The other day I hopped out of the shower, threw on a pair of shorts and a T-shirt, dabbed some lipstick on my lips and took the dog to the botanical gardens to take in the late-summer blooms.

As I arrived, I stopped dead in my tracks.

Sitting at the entrance was this gorgeous young woman with that TikTok-perfect look. Her perfectly highlighted hair was perfectly coiffed into a French twist, with loose tendrils framing her tanned face. She appeared to have flawless skin, high cheekbones, berry-coloured lips and she wore a flowing floral dress.

She looked like she had stepped straight out of Town & Country magazine.

And in that moment, I did something I know I shouldn’t have done.

I compared my 59-year-old self to someone thirty years younger.

I quickly scanned my body, dressed in my Old Navy shorts and T-shirt, wearing my Skechers, and noticed, damn, I haven’t even shaved my legs.

My hand immediately went to my makeup-free face.

Thank God for my oversized sunglasses, which hid my eyes that didn’t have a touch of mascara on them.

I promptly decided that when I got home, I was going to book that long-overdue anti-aging facial and make a trip to Sephora for a complete makeover.

Lord only knows what that would cost me.

It had been a while since I’d had a facial.

I used to have them every month because, after all, we were told by the cosmetics industry that facials were good for our skin.

Personally, I enjoyed the 60-minute nap amidst the calming spa music in a dark, softly lit room more than the facial.

To this day, I haven’t the foggiest idea if those facials actually did anything for my skin.

So why did I stop?

Oh, just that little thing called the cost of living.

When everything started going through the roof, regular facials became one of those luxuries that had to go. Other than the occasional massage, my spa days are essentially over.

And I miss them.

I miss the splurge after having a few difficult days. I miss the feeling of being pampered for an hour while someone else takes care of me for a change.

I also bought into the idea that as we age, our skin changes and therefore requires an increasingly complicated home skincare routine to preserve what we have and prevent the dreaded signs of aging.

So naturally, I needed the skincare regimen sold by the spa.

Aveda became my best friend.

Of course, the spa therapist introduced me to their cosmetics line, which I just had to try because it looked fabulous on all the young women working at the spa.

Then came the Rosemary Mint shampoo.

And the lavender body moisturizer.

Before long, I had become a walking, talking advertisement for Aveda.

A few years later, I became hooked on Clinique.

Their message that this particular skincare regimen was exactly what my skin needed sucked me right in.

Plus, there was that colourful bag filled with freebies.

Lipstick.

Mascara.

Eyeshadow.

Miniature skincare products.

Who could resist?

That went on for a few years until something earth-shattering happened.

Sephora opened at our mall.

Back then, Sephora was still mostly known as an American company and was gradually expanding into Canada.

Oh. My. God.

The selection of skincare and cosmetics was thrilling—and a little overwhelming.

It was then I became hooked on NARS Orgasm lipstick and blush.

I’m not even sure why. Was it complimentary to my face? The consultant at Sephora with great conviction determined it was. In fact she said it was complimentary for most women. Wow. I nodded my head enthusiastically still hooked on the name.

I wasn’t familiar with NARS, but I am a sucker for packaging and clever names. And perhaps there was a tiny part of me thinking about the last time I had an orgasm and wondering if I had that same flushed-face look the woman at the cosmetic counter was creating on my cheeks.

Whatever the reason, I had to have it. So I bought it. I also bought the mascara apparently formulated for my age.

I even discovered a foundation that was supposedly appropriate for women of a certain age. I bought that too.

After spending $200 on cosmetics, I walked out of that store with a smile plastered across my face, feeling like a million bucks.

And that, my friends, is one of the secrets of the cosmetics industry.

We don’t really know for sure whether the products are going to make us look better.

But buying them—along with their clever names, beautiful packaging and promises to perform—makes us feel better.

And that is a feeling we all want, especially after a hard day.

So, back to my day at the botanical gardens.

After my lovely walk, I went home and Googled my favourite spa to look into booking a facial.

It had honestly been about three years since I had been there.

Not only was I shocked to discover that the price of a basic facial had jumped by $45, but the spa had come up with so many more attractive names for its treatments that I became dizzy just reading the menu.

Then I noticed something called red-light LED therapy.

It sounded very complicated. Not soothing. But technical.

So I Googled it.

Suddenly, I felt as though I had walked into a science-fiction movie.

This was no traditional oatmeal, cucumber or clay mask—the kind I remembered from my spa days.

This was an LED mask that goes over your face and makes you look like something out of a creepy movie.

As I did more research, I discovered that there actually is scientific evidence behind certain uses of LED light therapy for skin.

And then I discovered that I could buy one for home use for several hundred dollars.

Hmmm.

Reduce wrinkles?

Improve dark spots?

Look younger?

I contemplated it.

For approximately thirty seconds.

Then I decided I didn’t want to look like Mike Myers from Halloween.

I’d much rather have a calming facial in a spa environment while breathing in the relaxing aromatherapy of lavender essential oils.

Years ago, we were told that ingredients such as honey, oatmeal and cucumber were good for our skin.

Then came hyaluronic acid.

Now it’s retinol, collagen and vitamin C.

And seemingly every cosmetics company has a face moisturizer containing some combination of these ingredients, ranging from products you can pick up at Walmart to creams costing hundreds of dollars.

La Mer can cost hundreds.

La Prairie can cost even more.

Can these high-priced products really work better than what I’m currently using?

I’m skeptical.

It doesn’t really matter anyway.

On my budget, I’m not buying the $500 face cream.

And that brings me to another thing that bothers me about the beauty industry.

It can feel like it separates the classes.

Does a woman who can afford the LED mask and the $500 face cream actually look better than the woman who buys her moisturizer at Walmart?

Or has she simply been sold a more expensive version of the same hope?

We used to buy lip gloss and lipstick that promised to make our lips look plumper.

Now women are spending far more money on procedures such as lip fillers.

And please don’t get me started on Botox.

Almost every woman has an opinion about aging and cosmetics.

Some women are perfectly happy with a basic routine: wash the face, apply moisturizer and sunscreen, perhaps add a little lipstick when going out.

Others get caught up in all the stories the beauty industry tells us about how we can look our best—and stay looking that way—as we age.

I admit it.

I am a sucker for those stories.

I’ve been hearing them since I was a teenager in the 1980s, when Noxzema was apparently going to solve all my acne problems.

The message has simply become more sophisticated.

The cosmetics industry places immense pressure on women at every age that aging can be slowed, reversed, corrected or somehow managed—as long as we use the right products.

And often, we put that pressure on ourselves and societal pressures don’t help.

Does looking young mean we will have a more youthful and fulfilling life like the models appearing in commercials?

Or, does having wrinkles mean we’ve somehow let ourselves go and we define ourselves as old and less than someone who radiates youthfulness?

Does looking our age mean we aren’t taking care of ourselves? That we’ve become boring or mediocre?

And by the way, at what point did we decide a twelve-step process to washing our face was the new normal for healthy looking skin?

Cleanser.

Toner.

Essence.

Serum.

Eye cream.

Moisturizer.

Face oil.

Night cream.

At this point, I feel like I need a flow chart.

Some products genuinely do something.

Sunscreen? Absolutely.

Moisturizer? Certainly.

Retinoids? There is good evidence behind them.

Vitamin C? Potentially useful.

But a lot of what women are persuaded to buy is optional, redundant or marketed with claims that go far beyond the evidence.

And more products aren’t necessarily better.

Sometimes a simple routine is better simply because you’re more likely to stick with it—and because piling product after product onto your face can irritate your skin.

I’m also beginning to question the idea that the skin around my eyes requires an entirely separate $70 jar of cream.

Yes, the skin there is thinner and more delicate, and some products are formulated specifically for it.

But do I absolutely need another little jar because someone has convinced me that my regular moisturizer cannot possibly cross an imaginary boundary between my cheek and my eye?

I’m not so sure.

These days, I’m not nearly as obsessed with my beauty routine as I once was.

I cleanse my face.

I use sunscreen.

I use moisturizer during the day and in the evening.

And I don’t spend a fortune anymore.

But I still get sucked in by lipstick names like Love Pop and Candy Chic.

And I’ll probably still be wearing my NARS Orgasm blush and lipstick well into my eighties because, you know...

It just feels good.

And maybe that’s the part of the beauty industry I’m willing to keep.

Not the fear.

Not the promise that I can somehow outsmart aging.

Not the suggestion that every wrinkle is a problem waiting to be solved.

But the little luxuries.

The lipstick.

The pretty packaging.

The ridiculous names.

The occasional facial.

The sixty-minute nap in a dark, softly lit room while someone else worries about my skin.

Because there’s nothing wrong with wanting to look good.

There’s nothing wrong with wanting to feel pretty.

There’s nothing wrong with enjoying makeup.

But maybe we should stop confusing looking our best with looking younger.

I’m 59.

My skin has changed.

Of course it has.

So have I.

And maybe the real question isn’t whether the beauty industry can make me look twenty-nine again.

Maybe it’s whether I’m finally comfortable enough in my own skin to stop trying.

I woke up at the crack of dawn this morning, made coffee in my French press, and breathed in that dark-roast aroma of my first sip of coffee, while enjoying the sunrise over the river.

My home was silent except for my dog Fallon, snoring softly in her bed. It was oh so peaceful as I sat under the soft glow of the lamp and watched the early-morning regul…

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I recently read a psychological thriller by a Canadian author that I highly recommend, Venom Lake. It’s about a group of women who read true crime for fun—and then, naturally, true crime happens in their own little circle.

It got me thinking about my own fascination with true crime television.

Now, let me begin by saying there is absolutely nothing funny about violence or crime. I grew up in a violent home. I have volunteered with battered and abused women. I’ve been stalked and threatened. Given my history, you would think true crime would be the last thing I would want to watch.

You would think it would be triggering.

For some bizarre reason, it isn’t.

In fact, sitting down to watch a happy romantic comedy about a beautiful young reporter who moves back to her perfect little hometown, where she falls in love with the handsome local mechanic, is far more likely to make me uncomfortable.

Happiness makes me uncomfortable. I expect something to go wrong. Fall apart. Collapse.

True crime keeps me engrossed.

There is nothing like sitting down after dinner with my dog, Fallon, a glass of red wine and several episodes of Evil Lives Here or Homicide Hunter with my friend in another city. We text back and forth while the crime unfolds, the investigators start piecing together the evidence and, eventually, someone gets arrested.

And yes, I realize how strange that sounds.

We sit there discussing the crime with smiles on our faces.

“What did she think was going to happen?”

“Why did she let him move in?”

“Why did she get into that car?”

“Did you see what he just did?”

Sometimes I think, what on earth is wrong with us?

Do we need professional help?

I already see a psychologist regularly, but I have never confessed this particular part of my television-watching life. I wonder what he would think.

Apparently, my friend and I are not alone.

There are a lot of women hooked on true crime—books, television series, podcasts, documentaries. We love it.

And I have a theory about why.

We like mysteries. We like puzzles. We like trying to figure out what happened and, perhaps most importantly, we like watching somebody eventually figure it out.

We are also fascinated by the human psyche. What makes a person become a serial killer? What makes someone lie? What makes a seemingly ordinary person capable of doing something horrific?

And then there are the victims.

Why does a woman fall quickly into a relationship with a charming man, move in with him three weeks later, become pregnant and then stay while he controls her, beats her and eventually tries to kill her?

We are sitting on the couch yelling at the television.

“Don’t do that, girlfriend! Run!”

She opens the door to a stranger.

“No! Don’t open the door!”

She gets into his car.

“No! Don’t get into the car!”

Of course, we know something she doesn’t.

We have hindsight.

And that’s one of the strange things about watching true crime. We aren’t necessarily laughing at the victim. We’re frustrated because we can see the danger coming and she can’t.

It’s like watching someone walk toward a hole in the sidewalk while you’re screaming at the television, “It’s right there!”

We know.

She doesn’t.

And then there are the forensics.

I find that fascinating too. Last year I wrote a book about a serial killer in a small town, and I relied on a coroner and an RCMP officer to help me understand the forensic side of the story.

I learned things I never imagined I would find interesting.

Now, when I watch a true-crime program, I sometimes find myself talking to the forensic team on television.

“No, no, no. Go back. Look at the other evidence.”

I’m sure they appreciate my assistance.

Then there is another reason I love true crime.

The women feel real.

And this is where my fascination with true crime collides with my complete inability to understand romantic comedies.

I have friends who live for Rom-Coms.

I don’t get it.

The woman in a romantic comedy is always “starting over.”

Usually in a small town.

Usually there is a coffee shop, bakery, bookstore or Christmas-tree farm involved.

The man is inexplicably handsome despite spending his days chopping wood.

Nobody in a rom-com seems to have a realistic mortgage.

Meanwhile, I’m sitting on the couch watching true crime thinking:

“Finally. A woman who has made some questionable decisions. I can relate.”

The true-crime woman might be working two jobs.

She might be renting a modest apartment.

She might have three children.

She might be pregnant at nineteen.

She might be struggling financially.

She might be trying desperately to make a relationship work.

She might be giving someone the benefit of the doubt.

And eventually, someone will say:

“He seemed like such a nice guy.”

And we’re sitting there thinking:

“Honey. No. He is not.”

Meanwhile, the romantic-comedy woman is beautiful.

She has a successful career.

She lives alone in an enormous house.

She somehow owns that house on a charming-but-mysterious income.

She has an amazing wardrobe.

She has no children.

She has a best friend who is available for brunch at any hour of the day.

And apparently, she has never done laundry.

Then there are the houses.

The true-crime woman:

“She lived in a modest two-bedroom rental with her three children.”

The romantic-comedy woman:

“She lived in a renovated four-bedroom farmhouse with exposed beams, a wraparound porch and a kitchen larger than my entire house.”

I want to know what these women are paying in property taxes.

And somehow, both women are looking for a man.

That’s the part I find fascinating.

Their circumstances couldn’t be more different, but underneath both stories is a very old fantasy:

A man is going to come along and change everything.

In the romantic comedy, he sweeps her off her feet.

In true crime, she may be desperately hoping he is the man who will finally make her life better.

Except we’re watching with the benefit of hindsight.

We know he isn’t.

In a rom-com, you spend ninety minutes waiting for two people to admit they like each other.

In true crime, you spend ninety minutes waiting for investigators to figure out who did it.

One gives you a kiss. The other gives you DNA evidence.

Give me the DNA.

I would much rather watch an axe murderer on a true-crime program than that hunky ranch owner chopping wood in a romance movie, perspiration dripping off his buff body.

And I find it far more interesting to watch a killer drinking too many shots of whisky before embarking on a killing spree than watching Susy, Sarah and Sally drinking cappuccino in a cute little café in Vermont while discussing an upcoming wedding.

There’s no fun in that.

And don’t even get me started on the children.

In a true-crime program, my heart breaks for the children who lose a parent. Those are real children whose lives have been permanently changed.

But give me the perfect little child in a Hallmark movie who looks up from the kitchen counter and says, “Mommy, I think you should marry Jake,” and I want to pull my hair out.

Please go play.

Your mother has been divorced twice.

She doesn’t need relationship advice from a seven-year-old.

And then there is my reaction to scary movies.

Scary movies terrify me.

I don’t watch them anymore. If I do, I can spend days imagining someone hiding in my closet or under my bed.

Yet I can watch episode after episode of Buried in the Backyard, stroke Fallon’s fur, turn off the television and go peacefully to sleep.

Explain that one.

Sometimes I think there must be something psychologically wrong with me.

Then I remember that I am apparently not alone.

Give me a choice between a Liam Hemsworth movie and Keith Morrison on Dateline with a pint of Häagen-Dazs, and I know exactly where I’ll be.

On the couch.

With the dog.

Watching Keith Morrison.

And this fascination isn’t necessarily about enjoying violence.

I want justice.

I want the victim and the family to get answers.

I want the investigators to find the evidence.

I want the killer caught.

Perhaps there is some comfort in watching a story in which, eventually, somebody finds the truth.

And maybe that’s part of the appeal.

Life isn’t always tidy. People don’t always make good decisions. Sometimes the person you trust is the person who hurts you.

True crime doesn’t pretend otherwise.

Romantic comedies do.

And maybe that’s why practical women like me and my friends find both genres so fascinating.

One gives us an idealized version of love.

The other gives us a warning label.

The romantic comedy says:

“He is going to rescue you.”

True crime says:

“For God’s sake, don’t let him rescue you.”

And we’re fascinated by both.

Maybe that’s not crazy at all.

Maybe we’re simply interested in women, relationships, bad decisions, human nature—and what happens when we let another person into our lives.

Although, personally, I still prefer watching the forensic team find the DNA.

And Fallon agrees.

At least I think she does.

She’s usually asleep by the time the body is found.

This week I wrote about my decision not to have children. As I reflected on the life I chose, I found myself thinking about people whose lives unfolded very differently from mine.

While some women my age are finally discovering what it’s like to live without children at h…

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This is probably the point where some readers will decide I’m selfish or self-absorbed, while others will thank me for saying something they’ve never dared say out loud.

Hate me if you wish, but I never wanted children.

The other day I looked through my Facebook friends and noticed something I’d never really paid attention to before. At least one-third of them don’t have children. It made me wonder how many of us have quietly built lives that don’t fit the story we’re usually told we’re supposed to live.

Despite society’s expectations, I never wanted children.

I wanted a puppy.

Not even when I was a little girl did I play with dolls or Barbie. I certainly didn’t want a Cabbage Patch Kid. Instead, I was more interested in board games, my brothers’ Tonka trucks, sports, and Nancy Drew mysteries.

I did have an Easy-Bake Oven. That was about as close as I came to playing “domesticated bliss,” but my culinary career came to an abrupt end when I decided to bake a grapefruit.

Looking back, I also didn’t have many examples of healthy parenting.

I grew up in a small town where many families struggled, and too often the children paid the price. I didn’t grow up watching parents who doted on their kids. I certainly didn’t grow up in the Huxtable household from The Cosby Show. With the dysfunction in my own family, I worried that if I had children, I would simply repeat what I had experienced.

I didn’t want that for any child.

Then again, I worried the opposite might happen.

Maybe I’d become one of those helicopter mothers who hovered over every decision and drove my children to distraction. Either way, motherhood never felt like it belonged to me.

When I was getting ready to graduate from high school, nobody asked me what kind of life I wanted. The assumption was simple: I’d get married, have children, and live happily ever after. That was the script.

As the oldest of eight grandchildren, there was another layer of expectation. I was the first one who was supposed to carry on the family line.

Instead, I became the grandchild who never had children.

The funny thing is that children like me.

I don’t encourage it and I certainly don’t go looking for it, but there has always been something about me that children seem to warm up to. Frankly, it scares the hell out of me because I have absolutely no desire to reciprocate.

Maybe, over the years, I was uncomfortable with the affection they offered because I wasn’t getting much of it at home. I honestly don’t know.

What I do know is that when I see a group of children, my first instinct is usually to head in the opposite direction.

There is one exception.

Halloween.

For one glorious evening each year, I love seeing kids in their creative costumes. They’re adorable. Then, after an hour or two, I turn off the lights, pour a glass of wine and happily return to my child-free existence.

It’s not as though I haven’t spent time with children.

I volunteered with the Boys and Girls Club breakfast program, feeding pancakes to sixty-five children every week. I volunteered in pediatrics at our local hospital, spending hours one-on-one with young patients. During university, I even ran a summer day camp.

The children were wonderful.

They laughed, they played, they engaged with me, and they genuinely seemed to enjoy my company.

Meanwhile, all I could think was, What on earth was I thinking?

Why had someone like me signed up for this?

More importantly, why did these kids like me so much?

I still don’t know the answer. I have been told by someone who knows me well that I have a gift for speaking the language of a child no matter what their age. Apparently I understand them. If it’s true, I’d prefer another gift; like a villa in Tuscany.

What I do know is that by the end of the day with these children, I was completely exhausted.

And God help me for saying this, but if you gave me the choice between watching Scream or one of those Hallmark movies featuring impossibly adorable children, I’ll take Scream every single time.

Those Hallmark kids are just too nice.

When I was growing up, babysitting was practically a rite of passage. If you wanted spending money, that’s what you did.

The kids usually had fun, and I did my best to keep them entertained.

But the highlight of my evening was always tucking them into bed and starting the countdown until their parents came home.

Babies, absolutely terrify me.

When I was twelve, I was babysitting my baby cousin. I lifted her out of her crib, and she slipped right through my hands onto the floor.

I was convinced I had broken her forever.

She survived.

So did my fear of babies.

Meal times never helped my maternal instincts either.

While other people looked at toddlers covered in spaghetti sauce and thought, How adorable, I looked at the same child and thought, That’s going to stain.

I’ve always been a bit of a germophobe. I like things neat. Children, by their very nature, are messy.

We were simply never a good match.

When I turned fourteen, I got a summer job raking blueberries.

Standing in a hot blueberry field doing backbreaking work felt liberating compared to babysitting.

As an added bonus...

It paid better.

As I got older, people inevitably asked, “So, any plans to get married and have children?”

My answer was always the same.

“Not in your life.”

Listening to the women around me talk about picking up after their husbands and then chasing after children made marriage sound like raising two generations at once.

No, thank you.

As I grew older and settled into adulthood, people still asked the same question.

“So, when are you getting married and having children?”

My answer never changed.

“Not in your life.”

The closest I ever came to thinking I might want children happened on a trip to Arizona.

At a tourist attraction, I met a little girl who was visiting with her grandfather and their dog. She wandered over to talk to me, and when she got close, I was stunned.

She looked exactly like me as a little girl.

For just a moment, I wondered what it might have been like to have a daughter who looked like me. For a few minutes, I found myself imagining a different life. A little girl who shared my features, my mannerisms, maybe even some of my personality.

It was a warm, cozy feeling. Perhaps that was the closest I ever came to understanding why people long to have children - not because they want to create a perfect little version of themselves, but because there is something powerful about seeing the connection between generations.

Then I backed into a prickly pear cactus. Warm feeling ended.

Perhaps it was the universe reminding me to stay in my lane.

Around the age of thirty-five, my biological clock finally made an appearance. I remember thinking perhaps I should freeze my eggs. Maybe a surrogate was in my future.

Those thoughts lasted a few months.

Then I returned to watching single mothers trying to do everything on their own.

Many were exhausted. Many struggled financially. Most were doing the very best they could.

It made me ask myself a difficult question.

Could I give a child the life I believed every child deserved?

Because that’s the standard I set.

My own childhood felt stolen in many ways, and perhaps because of that, I’ve always believed that children deserve more than simply being loved. They deserve to feel safe. They deserve parents who are emotionally present, encouraging, and engaged. They deserve stability, security, and a home where they can simply be children.

I know that’s a high standard.

But I also believe bringing a child into the world is one of the biggest commitments we ever make.

Could I have provided many of those things?

Probably.

Could I have done it without resenting the loss of my freedom?

I’m not so sure.

When I left home, I made myself a promise.

No one would ever control my life again.

That promise has shaped nearly every decision I’ve made since.

I don’t worry about teenage daughters dating or sons experimenting with drugs. I don’t worry about helping with math homework—which, for the record, I wasn’t very good at myself. I don’t worry about raising children in a world filled with social media pressures, rising costs of living, climate change and uncertainty about the future.

Even if my child had been kind, respectful, funny, and wonderful...

Motherhood simply wasn’t the life I wanted.

I value my freedom.

That doesn’t mean I don’t admire people who choose differently.

In fact, I admire them tremendously.

I admire the parents who somehow juggle careers, school concerts, hockey practices, homework, and sleepless nights.

I admire the foster parents who open their homes to children who desperately need love.

I admire the parents raising children with physical or developmental disabilities, often with extraordinary patience and grace.

They are remarkable people.

I’m just not one of them.

Over the years, people have told me I’ll regret not having children.

They tell me I’ll miss being a grandmother.

That’s okay.

I have my dog and my true crime shows.

They tell me I won’t have adult children to comfort me as I grow older.

I have wonderful friends.

And if I happen to have a dog biscuit in my pocket, my pooch is more than happy to comfort me too.

Then they tell me I won’t have a legacy.

My response?

I’ll be dead.

I won’t care.

I also know there are women reading this who desperately wanted children but never had them.

Their story isn’t mine.

Some faced infertility. Others never met the right partner. Some lost pregnancies. Some simply ran out of time.

I would never presume to compare my experience with theirs.

My decision came from choice.

Theirs often did not.

Every woman’s story deserves compassion.

Mine just happens to include dogs instead of diapers, quiet mornings instead of school runs, and the freedom to decide what each day looks like.

It may not have been the life everyone expected me to live.

But it has been my life.

And for me...

It has been exactly the right one.

They’re watching the sunset in Santorini, paddleboarding at sunrise in California, celebrating a promotion, running a marathon, or announcing they’ve finally found themselves after a silent meditation retreat in Bali.

Meanwhile, I’m trying to remember if I changed the dog’s water.

Now that I’ve turned 59, I find myself asking a question I used to save for New Year’s Day.

Am I living my best life?

Years ago my answer would have been measured by goals accomplished and dreams realized. These days my goals are a little less ambitious.

Keep the dog hair under control.

Don’t dribble lunch on my shirt.

(That last one, unfortunately, appears to be genetic. Thanks, Mom.)

There was a time when “living your best life” meant keeping up with the neighbours. We compared houses, careers, vacations, weddings, and whose children were getting into the best universities.

Social media changed all that.

Now we’re no longer comparing ourselves to the people on our street.

We’re comparing ourselves to millions of strangers whose lives have been carefully edited into thirty-second highlight reels.

Scroll for five minutes and you’ll find someone beginning the day with lemon water, journaling, yoga, meditation, and a perfectly made bed before most of us have found our slippers.

Someone else is sipping espresso in Paris.

Another has colour-coded their pantry into matching glass jars.

Someone has quit their job to earn six figures while working from a beach in Ibiza.

None of those things are wrong.

The problem is seeing all of them before breakfast.

Somewhere along the way, living your best life stopped sounding inspirational and started sounding like another item on my to-do list.

Travel more.

Exercise more.

Declutter.

Find your purpose.

Start a side hustle.

Age gracefully.

Eat clean.

Practice gratitude.

Smile while doing all of it.

Honestly...

I’m exhausted just reading the list.

The funny thing is, I spent years chasing my own version of “my best life.”

I escaped a difficult childhood, earned my university degrees, built a career I loved, bought my first home, travelled the world, bought the dream car, and eventually retired to a quiet lakeside cottage where I imagined life would finally slow down.

For a while, it did.

I grew vegetables, cooked elaborate meals from scratch, and proudly served dinners that looked as though they belonged in a magazine. I photographed them, too.

These days?

If dinner doesn’t require three hours in the kitchen, I’m perfectly happy.

Age has a way of simplifying things.

Life at the lake also gave me something I never expected.

Time.

Time to write.

I self-published two books, entered writing competitions, and discovered that even when my confidence wavered, I could still put words on paper.

I’ve always believed that if I don’t try, the answer is automatically no.

So I try.

Not every chapter of life has looked the way I planned.

The travel became less frequent.

The spa weekends disappeared.

My health changed.

My finances changed.

Some dreams quietly gave way to different ones.

Surprisingly, I don’t miss my old life nearly as much as I thought I would.

These days my version of “living my best life” is wonderfully ordinary.

It means a spotless home.

Morning coffee.

Walking the beach with Fallon.

It also means saying no to people who aren’t healthy for me.

That may be the greatest luxury I’ve ever given myself.

It means reading books simply because they bring me joy.

It means writing these essays, even if only a handful of people read them.

Every time I hit “Publish,” I feel the same little rush.

It reminds me that I still have something to say.

I’ve also stopped worrying about having hundreds or thousands of followers.

My little online community is enough.

Although...

If David Beckham ever sends me a friend request, all bets are off.

The older I get, the more I realize that social media hasn’t simply raised the bar for happiness.

It removed the bar altogether.

We’re expected to have perfect health, meaningful work, beautiful homes, exciting travel, flawless relationships, financial success, purpose, gratitude, and enough energy to document it all for everyone else.

No wonder so many of us feel as though we’re falling behind.

Maybe living your best life doesn’t mean filling every square on the calendar.

Maybe it doesn’t require passport stamps, perfect photos, or a viral TikTok account.

Maybe it means protecting the life you’ve built.

Morning coffee.

A dog waiting by the door for her walk.

Friends who know the real you.

Books that make you lose track of time.

Strong boundaries.

A quiet sense of contentment.

Now that I’m 59, I have a year to decide what turning 60 should look like.

Maybe it will involve another trip.

Maybe it won’t.

What I know is this.

For years I believed living my best life meant adding more.

More experiences.

More accomplishments.

More memories.

Now I think it also means letting go.

Letting go of comparison.

Letting go of unrealistic expectations.

Letting go of the belief that ordinary isn’t enough.

As I mentally blow out 59 birthday candles this year, I’ve realized something.

I don’t need a better life.

I just need to stop comparing mine to everyone else’s.

And no...

I still won’t be joining TikTok.

I’m 59.

Which means next year I will be 60. Groan!

And apparently 60 is one of those birthdays you’re supposed to celebrate by climbing Machu Picchu, renting a villa in Tuscany, or doing something worthy of a Facebook photo album titled Living My Best Life.

I’m already tired thinking about it.

I’ve never been one of those people who wakes up on their birthday shouting, “It’s MY day!”

Really?

It’s Monday.

I’ll have my coffee now. Make that a double.

I’ve never been overly excited about birthdays. I’ve always told myself they’re just another day. I don’t enjoy being the centre of attention and the thought of a room full of people singing Happy Birthday makes me want to crawl under the table.

My favourite birthday tradition has nothing to do with balloons or birthday cake.

Every year sometime in August my friend Debby and I go out for a three-pound lobster in beautiful Alma New Brunswick, sit by the ocean and crack jokes while we delight in that delicious crustacean.

Some women want diamonds.

I want drawn butter.

Every birthday, though, I notice something about myself.

Not on the actual day, but sometime before the next birthday rolls around, I feel this quiet little nudge that says, Go do something you’ve never done before.

Last year that “something” was writing a novel.

I’d talked about writing fiction for years. Finally, I stopped talking and started writing.

It turned out to be one of the most exhilarating—and humbling—things I’ve ever done.

Whether it ever finds a publisher or not almost feels secondary now. I proved something to myself.

At 58 I still had another story in me.

Other years, my birthday adventures looked different.

When I was working and had a healthy income, I celebrated with trips to Sedona, Arizona, my happy place where I wandered through the red rocks exploring new trails and splurging on spa treatments with skin care products made from the surrounding desert. In other years, I visited Greece, escaped to beautiful islands, national parks, and collected memories instead of birthday gifts.

These days my budget has changed considerably.

Luxury now might look like getting dressed up, treating myself to afternoon tea at a beautiful resort, or spending a weekend somewhere that overlooks the ocean.

Honestly?

I’m just as happy. I’ve traveled enough to last a lifetime.

One birthday tradition has lasted six years now.

Every year Fallon and I climb Chamcook Mountain.

Calling it a mountain might be a bit generous.

Fallon probably considers it our morning walk.

I, on the other hand, spend the climb negotiating with my heart.

“Don’t do anything dramatic today,” I tell it.

By the time we reach the summit, I’m bent over trying to catch my breath while Fallon is standing there looking at me as if to ask, “Are we stopping already?”

Then we pose for our annual photograph.

It’s become one of my favourite traditions.

Not because I’m conquering a mountain.

Because I’m reminding myself that I still can.

I’ve also noticed my birthday wish list has changed over the years.

There was a time when I wanted jewelry, spa days, and exciting vacations.

Now I’d be thrilled if nobody asked me to reset their Wi-Fi.

Or explain why their printer isn’t working.

Or sing Happy Birthday to me in a restaurant.

Please don’t do that.

And while we’re talking about birthdays, can we discuss birthday candles?

Who decided we needed one candle for every year?

Fifty-nine candles aren’t festive.

They’re a fire hazard.

Besides, I don’t have the lung capacity for that kind of performance.

I’d rather have one beautiful candle than fifty-nine little ones.

Less smoke.

Less wax.

Less chance of somebody calling 911 before I get to the cake.

The funny thing about turning 59 is that I don’t actually feel old.

When I was 29, I thought 59 sounded ancient.

Now that I’m here, when I think back to my twenties, 29 sounds exhausting.

At 29 I thought I needed to have my entire future mapped out. And I did!

At 59 I’m learning it’s perfectly acceptable not to have all the answers.

I don’t know exactly what I’ll do before I turn 60.

Maybe I’ll finally book that return getaway to Fox Harb’r in Nova Scotia and enjoy the ocean air, good food, beautiful sunsets, and a little pampering.

Maybe Fallon will come.

Or maybe she’ll stay home and enjoy a vacation from me.

We’ll negotiate.

What I do know is this.

I no longer feel the need for birthdays to be spectacular.

I don’t need fireworks.

I don’t need a lavish party.

I don’t need presents.

Today I’ll probably have an extra espresso.

I’ll rub Fallon’s belly.

We’ll go for a walk on the beach.

I might even stop at Dairy Queen.

And maybe...

just maybe...

That’s enough.

Because birthdays aren’t really about making a big splash.

For me, they’re a quiet reminder to acknowledge another year, be grateful for the life I have, and wonder what little adventure the next twelve months might bring.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a lobster with my name on it.

And yes...

I’m still getting the drawn butter.

Almost every woman over fifty has had that awkward moment when a cashier asks,

“Do you qualify for the seniors discount?”

The first time it happened to me, I think I turned three shades of red.

Suddenly the woman who could talk her way through almost any situation couldn’t find a single word.

The young cashier at Shoppers Drug Mart looked just as uncomfortable asking the question as I was hearing it.

I stared at her.

Then I started bargaining with myself.

Maybe the discount starts at sixty-five.

Or sixty.

Perhaps this store starts at fifty-five.

Surely she isn’t asking because she thinks I actually look old... is she?

Then she leaned in and quietly whispered,

“It’s twenty percent off today.”

Well...

That changed everything.

If it had been ten percent, I probably would have lied about my age and walked away with my dignity intact.

But twenty percent?

Twenty percent would pay for my lunch.

Fifteen dollars was on the line.

So was my youth.

After a great deal of internal debate, I quietly admitted my age and accepted the discount.

My friends love this story because they’ve all had their own version of it.

There is something strangely psychological about wanting the discount while simultaneously wanting to pretend you don’t qualify for it.

Logically, it makes no sense.

Emotionally...

It’s a completely different story.

I’ve always loved a bargain.

I can spot a fifty-percent-off sale from the other end of a shopping mall. Sign up for your newsletter and save another fifteen percent? Absolutely. I’ll happily give you my email address, collect my discount, and unsubscribe before I get to the parking lot.

Scratch cards?

Love them.

I scratch with great enthusiasm, even though I never win anything.

In fact, I’m convinced I’m one of those people destined never to win a prize.

Years ago, I participated in an MS Society walk. Someone told me to stick around afterward because there would be prizes.

“I never win prizes,” I said.

“Oh, don’t worry,” they replied. “Everyone gets one.”

Perfect.

I completed the walk, raised money for a good cause, and waited patiently.

At the end of the event, I was the only person left.

There was no prize.

So you’d think I’d be thrilled to receive a discount without having to win anything.

Instead, I’ve somehow managed to turn the seniors discount into an emotional crisis.

Why?

I’ve thought about that more than I’d like to admit.

Part of it is vanity.

For years people told me I looked younger than my age. I was even carded well into my twenties, and when I worked in the investment industry, I often had to convince potential clients that I was experienced enough to manage their portfolios.

Now I’m trying to convince cashiers that I’m too young for the seniors discount.

Life has quite a sense of humour.

The irony wasn’t lost on me that, on the very day I was offered twenty percent off, my shopping cart happened to be full of anti-aging creams promising to reduce wrinkles, fade dark spots and somehow convince my face it was still forty.

Apparently my shopping cart and the cashier had very different opinions.

I think what surprised me most wasn’t being offered the discount.

It was realizing how much it bothered me.

Not because of the money.

Because of what it represented.

Somewhere in midlife, you discover you’re living in a strange in-between place.

I don’t feel old.

But I don’t feel young anymore either.

Some days I know exactly who I am.

Other days I feel like I’ve wandered into a stage of life that nobody bothered to explain.

Maybe that’s why the seniors discount feels so personal.

It quietly places you into a category you haven’t quite accepted yourself.

I’ve watched my mother and many of my older friends proudly ask for their seniors discount.

They earned it.

They looked forward to it.

I remember my mother counting down the days until she turned fifty-five.

I couldn’t understand the excitement.

To me, the seniors discount belonged to people who were retired, collecting pensions and officially considered “old.”

By my definition, I certainly wasn’t one of them.

Apparently the cashier disagreed.

These days I’ve started wondering if maybe I’m looking at it all wrong.

Perhaps the discount isn’t announcing the end of youth.

Perhaps it’s simply acknowledging the years we’ve lived.

The laughter.

The heartbreak.

The careers.

The children we raised.

The parents we buried.

The lessons we learned.

Maybe it’s less about getting older...

...and more about recognizing we’ve earned a few perks along the way.

Will I ever enjoy shopping on Seniors Thursday?

I’m still undecided.

Every Thursday I imagine myself standing outside Shoppers Drug Mart, taking a deep breath before walking through the doors.

I already know what awaits me inside.

Two ladies will have unexpectedly met in the cosmetics aisle and will be catching up on the last six months of their lives.

Someone will be comparing three different brands of denture adhesive as though they’re choosing a fine bottle of wine.

Another shopper will be reading every ingredient on the back of a vitamin bottle while squinting over the top of her reading glasses.

The checkout line will move at the speed of molasses because everyone has all the time in the world.

Meanwhile, I’ll be standing there reminding myself that twenty percent is twenty percent.

And honestly...

At today’s prices, that’s nothing to sneeze at.

So yes, I’ll probably continue blushing when someone asks whether I qualify for the seniors discount.

I’ll probably still glance over my shoulder to see if they’re talking to someone else.

And I’ll probably still hesitate before answering.

But then I’ll smile...

Accept my discount...

And quietly remind myself that I’ve earned every single year of it.

Although...

Let’s not get carried away.

If anyone asks whether I need help finding the denture adhesive...

I’m leaving.

I have always been blessed to have older people in my life. I’ve been an old soul for as long as I can remember, and when I visited my friends’ homes, I was fascinated by the little things that mattered in their everyday lives.

Twenty-five, thirty years ago, I was very fit. Years of running and a determined Pilates instructor had given me flat abs and the confidence that comes with believing your body will always cooperate.

So when one of my older friends talked about seeing a podiatrist for custom orthotics, I listened with interest before quickly dismissing the whole conversation.

That would never be me.

Another friend complained about hot flashes and sleepless nights during menopause. In my younger mind I remember thinking, For heaven’s sake... turn up the air conditioning!

I watched my friends’ wardrobes slowly change. Tunics appeared. Elastic waist pants became fashionable. Shoes became sensible instead of stylish. Reading glasses seemed to multiply like rabbits until there was a pair on every end table in their homes.

Someone always had lip balm. Not one tube—five. One in the purse, one in the car, one beside the bed, one on the end table and another in the kitchen drawer.

Medicine cabinets became little pharmacies, filled with prescriptions and bottles I couldn’t pronounce, while mine contained little more than Tylenol and Pepto-Bismol.

I listened politely because, obviously, none of this would ever happen to me.

Then life smiled, folded its arms, and said, We’ll see.

Now that I’m in my fifties, I have to confess I’ve become some of those women.

Three winters ago I slipped on the ice and injured my hip. I spent six weeks in pain and developed a healthy respect for winter sidewalks. These days, the best fashion accessory I own isn’t a beautiful pair of boots.

It’s a pair of rubber boots that make me look like I’m headed to a farm to wade through cow manure.

They’re not glamorous. But they have amazing treads.

They’re also the reason I stay upright while walking Fallon every winter morning.

When you live alone, staying on your feet suddenly becomes far more important than looking good.

I’ve also traded my swanky high-heeled sandals for Skechers.

That’s right.

I’ve become one of those women in the Skechers commercials I used to smile at.

And here’s the really embarrassing part...

They’re amazing.

Arch support, cushioned soles, slip-on convenience...

Comfort beats style every single time.

Somewhere in my late forties I also lost those hard-earned Pilates abs. Between giving up running because of bursitis in my hips and deciding I no longer enjoyed punishing workouts, my waist quietly expanded and informed me that buttons, zippers and belts were no longer welcome.

Enter the elastic waistband.

Friends, it’s an engineering marvel.

I also discovered Old Navy.

I used to think Old Navy was for teenagers and young adults. Then Facebook kept showing me their sales, and I discovered they actually make comfortable clothes for grown women. Now I understand the joy of feeling almost naked... without actually being naked.

Of course, I still practically live in my Amazon house dresses. And when I want to look a little more put together, I discovered Quince, with their beautiful cashmere sweaters, linen pants and cotton dresses.

They pair beautifully with my Skechers.

Not so much with my rubber boots.

You can’t have everything.

Another surprise?

Victoria’s Secret no longer has a place in my dresser drawers.

Gone are the underwire bras that dug into my ribs, the itchy lace and those ridiculous thong underwear that I somehow convinced myself were worth the suffering.

Half the time I’m braless now, and honestly, I’m as happy as a kid in a candy store.

It’s hard to believe sexy lingerie was once a shopping priority.

What was I thinking?

Oh...

I was thinking about him.

Silly me.

I breezed through menopause, but I do appreciate a cool bedroom these days. There was a time I’d happily spend three hundred dollars on a beautiful pair of shoes.

Now I’d rather spend it on cooling sheets and a good gel support pillow.

Priorities change.

Reading glasses have also entered my life.

I used to wonder why older women had a pair in every room.

I don’t wonder anymore. I get it.

I now own enough pairs of glasses that if someone broke into my home, they’d probably leave wearing one.

Then came the magnifying mirror.

Who invented that cruel device?

It has introduced me to age spots, grey eyebrow hairs that have apparently developed a mind of their own, tiny lines around my lips...

...and, to my absolute horror...

Nose hair.

I honestly believed nose hair was something that only happened to men.

Apparently not.

So yes...

I bought a nose hair trimmer.

I don’t think anyone prepares you for that milestone.

Over the years, I’ve also simplified my skincare routine. I’ve been fortunate that years of staying out of the sun have been kind to my skin, but like most women, I’ve had moments of wishing time would simply stop.

It doesn’t.

I can’t afford Botox so I’ve found an affordable routine that works for me, and I’ve learned that good enough really is good enough.

A few health scares have also reminded me that taking care of myself isn’t optional anymore.

I even have an entire cupboard I’ve nicknamed Carlena’s Health Clinic.

Inside you’ll find Tylenol, Pepto-Bismol, cough syrup, muscle relaxants, heating pads, cooling pads, a thermometer, a blood pressure monitor, a first-aid kit and enough supplies to handle almost anything short of needing an ambulance.

It’s funny.

The older I’ve become, the more I understand the women I admired years ago.

They weren’t complaining.

They were simply telling the truth about the bodies they lived in.

I just wasn’t old enough to understand it yet.

Now I do.

I still love my Skechers.

My glasses are scattered throughout the house.

Elastic waistbands deserve some sort of Nobel Prize.

And my rubber boots are now considered essential winter survival equipment.

Growing older hasn’t meant giving up.

It’s meant learning that comfort, health and peace of mind are worth far more than trying to impress anyone else.

But let’s not get carried away!

I’m still not ready for Poise pads.

There comes a time in a woman’s life when the list becomes hers.

Whether you’ve lived alone by choice, by circumstance, through divorce, or after being widowed, there comes a moment when there isn’t someone else to hand the list to.

As a woman who has never been married, I used to count on my friends John and Lou for the things that felt beyond my abiliti…

Read more

The other day, Facebook reminded me of a black-and-white photograph I hadn’t seen in years.

There are four children standing in front of a little cabin. Two boys. Two girls. One of those girls is me.

I was about eleven years old, wearing a baseball cap and standing stiffly beside my brothers and my best friend, Sue, probably wondering how much longer we had to stand there before someone finally said, “Okay...cheese.”

Back then, there were no retakes. If someone blinked, they blinked. That was simply the face history had chosen to remember. It is one of the very few photographs I have of my childhood.

Back then, we didn’t photograph our lives the way we do today.

There were birthday pictures. Christmas morning. The first day of school. Maybe a family gathering if someone remembered to bring the camera.

That was about it.

Nobody photographed what we had for lunch.

Nobody stopped halfway through swimming at the lake to pose in the latest bathing suit as though we were on the cover of Vogue.

We simply lived the day.

We went to the lake to swim, splash, race one another to the dock, and come home with tangled hair and sunburned shoulders. Afterwards, we told people about it. Grandparents had to imagine the lake from our stories. Friends at school listened as we described the waves, the cold water, and the adventures we’d had.

The memories lived in our heads.

That old photograph sent me searching through a box of other pictures from my childhood.

Each one opened a door.

One photograph shows my brothers, cousins and me gathered around a picnic table at my grandparents’ house during a summer birthday party. The birthday cake was chocolate, and you can clearly see the icing around our mouths. There were hot dogs, potato chips and bottles of soda pop scattered across the table along with boxes of birthday presents wrapped in pretty paper and bows.

What I love most about that photograph is that none of us were posing.

Someone simply called our names, and we all turned toward the camera at the same moment, still laughing with our mouths full of cake.

Whenever I look at that picture, I don’t just remember the birthday.

I remember the smell of the barbecue. The sound of my cousins laughing. The excitement of waiting for someone to cut another piece of cake. I remember running barefoot through my grandparents’ yard long after the picture had been taken.

The photograph captured one second.

My memory gives me back the entire afternoon.

Another favourite photograph hangs onto an even older memory.

I couldn’t have been more than seven years old.

I’m standing proudly in my grandmother’s kitchen with my little arm stretched as high as it can reach, holding a magnificent Atlantic salmon that my cousin had caught while taking me fishing that morning. The fish was nearly as long as I was tall.

Anyone else looking at the picture probably notices the salmon.

I barely see it.

Instead, I remember the little girl wearing rubber fishing boots that came almost to her hips, standing in the river for the very first time. I remember the cold water swirling around my legs as I held a fishing rod with both hands while my cousin patiently showed me what to do.

I remember the quiet of that early spring morning as the sun slowly climbed over the trees.

The photograph captured one second.

My memory brings back the entire morning.

As I grew older, there were photographs of university graduation, vacations, and the occasional special event.

I still remember the gold and brown colours of my graduation gown and the blue satin dress I wore to the formal dinner the night before Convocation.

More than that, I remember how proud I felt.

I was the first person in my family not only to graduate from high school but to earn a university degree.

When I look at those photographs today, I don’t see the gown first.

I remember the people who came to celebrate with me.

I remember the feeling that, despite a difficult childhood, I had built a future that once seemed impossible.

Photographs have always done that for me.

They don’t simply remind me what I looked like.

They remind me who I was.

Over the years, cameras changed.

I remember thinking the Polaroid camera was the greatest invention imaginable. Then came disposable cameras that accompanied every vacation because twenty-four exposures meant every photograph mattered. You couldn’t afford to waste them.

Today my phone carries thousands of photographs.

Sunsets.

Flowers.

Beautiful meals.

And, of course, my dog Fallon, who has undoubtedly been photographed more times than I was during my entire childhood.

Technology has changed the way we capture our lives.

Sometimes that’s wonderful.

Sometimes it’s exhausting.

I admit I don’t understand photographing absolutely everything or feeling the need to post every waking moment online. But I also appreciate being able to capture the first spring flowers, a spectacular sunset, or Fallon’s latest expression without worrying about running out of film.

What I miss isn’t the old cameras.

It’s the simplicity.

Back then, photographs were rare enough that each one seemed to carry an entire chapter of our lives.

We didn’t document every moment.

We experienced it first.

Then, if someone happened to take a picture, it became a treasured reminder of a day we never wanted to forget.

Today, I still love photography.

I still stop for beautiful light.

I still photograph flowers swaying in the breeze, a decadent dessert at a favourite restaurant, and Fallon’s unmistakable side-eye whenever she thinks I’ve interrupted her nap one too many times.

Facebook still surprises me by bringing those memories back when I least expect them.

As the years passed, life became more complicated, and there were seasons I would rather forget than remember. But those old photographs quietly remind me that my story was never made up entirely of difficult chapters.

There was laughter.

There were adventures.

There were ordinary days filled with people who loved me.

Sometimes one faded photograph is enough to remind me that joy lived there too.

And every now and then, one faded black-and-white photograph appears on my screen.

A little girl standing beside her brothers.

A child proudly holding a salmon almost bigger than she is.

A family gathered around a birthday cake.

I realize those old photographs were never just pictures.

They were time machines.

One glance, and I can smell the birthday cake.

Feel the cold river around my legs.

Hear my brothers laughing.

Remember the warmth of the sun on my face at the lake.

The photograph captured only a fraction of a second.

The memory gives me back the whole day.

Maybe that’s why I still take pictures.

Not because I need to prove where I’ve been.

But because someday, years from now, I hope one ordinary photograph will transport me back to a moment I never want to forget.

There is one question that seems to surface every time a prominent man is accused of sexual assault.

“Why didn’t she come forward sooner?”

I’ve heard that question for years.

Sometimes it’s asked out of genuine curiosity.

More often, it carries an edge of suspicion, sometimes a tone of hostility, as though the passage of time somehow makes an assault less believable.

Every time I hear it, I feel my stomach tighten.

Not because I know whether any particular allegation is true.

But because I know exactly what it feels like to be the woman everyone is questioning.

I wrestled with whether to write this essay. It meant revisiting memories I would much rather leave in the past. Memories that have shaped my life in ways I wish they hadn’t.

But if sharing my experiences helps even one person understand why so many survivors remain silent, then perhaps those memories still have a purpose.

I write this as someone who survived childhood sexual abuse, experienced sexual assault as an adult, and later served for five years on the Board of Directors of a shelter for battered women.

I’ve listened to enough women over the years to know there is no stopwatch on trauma.

The question isn’t why some women wait. The better question is why so many survivors decide they can’t speak at all.

Where Silence Began

For me, the answer began long before I was old enough to understand the word trauma.

When I was a young girl, I was being sexually abused. For a long time, I didn’t even know how to describe what was happening.

Much of it occurred at night while I was asleep. I questioned my own memories. Was it real? Had I imagined it? Was it only a dream? When you’re a child, you don’t have the language to explain something that should never happen.

Eventually, I found the courage to tell my mother. Even then, I couldn’t bring myself to say the words I am being sexually abused.

I stumbled through an explanation as best I could. She never even looked at me.

“Don’t be so foolish,” she said.

That was it.

No questions.

No concern.

No protection.

I remember standing there in shock. If my own mother didn’t believe me, who would?

A little while later, I tried again. This time I confided in a teacher I trusted. Before I could fully explain what was happening, the conversation was redirected. The subject changed to the teacher asking me to help his son with his homework.

Finally, I turned to my Anglican priest. Surely, I thought, someone would help me. Instead, he gently suggested that I hang on until I finished high school. I only had one year left before leaving for university. I walked away from that conversation feeling utterly shell-shocked,

No one told me how I was supposed to survive that year.

Looking back, I don’t write these memories with anger. I write them with understanding. It was during the eighties. I am not making excuses for these people but people often didn’t know what to do. Some were uncomfortable. Some were afraid. Some simply failed.

But intentions don’t erase consequences. As a frightened teenager, I learned a lesson that would stay with me for years. Speaking up didn’t make me feel safer. It made me feel more alone.

That lesson stayed with me. Not consciously at first. At the time, I simply thought I was trying to move on with my life. I finished high school, left home and eventually went away to university. From the outside, it probably looked as though I had put my childhood behind me. But I hadn’t.

Trauma has a way of travelling with us, quietly influencing the decisions we make long after the danger has passed.

One night, when I was still living at home, my abuser went into a violent rage outside my bedroom door, threatening to kill everyone in the house. Something inside me finally broke.

I suffered what I now recognize as a nervous breakdown and was taken to the hospital by ambulance. Even there, very few people asked why.

The focus was on getting me through the immediate crisis, not understanding what had caused it.

Eventually I was connected with a counsellor—the first one I had ever met. Looking back, I often wonder how different my life might have been if someone had intervened years earlier.

Counselling didn’t erase what had happened. But it gave me something I had never had before. Someone who believed me.

For the first time, I wasn’t being told to stop being foolish, change the subject or simply hang on until life got better. I was finally being heard. That mattered more than anyone realized.

Unfortunately, childhood has a way of teaching us lessons that don’t disappear simply because we become adults.

Mine taught me that speaking up came with consequences.

So when I was sexually assaulted during my university years, I didn’t report it.

For a long time, I couldn’t even admit to myself that it had been sexual assault.

Alcohol was involved. The man was someone I considered a friend. Instead of asking why he had taken advantage of me, I asked what I had done wrong. Shame has a way of turning victims into their own harshest critics.

Years later, while attending a work conference, I experienced another sexual assault. This time the circumstances were different.

The man was successful, respected and professionally connected.

When I managed to get away, he contacted me afterward and urged me to keep quiet. He suggested that no one would believe me.

Part of me already believed that.

Not because he convinced me.

Because my childhood had.

I did tell one trusted colleague. His response was simple. He didn’t want to hear about it. Once again, silence seemed safer than speaking.

People sometimes imagine that reporting a sexual assault is a single decision.

It isn’t.

There are dozens of decisions.

Do I tell someone?

Will they believe me?

Will they blame me?

Will people think I somehow caused this?

What if I have to relive every detail?

What if I lose my job?

What if he retaliates?

What if everyone believes him instead?

These questions don’t disappear after a day.

Or a week.

Or a year.

For some survivors, they remain for decades.

That is why I struggle every time someone asks,

“Why didn’t she report it sooner?”

Because I know what that question sounds like to someone carrying trauma. It doesn’t sound like curiosity. It sounds like judgment. And the tone, for a victim, can seem so harsh.

Over the years, every counsellor I worked with gently asked whether I wanted to report the abuse from my childhood. My answer was always the same.

“No.”

People sometimes assume that means I wasn’t telling the truth. The opposite was true. I knew exactly what had happened. I simply wasn’t willing to put myself through another experience where I feared I wouldn’t be believed. As a teenager, I had already learned what happened when I tried to tell the people I trusted most. I couldn’t bear the thought of living through that all over again. For me, silence wasn’t a weakness. It was self-protection.

Years later, I served for five years on the Board of Directors of a shelter for battered women.

By then I had listened to the stories of countless women.

Different ages.

Different backgrounds.

Different lives.

Yet the reasons for staying silent were remarkably similar.

Fear.

Shame.

Financial dependence.

Children.

Threats.

Humiliation.

Not knowing where to go.

Not believing anyone would help.

By then, I realized something profound.

My story wasn’t unusual.

It was heartbreakingly common.

Today, more than forty years after I first found the courage to tell someone what was happening to me, I still hear people ask the same question every time a woman comes forward years after an alleged sexual assault.

“Why didn’t she report it sooner?”

The answer isn’t as mysterious as people think.

Sometimes she wasn’t believed the first time she told someone.

Sometimes she blamed herself.

Sometimes the man who assaulted her was respected, powerful or well connected.

Sometimes she was terrified of reliving the trauma in a courtroom.

Sometimes she simply didn’t have the emotional strength to survive another battle.

Trauma doesn’t move in a straight line.

Neither does healing.

People often imagine there is one “correct” way to respond after a sexual assault.

There isn’t.

Some survivors report immediately.

Some tell only one trusted person.

Some wait years before speaking.

Some never tell another soul.

None of those responses erase what happened. They simply reflect the different ways human beings try to survive overwhelming experiences.

During my years serving on the Board of Directors of a shelter for battered women, I saw firsthand how complicated these situations can be.

Fear is rarely just fear.

It is fear of retaliation.

Fear of losing financial security.

Fear of not being believed.

Fear for children.

Fear of being judged.

Fear of becoming known only as “the woman who was assaulted.”

When people ask why women don’t report, they often underestimate just how much a survivor believes she has to lose. The statistics tell a sobering story. Sexual assault remains one of the most underreported crimes in Canada. Depending on the national survey, only about 6 to 9 percent of survivors report the most serious sexual assaults to police. That means well over 90 percent never do.

Domestic violence is also widely underreported, particularly when it involves coercive control, emotional abuse, financial dependence or fear of retaliation.

Those numbers are heartbreaking. But they don’t surprise me. Behind every statistic is a person weighing impossible choices. Not everyone decides that reporting is the safest one.

I also want to say something that I think often gets lost in public conversations. Supporting survivors does not mean abandoning fairness.

When an allegation becomes public, our justice system still has an obligation to examine the evidence carefully and fairly. Allegations deserve to be investigated. The accused deserves due process. Those principles matter.

But compassion matters too.

Questioning the timing of a disclosure is not the same as examining the evidence.

A woman who comes forward years later should not be dismissed simply because she didn’t speak on someone else’s timetable.

Delayed reporting is not unusual.

For many survivors, it is entirely consistent with how trauma works.

I have often wondered what my life might have looked like if just one adult had responded differently when I was a teenager.

What if my mother had believed me?

What if my teacher had listened?

What if someone had simply said,

“I believe you.”

Perhaps I would have learned much earlier that speaking up could lead to protection instead of rejection.

I’ll never know.

What I do know is that those early responses shaped many of the decisions I made afterward.

Silence became familiar.

Not because I was weak.

Because it had become the safest place I knew.

If my experiences have taught me anything, it is this.

We need to stop assuming there is a deadline for courage.

Some people find their voice the next day.

Some find it twenty years later.

Some may never find it at all.

Each survivor carries their own history, their own fears and their own reasons.

Unless you have walked that road yourself, it is impossible to know how heavy that burden can be.

So the next time you hear that someone has come forward years after an alleged sexual assault, I hope you’ll resist asking,

“Why didn’t she report it sooner?”

Instead, ask yourself a different question.

What happened in her life that made silence feel safer than speaking?

I believe that question leaves room for something we’ve needed far more of in these conversations.

Compassion.

Some names and identifying details have been changed.

The older I get, the more convinced I am that friendship isn’t measured by how many years someone has been in your life. It’s measured by how safe you feel when you’re with them.

Some friendships last a lifetime. Others quietly drift away without an argument or dramatic goodbye. Some leave us with wond…

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Have you ever wondered what is inside a woman’s purse? When I was in my twenties and thirties, I had a purse for every occasion. There was my everyday purse, my work purse, my evening purse, my church purse and, if I’m being completely honest, probably one that matched a particular pair of shoes. I owned Louis Vuitton, Coach, Michael Kors, Kate Spade, lots of Burberry and even a little black quilted Chanel replica for evenings out.

Changing handbags was practically a part-time job.

Out came the wallet, keys, lipstick and everything else, only to be transferred into the next purse because heaven forbid my handbag didn’t match my outfit. If I recall correctly, I had a closet just for my purses.

Looking back, it occurs to me that our handbags become a timeline of our lives.

You can tell a lot about a woman simply by looking inside her purse.

Contents of My Purse – Back Then

Three lipsticks. Apparently one personality wasn’t enough.

Sunglasses. Mostly for looking cool.

Compact, powder and enough makeup to freshen up for an evening out.

Perfume. Yes, I was one of those women who sprayed more on halfway through the day.

Hairbrush. Heaven forbid a strand was out of place. Some of my friends even carried hairspray.

Business cards. You never knew when you might meet an important client.

Date book. Remember those? Before our BlackBerrys and smartphones took over our lives?

Cell phone. The kind that did one thing...made phone calls.

A nail file for emergencies.

A chocolate bar because “busy women” apparently survived on chocolate instead of lunch.

Hand cream that was supposed to prevent the brown spots. Right.

Wallet.

Keys.

Breath mints.

Band-Aids for the blisters caused by those beautiful but completely impractical high heels.

Looking at that list now, I don’t think I was shallow. I was simply trying to become the woman I hoped the world would notice. I wanted to look polished, professional and prepared for whatever the day might bring. Maybe I’d meet a handsome man. Maybe I’d meet an important business contact. Either way, I wanted to be ready.

Women have always been wonderfully creative when it comes to what we carry.

I knew one woman who never went to a restaurant without bringing her own bottle of salad dressing tucked inside her purse.

Another friend carried so many useful things it was like walking into the Dollar Store. Need a sewing kit? She had one. Antacids? Of course. Safety pins? Naturally. Tweezers? Right beside the hand lotion.

And don’t get me started on the young mothers carrying items for them and their children in their oversized purses.

Meanwhile, men somehow managed to leave the house carrying nothing but a wallet shoved into their back pocket.

I have no idea how they survived.

These days in mid-life my purse tells a very different story.

In fact, one morning it told me a story I’d rather forget.

I was rushing my dog to the groomer, running late as usual. Like so many pet owners, I was walking to the car with the dog on leash in one hand while absentmindedly rummaging through my purse with my other hand. Without looking, I grabbed what I thought was a mint and popped it into my mouth.

It wasn’t a mint.

It was a liver-flavoured dog treat.

I can still remember the taste. I also remember the questioning look my dog gave me.

Apparently my purse had entered a whole new season of life. Somewhere between carrying perfume and accidentally eating dog treats, life had quietly changed.

I also noticed that somewhere along the way, as my life became simpler, my collection of designer handbags quietly disappeared. I sold many of them through consignment shops and Facebook Marketplace. To my surprise, I didn’t miss them.

Instead, I felt lighter. Not just physically, but mentally lighter. I felt free. Not just free of the ‘things’ but mentally free from the pressure to carry myself a certain way. I was no longer that woman set out to perform.

Somewhere along the way I stopped worrying about whether my handbag impressed anyone. I simply wanted one that sat comfortably on my shoulder, held everything I actually needed and could survive being dropped on the floor at the veterinarian’s office.

Contents of My Purse – Today

Reading glasses. My eyesight has other plans.

Tylenol. Just in case.

Prescription medication. There always seems to be something that needs taking.

Dog poop bags. I take my dog almost everywhere.

Dog treats. Although after my little incident, I try to keep them in a separate pocket.

Hand sanitizer. I have no desire to catch whatever is going around.

Lotion. My hands appreciate it more than they used to. So do the brown spots that arrived despite the expensive lotions I used back in my thirties.

One faithful lipstick I’ve worn for years. Really, who needs three?

Smartphone.

Wallet.

Keys.

Cough drops.

Clip-on sunglasses because I refuse to spend the money on prescription sunglasses.

The funny thing is, I don’t miss the old purse.

I don’t miss carrying around a small cosmetics counter or worrying whether my handbag matched my shoes. I don’t miss the pressure of having the newest bag or looking perfectly put together every time I leave the house.

Our purses tell the story we don’t always notice ourselves.

Somewhere between trying to impress the world and simply trying to get through Costco without forgetting our reading glasses, our priorities quietly changed.

Years ago my purse was filled with things meant to present myself to the world.

Today it’s filled with things that help me care for myself—and for my dog.

That’s not giving up on myself.

It’s growing into a woman who finally knows what matters.

And somehow...

I’m perfectly okay with that.

The day I first felt invisible came with a mix of emotions: shame, embarrassment, humiliation, and a desperate need to escape.

I was in my mid-forties and, for the record, people had always told me I looked younger than my age. That was certainly the case back then. I was standing in line at a coffee shop, waiting to add cream and sugar to my Starbucks B…

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Names have been changed to protect the identities of former clients.

Over the past four days I’ve shared stories from twenty years as an Investment Advisor. They were stories about ordinary people making extraordinary financial decisions - some wise, some heartbreaking, and all unforgettable. I thought the best way to end this series would be to leave you with something practical.

For most of my career as an Investment Advisor, people assumed my job was about money. Stocks. Markets. Portfolios. Performance. Sure, that was a big part of my job and I thrived on it, but that was never really what I saw from my side of the desk.

What I saw were marriages. Families. Fears. Quiet misunderstandings that nobody wanted to say out loud. And sometimes, the consequences of waiting too long to deal with things everyone already knew needed attention. I was determined to fix this with each and every client.

People would sit across from me and say things like, “We’ll get to that someday,” or “It’s all taken care of,” or “My husband handles that part.” And I would nod politely, because that’s what you do.

But I learned something over time that I wish I had understood much earlier in my career. Someday is not a plan. And “taken care of” is not always true. So I would carefully press on and determine just what the husband handled and what exactly was taken care of because nine times out of ten I discovered there was work that needed to be done.

This essay isn’t about investing.

It’s about the conversations I wish every couple had before life forced them to based on my time managing high net worth clients.

1. Know what you actually own

One of the most common situations I saw over the years was not lack of money. It was a lack of clarity. People had accounts scattered everywhere. Old pensions they had forgotten about. Investments held at different institutions. Insurance policies filed away in drawers no one had opened in years. And yet when I would ask, “What do you and your spouse actually own together?” there would often be a pause. A long one. Then something like, “Well… roughly speaking…” Roughly speaking is not enough when life changes suddenly.

I always believed knowing your net worth was less about numbers and more about orientation. You cannot make decisions about your future if you are not sure where you are starting from.

I had one client who I will call Jack who was a business man and kept assets at every bank in town just to stay on their good side should he require a loan. What was worse, he had a half a million dollars in stock certificates sitting in his safety deposit box. I convinced him the stocks were safer with my firm and it would be in the best interest of his wife to have them with my firm should something happen to him. I will never forget the night I had all those certificates spread across my office floor as I recorded them and tallied them up to determine their value. Jack had no clue how much he was worth. This was a respected business man who his wife entrusted with their financial affairs. That was the moment I realized even successful people sometimes have only a vague idea of what they’re actually worth.

2. Don’t let one person carry all the financial knowledge

I saw this pattern often. One spouse managed everything. The other trusted them completely. Sometimes they would even say it proudly: “I don’t deal with any of that. I leave it to him.” And while that worked beautifully in calm times, I saw what happened when calm disappeared. When someone died. Or became ill. Or simply wasn’t there to explain things anymore. The surviving spouse wasn’t just grieving. They were suddenly trying to decode an entire financial life they had never been part of.

Trust is a beautiful thing. But understanding is what carries you through the hard days. This was the case of Robert and Joyce. Robert was a retired engineer who had an amazing career. He was well respected and a delight to work with. Joyce, his wife, had always been a homemaker. She never had to worry about money. Robert took care of everything.

But when Robert developed Alzheimer’s and started taking his tax installment cheques for Revenue Canada to his favorite retailer for deposit, Joyce was forced to do something and she had no idea what it was she was supposed to do. The first meeting we had with her was well over an hour when she sat and cried over her husband’s deterioration and the difficult medical choices she would have to make. It was impossible to find an entry into talking to her about finances. Eventually we were able to coordinate with the lawyer, tax advisor and personal banker to create some structure for her. All of her meetings with us were sadly to talk about her husband who was slipping away. But at least she knew her affairs were in order.

3. Have something in your own name

This was something I became quite firm about over the years. Every person in a relationship should have at least one bank account in their own name. Not because anyone is planning for separation. But because life is unpredictable. I met too many women—especially women who had spent decades managing homes and families—who suddenly found themselves unable to access funds or establish credit after their partner died. I have seen husbands deplete a joint bank account during separations from their wives and left them penniless. And what assets they had, would be liquidated to pay their high powered lawyers.

It is a strange kind of vulnerability. Not because these women were incapable. But because they had simply never been included in that part of the financial structure of their lives

4. Do not delay the paperwork that protects your life

Wills.

Powers of attorney.

Beneficiary designations.

I cannot count how many times I had conversations that began with:

“We really should update that… we just haven’t gotten around to it yet.”

And I understood. People are busy. These are not easy things to think about.

But I also saw too many situations where “later” became “too late.”

There was one client who came into my office quite proud of himself. He had finally updated his will. He was relieved, almost proud, to have done it.

That same week, he died unexpectedly after a fall at home. Another client updated his will when he and his wife received a surprise inheritance. The next day he had a heart attack. These things do happen.

I remember thinking how strange life can be.

And how quickly things can change when you assume there will always be another week.

5. Understand how retirement actually works

Many people think retirement is one thing. A nest egg. A lump sum. A number you reach and then stop worrying. But it is not that simple.

Retirement income is a combination of moving parts—government benefits, pensions, investment withdrawals, tax timing, and decisions that all interact with each other in ways most people are never shown. I often found that the real stress in retirement didn’t come from not having enough money.

It came from not understanding how the money actually worked. That’s why I always ensured my clients had a good tax advisor. It was money well spent.

6. Talk about money before you have to

Some of the healthiest relationships I ever saw were not the ones where everything was equal. They were the ones where nothing was hidden. Both spouses knew what was going on. Both understood the plan. Both could sit in a meeting and ask questions without hesitation. And I noticed something else in those couples. There was less fear. Not because they had more money. But because neither person was carrying uncertainty alone. This was the case of Laura and Michael. I loved this couple. They were in their mid-fifties and fully retired. They knew what they had because I insisted on them knowing and once that business was out of the way, we almost never talked about money again. We talked about golf, Michael’s father’s flower gardens, Laura’s volunteer work at the nursing home and the winters they spent down south.

7. Ask the questions you have been avoiding

There is a kind of silence that develops in many households around money. Not because people don’t care. But because they don’t want to seem difficult. Or questioning. Or “not trusting” their partner. But silence does not protect you. It only delays understanding.

The conversations I wish more people had were not complicated ones. They were simple:

What happens if one of us dies?
Are we comfortable with how things are invested?
Do we both understand where everything is?

These are not dramatic questions. They are protective ones. A good advisor will encourage you to probe. It is only with a full understanding of one’s affairs, can solutions be created.

8. Think about the version of you who will need this later

I used to tell clients something they didn’t always like hearing. The person who needs financial protection is not the version of you sitting in my office today. It is the version of you years from now. The one who may be alone. Or tired. Or grieving. Or simply overwhelmed by change.

Good financial planning is not really about money. It is about making sure that future versions of yourself are not left struggling unnecessarily.

9. Let yourself enjoy your money

This is the part many people struggle with the most. Once they feel financially secure, they often become hesitant to spend. As if enjoying it somehow puts everything at risk. But money is not meant to sit untouched forever. It is meant to support your life. The goal is not to die with the most money. The goal is to live in a way that feels steady, supported, and a little bit joyful when it matters most.

When Wonder Woman received her big inheritance, after getting her affairs in order, she and her husband started traveling. It was something they did before the kids came along. They also set aside equal amounts for each grandchild’s education. Every future grandchild, whether already born or not, would receive exactly the same amount. I always thought that was one of the fairest estate planning decisions I’d ever seen.

Closing thought

If there is one thing I learned after twenty years sitting across from people making financial decisions, it is this: Most of the problems I saw were not caused by lack of intelligence.

They were caused by lack of conversation. And those conversations are almost always easier to have while life is still ordinary. Not during a crisis. Not after a loss. But now.

If I could leave people with one final thought, it would be this: Do not wait for life to force clarity on you. Create it yourself. While you still can.

I’ve often said that money is simply a tool. It can build a retirement. It can send grandchildren to university. It can support charities. It can make life a little more comfortable. But the greatest gift money can provide is peace of mind if handled properly.

And after twenty years of helping families navigate life’s biggest financial decisions, I can tell you this with complete certainty. Peace of mind is one investment that always pays dividends.

Names and identifying details have been changed to protect the privacy of former clients.

People sometimes ask me if I miss the investment business. They’re usually expecting me to say I miss the markets.

I don’t.

The markets will always be there.

What I miss are the people.

Over twenty years, I learned that my clients rarely came to see me because they wanted to hear my opinion on the stock market.

Yes, we talked about investments.

Yes, we reviewed portfolios.

Yes, we made decisions that affected their financial futures. But those meetings rarely ended with money. They ended with life.

Some of my women clients would pull out pictures of their grandchildren before we even opened the investment statements.

Others wanted me to meet the newest puppy or tell me about a cat that had become the centre of the household after retirement.

Many brought me copies of the annual Christmas letter they mailed to family and friends, proudly highlighting the births, weddings, graduations and adventures that had filled their year.

We talked about vacations. Gardens. Adult children. Neighbours. Health. Sometimes we laughed until we cried. Sometimes we cried. I eventually realized something that changed the way I viewed my job.

People weren’t trusting me with their money. They were trusting me with their lives.

One evening, I received a telephone call from Wonder Woman. Her husband had suffered a sudden brain aneurysm. Instead of calling one of her children first, she called me.

I spent the night sitting beside her in the hospital as she faced the unimaginable decision to remove the love of her life from life support. There wasn’t a single investment in her portfolio that mattered that night. She didn’t need an Investment Advisor. She needed someone she trusted.

Years later, another client—I’ll call her Edith—became the victim of financial abuse. A live-in caregiver had emptied her bank accounts. Her devoted nephew contacted me because he didn’t know how to convince Edith to report the theft to the police. After meeting with me, eventually she agreed.

While officers went to her home to arrest the caregiver and remove her belongings, Edith waited at my house. Not my office. My home. I still remember thinking how extraordinary that level of trust was. Money had simply been the reason we met. Life had done the rest.

When I first entered the investment business, I thought success would be measured by the size of the portfolios I managed. By that standard, I was successful. At one point my business partner and I co-managed $143 million in assets.

But looking back, that number means very little to me now. The memories that have stayed with me aren’t measured in dollars. They’re measured in people.

The widow who discovered she was wealthier than she had ever imagined.

The letter carrier who quietly reached his goal of becoming a millionaire.

Mary, faithfully investing every payday for twenty years.

The nurse who worked thirteen-hour shifts while worrying about her retirement.

Wonder Woman.

Edith.

And hundreds of others whose names have faded with time but whose stories have not.

People often assume investing is about growing money. I learned it was really about reducing fear. When people understood their finances, they slept better. When they had updated wills, they worried less.

When husbands included their wives in financial conversations, families became stronger. When women discovered they were capable of making investment decisions, confidence replaced uncertainty. Perhaps that’s why I always encouraged my clients to spend their money once we knew they could afford it.

Take the trip.

Buy the dream car.

Renovate the kitchen.

Help your grandchildren with their university education.

Support your favourite charity.

Money sitting in an account has never hugged a grandchild.

It has never watched the sun set over Mykonos on a Mediterranean cruise.

It has never celebrated a fiftieth wedding anniversary.

Money only becomes valuable when it allows us to live the lives we’ve worked so hard to build.

People sometimes ask me what the greatest investment I ever witnessed was.

They expect me to name a stock. I never do.

The greatest investment I ever witnessed was confidence. I saw it in the women who slowly discovered they were capable of understanding their finances.

I saw it in couples who made decisions together instead of leaving one spouse in the dark. I saw it in widows who found the courage to carry on after unimaginable loss. Those investments paid dividends that could never be measured on a quarterly statement.

Leaving the investment industry wasn’t the ending I had imagined for myself. There are parts of that chapter of my life I rarely talk about.

But I have never regretted the years I spent sitting across a boardroom table from ordinary people trying to do the best they could for themselves and the people they loved. They trusted me. They allowed me into some of the happiest moments of their lives and some of the hardest. For that, I will always be grateful.

Because in the end, my clients gave me far more than I ever gave them.

They taught me that while money can build wealth, it is trust, kindness and love that build a life.

Names and identifying details have been changed to protect the identities of former clients.

After spending two decades helping people manage their money, I came to an interesting conclusion.

The people who impressed me most weren’t always the wealthiest. They weren’t the loudest voices in the room. They weren’t the ones constantly chasing the next hot stock or asking me what the market was going to do next.

More often than not, they were the quiet ones. The ones who understood that building wealth wasn’t about excitement.

It was about patience.

Discipline.

And confidence.

One woman in particular will always be my Wonder Woman. I called her Wonder Woman because she was a force. She was the glue that kept the family united, conducted her charity work with passion and was fully aware of her financial situation. And she had a wicked sense of humor. I wanted to be her at her age.

She and her husband attended every review meeting together. They listened. They asked thoughtful questions. They respected each other’s opinions. Neither one dominated the conversation. If they disagreed, they talked it through.

Their marriage looked very much like the way they managed their money. As partners.

One day Wonder Woman arrived for a meeting with news that changed everything.

She had inherited three million dollars from a relative. Three million dollars.

Even after years in the investment business, I never stopped appreciating how life-changing an inheritance like that could be. It wasn’t simply a matter of adding another investment to the portfolio. Suddenly we had new questions to answer. How do we invest this tax efficiently? How do we preserve government benefits where possible? How do we protect this wealth for future generations?

And perhaps the biggest question of all...

What do we tell the children?

Wonder Woman loved her three adult children with all her heart. She also knew them well enough to understand they weren’t particularly responsible with money. She wasn’t worried they would stop loving her. She worried that a large inheritance, placed in the wrong hands at the wrong time, could do more harm than good.

Together, we assembled a team.

Lawyers.

Accountants.

Investment professionals.

After many discussions, we established a trust that would allow the children to receive income while protecting the capital itself. The children would be cared for. But they would never have unrestricted access to the entire estate. It remains one of the most satisfying pieces of planning I was ever involved in.

Not because of the amount of money. Because a family found peace of mind and I got to participate in helping them find a resolution.

Then there was Mary. If Wonder Woman represented thoughtful planning, Mary represented quiet persistence.

Mary was one of my smaller accounts.

Every two weeks, without fail, Mary walked into my office after payday. She wasn’t bringing thousands of dollars. Sometimes it was a modest contribution. But she never missed.

Payday after payday.

Year after year.

Twenty years.

There was nothing glamorous about what Mary was doing. She wasn’t trying to beat the market. She wasn’t looking for the next great investment. She was simply paying herself first.

By the time she reached fifty-five, Mary had done something remarkable. She had built a healthy investment portfolio.

Her home was paid for. She had a good government pension waiting for her. And she faced retirement with something many people never achieve. Confidence.

I often think about how differently we celebrate success in our society.

We admire people who become wealthy overnight.

The entrepreneur who sells a business.

The lottery winner.

The celebrity.

Rarely do we celebrate the woman who quietly invested a little every two weeks for twenty years.

Yet Mary’s story is far more likely to be repeated.

Another group of clients brought me tremendous satisfaction.

The married couples who attended every meeting together. Those meetings felt different. There was no one sitting quietly in the corner. No one saying, “He looks after all of that.” Both spouses understood what they owned. Both asked questions. Both participated in decisions. Those couples almost always had something else in common.

Trust. Not blind trust. Informed trust. They trusted each other and they trusted me because they understood what was happening.

If one spouse died, the other wasn’t left wondering where the investments were or how to pay the bills. They already knew. As an advisor, those were my easiest meetings. Not because the investments were simple. Because the communication already existed.

One of my favourite stories came near the end of my career.

An older gentleman remarried later in life. I’ll call him Jim.

He adored his new wife. I will call her Anna.

Anna adored Jim. This was a second marriage for both of them and he always took care of her.

Like many couples of his generation, he had accumulated a sizeable investment portfolio over the years. But there was one problem.

He didn’t have a will. I couldn’t understand it.

He had worked a lifetime to build his wealth, yet he had never taken the final step to protect the woman he loved.

I encouraged him—perhaps more than once—to put his affairs in order. His wife updated her will too.

One day he walked into my office with a big smile on his face.

“I did it,” he said proudly. “I finally updated my will.”

I congratulated him. We chatted for a while, and he left.

That same week, Jim fell down the basement stairs at home and died.

I’ve never forgotten it. Life has a way of reminding us that tomorrow isn’t a promise.

Because he had finally completed his will, his wife wasn’t left untangling unnecessary legal complications while grieving the loss of her husband.

Instead, she knew exactly what to do.

She called me.

In time, Anna decided to move across the country to be closer to her son and his family. She worried she would have to start over with a new advisor.

“You don’t,” I told her. “I’m licensed in your new province.”

“We’ll make this work.”

Several months later I arranged to visit her in her beautiful retirement residence.

She looked happy. Peaceful.

Her family loved her deeply.

They respected her independence.

They never pressured her about money.

Instead, they encouraged her to make her own decisions, and I was there to help whenever she needed me.

That visit has stayed with me.

Not because of the investments.

Because of the relief I saw on her face.

People often assume financial planning is about numbers.

It isn’t.

Sometimes the greatest gift we can leave the people we love isn’t more money. It’s making sure they know what to do when we’re no longer here.

It’s about removing fear.

The women I admired most weren’t fearless.

They simply refused to let fear make their decisions for them.

Wonder Woman planned carefully.

Mary invested consistently.

The couples who succeeded talked openly.

Anna trusted herself because she understood the basics of her finances before life forced her to.

They all taught me the same lesson. Financial confidence doesn’t happen by accident. It grows slowly. One conversation. One investment. One good decision at a time.

And if there’s one thing these remarkable women proved to me, it’s that you don’t have to be extraordinary to build a secure future.

You simply have to believe you’re capable of understanding it.

Because you are.

Names and identifying details have been changed to protect the privacy of former clients.

After twenty years in wealth management, people often ask me what the best investment was.

They expect me to name a stock. Or a mutual fund.

Or perhaps tell them about someone who bought shares in a little-known company that made them rich.

They’re usually disappointed by my answer.

The best investment I ever witnessed wasn’t an investment at all. It was good judgment.

And the worst financial decisions I ever saw had very little to do with the stock market. They had everything to do with human nature.

One of my favourite clients was a mail carrier. Every review meeting ended the same way.

“I’m going to get to a million dollars,” he’d tell me with a grin.

It wasn’t greed that drove him. It was discipline.

Year after year he saved. Year after year he invested. Year after year he stayed the course, even when markets became frightening.

Eventually, we got there. His portfolio crossed the million-dollar mark. I was almost as excited as he was the day I called him to give him the good news. He had earned every penny through consistency, patience and an ordinary career that produced an extraordinary result.

Then there was the woman whose life changed overnight.

A client of mine had no children and very little family. When he passed away, he left everything to his housekeeper.

His home. His investment portfolio. His estate. I remember feeling genuinely happy for her. I thought, She’ll never have to clean another house again.

Unfortunately, she was married to a man who believed her inheritance was his to spend. He decided the house needed renovations. He decided he would do the work himself. One project became another. Then another. Little by little, the inheritance disappeared.

Eventually, the money was gone. She returned to cleaning houses. As her advisor, there was nothing I could do. The investments hadn’t failed. People had.

I still think about her sometimes. I hope life eventually became kinder to her than it was during those first few years after the inheritance was gone.

Another client taught me a very different lesson. He was wealthy and deeply worried about his adult daughter. She wasn’t particularly good with money, and her husband seemed unable to keep a steady job. They had young children, and although her father had thoughtfully provided for her in his estate plan, he wanted the inheritance to support her—not disappear.

Then something extraordinary happened.

She won a lottery.

The jackpot wasn’t enough to make her one of Canada’s richest people, but it was certainly enough to change her family’s future.

I was excited. This was a fresh start. An opportunity to eliminate debt, build investments and create long-term security.

Within two weeks, the money was gone. Every dollar. Not invested. Not saved. Simply spent.

Years earlier, I’d had a male client who also won a lottery. His first instinct wasn’t to spend it. It was to invest it.

Watching those two experiences unfold reminded me that financial success isn’t determined by sudden windfalls. It’s determined by habits.

One of the most difficult meetings of my career involved a nurse. She had worked incredibly hard to build her retirement savings. She wasn’t extravagant. She was thoughtful. Disciplined. Careful.

One day she came into my office looking exhausted. Not physically. Emotionally. Her husband had decided he wanted an RV so they could travel. The money, he believed, should come from her investments.

She wasn’t retiring. She didn’t want to travel. She was still working thirteen-hour shifts.

She knew cashing in those investments would trigger taxes and reduce the growth of the portfolio we’d spent years building.

But she was tired of arguing. She finally said yes. I processed the paperwork because it was her decision. But it broke my heart. Not because she bought an RV. Rather, it was because she surrendered something she’d worked decades to create simply to keep the peace.

One investment still troubles me to this day. It didn’t involve an individual client. It involved a non-profit organization that was very close to my heart. The investment portfolio I managed wasn’t there to make anyone rich. It existed to help fund the organization’s annual operations and support the important work it did in the community. Because of that responsibility, the portfolio was invested conservatively.

One day the charity received an extraordinary gift through an estate. Not cash. Shares in a technology company. The shares had grown substantially in value and represented a significant gift. Selling them would have provided funding for programs and operating expenses for years to come.

There was just one problem. The stock was far too risky for a charitable portfolio. My recommendation was immediate. Sell the shares. Protect the gift. Reinvest the proceeds in investments that reflected the organization’s conservative objectives.

The president of the charity agreed with me. Unfortunately, other members of the executive did not. They became convinced the stock would continue climbing. I pleaded my case. This wasn’t about chasing bigger returns. It was about honouring the wishes of the donor and protecting money that belonged to the organization—not to any one individual.

As the stock began to slide, I kept calling. Each time I hoped someone would finally decide to preserve what remained.

Instead, they waited. Like so many technology stocks during that period, it eventually became virtually worthless.

I drove home that evening angrier than I had any right to be. It wasn’t my money. It wasn’t even my decision. But I couldn’t stop thinking about the donor who had probably hoped their gift would help people for years to come. He was probably rolling over in his grave. Instead, it disappeared because no one wanted to admit the party was over.

That charity didn’t simply lose an investment. It lost money that could have funded programs, helped people and supported its mission for years. That one still hurts. Not because they ignored my advice. Advisors are overruled sometimes. It hurt because I watched intelligent people allow greed to overpower their responsibility as stewards of someone else’s money.

People sometimes assume my career was about picking winning investments. It wasn’t. It was about helping people make good decisions. The stock market is surprisingly predictable over long periods of time. People aren’t.

Some clients became wealthy on very average incomes because they saved consistently. Others earned extraordinary salaries and had almost nothing to show for them. Some inherited fortunes and protected them. Others inherited fortunes and watched them disappear.

After a while, I stopped believing that wealth was a measure of intelligence. I met brilliant people who couldn’t manage money. I met people with very little formal education who quietly built remarkable wealth.

Money has an interesting way of revealing who we already are. It magnifies generosity. It magnifies fear. It magnifies patience. And sometimes, it magnifies greed.

Looking back, I don’t remember the stock prices. I remember the people. The letter carrier who quietly became a millionaire. The housekeeper who briefly believed she’d escaped a lifetime of cleaning. The lottery winner who mistook good fortune for endless fortune. The nurse who sacrificed part of her future to avoid another argument. The charity that lost a remarkable gift because no one wanted to sell while they were ahead.

Every one of them taught me something. Not about investing. About life. And after twenty years sitting across a boardroom table, I’ve come to believe the most valuable financial asset anyone can possess isn’t a large portfolio.

It’s good judgment.

Because unlike money, good judgment continues paying dividends for the rest of your life.

A five-part memoir series about what twenty years behind a desk taught me about money, marriage, and the women (and men), who trusted me with both. Names have been changed to protect the identities of former clients.

For twenty years I sat across a boardroom table from people making some of the biggest financial decisions of their lives. They came to talk about money. They left me with stories I’ll never forget. These essays are about those stories.

When people learn I spent twenty years as an Investment Advisor and Associate Portfolio Manager, they usually assume my job was to convince clients to save every last penny.

Actually, I spent a surprising amount of time encouraging people to spend their money.

Not recklessly, of course.

If the retirement projections looked solid, the estate plan was in place and there was enough set aside for the “just in case” moments that life inevitably throws at us, I wanted my clients to take that once-in-a-lifetime trip. Remodel the kitchen. Buy the boat. Spoil the grandchildren. Donate generously to a cause they loved.

Money, after all, isn’t meant to sit in an account waiting for someone else to inherit it. It’s supposed to help you live.

At the height of my career, I co-managed $143 million in assets with my business partner. Every day I sat across the table from people who had spent decades building their wealth. Some were teachers. Some were nurses. Some owned businesses. Others had simply saved diligently throughout their lives.

After a while I noticed something that bothered me.

Most of the investment conversations were with the husbands.

The wives were often sitting quietly at home.

Sometimes they attended meetings but rarely asked questions. Other times they stayed home altogether while their husbands handled “the money.”

It was almost as though they had become invisible.

That never sat well with me.

So I made it my mission to change the conversation.

Without embarrassing the husbands or bruising anyone’s ego, I began inviting wives into discussions. I explained that they didn’t need to know the difference between a preferred share and a common share or understand every twist and turn of the stock market. What mattered was knowing where the money was, what they owned, how much income it could generate and what would happen if life suddenly changed.

Because life always changes.

One day one spouse becomes the survivor.

One day someone has to make the decisions alone.

As women became more comfortable asking questions, something interesting happened.

The conversation shifted.

The husbands still enjoyed talking about investments and market performance. But gradually our discussions became less about growing the biggest portfolio possible and more about protecting the family.

How do we make sure your wife will be financially secure if something happens to you?

How do we reduce taxes so more of your wealth stays in the family?

How do we simplify your affairs so your spouse isn’t overwhelmed?

Those conversations mattered far more than trying to beat the market by another percentage point.

Back then I hoped attitudes were changing.

Today, I’m surprised by how much has stayed the same.

Recent studies continue to show that husbands still make the majority of long-term investment decisions in many marriages. Nearly half of married women say their spouse takes primary responsibility for investing, retirement planning and estate planning.

Earlier research found that more than half left those decisions to their husbands because they believed he knew more about investing. Perhaps the most revealing finding of all was this: almost every widow surveyed said women should become actively involved in their household finances while they’re still married.

Those statistics don’t surprise me.

I lived them.

One client in particular has stayed with me all these years.

I had worked with her husband for a long time but had rarely met his wife. Like many couples of his generation, he looked after the investments while she looked after everything else.

Then he died.

A few weeks later she phoned my office.

She sounded frightened.

Statements from financial institutions had been arriving in the mail, and she didn’t know what any of them meant.

I asked her to gather every envelope she could find and bring them to my office.

As we spread the statements across my boardroom table, a picture slowly emerged.

She owned a beautiful home.

A house in Florida.

And investment accounts spread across several financial institutions.

When we totaled everything up, she had a net worth of approximately three and a half million dollars.

She had absolutely no idea.

Imagine discovering in your seventies that you’re a millionaire.

Not because you won the lottery.

Not because you built a business.

But because your husband had never really told you what the two of you owned.

He loved his wife.

I have no doubt about that.

He simply assumed he would always be there to look after things.

He wasn’t.

It took months for her to become comfortable enough to understand her own finances. She wasn’t unintelligent. Far from it. She simply hadn’t been invited into that part of the marriage.

I’ve often wondered how many women are still living that story today.

The good news is that younger women are becoming far more engaged with investing than previous generations. More women are managing their own portfolios, asking questions and taking charge of their financial futures.

That makes me smile.

But if there’s one lesson my career taught me, it’s this:

Never mistake disinterest for inability.

Many women don’t avoid investing because they aren’t capable of understanding it.

They avoid it because somewhere along the way they came to believe it belonged to someone else.

It doesn’t.

You don’t have to become an investment expert.

You don’t have to watch financial news every morning or memorize stock symbols.

But you should know your family’s net worth.

You should know where your investments are held.

You should know who to call if something happens.

And you should never feel embarrassed to ask questions.

Over twenty years, I watched markets rise and fall.

I watched people become wealthy and others lose fortunes.

But the greatest investment I ever witnessed wasn’t measured in dollars.

It was confidence.

Because when a woman understands her finances, she isn’t simply protecting her money.

She’s protecting her independence.

And that may be the most valuable asset of all.