Being in 'Doctor Who' has been so amazing. I don't think I will

Hear the voice of Karen Gillan, who spoke with both joy and sorrow when she declared: “Being in Doctor Who has been so amazing. I don’t think I will ever have a job quite so fun ever again. I feel sad because I am going to leave, but with any story, it has to come to an end.” At first these words seem to belong to the realm of actors and roles, of scripts and cameras. Yet they are far more than that. They carry within them the universal truth of all human endeavors—that every chapter, no matter how radiant, must one day close, and that endings are as sacred as beginnings.

The joy of the role, the fun she describes, is not only the delight of work well-loved, but the gift of purpose. For a time, she lived not only as herself, but as a bearer of imagination, a vessel for the dreams of countless viewers. To be part of Doctor Who, a story woven across generations, is to step into a tapestry greater than oneself. Yet even such wonder cannot be eternal. Just as the brightest dawn must yield to dusk, so too must even the greatest roles bow to time’s command.

The ancients knew this truth well. Consider the warrior Achilles, whose glory blazed in the Trojan War. He was told that his story would be short, but filled with greatness. Though he longed for life, he accepted his fate, for he knew that no song lasts forever, yet the ending gives the song its shape. In Karen Gillan’s lament of leaving, we hear the same recognition: that to linger beyond the destined end would diminish the beauty of what once was. A tale unfinished may lose its power, but a tale completed shines with meaning.

The sadness of departure is real, for the heart clings to what it loves. To walk away from joy is to taste grief, even if the choice is wise. But grief is not a mark of weakness—it is the price we pay for having cherished something deeply. The Romans said, ubi amor, ibi dolor—“where there is love, there is sorrow.” Thus, her sadness is not to be pitied, but to be honored, for it proves that the work she leaves behind was alive, sacred, and woven into her spirit.

And yet, we must see the wisdom in her words: “With any story, it has to come to an end.” This is not despair, but acceptance. Endings are not failures, but fulfillments. Just as the flower must wither to cast seed, just as the sun must set to prepare the dawn, so too must each journey close, so that others may begin. The end of her time in the role opens the way for the next traveler in the tale, and the story itself continues, renewed by each departure.

From this, we draw a lesson for our own lives. Many of us cling to places, to people, to roles that once brought us joy, fearing the loss that comes with release. But to cling forever is to deny the rhythm of life. Instead, we must learn to walk away when the hour comes, carrying gratitude rather than bitterness, memory rather than regret. To love the chapter, yet turn the page—this is the wisdom of endings.

Therefore, let all who hear take this counsel: cherish your work, your joys, your stories while they are yours. Give them your heart fully, for one day you will have to set them down. When that day comes, do not curse the end, but bless it. For it means you have lived, loved, and labored in something worth leaving behind. Carry forward the lessons and the memories, and open your hands for the next chapter the fates will place within them.

Thus, the teaching endures: every story has its end, and it is that very end that makes the tale whole. To live with joy, to part with grace, and to trust the turning of time—this is the path of wisdom, and the way to walk unburdened into the ever-unfolding future.