -- maybe I'd like the job.

Then I got hired and spent the next several weeks choking back emotion as I realized I was actually going to leave the paper. As sad as I feel as I sit here and type good-bye, I relish the challenge of setting up DSD's communications department -- much like I've loved every second spent opening the Iqaluit bureau of News/North.

Imagine my surprise when the government actually called to offer me the job. I've penned dozens of controversial stories and harsh editorials since arriving in Iqaluit in May of 1998, then a part of the Northwest Territories. And still, they want me to join the forces at the Government of Nunavut. (One politician said he was glad I would now be censored.)

Let me preface my entry into the bureaucracy by admitting my nervousness. Jumbled, anxious thoughts speed roughshod across my grey matter a million miles per minute. Will my new co-workers like me? Will they appreciate my humour? Will they be offended by my straightforward approach to the world? Will they remember the things I printed? Are they aware of all the times I publicly criticized them?

So much to worry about, so little time. I start work with the government this month.

The career change is loaded with complexities. It even means buying new clothing -- items I've come to call government clothes. Shirts with collars, none of which require ironing as far as I can tell. I must also learn to stop eating, breathing, sleeping and thinking like a reporter. As hard as it is going to be, I can no longer turn what I hear into a story. You have to admit, the irony is sweet. I'll finally get the skinny on what's really going on in the hallowed halls of the government and I won't be able to tell anyone about it.

Unless I am to be fired my first week, I have to figure out how to dull that sharp edge I've acquired these last five years.

Being a reporter in a big city is a tough enough gig. But, in a community of just a few thousand people, you need to grow some pretty thick skin to be able to show your face in the grocery store after making a giant error or challenging anyone in the Kitikmeot region in an editorial.

Yes, working in Nunavut in the media has forever changed me. I've had the opportunity to witness extreme joy and raw, naked pain. And, at the end of the day, I've learned how to wipe the tears from my face and turn it into a story.

I have you, faithful readers, to thank. You, and a handful of patient editors and co-workers who've tolerated me and my temper.

Qujannamik, thank you, so long.