But none I’ve worked for have gotten it wrong the way this paper got it wrong with the story about refugee children at Chebucto Heights Elementary School.

It gnawed at me all weekend. It gnawed at so many of you.

Until I read that story, I had always felt proud of being a Herald columnist. I am into my seventh year writing a weekly opinion piece.

Up to the very moment I read that story, I was grateful to be a writer in the paper of record, and a progressive, feminist voice, at that. I gave the Herald credit for making space for someone whose viewpoints clearly often clashed with the core beliefs of many of its readers.

But, man, it gnawed.

I asked Sunday about the plan to address the wrongs and the damage. I realized Monday when I opened my paper that no response was going to shake that story from my conscience. No retraction or apology was going to change the way I felt.

I resigned as soon as my editor got to the office.

Don’t mistake me. The subject is entirely relevant as a topic of journalistic inquiry: How are refugee children fitting in socially at school? How are they coping with the trauma they may have witnessed or experienced? How are refugee children affecting the culture of Halifax schools?

But the Chebucto Heights story didn’t ask any of those questions. Or, at least, not in a useful, meaningful or conscionable way.

Its faults are journalistic — unsubstantiated claims, anonymous sources and an anonymous writer. Its prevailing damage is social — it is outright, unchecked victimization of the already victimized. When I write, I ask myself: what if I were the subject of this story? How would I feel? And even if I didn’t like it, could I at least agree, with a pouty face, that the reporting was fair?

I doubt any parent of a refugee child at Chebucto Heights, or any other Nova Scotia school that’s been lucky enough to have these kids join their communities and enrich their classrooms, felt that story was fair play.

And, sure, bad journalism happens.

But more is at stake with this story. It’s not one person being maligned for a verified deed.

The story lays bare the worst of the worst xenophobia in our city and our province. It lacks all proportion. Balance eludes it, start to finish.

Journalists and citizen journalists alike have a responsibility to recognize and manage the great power they hold. That didn’t happen, here. Not even close.

I feel profound sadness leaving the paper. I will miss news editors who were kind and nurturing. I will miss copy-desk editors who made me a better writer and saved me, wholesale, from my own embarrassing mistakes.

I will miss readers most of all.

Writing in a province-wide paper is a privilege I did not take for granted. I was reminded of the unique delight every time I received an email, a letter or a card. (Ironic, isn’t it, that what turned out to be my final column was about letters from readers?)

Cranky, happy — every piece of feedback is a reminder that journalism matters in people’s lives.

And every story that gets written and published either builds journalism up, or tears it, nick by tiny nick, down.