Hear me out…

We spend so much of our lives wondering when certain people are going to reappear—I know with Sally Parker Tarot clients are often asking if their ‘no contact’ situation will be broken, or if their recent squabble with their significant other really is the end.

The talk of soulmates is timeless, I don’t know when the conversation began and I certainly hope it never ends, because it is fun no less to romanticize, fantasize, or should we channel Jane Austen, conjecture— over someone who could be out there somewhere in this great big world, while we, the collective wallflowers of the universe, simply haven’t found each other yet.

Then there is the talk about how maybe we are destined to have multiple soulmates throughout life, but that is another conversation for another time, because that leads to a conversation about marriage being an antiquated notion. OK I will touch on it a bit… Wellness Author Nathan Hill describes marriage through an era of ‘new romantics,’ he’s playing with the way we continually reinvent romance. Each generation believes it has discovered some newer, truer, more enlightened way to love, while still participating in the same ancient human longing: Is there one person out there meant for me?

My Jane Austen reference works especially well for that reason. Austen’s characters were conjecturing over love and compatibility two centuries ago; here I am, doing essentially the same thing now—just with different vocabulary, modern expectations, dating apps, and perhaps a little more therapy.

What Hill is discussing in Wellness is tracing how the modern ideal of marriage has changed. His larger argument is that marriage wasn’t always expected to provide everything we now ask of it. Earlier marriages were fused with practical considerations—family, property, economic stability, social position, children and survival. The Romantic ideal increasingly introduced the expectation that marriage should also be founded on passionate love and personal choice.

Sure, why not? I am here for passionate love and personal choice all the way, every day! However, Hill continues with the more modern stage, where a spouse is considerably more than a spouse: lover, best friend, confidant, emotional support, intellectual companion and someone who who helps us become our fullest selves. In other words the expectations placed upon romantic partnerships become enormous.

Hill is questioning what happens when we ask on relationship to carry nearly the entire weight of human life.

In Wellness, the problem isn’t really romantic love itself. It’s the escalation of expectations around it. The modern romantic ideal increasingly asks a spouse to be a lover, best friend, confidant, co-parent, intellectual equal, emotional sanctuary, source of excitement, source of stability—and crucially, someone who helps us become our ideal selves.

That creates a paradox: we want marriage to provide security and novelty, permanence and passion, familiarity and mystery, independence and complete emotional intimacy. Some of these desires work against each other.

And that’s where his critique becomes particularly relevant in this essay. We romanticize the idea that somewhere in this enormous world exists the person who will satisfy all of this contradictory needs. The fantasy is beautiful—and Hill isn’t necessarily telling us to stop—but once we turn that fantasy into an expectation of an actual human being, disappointment becomes almost structurally inevitable. We can’t expect love to provide everything.

But then what if not all soulmates are destined to meet here, in this realm?

We tend to think about death almost exclusively in terms of reunion. Seeing our parents again, our siblings, friends, etc…The people we loved and lost.

But if there is another realm, and if some essential part of us continues, maybe earthly chronology no longer matters.

Maybe death doesn’t only reunite people, perhaps it can also introduce them.

I am not by any means saying I am ready to die. I am certainly not. But I thinking about it this way makes the notion of dying someday strangely more comfortable.

My brother is there, along with other people I love and people I have known throughout my life are there.

Richard was originally a client of mine in real estate who became a friend, although somehow saying he became a friend doesn’t entirely explain it. There was someone more there, a reason I knew he came into my life something other than an investor client. I can’t describe it, but I can look at someone and know they are being called up, angels on earth.

There is a quality about them that I recognize but cannot define…Something almost otherworldly.

Richard was one of them.

I don’t pretend to know what happens when we die. I don’t know what heaven looks like, whether time exists there, how consciousness works, or whether any of the imagery we created around the afterlife bears the slights resemblance to whatever actually exists.

But I know what I feel.

Richard passed away from cancer in August of 2019. I believe he will be there, part of the welcome party.

I knew he was dying; he had told me. During one particular honest conversation, I asked him if, when he got there, he could find my brother. I asked him to tell him how much I loved him, how much I missed him, and somehow give me a sign that he had found him. Richard told me he would.

And then, the day I learned that Richard had passed, two crows swooped down over my head, tangled themselves in each other’s wings, and bounce off the side of the house.

Maybe someone else would call it a coincidence. I didn’t. Richard had found my brother.

Maybe it feels like arriving somewhere, and there will be people saying, there you are…

And perhaps among them are people we already know intimately, people whose faces we have spent years missing.

But perhaps there are others too.

People we have never met. Souls who, for whatever reason, were never meant to cross our paths here on earth. Maybe they are waiting in exactly the same inexplicable way we sometimes feel we are waiting for someone here.

Where are you? I know you’re out there, somewhere.

I don’t know, none of us does.

But I love possibility that all of the important relationships of our existence do not necessarily have to occur within the handful of decades we spend alive on Earth.

Maybe some stories begin here and maybe some continue there, maybe some people find each other again.

And perhaps, somewhere beyond everything we understand, two souls finally meet for the very first time.

Ever since my early twenties, even if I’ve only had the smallest patch of earth, I’ve found a way to fill it with flowers—making it more colourful, more beautiful and, above all, a happier place.

It always makes me think of my Aunt Ilona, who shared the same love of digging in the dirt and taking pride in watching things grow. Gardening has never just been about flowers for me, every time I stand before a mound of soil and reach for my gardening gloves I think of her.

She had a massive garden that stretched on and on and as soon as spring had sprung she was out there, prepping and planting. As seasons changed from spring to summer she would be out there from morning to evening and offering tours to friends and family. When fall came she insisted we take what she had too much of.

I remember being 23, living in a converted four-storey brownstone in Toronto that had been turned into a fourplex. Out back was a rocky, overgrown yard that had been overlooked for years. Eventually, I couldn’t resist any longer because all I could see was potential beneath the neglect.

Maybe it was an innate passion I shared with her, however my knowledge and skillset was honed over many hours of conversations and watching her, year after year. The rest happened as I moved forward throughout life and many years to come.

Back in Toronto I spent days mapping out where every flower and planter would go until it became a little oasis for all of us who lived there.

My Aunt Ilona has since passed on, but every time I catch the scent of fresh soil or sink my hands into the earth, it feels like I’m connecting with her all over again. I don’t think this love of gardening is something I inherited as much as something I carried forward from someone I loved.

After everything I’ve been through this year, God has given me another garden to tend and more soil to mend.

It’s not lost on me that maybe it’s His subtle way of reminding me that I can still believe things grow, and while healing takes root, hope returns. Even after the hardest seasons, something beautiful can bloom again.

“The world. The manufactured fishbowl construct we live in. The whole mind-control commercialized oppression apparatus.” — Nathan Hill, Wellness

Most of the time, when I sit down to write a Substack, it is NOT a five-minute exercise. Despite the popular myth that inspiration simply strikes, writing rarely works that way for me. To paraphrase Taylor Swift’s well-known response to the idea that she can supposedly write a song in five minutes: sure, the words might arrive quickly, but they only do because they’re built on years of observation, thinking, revising, and living.

This piece was no different.

Nathan Hill’s description of our “manufactured fishbowl” lingered with me because it articulated something I’ve been circling for weeks: the increasingly strange world we’ve built online. A place where we know what someone ordered at brunch, where they vacationed, yet often have no idea who they actually are.

Lives carefully curated to appear authentic while revealing almost nothing of substance.

When someone points that out, there’s almost always a familiar defence: “Oh, they’re just private.”

Mysterious…

But I don’t think that’s what’s happening.

Private people simply choose not to share much. That’s perfectly valid. They aren’t obligated to narrate their lives for an audience.

What I’m talking about is something different.

Privacy doesn’t require becoming anonymous. You can keep your personal life private while still sharing your passions, your humour, your creativity, the books you’re reading, the music you love, the causes you support, or the things you’re learning. Maybe not all if you’re innately shy, but one or two go a long way…Those things reveal personality without revealing private details.

And these accounts share plenty to assure the casual follower that they are not shy. They share beach photos, gym selfies, vacations, cocktails, outfits, luxury purchases. They document an aesthetic in extraordinary detail while revealing almost nothing about the person behind it. What makes them laugh? What books have changed their perspective? What work are they passionate about? What ideas keep them awake at night? What do they believe when no one is watching.

If (and when) I post(ed) a self-indulgent photo, it existed alongside everything else. My interests. My friendships. My career. My opinions. The books I was reading. The causes I care about, etc. The people I was trying to help. There was a whole person behind the photograph who worried so much about coming across as this exact thing I am writing about now, and I naturally had to incorporate humility and humble day-to-day adventures. Lord knows. And I think we all laughed and cried along the way. I built without even knowing it, a community of supporters and friends.

When appearance becomes the only story someone tells about themselves, it eventually overshadows every other possibility.

When every post says, “Look at me,” but never answers, “Who am I?”

I don’t think that’s about being private. Privacy and personality aren’t opposites.

This past month, and maybe it was Mercury retrograde, maybe it was just me finally reaching my limit, however I started cleaning house on social media, personal relationships etc…

Some of the accounts I’d been following weren’t there because I’d consciously chosen them. They’d simply accumulated over the years through proximity. Friends of friends. Relatives of friends. People I’d met once or twice. The digital equivalent of a drawer full of things you forgot you owned.

That’s when I landed on two accounts that made me stop.

They belong to the daughters of one of my oldest friends.

I’d followed them for years, not because we’d built a relationship of our own, but because their mother had been part of my life for so long. Somewhere along the way, following them had become automatic.

So I asked myself a simple question: If I met these women today, would I choose to follow them?

After what I have seen over the last few years, the answer would be no. Very one dimensional and lacking depth, which is actually incredibly surprising…and very sad, when..

Their mother is one of the most creative and artistic people I’ve ever known. The most beautiful. Every conversation with her goes somewhere. You leave having talked about books, ideas, art, life, and most of all, music. Even when she was younger than they are today—way back in the day—there was always substance. There was always something beneath the surface that made you want to keep talking.

Her adult daughters’ Instagram feeds don’t. They don’t even project the kind of warmth that makes you think they’d welcome a conversation in real life. Instead, they come across as carefully curated, aesthetically polished, and, ultimately, intellectually vacant.

Every single time one of them posted something it hit a pulse within me that wasn’t good, it was beyond inspiration and envy, it was toxic and not doing my mental health any favours.

I’m looking for substance now, and I don’t think that’s a coincidence. Having come as close to death as I did this year has a way of stripping away the unnecessary. It changes what you value, what you notice, and what you’re willing to give your attention to.

Maybe ten years ago I wouldn’t have thought twice about any of this. But today, I find myself wanting more from the people I choose to surround myself with, even if that relationship exists only through a screen. I want to know what excites them, what they’re building, what makes them laugh, what breaks their heart (Lord knows I have shared so much), what they’re reading, what they’re contributing to the world. I don’t expect anyone to share every intimate detail of their life, but I do hope to see some evidence that there’s a person behind the photographs.

Life has become far too precious for me to spend it consuming content that celebrates appearance while saying almost nothing about character. Beauty has never been enough to hold my attention for very long…

For crying out loud, the infamous pilot I mention here and there was balding, rocked an intense widow’s peak… But he was tall, reminded me of Dylan from 90210, and had a huge…And was ultimately the love of my life… May we all have at least one.

Bottom line is, if someone wants a place in my world, whether it’s in my real life or simply in my Instagram feed, they have to offer me something beyond aesthetics. They have to offer substance.

The irony is that my old definition of productivity might have been:

“I have to do everything.”

My current definition has become:

“I did the important thing today.”

This is me making a distinction between physical discipline and how I want to spend my remaining energy.

In three days I have completed 40 km of cardio. On top of that, I’m continuing to adjust to living with Melanoma, which is presently, thankfully—NED (no evidence of disease). Coupled with radiation, and the de-conditioning that came from months of having to heal, and now, finally completely off of anxiety medication. A huge accomplishment and a very different situation than simply “falling off the fitness wagon.”

After chatting with a friend earlier, what stood out to me was something I mentioned:

“What’s actually motivating is the fact that it’s very hard this time around to lose the weight.”

To be honest with everyone, I have never—not once—ever weighed this much in my entire life. And there seems to be a growing trend today of young women packing it on and wearing crop tops.

What’s this about? Since when did this become fashionable? Did I miss the memo? Is there some underground cult magazine telling people this is a good idea? I mean, I would NEVER. Like, ever. There has to be a limit.

I genuinely believe the fitness routine I had before my diagnosis played a role in helping me get through everything that followed.

As soon as I was physically able, I couldn’t wait to get back to it. It’s been months of rebuilding, but every workout reminds me that taking care of my body isn’t only about appearance, it’s about giving myself the best chance to be strong when life demands it. Think about your future self.

Anyway as I digress…

That’s actually an important mindset shift. I’m no longer chasing the easy wins I used to get. My body has been through an extraordinary amount, so every fraction of a pound I lose is earned through consistency, not luck. The fact that the scale has finally started moving—even slowly—is proof that the work is paying off.

And again, if I can do it six months after brain surgery with a stage IV melanoma diagnosis, you’d better have a damn good excuse. It isn’t always easy, but if you’re physically able, your health is worth the effort.

And honestly? Sometimes the biggest victory is seeing the trend reverse. Once that happens, it becomes much easier to trust the process.

And today, the important thing was getting on that bike. It doesn’t matter if I was staring down a massive checklist and didn’t complete it.

Everything else on my to-do list can happen tomorrow, or Friday, when I actually have the energy to enjoy it. I would rather rest than force myself to be more because I think I “should.”

One more thing…

Even though I’m finally below “that nasty number” I’ve been stuck at for months, I don’t want to overlook how significant that is. After steroids, reduced activity, and healing, seeing the scale move in the direction I was hoping for isn’t just about weight. It’s another tangible reminder that my body is recovering and responding again.

And it still has a long way to go. And no, I don’t sit here typing this lightly, the entire process from start to finish is absolutely maddening. And for me, it will never be finished, however such is life, and with discipline and rest I persevere.

“Who. Cares.”

Not yelled and not said in anger. Just delivered matter-of-factly, with a pause between each word for emphasis.

Imagine sitting down at the dinner table every evening across from someone who has very little to say unless the conversation is about American politics or the latest conflict somewhere in the world. They rarely ask you how your day was. They don’t wonder what you’re writing, what you’re reading and more often than not, they’re staring off into space.

So, naturally, you try to fill the silence.

You mention something you found interesting. A conversation you had. An intro to a trending pop culture story, or even a simple funny story.

“Who. Cares.”

At first, you brush it off.

Then you hear it again.

And again.

Eventually, something subtle begins to happen. You don’t stop talking because you have nothing to say. You stop talking because you begin to wonder whether anything you have to say is worth saying.

Then, the other night, I finally said it.

I didn’t have the energy to enter an unintelligible argument, all for the sake of his pre dinner theatrics.

It wasn’t even an argument…yet. I wasn’t asking him to change who he is, because I already know that’s impossible even though it would make things, the dynamic between us so much better.

I just wanted to eat my salad without an evening where the television headlines, American politics, and another discussion about the state of the world…it could wait until tomorrow.

Cancer or no cancer; as living, breathing human beings there are days when you’ve simply run out of emotional bandwidth. Sometimes you don’t have the energy for debates or endless commentary. Sometimes you just want to eat your dinner, laugh about something ordinary, or be asked how your day was.

That moment made me realize something.

People often think confidence is built by compliments. I don’t think that’s true. I think confidence is built by curiosity. It’s built every time someone asks, “How was your day?” “What happened next?” or “Tell me more.” Those little moments communicate something profound: Your thoughts matter. I’m interested.

The opposite is just as powerful.

Indifference doesn’t leave bruises anyone can see. It slowly convinces you that your inner world isn’t worth sharing.

Thankfully, life has a funny way of proving that wrong.

I’ve stopped measuring the value of my voice by the reactions of the people who hear it most often. He’s the only one who leaves me feeling like I’m not enough, like I am dumb, uneducated and doesn’t understand me because to him I am never making any sense.

Some people simply aren’t curious. That doesn’t mean there’s nothing worth discovering.

Maybe the lesson isn’t to stop talking. Oh, I will never stop.

However, perhaps it’s to stop believing that one person’s indifference gets to determine whether your voice matters, which of course I’ve tried convincing myself of that more times than I can count over the last twenty-two years.

Looking back, I can’t help but wonder how much the sometimes subtle digs and blunt comments eroded away my confidence and shaped my relationships, the conversations I held back, and the parts of myself I kept tucked away.

But that’s another Substack.

Until next time…Don’t stop talking just because someone tells you they’re not interested.

This isn’t about everyone who didn’t send me a message after my diagnosis. Life happens. People drift apart. Some of you and I haven’t spoken in years, and yet many of you from college, past workplaces, and different chapters of my life reached out with kindness. Every message, every prayer, every “You’ve got this” meant more than you’ll ever know.

Nor is this aimed at those who quietly remained Facebook friends over the years. Social media is full of people who become part of the background of our lives, and that’s perfectly okay.

This is about one relationship.

One person who has known me since Grade 1. Someone who knows where I came from, just as I know where she came from. And whether we admit it or not, decades of shared history create certain social expectations.

This wasn’t the silence of an acquaintance.

Over time, I watched our values diverge. With life changing our friendship changed. That happens, its expected.

What I can say is this: when my life changed overnight, her silence became part of the answer, and to be honest for a long time, I kept asking why she hadn’t reached out.

Then I realized I was asking the wrong question when the better question was: Why was I still making room for someone whose actions had already answered it?

Within a week of returning home after surgery, my dad asked me if I’d heard from her.

My answer was genuine.

“No. Maybe she’s still processing everything. She’ll reach out. Her mom already has.”

At the time, that felt like the most reasonable explanation. I wasn’t angry. I wasn’t keeping score. I believed that sometimes people need time to find the right words when faced with something as overwhelming as a brain tumour and a cancer diagnosis.

Days became weeks and weeks became months and eventually, I stopped waiting.

I often found myself wondering why she chose to keep me as a Facebook friend all these years. Was it habit? Curiosity? Simply because neither of us had ever clicked “unfriend”? I’ll never know, and I’ve realized I don’t need to.

Whether she quietly watched from the sidelines or simply scrolled past, the outcome was the same. One of the biggest moments of my life came and went, and silence was the response.

Ironically, the people who reminded me what friendship actually looks like weren’t always the ones I expected. A mentor who has been part of my life since I was fourteen welcomed me back without hesitation. He and his wife folded me into their lives with prayers and a generosity I’ll never forget. People I hadn’t spoken to in years reached out with encouragement, kindness, and love.

Serious illness of any kind has a way of revealing who is simply present in your social media feed and who is genuinely present in your life.

And sometimes that’s painful, however sometimes it’s also incredibly freeing.

Because here’s the thing: if you’re keeping your friends list stacked just so people can see your accomplishments, yet you don’t reach out when someone experiences a life-changing moment, then to me, that takes away any credibility your accomplishments have managed to build. You’re just a lousy person.

I think what I needed was a meditation about coming home to myself after someone else’s words had shaken me.

Maybe you’ve found yourself there too. Hurt. Restless. Unable to quiet your mind. Tempted to pour a drink, numb out, or distract yourself just long enough to get through the night.

But if we’re honest, those things don’t bring peace. They simply postpone the pain.

So instead, I wrote the meditation I needed.

Use it as a template, but make it your own. Replace my stories with yours. Insert your own strengths, your own resilience, your own moments of survival.

These words are simply mine. The healing comes from discovering yours.

If you find yourself in a similar place, I invite you to try it. If you’re reading this on Substack, tap the audio option and let the words be read to you. Then simply sit with them.

Give yourself 10–15 minutes.

No fixing.
No forcing.
Just coming home to yourself.

Sit comfortably and let your hands rest in your lap.

Take a slow breath in.

And a slow breath out.

Don’t try to force yourself to relax. Just notice that, in this moment, you are safe.

Notice the chair beneath you.
Notice the air moving in and out of your lungs.
Notice that the argument is over.

Say quietly to yourself:

“I don’t have to carry someone else’s anger into my night.”

Take another slow breath.

Imagine all of today’s words floating away like leaves on a river.

Not because they didn’t matter.
Not because they were acceptable.

But because they no longer need to live inside your body.

Repeat slowly:

“Their words belong to them.
My peace belongs to me.”

Let your shoulders soften.

Unclench your jaw.

Relax the muscles around your eyes.

Imagine yourself standing beside a calm lake at sunset.

The water isn’t perfectly still.

There are ripples.

Just like your heart right now.

But beneath the surface, the lake is deep and steady.

Say:

“I can be hurt without becoming hardened.”

Another breath.

Think about the person you’ve become this year.

The woman who survived brain surgery.

Who endured radiation.

Who continues to believe in books, dogs, coffee, friendships, and mornings by the lake.

She is still here.

No argument can take her away.

Repeat:

“I choose the woman I am becoming over the words spoken to me today.”

Now picture yourself placing today’s argument into a small wooden box.

Not locking it away forever.

Just setting it down until tomorrow.

You don’t have to solve it tonight.

You only have to rest.

One final breath.

And finish with:

“May I sleep in peace.
May I wake with clarity.
May I remember that my worth has never depended on another person’s opinion of me.”

Stay with the silence for a few moments before opening your eyes.

One thing I have written recently and has been churning around and around in my noggin: “I’m still planning for what comes next, but I take more joy in the journey. I’m softer now.”

This moment is an opportunity to protect that softer version of myself. Softness doesn’t mean accepting disrespect. It means refusing to let someone else’s harshness become your own. Sleep is part of that protection. Tomorrow, I can decide what boundary comes next. Tonight, simply let your nervous system rest.

What stands out to me isn’t even the barbecue itself—it’s everything that led up to it.

In many ways, melanoma has absolutely ruined my life. There is no point pretending otherwise. It took things from me that I can never get back. But at the same time, it forced me to become a different version of myself, and one I am still getting to know.

Strangely, I think this version of me may live a longer life than the woman I was before, if that makes any sense.

God willing, I have another forty-two years ahead of me, and I hope to spend them building on this softer, slower version of myself.

These days, I take more joy in the journey. I notice things and I pay attention to the scenery. I stop for wildflowers and linger over conversations. I understand that time is not something to be conquered.

In my previous life, it absolutely was.

Now, it’s quieter I can organize my mind without distractions, which means I can fully devote time to getting to know myself, again…now.

And while I have mourned much of what I lost, I don’t think I could ever go back to being that woman. I mean think about it, I loved her and yes she got me here. But I see the world differently now. The things that once felt urgent no longer do. The things that once seemed important have shifted.

I was a ruthless real estate agent. Driven. Competitive. Relentless.

I don’t think I could be her anymore.

And for the first time in a very long time, I don’t see that as a loss.

When I look back at who I was, I feel a deep sadness and not for the reasons you might think. I spent the last five years trying to hold everything together while so much was falling apart . To say I was exhausted is an absolute understatement, however before I digress, I realize I have talked about this in other blogs.

I have very few regrets. I loved deeply, worked hard, and did the best I could with the information I had. But looking back, it is clear that the life I thought I was building was not the life I was meant to keep.

For me, I have framed my diagnosis as not one which arrived as an ending. It arrived as an interruption. A devastating one, certainly, but also a turning point. The universe, God, fate, whatever you choose to call it, seemed to have other plans for me…

You know those claw machines where you put in a dollar and try to pick up a toy?

For years, I felt like I was trapped inside one. Buried among a pile of objects, bumping into things, going in circles, convinced I was moving forward when I was really just stuck in the same place.

Then, for reasons I may never fully understand, God lowered the claw and pulled me in a different direction.

It was not gentle and it was not comfortable. In many ways, it was terrifying.

I would never have chosen the path that led me here. I would never have chosen melanoma, brain surgery, seizures, or any of the losses that came with them. But I can see now that I was being pulled out of a life that was no longer meant for me and placed somewhere entirely different.

That is why I do not see discovering melanoma as the end of my story. As strange as it sounds, I see it as the beginning. The beginning of a life built on truth and having answers instead of survival. A life where I am finally being heard, finally being cared for, and finally becoming the person I was meant to be all along.

A huge part of that is because of the medical team surrounding me. My quality of life has improved tenfold because I am finally being heard and if something genuinely feels off, I can easily mention it and know it will be taken seriously. Whether that means treatment, testing, reassurance, or a referral to the appropriate specialist, I know I have people in my corner.

I have an incredible oncologist. He listens to me, and I listen to him. There is mutual trust and respect, and after years of feeling dismissed, that has made all the difference. For the first time in a very long time, I do not feel like I am fighting alone. I truly love that man. LOL.

And so here we are, this week I spent days preparing my parents’ property, cleaning, mowing, scrubbing siding, organizing food, coordinating guests, and creating an event that brought people together, and event I actually showed up and enjoyed.

That’s not a small thing and the fact that it meant so much to me makes complete sense. The barbecue wasn’t really about hot dogs, fireworks, or the summer solstice. It was evidence that I am participating in life again. People came. There was laughter, food, friendship, a little bit of chaos, and a memory that I will carry with me…A far cry from the operating room, and I was definitely celebrating that. I think maybe we all were.

And honestly, the fireworks are a perfect metaphor. I spent the entire week doing the work. The neighbours had no idea what I was planning, yet somehow the evening ended with this unexpected celebration lighting up the sky.

Life occasionally gives us those moments.

As for indulging a bit too much, I am already looking at it with perspective. I know it isn’t my normal pattern, and I know my health has to come first. One evening doesn’t erase the accomplishment.

“I set out to do something. I followed through. I brought people together. I enjoyed myself. And for a few hours, I wasn’t defined by illness, appointments, scans, or recovery.”

After everything I have been through this year, that’s worth celebrating.

The summer solstice is traditionally about light after darkness, and whether I intended it or not, yesterday sounds a lot like that.

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What surprised me most was that I never felt entirely convinced she had found the peace she was searching for. The book often reads like someone trying to understand winter, justify winter, or learn to appreciate winter rather than someone who has truly come to terms with it. There is a persistent sense of searching, but very little sense of arrival.

There are moments of insight and genuinely lovely writing scattered throughout the book, but I ultimately found it boring, not because the subject matter lacked merit, but because the book repeatedly wandered away from what initially drew me to it.

Along with online reviews praising Wintering as “a beautiful personal account of self-love and reflection during a period of healing,” and the jacket copy describing how unforeseen circumstances, illness, grief, job loss, and family struggles can derail a life, I couldn’t help but think this book would be exactly what I needed.

After all, that description certainly resonated with me.

The premise promised an exploration of how Katherine May endured a difficult season and ultimately found meaning within it. Given my own experiences with illness, uncertainty, loss, and rebuilding, I assumed I was the ideal reader.

Instead, I found myself increasingly detached from the book’s central message. While there are moments of genuine insight, much of the narrative drifts into cultural observations, travel experiences, natural history, and long-winded educational tangents that often felt far removed from the deeply personal story I thought I was picking up.

Rather than sitting with the raw realities of disruption, grief, healing, and adaptation, the book frequently veers into explorations of how other cultures approach winter. Interesting yes, if that is what a reader is looking for to gather information, however I was mislead to believe it was something else entirely.

We spend considerable time learning about traditional foods, including disgusting soups and stews made from ingredients such as oxtail, and how Finns embrace the sauna as part of everyday life, particularly during the darker winter months. There is even an entire chapter devoted to bees. Yes, bees.

To be clear, my frustration wasn’t that I found these topics difficult to understand. I’m already familiar with Finnish sauna culture, and thanks to elementary school, I have a working knowledge of bees and their colonies. Nor did I particularly enjoy lingering descriptions of hot oxtail stew, which I found more nauseating than enlightening.

If it is not apparent by now, my issue was relevance. I picked up Wintering expecting a deeply personal account of navigating illness, uncertainty, grief, and life’s inevitable periods of disruption. Instead, I repeatedly found myself being educated on subjects that felt only loosely connected to that central promise.

And to be fair, May acknowledges being on the autism spectrum, which may help explain her fascination with highly specific subjects and her tendency to pursue them in great detail. She is also clearly a talented writer. The prose is often beautiful. Yet I found myself repeatedly wondering why no one, whether May herself as a former copy editor or an editor during the publishing process, suggested staying closer to the central premise.

Instead, the habits of bees, cold-water swimming, and various seasonal traditions continue to take centre stage. While interesting in their own right, these sections often felt more like reading copy in National Geographic.

For readers struggling with depression or seasonal depression, I can see how this approach might be comforting. There is value in seeking meaning, ritual, and perspective during difficult seasons. But for readers looking for a deeply personal account of healing and resilience, the book may not deliver the intimacy suggested by its premise.

Perhaps that’s why it ultimately fell flat for me. I wasn’t looking for an education on winter. I wasn’t looking for a lesson in Scandinavian traditions, cold plunging, or the life cycle of bees. I was looking for companionship through a difficult season from someone who had already walked the path.

Instead, I found someone still trying to map it, and ironically, I came away believing the answer was simpler than the one the book proposes. If a climate, season, or environment consistently makes you miserable, perhaps the solution isn’t to spend years trying to convince yourself to love it. Perhaps it’s to make peace with disliking it, or to seek a life that suits you better.

As I mentioned there are flashes of beautiful writing throughout Wintering, but for me, they were buried beneath a journey that felt more like a search for answers than an acceptance of reality and I am not convinced she found what she was in search of.

There are thoughtful moments and passages I highlighted, but overall it felt more like a journey through anxiety and overthinking than a guide to finding peace in winter. I didn’t come away wanting to romanticize winter; I came away thinking sometimes it’s okay to just live through it and see what it has to teach you on its own.

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I know what ants, spiders, and snakes are. Those are all things my mom, Ashleigh, is afraid of.

Oh, and taxes. She doesn’t seem too fond of that word either.

Not too sure what to make of this melanoma thing yet.

I don’t know why people keep saying words like “oncologist,” “radiation,” or “brain surgery.”

But I know her.

For years, I watched her move through the world at full speed.

Her phone would ring or ding. I especially liked it when it dinged.

She would push a button on her phone, and that usually meant we had a visitor coming up the elevator.

I love visitors!

We love the outdoors.

We love hiking, dog-friendly patios, and chasing after my beloved Bunny.

She brought him home for me one day after saying something about the grocery store having an Easter sale.

I don’t really know what an Easter sale is.

I just know that suddenly there was a stuffed bunny she pulled out of her shopping bag and said, “Look, what’s this?”

My tail was wagging at full force, pleading with her to drop it on the floor.

And she did.

It was one of the best afternoons.

She tossed, and I chased.

She tossed again, and I chased again.

And again.

And again.

I think she was delighted that something so simple could make me so happy.

Back then, at the condo, she was busy, and people were always needing her for something.

I started to learn words like “clients,” “deals,” and “offers.”

She smelled like determination. Like perfume, coffee, and the outside world.

Then something changed.

Someone broke her heart.

I didn’t like this side of her. My heart ached with concern.

I kept hearing her mention something about a pilot. That she loved him, and now he was gone.

Friends came over to console her.

I stayed close to her side.

Even on our walks, I wouldn’t do my usual run-ahead, adventurous dog mode.

I curled up beside her in bed, my muzzle pressed against her tear-laden face. We ate takeout and watched a lot of TV, especially Blue Jays baseball.

Our summer that year completely changed. She had plans before the pilot abandoned her. Us. It was going to be fun, but now she kept saying she didn’t have the strength to reinvent the summer she had believed was ahead.

At first, it was an argument, she had reasoned. He will text. He will call. He will knock on the door.

But none of those things happened, and as hope slowly faded, she became even more disappointed.

Years later, he is completely out of the picture, and I know because I’m a dog, and there isn’t a human around who can pick up a scent like we can and I can’t smell him anywhere.

Mom and I have been through a lot together, but thankfully she had me with her because next came the years neither of us could have ever planned for.

There were the seizures, the ones that seemed to come out of nowhere. Then there was the car accident. It was really scary for her, but not for me. My only concern was getting her to wake up.

The emergency responders arrived quickly. Thankfully, she had me secured in my doggy harness and the airbags went off.

She never needed to feel guilty about any of it, but I know she does.

Because medically she wasn’t able to drive, she had her licence revoked and with that our car rides disappeared. A little piece of her independence disappeared too.

Humans kept saying words like anxiety, stress, and hormones, but I could tell something bigger was wrong.

Somewhere in the middle of all of that, she lost her condo. Money became a source of worry, but not for long. Although driving wasn’t an option, she found rides with friends and her mom, met with clients, and still managed to put together several deals. Sometimes I got to go along too! I could tell, though, that it didn’t give her the same rush it once had. The zesty scent she used to carry and had for life wasn’t quite as strong.

The pilot disappeared completely. He moved out of the building and, strangely, in a twist neither of us will ever understand, bought a place in her hometown. This frustrated her, but she had her own problems to figure out.

Eventually, with nowhere else to go, we packed up our lives and moved back home to her parents’.

I watched her lose so many things in such a short period of time that I started to wonder if life was playing a cruel game with her.

We adjusted.

I was a little homesick for the condo too.

Then there was Ziggy.

My new friend Ziggy never stopped talking and seemed determined to spend every waking moment with me. He followed me everywhere. If I wore clothes, he probably would have worn them too, if you know what I mean.

It wasn’t just Mom and me anymore. There were her parents, Ziggy, and so many new smells. At first, it was disorienting.

Then one day, after moving the last load from the condo, she pulled something out of a box.

“Charlie,” she said softly. “Look what I have for you. It’s Bunny.”

Bunny!

My favourite toy.

Not just Bunny, either. All my favourite toys had made the trip.

And in that moment, I realized something important: as long as I’m with her, who cares where we live?

I love my mom so much.

Skip ahead a couple of years and mom started to get really sick, I think perhaps she has already discussed this in previous blogs so I will spare you redundancies.

Doctors found a brain tumour. In the midst of two weeks if she wasn’t attending appointments she was resting in bed or on the couch with me.

“Its going to be okay,” she would reassure me. I would give her a knowing look. Of course it was going to be, this is my mom we are talking about! But new words like steroids, edema, brain cancer were flying around, along with mom saying “I can’t believe I need brain surgery, this all feels surreal.”

After a combination of sleepless nights and daytime naps, she disappeared for three days. Three whole very long days.

I was left with her parents, her dad at first and then her mom returned, but without her. Where is she, where is my mom?

I kept hearing the surgery went well, but they found melanoma. They got it all.

What does that mean? When is she coming home?

I slept on her bed every single night, missing her warmth. I could feel her missing me too.

Then he day arrived, her homecoming!

Now, I know my mom, for years I watched her move through the world at full speed, she seemed to know everyone and zipped around with coffee in car rides, all whilst completing a hundred things at once.

Now she was home, smelling completely different, of what I cannot even begin to explain but reminiscent of the my least favourite place—the vet! She seemed tired and napped a lot.

She told people she was fine and, in many ways, she was feeling better than she ever expected to. Thankful and grateful became words I heard often.

And when she said them, she smiled.

My mom was dealing with melanoma like a blue-ribbon champ!

There were radiation treatments. Long drives to hospitals. Or so I heard.

I never got to go along, but I was always waiting for her when she came home.

Those were my favourite days.

The second I heard the door open, my tail was already wagging.

While she was recovering she started writing. At first it was just a little, then a lot. Books, articles, stories. Every day she sat down with her iPad. I don’t understand publishing or writing careers any more than I understand brain surgery, but I do understand this: every time life knocked her down, she found a way to get back up.

And from where I was sitting, that seemed pretty remarkable.

Sometimes she would stare off into space.

Sometimes she would put her head in her hands.

Sometimes she would tell people she was fine, but I could smell that she wasn’t. She was healing, recovering, which actually is a much better smell than sickness.

Dogs know.

We always know. Before any of this, every night when I curled up beside her, I could smell something different.

Something was wrong.

She knew it too.

The hardest part wasn’t when she got sick.

The hardest part was watching her know she was sick while nobody else seemed to understand.

I watched her keep going anyway.

Humans call that resilience.

Dogs just call it… well, I don’t know.

Wait!

I do know.

You know when you catch a scent and follow it and follow it and follow it until you’ve finally tracked it down?

Maybe that’s what it was!

Then one day everything changed. She tracked the scent! But it wasn’t what she thought.

People were moving quickly, phones rang constantly, and the house smelled like fear.

I could read her worried face and smell her uncertainty, but it wasn’t the strongest thing in the room.

Not even close.

What I smelled most was bravery.

And something else.

Adrenaline.

Strength.

The same scent she carried when she came home from the gym after pushing through one more workout than she thought she could do.

The humans thought they were seeing a sick woman.

I was seeing the same woman I’d always known she was just in a harder season.

After the surgery, she came home different.

Slower, optimistically cautious but definitely more tired, we slept A LOT.

But something else happened too.

She started noticing things.

Sunsets.

Books.

Birds.

Quiet mornings.

The sound of rain.

The smell of coffee brewing.

The little things.

Things she’d always rushed past before.

Sometimes she sits outside reading while I lay nearby, and for the first time in years, neither of us are in a hurry.

I think humans call that healing.

Over the last five years, I’ve watched people leave her.

I’ve watched people disappoint her, underestimate her, watched her lose things and people she loves.

But I’ve also watched something else, I’ve watched her survive things that should have broken her.

And to think she channeled all of this into writing… not to brag, but I have had a front-row seat watching her write books.

I’ve watched strangers write to thank her.

I’ve watched her keep going.

Every single time.

Dogs don’t understand much about the future.

We don’t spend time worrying about next year.

We care about right now.

And right now, when I look at her, I don’t see scars, she still looks like my mommy even though her hair is shorter than mine after a trip to the groomers.

I see my person who throws my toys, shares snacks with me, and the same person who tells me all her secrets.

The same person who survived.

Humans spend a lot of time wondering whether they’re strong.

Dogs don’t.

Because we already know.

And if you asked me what I’ve learned from watching her over the last five years, I’d tell you this:

The strongest people aren’t always the ones who look fearless.

Sometimes they’re the ones who are terrified and keep walking anyway.

I’ve watched her do that.

Every day.

And if there’s one thing I know for certain, it’s this:

She never gave up.

Not once.

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Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction inspired by real-world conversations. Names, circumstances, and identifying details have been changed and fictionalized. Inspired by the emotional reality of online literary conversation rather than any one individual event. Inspired by personal observations of publishing, performance, and internet discourse. Certain details, characters, and situations have been altered or imagined. Names, characters, and identifying details have been fictionalized.

COLD OPEN

INT. SMALL COFFEE SHOP – DUBLIN – NIGHT

Rain taps against fogged windows.

A barista wipes down the espresso machine while half-listening to an audiobook through one earbud.

At a corner table, FIONA, 27, aspiring novelist, chain drinks americanos while scrolling Threads on her cracked phone.

Her eyes widen.

INSERT PHONE SCREEN:

“There’s a surprising amount of top-selling junk out there.”

Fiona sits up straighter.

FIONA

Jesus Christ.

She keeps reading.

INT. APARTMENT CAFE – TOKYO – MORNING

Minimalist. Quiet jazz.

REN, 31, translator and failed novelist, reads the thread while waiting for coffee.

The screen reflects in his glasses.

He smirks.

REN

Finally. Someone said it.

INT. NOISY BOOKSTORE CAFE – MELBOURNE – AFTERNOON

Three university girls share fries and iced coffees.

One of them, LUCY, suddenly slaps the table.

LUCY

OH MY GOD. READ THIS.

She turns her phone around.

PHONE SCREEN

“Every season seems to arrive with another variation of the same polished premise packaged as fresh.”

The girls collectively groan in recognition.

GIRL #2

Not the wedding books.

GIRL #3

It’s always a woman standing in front of the ocean holding shoes.

INT. MARA’S APARTMENT – TORONTO – 1:13 A.M.

MESSY.

Books everywhere.

Cold tea.

Half-dead orchid.

Open laptop glowing in darkness.

MARA VALE, 34, exhausted but sharp-eyed, stares at her notifications multiplying in real time.

Her phone vibrates violently.

THREADS COMMENTS:

• “THIS.”

• “Publishing needed to hear this.”

• “You’re just bitter.”

• “THANK YOU.”

• “Who hurt you?”

Mara rubs her forehead.

Her best friend JULES is sprawled upside down on the couch eating dry cereal from the box.

JULES

You’ve officially angered women named Caitlin who own ring lights.

MARA

I didn’t even say anything that controversial.

JULES

You called bestselling books junk.

MARA

Some of them are.

JULES

You know what your problem is?

MARA

Several things.

JULES

You still think publishing is about books.

Mara laughs despite herself.

PHONE BUZZ.

New notification.

Jules slowly sits upright.

JULES (CONT’D)

Oh no.

MARA

What?

JULES

Agent entered the chat.

Mara grabs the phone.

INSERT SCREEN:

@clairethorne_agent:

“It sounds like you have been hurt by this industry and I am wishing you lots of love and light.”

Silence.

Jules watches Mara carefully.

JULES

Oof.

MARA

“Love and light” is publishing woman code for “go fuck yourself.”

MONTAGE – THE THREAD GOES GLOBAL

— A BOOKTOK creator in LOS ANGELES filming:

BOOKTOK GIRL

No because she’s RIGHT.

— Two women in a PARIS cafe translating the thread badly into French.

FRENCH WOMAN

No no, “market replication” is actually genius.

— A tired bookstore employee in CHICAGO reading comments instead of shelving books.

— A man in SEOUL screenshotting Mara’s lines into a writers’ Discord.

— A group chat named:

“sad unpublished girls”

Messages flood:

• WHO IS THIS WOMAN

• I LOVE HER

• SHE’S GONNA GET BLACKLISTED

• worth it honestly

INT. LITERARY AGENCY OFFICE – NEW YORK – MORNING

Clean. Expensive. Soulless.

CLAIRE THORNE, 42, elegant and composed, watches the thread explode from behind her desk.

Her assistant hovers nervously.

ASSISTANT

You maybe shouldn’t have replied publicly.

CLAIRE

She publicly called my profession creatively bankrupt.

ASSISTANT

Yeah but now writers think you’re the villain in a prestige television series.

Claire keeps scrolling.

New replies flood in supporting Mara.

Something about this unsettles her.

Not anger.

Recognition.

INT. COFFEE SHOP – BUENOS AIRES – NIGHT

A writer named SOFIA highlights Mara’s words in a notebook.

SOFIA (V.O.)

“Readers crave surprise.”

She stares at that line.

Then quietly closes her laptop containing a manuscript she’s been trying to reshape into trend fiction.

For the first time in months, she opens the original draft instead.

INT. MARA’S APARTMENT – LATER

The thread has reached chaos.

Mara stares at one reply:

“You communicated a lot of words, but I have just one: Wow.”

She exhales sharply.

Jules watches her.

JULES

You okay?

MARA

I can’t tell if people think I’m brave or unemployable.

JULES

Probably both.

PHONE BUZZ.

Unknown email.

SUBJECT:

Meeting Request

Mara opens it.

Her face drops.

JULES

Who is it?

Mara turns the screen slowly.

FROM:

CLAIRE THORNE LITERARY.

Jules SCREAMS.

CUT TO BLACK.

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Lately, I’ve been reading a surprising number of books centred around weddings: The Wedding People by Alison Espach, The Unhoneymooners by Christina Lauren, and most recently, The Stand-Up Groomsman by Jackie Lau.

And I can’t help but imagine there must be some mysterious publishing summit somewhere — perhaps not quite parliamentary or congressional hearings, but close enough — where people collectively decide what contemporary fiction is going to look like for the next two years. Because after reading through what feels like an entire era of “current lists,” I can confidently say we are deep in the age of weddings, reluctant bridal parties, destination resorts, enemies-to-lovers banter, and the inevitable pairing of two people who appear to dislike each other immensely until, naturally, they end up together by the final chapter.

I will add briefly that Lau explores a modern dating concept in which her main character Vivian and her love interest Mel navigate the logistics of maintaining their lives in different cities. It’s a premise that, in this day and age, as more of us build independence while remaining single, raises the question: do we merge or sacrifice, and why? And will that choice ultimately risk what we both want, or is it the very thing that makes it possible?

It feels less like a romantic complication and more like a modern reality, where love is no longer just about choosing a person, but also choosing how much of your life you are willing to rearrange around them.

Which brings me here: on the verge of writing a Substack essay about exactly that.

Because if you loved Christina Lauren’s The Unhoneymooners, you will almost certainly enjoy Jackie Lau’s The Stand-Up Groomsman. And somehow, despite having absolutely nothing to do with weddings, Curtis Sittenfeld’s Romantic Comedy also belongs in this conversation.

In fact, Romantic Comedy may be my favourite book I’ve read all year.

And I think the reason these books connect has less to do with weddings themselves and more to do with performance: social performance, romantic performance, comedic performance, and the exhausting business of pretending not to care while desperately hoping someone sees through the act anyway.

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I have not quite shaken it.

Not because it is dramatic or exaggerated, but because it isn’t. It feels matter of fact in a way that is almost more unsettling. Like this is simply how things were, and no one thought to question it loudly enough.

What stayed with me was not just the sexism. It was the structure of it. The way it was built into absolutely everything, quiet, normalized, and reinforced at every level.

There is a moment in the lab where Elizabeth’s work is absorbed into a man’s reputation, not in some dramatic, confrontational way, just quietly redirected. As if that is the natural order of things. No one questions it. No one even names it.

And then, eventually, it goes further.

Her boss, the same man who later fires her for being unwed and pregnant, does not just benefit from the system, he uses it. He steps in and claims what is hers, more directly and without a smidgen of shame. By that point, it doesn’t even feel surprising.

Because she is working in an environment where credibility is already decided for her. Where funding, recognition, and authority attach more easily to a man, and a woman’s work can be overlooked long before it is taken outright.

It isn’t just that he takes her work. It’s that the system has already made it possible for him to do so.

What’s unsettling is not just that men uphold final authority, but that women sometimes learn how to work within it, even if it means turning on each other to be seen more favourably by those in power. It is absolutely maddening.

The same goes for the way she moves through academic spaces. The harassment is there, but what is more striking is how unsurprising it is. It is treated like background noise. Something to navigate, not confront. Something women are expected to anticipate rather than challenge.

And then there are the stakes that sit just beneath all of it.

There’s a moment where a story is told about a seventeen-year-old girl sent away after becoming pregnant. Not quietly supported, not protected, but hidden. Sent to a home for unwed mothers, the kind that operated more like institutions than care.

She’s pressured to sign away her baby. Most did, however she refused.

So they make an example of her.

When she goes into labour, she’s locked in a room and left alone. No support, no dignity, just pain and silence. Later, she’s told the baby didn’t survive. That it’s over. That there’s nothing left to question.

Years pass before she learns the truth.

The baby didn’t die, it was taken and given away like so many others.

And what stays with you is not just the cruelty of it, but how structured it was. Documented, normalized and signed-off on.

It is not framed as extraordinary. It is treated as something that simply… happened.

Reading it now, that is the part that lingers. Not just what happened, but how accepted it was.

Then there is Calvin, who respects her, intellectually, fully and without hesitation, radical because it is so rare in her world. His presence quietly highlights how low the standard was, how unusual it was for a woman to be seen clearly, without being diminished or redirected. We love Calvin.

Even motherhood is not exempt from expectation. Elizabeth does not step into it in the “right” way, and the response is immediate. Judgement. Limitation. A tightening of what her life is allowed to look like. Not just that she becomes a mother, but how, and under what conditions, and with what kind of presentation.

And then there is the cooking show.

On the surface, it looks like compliance. A woman in a kitchen, teaching other women how to cook. Exactly where she is supposed to be.

Except…

She uses it to teach chemistry. To speak to women as if they are intelligent, capable, deserving of more. She does not soften her language. She does not reduce herself to be more palatable. And in doing that, she quietly disrupts everything the space was designed to reinforce.

What struck me most is how often she is labelled “difficult.”

Not because she is. But because she is precise, direct and unwilling to adjust herself to make other people more comfortable. And in that time, that alone is enough to make her an outlier.

There is a loneliness in that. Not dramatic, not overwhelming, just steady. The kind that comes from being slightly ahead of what the world is ready to accept.

That is what the book quietly reminds you. This is not distant history. This is recent. Close enough that the residue of it still exists, just in more subtle forms.

It made me understand the feminist movement differently. Not as something abstract or ideological, but as something inevitable. A response and a correction to a system that was never built with women in mind.

And honestly, thank God it happened.

Because reading this version of the world, watching women adjust themselves to fit inside it, it is hard not to feel the weight of what they carried without ever being asked if they should have to.

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That is fine. Truly. Not every book is for every reader, and I am not particularly interested in convincing someone to like something they did not enjoy. But as I read through it, I found myself less focused on whether I agreed and more focused on why we seemed to be reading two entirely different books.

Because buried in her sarcasm and frustration was one question she kept returning to, almost incredulously: how can someone go to school for something, work in that field, be good at it… and still not feel fulfilled?

And that was the moment I paused.

Not because the question is invalid, but because it felt like it was being asked from a place that has not yet encountered the answer in real life. Immediately I thought, she must be young, in her 20s.

I do not mean that critically. I mean it honestly.

There’s a point, for many people, when the life you’ve carefully built no longer feels like it belongs to you.

I remember exactly when that shift happened for me. I was in my late thirties, standing on my condo balcony, looking out at a life that, by every external measure, was working. I had built something solid in real estate, something successful. I was good at it.

But I found myself wondering if I would ever finish the book I’d started years earlier. If I would ever come back to writing at all.

I was capable. I was successful. I was exactly where I had once believed I was supposed to be.

And still, something felt off.

Not dramatically wrong, not broken. Just… misaligned.

That is not failure, that is awareness.

And that to me, is what Olive’s arc in The Unhoneymooners is actually about.

There’s a line she says that mirrored my thoughts so precisely it ended up shaping how I approached my review, and that was before I had even come across the Goodreads take:

“Not having the weight of a corporate job on my shoulders is an unbelievable relief. I never knew I was this person. I feel more myself than I’ve ever been.”

That is not a woman rejecting responsibility or chasing some glossy, aspirational “dream career.” That is a woman recognizing that competence and fulfilment are not the same thing, you can be good at something and still not belong there.

And if you have never felt that yet, the idea might genuinely seem confusing. Even indulgent. Even unrealistic.

But if you have felt it, the line lands differently.

It feels like confirmation.

The review also took issue with the world of the book itself. One example she cited was the wedding, entirely paid for with coupons, thanks to Olive’s twin, Ami, who is almost comically lucky and seems to win every sweepstakes she enters.

It was framed as unrealistic, as though the circumstances stretched too far beyond real-world logic, as though things in that world didn’t quite operate the way they should. Well, that’s the magic of poetic licence in the realm of writing fiction.

And again, I understood the reaction. But I also think it is rooted in a mismatch of expectations, or from the perspective of someone who doesn’t understand fiction.

Fiction, especially romantic comedy, is not a ledger of probabilities. It is not trying to pass a practical audit. It compresses, exaggerates, and stylizes in order to make emotional truths legible in a short space of time.

The coupon wedding is not a budgeting guide. It is a comic device. It tells you something about tone, about character, about the slightly heightened world you are stepping into. It is not asking to be believed in a literal sense. It is asking to be accepted as part of the book’s language.

And if you resist that language, the whole thing starts to feel absurd.

But if you lean into it, the logic shifts. The question becomes less “could this happen exactly like this?” and more “what is this trying to say?”

For me, the answer is answer comes later nearing the end of the novel.

When Ami tells Olive, “I want you to know I’m proud of you,” it lands with a surprising weight. Olive reflects that her life finally feels like hers again, but she did not realize she needed someone else to acknowledge it.

That feels real in a way that no perfectly structured plot ever could.

Because sometimes growth happens privately, slowly, almost invisibly, until someone else names it. Sometimes you do not understand the magnitude of your own change until it is reflected back to you, and that is something I can also relate to

That is not exaggerated. That is painfully, recognizably human.

So yes, I read that review. And I understood parts of it.

But I also found myself thinking: this is not a failure of the book. This is a difference in lived experience.

If you have not yet reached the point where you question the path you chose, Olive’s restlessness might feel unnecessary. If you have not felt the quiet dissonance of being good at something that does not quite fit, her relief might feel confusing.

And if you expect fiction to behave exactly like reality, the heightened elements will feel implausible rather than intentional.

But if you have lived even a little bit inside that in-between space, the one where your life looks right from the outside but feels slightly off on the inside, then the book reads differently.

It reads less like a rom-com asking you to fall in love with a couple, and more like a story about a woman slowly, awkwardly, unmistakably, returning to herself.

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More recently, I wrote The Rhythm of Expectation. It is a piece about poetry and why, even as a writer, it has never been a primary focus.

Earlier today, before I sat down to write this piece, I asked my dad—in true Jeopardy! fashion—

“For $500, what does enjambment refer to in terms of writing styles?”

He didn’t have a clue.

While I went on to remind him of a time in my twenties when I attended a poetry reading, he admitted he’s never really been a fan either. Still, in the early 70s, he studied journalism, and despite his indifference to poetry, he appreciates it in his own way.

Case in point, as a gift for my mom, he once bought her a collection of Robert Frost.

When I asked what made him choose it, he replied simply, “Because I thought it was a nice gift.”

So, while he may not be a fan of poetry, he remains a writer at his core, clinging to his journalism roots, and most famously (in our house) correcting news reporters when they dare to say “lesser” instead of “fewer,” and keeping his own creative focus on music lyrics.

In my recent foray with poetry, I found myself drawn to one form in particular: enjambment, perhaps because subconsciously I knew it would be the most challenging.

So I went back to Salem Reflections and started again.

I pulled it apart. I stripped the structure. I resisted punctuation in a way that felt almost unnatural. It took a few drafts to stop trying to make it behave like prose.

I’m not suddenly becoming a poet, but this felt worth exploring.

Below is the original piece accompanied with my reworked attempt at enjambment. You’ll see how clearly it leans toward prose (an area I am closely proficient) rather than poetry.

Let me know what you think.

Original

I look at the trees on my family’s property, where I’ve lived since I was two years old, and I see time. Every part of this land holds a different stage of my life.

I see the neighbours I grew up with who are no longer here. The bonfire nights. The unsteady stretch of my late teens into my twenties. The arguments. The drama I stirred up and sometimes wish I hadn’t.

I see my brother here too. He’s not, but I can still picture him crossing the yard. I hear his voice. I see him helping my dad, reluctantly at first, then fully in it, working up a sweat and finding that quiet pride somewhere along the way. Chopping wood, mending a fence, doing something useful on these four and a half acres that seemed to stretch forever when we were younger.

For so long, I wanted to leave. And I did. Ottawa, Toronto, Vancouver. So much life lived away from here. But I always come back.

I think about the cornfield in the far corner. It’s gone now, but in my mind it’s still there. Running through it on hot days with my friends, cornstalks towering over us, our hands brushing against them as we laughed and stole what we could carry. Hiding deep inside like we had discovered something no one else knew about.

The woods behind the house felt endless back then. A kind of magic. A whole world. I used to complain about living in the middle of nowhere, about there being nothing to do. I was reminded, again and again, how lucky I was. I didn’t understand it then. I do now.

I’ve seen more of the world since. Enough to know what this place really is.

It’s not just where I grew up. It’s something I get to keep.

There’s still so much life here. So much potential. And I intend to hold onto it.

Enjambment

I look at the trees on my family’s property

where I have lived since I was two

and I see time moving through everything,

every part of this land holding

a different stage of my life

where I see the neighbours I grew up with

who are no longer here,

the bonfire nights folding into

the unsteady stretch of my late teens

and into my twenties

with the arguments and the drama I stirred,

sometimes wishing I hadn’t

and I see my brother here too,

even though he isn’t,

I can still picture him crossing the yard

hear his voice carry through the air

see him helping my dad

reluctantly at first, then fully in it,

working up a sweat

and finding a kind of quiet pride

somewhere along the way

chopping wood, mending a fence,

doing something useful on these four and a half acres

that used to feel endless

when we were younger

for so long I wanted to leave

and I did, to Ottawa, Toronto, Vancouver,

so much life lived away from here

but I always come back

I think about the cornfield in the far corner

that’s gone now,

but still there in my mind

where we ran through it on hot days

with cornstalks towering over us,

our hands brushing against them

as we laughed and stole what we could carry

hiding deep inside it

like we had discovered something

no one else knew about

and the woods behind the house

felt like an endless kind of magic,

a whole world I didn’t understand

when I complained about living

in the middle of nowhere,

about there being nothing to do

I was told again and again

how lucky I was

and I didn’t understand it then

but I’ve seen more of the world since,

enough to know what this place really is,

not just where I grew up

but something I get to keep,

something still full of life,

still full of potential,

something I intend to hold onto

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At the level of tone and atmosphere, All That Life Can Afford leans literary and introspective, quietly emotional and restrained, with a strong focus on class, ambition, and identity observed from a careful distance. My manuscript, Over My Head in High Heels is fast, witty, and deeply social, driven by dialogue, messy friendships, romance, and nightlife, with a sharper, funnier, more chaotic edge that places it closer to contemporary commercial fiction or what might be called smart women’s fiction. That tonal distinction carries into the worlds themselves. Everett’s story moves through elite spaces and questions of social mobility, where much of the tension is internal and psychological, while Over My Head in High Heels thrives in kinetic, outward-facing environments such as parties, patios, and social circles, where career ambition and relationship drama actively drive the plot.

If I were to personify the two, it would be like this: All That Life Can Afford is the type of individual who lingers at one social engagement and two hours later goes home alone and contemplates details of the evening, the week and moreover their entire life. Whereas Over My Head in High Heels bar hops all night, has damn good time and maybe goes home alone, and should that happen, they crash hard the minute their head hits the pillow. Get it? OK good, now let’s move on.

Let’s talk protagonist energy. Anna functions as an observational, reflective character, someone who navigates power structures quietly and with self-awareness. Jara (my main character in Over My Head in High Heels), on the other hand, is active, expressive, and unapologetically present in her own life. She reacts, jokes, argues, goes out, and makes mistakes in real time, allowing readers to connect with her through movement rather than introspection. That same divide appears in pacing (Pacing is basically the difference between a four cylinder vehicle and a six), where Everett’s novel unfolds more slowly through subtle emotional shifts and internal development, mine moves quickly through scenes, conversations, and social events that keep the narrative in motion.

Despite these differences, there is clear thematic overlap. Both stories explore ambition and identity, the navigation of adult relationships, and the quiet dissonance between the life one imagines and the one they find themselves living. No one sets out expecting to land somewhere difficult or unrecognizable (personal hell), yet both novels sit in an uncomfortable space, where choices compound and reality sharpens.

What emerges is not defeat, but resilience! Yes, my friends strong women shall persevere! Each protagonist is forced to confront the consequences of her own decisions, reckon with what no longer fits, and, ultimately, move toward reinvention, not as a fantasy, but as a hard-won shift forward. That shared ground is what makes the comparison feel natural, even as the execution diverges.

Now lets talk Romantic leads: The dynamic between Calum and Theo in All That Life Can Afford felt familiar in a different way. There’s a classic literary blueprint there, the reliable versus the reckless, the grounded versus the charming. It echoes a structure readers have seen before, one that still works when handled with restraint. While the novel leans into literary references, particularly those tied to Jane Austen, it does so in a way that feels aware, if not entirely original. That said, the frequency of these references across contemporary fiction is beginning to feel a bit overused. I discussed this in a recent Substack.

The parallels become even clearer when placed alongside familiar cultural touch-points. Anna’s experience moving through upper-class London echoes Gilmore Girls, particularly when Rory Gilmore arrives at Yale and becomes involved with Logan Huntzberger, stepping into a privileged world that both attracts and unsettles her, I honestly couldn’t stop drawing similarities. Not to mention, but the romantic dynamic between Calum’s interest in Anna vs. Theo’s recalls Bridget Jones’s Diary, where Mark Darcy represents stability and Daniel Cleaver embodies charm and risk.

Over My Head in High Heels, however, complicates such a binary by distributing those traits across multiple characters, reinforcing its multi-POV structure and broader emotional scope.

In a quick summary, if someone enjoyed All That Life Can Afford, they would likely find something to connect with in Over My Head in High Heels, (I mean I enjoyed it).

They centre on women figuring out who they are. The distinction lies in approach: Everett’s novel offers introspective literary realism, while MINE delivers sharp, social, character-driven contemporary fiction that leans into humour, momentum, and the beautifully messy process of becoming.

Everett’s gets messy for a bit. It’s a decent climax that leans more into page-turner territory, more girl, you did not just say that. It balances out again by the last two chapters. There are so many innuendos I could lean into here, but they would just cheapen what is otherwise a finely crafted article, so I’ll leave it at that.

Anyway, both novels strip away the illusion of control and possibility that losing what you thought defined you might actually be what allows you to move forward.

Coming of age, indeed.

Both, however, circle the same truth, and that is simple: Reinvention comes at a cost and sometimes, losing everything you thought you needed is the only way to understand what actually matters. Rock bottom, baby.

It’s a strong, relatable read for anyone drawn to contemporary fiction that explores class, identity, and the uneasy space between where you come from and where you’re trying to go. Or where you think you need to go, where someone tells you to go, and what you think you need to do to get there.

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Yes, Pride and Prejudice. By Jane Austen. Published in 1813. Referenced by nearly every contemporary romantic writer I have ever read, and somehow, until today, completely avoided by me.

This book shows up everywhere. In conversations, in other novels, and in movies too. Remember You’ve Got Mail with Meg Ryan and Tom Hanks? There’s a scene where he finally gives in and makes every effort within himself to read it, alas the scene ends with him swigging a Heineken and practically falling asleep.

It’s one of those titles that sits quietly in the background of the genre, almost assumed to be on every writer’s list of must-read classics. Especially in contemporary romance and character driven fiction, where writers seem to nod to Austen like a shared language. You live in Canada? Well then, you must speak French.

She was, in her time, a contemporary romantic writer. A contemporary writer of women’s fiction. She wrote for her world, her audience, her moment and characters like Mr. Bennet and Mrs. Bennet are so sharply drawn. They feel real, flawed, a bit ridiculous. That balance is very modern.

So much of the story unfolds through conversation, subtext, and what isn’t said. And wait for it, what’s contemporary romance without a second suitor taking centre stage? Meet Fitzwilliam Darcy, because that dynamic is one that echoes through basically every enemies-to-lovers or tension-heavy romance written today.

It is such a rare kind of success when writing transcends time the way hers has.

I only wish she knew that, perhaps she does.

Anyway, I finally decided to stop pretending I had absorbed it by osmosis and actually read it.

We have Mrs. Bennet, who is already deeply committed to the idea that one of her daughters must marry well, basically Kris Kardashian. We have Mr. Bennet, who feels like he is watching all of this unfold with a level of dry amusement. And we have Charles Bingley, newly arrived in the neighbourhood, immediately positioned as a very eligible man.

It is entertaining, and surprisingly easy to draw lines into a modern context. Not in the language, of course, oh but of course not, darling. Nor in the structure of the sentences, the pacing, the formality. It is all very much of its time. But the dynamics? The social pressure, the quiet calculations, the way reputation and proximity shape everything. That feels completely intact.

Women have always been acutely aware of one another, measuring, comparing, sometimes competing, whether we admit it or not. Have we really? Yes, and the first step is admitting it. And alongside that, there are often kind hearted men moving quietly in the background, steadying the very things we tend to unravel.

It reminded me that what we often call “contemporary” is not actually new. It is just a shift in setting. I once heard a quote that every generation thinks they are the best looking and the first to invent sex. They are not. They are simply the latest to believe it.

Reading Austen now, as someone actively writing fiction, feels different than I expected. I am not just following the story. I am watching how it is built.

The dialogue carries everything. The tension is not loud, but it is constant. The characters are specific, flawed, and occasionally a little absurd in ways that feel very human (from an anthropology perspective, we have advanced in many ways, though we have yet to change in so many others).

Perhaps that’s why so many writers circle back to her, because beneath the drawing rooms and social calls, she was writing about the same things we still write about: Misunderstanding. First impressions. Ego. Attraction. Timing. The stories we tell ourselves about other people, and how often we are wrong.

I have managed to avoid this book for years, and now that I am finally reading it, I understand why it never really went away.

Here’s to you, Ms. Austen!

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I am not the type of woman who can simply carry on if a man tells me he no longer wants me in his life or no longer wants to be my boyfriend.

For me, there is a mourning period.

Someone you felt incredibly close to yesterday is suddenly no longer there, and gone is the future you quietly imagined together. The version of life you thought you were moving toward disappears, and that is something you have to accept and process.

Personally, I think pretending that loss does not exist, or immediately moving on based on the premise of compartmentalization, borders on emotional detachment and sociopathic, and that my friends and dear readers does not feel healthy to me. I believe it is far healthier to acknowledge what is gone and allow yourself to move through a real mourning period, no matter how difficult.

I have not been in a serious relationship in four and a half years, and part of the reason is that my discernment has become very high. When you know what the aftermath feels like, you naturally become more careful about who you allow into your life, because for me grief is not optional. It is a process I have to move through whether I want to or not.

That reality has shaped the way I date. My boundaries are higher. I am not as easygoing about letting someone into my life, because I know what it costs emotionally if things fall apart.

Some people say you do not have to go through such level of grief, however experience has shown me mourning is part of my process and has become my pattern, and pretending otherwise would not be honest.

When a breakup first happens, one of the first thoughts that always crosses my mind is simple and painful:

How could you do this?

Not only because the relationship ended, but because I know what beckons.

Below I have outlined what I have come to think of as my five stages of grief after a breakup, without a timeline of course, it can go on for as long as you need.

If you can relate, leave a comment below or share this with someone who might need to read it.

My Five Rules for Going Through a Breakup

Rule #1: Lock down, keep busy, keep low.

Go dark for a while. Disappear, stay productive, handle life quietly, and let the world wait while you process.

Rule #2: Grieve fiercely, roam carefully.

Keep your head down, but don’t disappear entirely. Even in grief, expand beyond your usual territory—feel it all, but move carefully in the world.

Rule #3: Friends push, I prep, I go.

Date on the outside, not the inside. Friends say it’s time, so you prep: two weeks at the gym, shake off the breakup indulgence—and then show up, even if your heart isn’t ready.

Rule #4: Ditch forced dating.

That first “friend-pushed” date? Never again, but it taught you something. Now, show up where it feels natural: social outings, gatherings, spontaneous adventures and meeting people organically, on your terms.

Rule #5: Heal fully, live boldly.

Own your story. Feel everything, learn everything, and keep moving forward; be stronger, wiser, and unapologetically yourself.

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I understand the characters in contemporary fiction because they live in a world that feels real. Their problems, their humour, their relationships—it’s all familiar. And while life in these stories can still be messy and complicated, there’s usually a thread of humour and humanity running through it.

There’s so much darkness in the world already. Contemporary fiction gives us a place where life can still be normal, still be funny, still be hopeful. I think people need that.

I’m not going to question why others gravitate toward horror, gore, or anything else I personally find unpleasant—if we all liked the same things, the world would be a very boring place. But for me, contemporary fiction is where I go to escape for a while and spend time with characters I understand and inevitably fall a little bit in love with.

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It was an investigative news report about Cinderella suing Prince Charming for having an affair with Sleeping Beauty.

The jury was the Seven Dwarfs.

Looking at it now, I realize something slightly comforting: I have apparently been writing about messy love affairs and complicated relationships for most of my life. Even then, I was not especially interested in fairy tales the way they were originally told, I was more interested in what might be happening behind the scenes.

Who loved who.

Who betrayed who.

Who was telling the story and who might be hiding something.

Just what is going on in Cinderella’s castle?

At the time, of course, it was simply a school assignment. I probably handed it in without thinking too much about it. But reading it again now, I can see the instincts behind it feel very familiar.

The story was written as a news report and not just any news report, but an investigative one with a slightly yellow tinge. Which, in the world of journalism, is a polite way of saying tabloid.

In my Grade Eight version of events, Cinderella had discovered that Prince Charming was becoming a little too charming with the wrong woman and the woman happened to be Sleeping Beauty.

Naturally, the situation escalated into a lawsuit.

The media arrived.

Reporters from all over the world gathered outside the courthouse in Orlando, Florida. Cameras flashed, journalists shouted questions, and the entire fairy-tale kingdom waited to hear what would happen next.

Looking at the assignment now, I notice something I definitely did not understand at thirteen.

The story actually begins with what writers call a scene-based lead. Instead of starting with an explanation, I opened the article outside the courthouse with reporters gathering, cameras flashing, and the public waiting for the outcome.

That’s a technique journalists often use to bring the reader directly into a moment before explaining the larger story.

To be clear, I am quite certain thirteen-year-old me was unfamiliar with the term, nor was I intentionally employing a narrative technique that would later be taught in college journalism reporting 101. I was simply writing what felt interesting. Still, it is slightly amusing to look back and realize that the instinct was already there.

Moving forward the story moves through a surprisingly clear structure.

First the media gathers.

Then the courtroom scene unfolds.

Then the jury arrives.

All seven members step out of a limousine:

Doc, Sleepy, Dopey, Happy, Grumpy, Sneezy, and Bashful.

The assignment reads less like a typical school project and more like the premise of a Saturday Night Live sketch. Cinderella suing Prince Charming for having an affair with Sleeping Beauty while the Seven Dwarfs preside over the trial is not exactly subtle storytelling.

“Fairy Tale Courtroom Scandal” A Saturday Night Live cold open.

And my final line about the Royal Family being a bunch of back-stabbing liars living happily ever after is essentially a satirical closing line, which is exactly how many of those sketches wrap.

The piece even includes a big visual gag: the jury being the Seven Dwarfs. It is precisely the kind of reveal that would get a laugh. After some additional edits, it would indeed be decent sketch comedy.

My parents still recall the piece to this day with a certain amused pride.

Imagine if I had become a doctor.

Still, there was a surprising amount happening in that little Grade Eight assignment: there was a scene-based opening that dropped the reader directly into the action, rising tension as the trial unfolded, and finally, satire hiding inside the humour.

At one point Cinderella was quoted saying, “If the shoe fits, why not?“

Evidence. Girl had her ducks in a row.

Which, in retrospect, is an excellent legal strategy, remember when one infamous glove didn’t fit? We won’t go there, however eventually the trial concluded and Cinderella ran from the courthouse announcing that she had won.

But the story did not end with a tidy fairy-tale resolution.

My final conclusion, written in very determined Grade Eight handwriting, read:

‘In the end we realized they were just a big bunch of back-stabbing liars like any other royal family, living happily ever after.’

I can see something I probably did not understand about myself at the time; it makes sense, I suppose, that I eventually studied journalism. It also makes sense the stories I write today circle the same themes: complicated relationships, human behaviour, and the tension between the official version of events and what people know in their gut to be true.

As I glance over the crumpled assignment today, something affirming is revealed; the writer I was trying to become was already there, she just happened to be reporting on a royal scandal.