That’s about the politest version of what the old me would’ve shouted at the ceiling.
I’ve been quietly getting on with cancer treatment — managing it, working around it, doing that thing where you fold a giant life event into a normal week and just keep moving. So when one of my team handed in her notice, right in the middle of it, the old me had plenty to say.
Now? Really? Now?
To her, I was all grace — full support, pleased for her, not a flicker of guilt-trip. But somewhere inside, that old voice still piped up, wanting to have words with the universe. Hadn’t I earned a clear run? Wasn’t there some cosmic rule against piling on? It felt personal — like I was being singled out and tested to see whether I’d crack.
For years, that voice ran the show. Something would go sideways and I’d take it straight to heart, as proof the timing was a deliberate insult. Why me? Why now? It’s not fair! (And yes — full tiny toddler, foot stamped so hard I hurt myself.)
The difference now is that I hear that voice and don’t hand it the microphone. I spent time with a life coach retraining my intuition and came out the other side with something I can lean on: a mechanism for trusting myself when everything around me is telling me to panic.
Losing someone is expensive. Not just the recruiting and the training — the momentum. The handovers. Worrying about whether clients would feel the wobble. By every reasonable measure, that should have tipped me over.
It didn’t. What held me steady was simple: a cool head solves problems, a hot one just makes more of them. So we got to work, calmly, and we found someone brilliant. Gabriella.
Then I heard those words. “Um Lisa, I need to talk to you about something.”
Gabi lasted two weeks.
Not because she wasn’t great — she was. But her husband’s family asked them to move to Korea to help with the family business, and that’s not a ‘let me think about it’ kind of request. That’s a ‘pack the house’ kind of request. She handed in her notice with real regret, and off she went.
So we went again. And we found Senaara, who is wonderful, and who I am absolutely not letting near anyone with an overseas relative or a thirst for adventure.
I’m joking. Kinda. Not really.
Apparently, I’m very good at goodbyes
If it all sounds familiar, that’s because I have ridden this particular roller coaster before. A while back, Tori left to go and travel the world — fair enough, you only get one shot at your twenties. We found a fantastic replacement in Lucy. Less than two months later, Lucy’s partner was offered an opportunity in London, and she was gone too.
At a certain point you stop asking ‘why is this happening to me’ and start asking ‘what’s the lesson here.’ The roller coaster doesn’t stop just because you’d like to get off and have a sit down for a minute. People come, people go, life happens to all of them, and almost none of it is about you. Korea, London, a family business on the other side of the world, my own health — none of it checked in with my calendar first.
But why would it? Every one of those people was making the right call for their own life. Gabi didn’t leave to inconvenience me. Lucy didn’t fall in love to spite my business plan. The moment I stopped reading resignations as personal betrayals and started reading them as people choosing well for themselves, the whole thing got lighter to carry.
What I’ve landed on is that everything happens for a reason. I can’t always see the reason in the moment. Often, I can’t see it for months. But I’ve lived long enough to know that things have a way of working together for good, especially when you keep your focus on people and keep the whole thing human.
It meant being happy for Gabi, even while I was internally calculating how many bubble teas I’d have to give up to cover double salaries through training and handover. Again. It meant treating every goodbye as a beginning for someone, not just an ending for me. And it meant trusting that the right person would turn up — and they did.
Where the copywriter in me can’t help herself
I run a copywriting business, so you knew this was coming…
Everything I’ve just described is the same instinct that makes copy work. When you stop treating people like a transaction and start treating them like, well, people, things connect. The businesses that win are the ones who remember there’s a human on the other end of every word — a human who can smell BS from a mile off, and who responds to honesty, warmth, and someone who gives a damn.
A business can survive a revolving door of people if the thing at its centre holds. For MasterJack, that centre is our culture — the kind good people thrive in, even the ones who are only here a few weeks. People come and go. The culture stays. But it doesn’t stay on its own. Holding it steady while everything around it moves is the quiet, unglamorous work of leadership — and it’s mine to do. It’s also, not by accident, the very thing we build for clients: a voice steady enough that their business still sounds like itself, no matter who’s holding the pen.
You might even start to enjoy it
So no, I haven’t got it all figured out. I’ve just got a cool head, a deep belief that the people in my life are doing their best, and a stubborn faith that it all works out in the end.
If you’re a business owner reading this in the middle of your own roller coaster — your own version of Korea and London and the universe testing your sense of humour — I’ll tell you what I keep telling myself. Keep your focus on people. Keep it human. Trust that it’s all leading somewhere, even when the view from your seat is mostly upside down.
The ride doesn’t get smoother. You just get better at, and perhaps enjoy, holding on.
– Lisa