I’m lying in my hammock on the porch, watching my husband feed the horses. Our three foals are playing, chasing each other and jumping straight up into the air out of sheer joy to be alive. Their enthusiasm is contagious and we both laugh.

“We live in paradise,” my husband says as he joins me. I hesitate. While the scene in front of us is idyllic, what’s happening above us is not. A thick, yellow haze of smoke is hanging low in the sky, touching the tops of the trees and turning the setting sun a toxic red. Fine ash is falling like snow, as it has for weeks, and the strong breeze that I used to welcome in summers past is only making me nervous now.

I look at everything we’ve built over the last year: our house, the chicken coops and pigeon lofts, round pens and horse paddocks, miles of fencing and cross-fencing. I look at the barn that we took apart and then put back together, the beautiful cabin we hoisted onto a flatbed trailer and moved from our old place to our new one, the stack of fire wood I’ve started to compile for the winter. It’s all wood, as far as the eye can see, wood surrounded by trees. It’s been our sanctuary—and now it’s our biggest threat.

My coughing wakes me up in the middle of the night. I don’t have a cold or a cough, but I left the sliding door in my room open so the dogs can get in and out, and an acrid smell of smoke has crept into the house and is irritating my throat. Tears are streaming down my face, and when I wipe them out of my eyes and look outside, I’m stunned to see that the yard is full of what looks like fog: thick clouds of haze and smog are hanging eerily in the darkness, keeping silent watch over our place. I feel like the walls are closing in with the smoke filling my room, and I call the dogs in before I slide the door shut, feeling uneasy. I get up and pad barefoot to the kitchen for a drink of water, still fighting the scratch in my throat. As I’m drinking I scan the darkness outside for any signs of the red glow or flicker that we all fear so much. Nothing—for now.

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At work the smell of smoke is overpowering. Large air scrubbers are filling the hallways with noise and a strong draft, but how useful they are is hard to say; we can all taste, smell, and feel the smoke. We are coughing, battling headaches, feeling our eyes burn. More and more people are wearing masks, voluntarily and uncomplainingly. And we are the lucky ones: we still have houses and workplaces. Hundreds of thousands of people worldwide have been evacuated due to wildfires, tens of thousands have lost their homes. You feel desperately sorry for them, grieve for them, and can’t help but wonder: will I be next?
Everybody has the app on their phones that announces with a piercingly loud warning sound when you’re placed on evacuation alert or need to evacuate immediately. It feels like walking around with a ticking time bomb in your pocket: when will it go off and change your life irrevocably?

It’s morning. I’m baking bread, because even when your life is under siege, it also goes on. For now I still have a house and a stove, and we have to feed ourselves.
I’ve always wondered how people living in war zones do it: how do they cope with the constant strain and pressure, the fear for their homes and life? How do they stand the uncertainty, the fear, the possibility of death for months and years? I’m beginning to understand how: by not having a choice. It’s unbearable, interspersed with moments of ordinary life, going back to unbearable. You try to remember that nothing bad has happened yet, that you have much to be grateful for, that you’re one of the lucky ones. You remind yourself to breathe. You calm down.

Then your friend calls and tells you that her neighbours are tearing around on their dirt bikes, not caring that one spark could set off the next blaze, and you panic again. You rage against the stupidity of people, you get yourself worked up, you don’t know what to do with all this anger, fury, and fear. So you take the dogs for a walk while your husband waters the garden. Because for now, we still have a garden.

The next morning I reach my breaking point. I collapse on the floor, hyperventilating and crying, feeling utter despair and hopelessness wash over me. As I’m sobbing into my dogs’ fur that I can’t do this anymore, that I can’t stand the tension and liminal space of waiting/hoping/preparing for the unpreparable, my husband tries to project strength. A week later he will admit that he was also scared shitless, that he had the same fears and worries about our future, wondering how long we’d be spared in our magical, dangerous forest before it would be our turn. But for now he thinks he has to act like he’s fearless, pretend that he’s solid as a rock. With our nerves stretched to breaking point we have a fight, picking at each other instead of coming together against the shared danger. Everything feels dark; bleak; hopeless. I don’t know it yet, but it’s the darkness before the dawn.

A few hours later, I’m back at work. The community and camaraderie at work are what have been helping me get through it: knowing that we’re all in this together, focusing on our patients instead of ourselves, commisserating, using gallow’s humour, propping each other up. When the text messages start lighting up my phone, informing me that a new fire has broken out close to our old place (that we still own), I’m feeling resigned. Our turn has arrived; nothing I can do about it.

Then, a few things happen in quick succession: within a couple of hours, the fire is under control. It starts raining. And with the rain, the smoke starts to clear.

That was a week ago. Even though we’re not out of the woods yet, my nervous system has almost returned to its usual equilibrium. Without the constant reminder of the smoke in the air, my body feels safer. Our brave fire fighters are making progress, and while it will be weeks or months before the danger has passed, something inside of me has switched out of panic mode back to regular life. I don’t know what tomorrow will bring, or next year; when I think too much about it, fear threatens to take over again. For now, I focus on today: I make my bed, sweep the floor, get ready for work, walk the dogs, bake a cake, laugh with my friends, hug my husband.

Life goes on. And so must we.

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I’m deep into the second round of editing my upcoming novel (it’s coming out in 6 weeks, not long now!) which is the main reason for my prolongued silence on here. The other, less sexy reason is that I’m having a sort of convalescent season without having the proper time or space to convalesce. I’m not so much physically sick (aside from my triplets, which appear to be thriving based on the pain they cause, those little bastards), but much more mentally.

My mind has not been my friend this summer. It urges me to hide from the world, but when I do I feel isolated. Going out requires almost superhuman effort, and I can barely gather the strength I need because I’m scraping the bottom of the strength-barrel, which has been pretty empty for a while now. Inviting people over is an utter disaster: I panic, I fret, I clean like a madwoman, I yell at my husband, I almost get a panic attack, I swear and rant and feel like I’m going crazy with anxiety. And then the people appear—and everything is fine. More than fine: it’s wonderful, it’s fun, I’m enjoying myself, I have a great time.
But do you think I could remember how this plays out the next time and avoid the truly terrible lead-up before a visit? I cannot. Or to be more accurate: it’s not so much that I don’t remember but that my evil, anxiety-riddled mind swears to me that this time, it will be a catastrophe, the collapse of my friendships and the event that will mark the breakdown of my family.

Fun stuff.

What’s causing this slide into depression you may wonder? I’ve been asking myself the same question. After all, building this life has been a labour of love, intention, patience, perseverance, and lots of soul-searching, and I truly adore it most of the time. Why then am I not living my happily ever after?

The answer: because it’s life. Because I’m still living with ghosts I can’t seem to shake. Because a complicated mix of hormones, chemicals, genetic inclination towards worrying, and being a woman in a patriarchal, toxic world rob me of my will to live joy some days. Because a few of the horrors that have happened over the last few years have left deep marks that didn’t get a chance to properly heal, because who has the time?

I want to stop right there. I had a thought on my walk this morning: why don’t we convalesce here in North America? Not just taking a couple of sick days before we drag ourselves back to work, but a proper convalescence?
In Germany we have something called Kur, which is a doctor-prescribed health retreat usually lasting around four weeks, in one of about 350 spa towns either in the mountains or by the sea. Kuren (literally translated as cures) can be prescribed for a wide varity of ailments, both mental and physical: recovery after surgery, respiratory illness, skin conditions, burnout, insomnia, or depression, to name just a few. Patients get personalized physical exercise, therapy, and support intended to help them recover, prevent, or manage chronic conditions. It is fully supported by employers and, just as importantly, covered by insurance.

Having time to properly work through and recover from traumatic events is imperative for healing. If we don’t, it will slowly fester, grow, and cause a much bigger problem somewhere down the line. We need time and courage to look life in the face and confront our demons. Routine, work, and being busy can be helpful, especially when it comes to dealing with mental health challenges; but they can also be great distractors from dealing with our problems.

The last few years have been turbulent. I’ve had stressors at home and at work, in our community and globally. I overextended myself last year, with illness in the family, the move, and some unexpected curveballs, and the winter that was supposed to be my reset- and hibernation-time came with an earth-shattering battle that I’m still recovering from. I think too much about a lot, and my mind is my worst enemy at times.

But here’s what I know: more than one thing can be true at once. My mind can be a bit broken and life is still beautiful. I can have anxiety and laugh with my friends. I can be scared (a lot) and feel very lucky. I can tiptoe dangerously close to the edge of madness and also wander through my beloved forest with my beloved dogs.

The world and us, we contain multitudes.

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“Your uterus is the same size as if you were twelve weeks pregnant,” the doctor informs me as she pulls her hands out. I breathe heavily, trying to recover from the pain of the examination, before we discuss my options. When she agrees to refer me to someone who will perform a hysterectomy for me this summer, I almost sob with relief and gratitude.

My MRI-scan from last October showed three fibroids the size of golf balls nestled cozily in my growing uterus. Smaller ones are scattered in between like pebbles on a beach. For about two years now I’ve been feeling what I imagine a pregnancy feels like: my body growing and expanding, hips rounding, belly sticking out. It can swell up to the size of a six-months pregnancy within minutes, filling up with air until it’s rock-hard and so painful, I whimper and ask my husband to rub it gently.

My body craves sleep like a drug. On my days off I fall asleep in the middle of the day as soon as I lay down, and I sleep hard, two or three hours at a time, waking up disoriented and groggy. I’ve made rest a top priority, because I have to. Growing the triplets, as I call my three big fibroids, is taking a lot of energy out of me, and the daily cramping, twisting, stabbing pain is taking a lot of energy as well.

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Before I knew about the triplets, I kept doubting if what I felt was real. Was I exaggerating it? Or making a big deal out of something completely normal? Was I too much of a wimp or too sensitive? I swung wildly between trying to tell myself to suck it up and just deal with it, and wanting to honour what my body was telling me.
The blood that had been gushing out of me in floods stopped after I got my IUD two years ago, and all that was left was the pain, bloating, exhaustion, and low energy. Accept it or fight for a better quality of life? That’s been the question.

I lie still on my bed, my hand pressed on my lower abdomen, asking my body what I should do. A fist squeezes hard and then twists, giving me my answer. You can live like this; millions of women do. You will survive this. It will probably get better once you’ve reached menopause, which statistically will be in five years. But you don’t have to; you don’t have to.

Asking for help, waiting for it, honouring your body, your limits, and what you’re willing to endure—all these are things many women have to (re)learn as we’re getting older. We’ve been taught that we are good at pain, that pain is a part of being a woman, that we can and should function in our jobs and as caretakers/organizers/house cleaners/mothers/wives despite pain. Pop an Ibuprofen and get on with it, there’s work to be done.

I’ve firmly arrived in Middle-Age, a formerly unknown land, and I’m still learning its customs. Is this pain normal here, or is it the sign of something more sinister? Where does one find new reserves of energy, a rapidly decreasing natural resource that I’ve always taken for granted? Is an expanding body in a world that glorifies women’s shrinking bodies an act of rebellion, or “giving up”?

I’m learning that I can’t multitask anymore. I’m learning that I have to cut my daily to-do list way back. I’m learning that daily naps, and sitting in the sun with the dogs, and listening to the birds are the most important “tasks” of my day. I’m starting to truly understand that today, this moment, this ordinary day, is my life. This is it; this is all I have; this is enough. I’m saying thanks dozens of times a day. I’m counting my blessings. I press my hand against my lower belly and whisper: “Shh, I got it. I understand now. Thank you for forcing me to slow down.”

My husband and I are still recovering from our mammoth move last year. We feel like we ran a marathon. We remind each other of all we’ve accomplished when the old demons raise their ugly heads and hiss in a German accent: “Clean up, finish the tasks, do more, work harder, don’t be lazy.”

We tell them to shut up. We tell them that we can do whatever the hell we please with our time, our energy, our life. We tell them that the expectations and opinions of others have ceased to be of any importance to us. We left them behind with the spying eyes and the bad intentions and the ugliness of unhappy people wanting to ruin happy people’s lives.

I won’t miss the triplets when they’re gone. But I’ll remember the lessons they taught me for the rest of my life.

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In March of 2013 I started my blog Farmgirl. I was in my fourth year working as an x-ray technologist, and while I couldn’t explain at the time the pull I felt towards blogging, I now know that I was craving a creative outlet. At first I thought that blogging would force me to do more stuff: go on more adventures, meet more people, do more DIY projects. The blogs I followed were mostly lifestyle- and DIY-blogs, and even though I didn’t consider myself a crafty person, I thought I’d better become someone more interesting so I’d have something to write about.

To my suprise, I found something in the blogging world that I was missing IRL (blogger-speak for “in real life”): a community. I wasn’t aware of it then, but I had built a wall around myself that nobody could breach except for one person: my husband. He was the only person allowed behind the wall, while nobody else was deemed safe. There were people in my life I called friends, but nobody I truly trusted. I was always expecting to either disappoint them or be disappointed, and like a self-fulfilling prophecy, it often happened. If you look for something you’ll usually find it, whether it’s there or not.

Blogging was different. Many introverts were drawn to it, because it provided the best of both worlds: community without having to leave your house. I soon started opening up online in ways I never did IRL, feeling safe behind my screen.
After a while I accumulated a small, but supportive following, and when I started sharing personal things about my life, I was met with so much support and understanding that it blew me away.

With the benefit of hindsight and years of therapy, I now realize that I was rebelling against my upbringing. We had a strict code of silence in my family that dictated to never speak about family stuff to outsiders. Not only does that make it impossible to become truly close to someone; it also made me feel intensely lonely. Add to that a parenting style heavy on criticism and very light on praise, and I pretty much thought of myself as a useless weirdo who couldn’t do anything right. When I started sharing some personal details online and was met with grace and understanding, it was like the floodgates opened. For several years, I shared and overshared enthustiastially, amazed that not only the world didn’t end, but that I was much more “normal” than I’d dared to hope.

Because we live in a capitalistic society and girlbossing was a popular catchphrase back then, I thought I should do what was expected of me: monetize the damn thing. I installed AdSense on my blog, started accepting freebies in exchange for posts, and halfheartedly researched how to grow your following. I wasn’t any good at it, so even though I enjoyed blogging immensely for the sense of belonging and the fulfillment writing gave me, I also carried around a vague sense of failure and guilt about not being “better” at it. I had fully bought into the standard definition of success where higher numbers (followers, page views, likes, money) equaled more success, and by that definition, I was mediocre at best. I was stuck on a hamster wheel, churning out posts five times a week, commenting on other blogs like it was my job, and being active on social media every day, because everybody said how important it was to be consistent and to hustle your butt off.

Hindsight speaking: She was chasing external validation as a (fickle) means to feel valuable. Miriam only felt worthy if she received regular positive feedback from others, confirming that she was doing well, and doing enough. Nobody had taught her that she—like every single person in the world—had inherent worth that didn’t need to be earned.

Still, the greatest gift blogging gave me was that I was writing almost every day, putting hundreds of thousands of words down over the years. As my love for writing grew, so did a new dream: writing books.

What’s interesting about that to me now is that I thought much more about what would happen after I’d written the book than the actual act of writing it. Would people read it? Would they like it? Or, dear God, what would I do if they hated it? What would my parents think? Would they finally be proud of me? And on and on it went. I was not-so-secretly dreaming of a career as a real author, with an agent and a contract with one of the big five publishing houses, without even knowing what exactly that entailed.

Hindsight speaking: Miriam believed that a writer was not a “real” writer until a common societal measure of success—such as a contract—would legitimize her ambitions. She believed in the narrow societal definition that success=sales and money, and anything that couldn’t be measured with those parameters wasn’t success.

I was striving to become more without questioning why. Life is sold to us as a ladder we are meant to keep climbing, and I obediently put one hand above the other, to keep reaching for the next higher thing. At work I was reluctant to do so, since the next logical step in my career is management, and I really don’t want to do that. To compensate I thought I’d better become an at least modestly successful author, to “justify” my lack of career ambition.

My first book was carrying a motherload of expectation on my part. I hoped it would make my parents proud of me, turn me into a real author, and make me magically confident and worldly.
Spoiler alert: none of those things happened. I received some very kind reviews, mostly from blog readers and people who know me in my real life, and I was in equal parts proud for having written a whole book and unable to talk about it without feeling deeply embarrassed and drowning in imposter syndrome.

I now fondly refer to my first book as my first pancake: messy, imperfect, flawed. I wouldn’t write it like this today, but it was the best book I could write at the time, and I’m very glad I wrote it. It lay the foundation for all the other books I have written since. Without my first pancake I wouldn’t have had the courage to keep going.

I officially ended my blogging era three years ago after being a blogger for ten years. It’s a time I think back on with extreme fondness; this is the reason why I haven’t removed my blog from the Internet yet. I like to know that it’s still out there, my refuge and home for so many years; the space that’s given me so much joy and growth and epiphanies over the years.

Unlike many other bloggers, I didn’t move my focus and energy onto social media. I still post on Instagram, but much less frequently then I used to. I’m transitioning away from anything that makes me feel pressure these days. I have redefined what success means to me:

Replace money and external validation with peace, purpose, and relationships.

These simple principles are what I base my decisions on. If something doesn’t serve what I consider a successful life, I won’t do it. And one big component of having peace to me is having free will, and do what I want to do.

Over the years I’ve followed with interest the careers of several former bloggers who managed the jump from blogging to becoming signed authors with a big publishing house. They’ve shared their experience on social media or newsletters, and what they’ve told is sobering: one author was paid a small one-time payment to write a book around an idea the publisher presented; they then promoted the shit out of the book and proceeded to sell hundreds of thousands of copies—and the author didn’t receive a single extra penny. All subsequent books the author wrote (with a better contract this time) wasn’t promoted nearly as much, and didn’t sell nearly as many books.

Advances are paid out in chunks—some at signing, a bit more at delivery of the finished product, some more when the book comes out, which is often a year or two after signing. If the publishing date is moved, so is the arrival of your money. For the vast majority of authors, writing books isn’t enough to support them, and they need other streams of income.

Another blogger turned influencer, but her dream was to become a published author; once she had enough followers, she did get a publising deal. Thrilled, she thought she could stop influencing and dedicate more time to writing books. Na-ah, darling; keep growing your following which translates into paying customers for the book. Influencers make great authors, because they come with their own built-in customer base.

All this to say: the publishing industry is an industry, and at the end of the day it’s about making money. I’m not blaming any author who’s still dreaming of becoming part of it; most writers would love to see their books in bookstores all across the country, or even the world. I was one of them. But the more I’ve gotten to know myself over the last few years, the more I realized that I would have a very difficult time with the pressure, stress, and judgment of the industry.

I already have a job that can be stressful at times; I don’t need another one. To me, writing books is a joyful activity that makes me feel wildly alive and happy; I don’t want to lose a hobby and gain another source of stress in my life. Peace, purpose, and relationships, remember?

All this to say: my dream changed from being an author to writing books. It may seem like the same thing, but there’s a distinct difference to me. When I was writing my first pancake and dreaming of being a “real” author, I was primarily focused on the optics of it: how others would admire me, how my parents would be proud of me, how it would make me feel accomplished and whole. The actual writing part was almost an afterthought; the vehicle that was meant to bring me to my true destination.

I got it backwards. Every book I’ve written after my first pancake has been about the writing. I love the act of writing books: spending several months (or years) with an idea, growing it inside me like a baby, getting to know it intimately. By the time I start writing I’ve spent so much time with it, it’s like an old friend. I love to explore an idea and to work through something that’s been part of my life for a while. I only want to devote my time and energy to something that’s meaningful to me; I wouldn’t have it in me to write about something I don’t have a strong connection to.

By the time the book is finished and I release it into the world, I’m ready to let it go. Liz Gilbert has recommended to treat books like that: like grown children that have flown the nest and are living their own lives. It’s out of our control what happens to our books once they’re out there; whether people like them or hate them, there’s nothing we can do about it. By shifting my focus on controlling what I can (i.e. writing the thing) and letting go of expectation or worry about what I can’t control (what will others think?) I’m preserving my peace.

For most of my life, what people think of me was my biggest worry and fear. I let it define my self-worth and my value as a person. In therapy I learnt that I had a very low opinion of myself; I thought of myself as inherently bad and unworthy, needing to earn approval. My religious upbringing taught me that all people are born with the original sin (if babies die before being baptized, they’ll burn in hell forever); society taught me that girls need to be nice and useful to be liked; my parents raised me the old German way where affection is implied (not voiced), and criticism is said out loud.

I had to unlearn those harmful messages and start the long and laborious process of learning to trust and like myself.

All this leads me to …

… announcing the next book I’m writing!

It’s another novel, about many of the themes I’ve talked about in today’s letter.

Here’s the official blurb:

Olivia Clearwater has always felt like an outsider. Estranged from her family for two decades, she’s built a successful life in Canada with her husband Jack. She has a loving marriage, her dream house, and a fulfilling career, but something is missing. Despite having put five thousand miles and twenty years between herself and her past, the trauma she went through when she was younger still has a hold on her.

The McNellys have been running the popular pub The Swan for generations and seem to be a close-knit family. What almost nobody knows is that this is an illusion: there’s no love lost between the family members. But appearances mean everything to the McNelly’s, and eighteen-year-old Agnes must keep the secret or risk her family’s wrath. On the outside it looks as if she fits right in, but on the inside she’s desperately lonely. Fitting in isn’t the same as belonging, and Agnes feels like she doesn’t belong anywhere.

When a family member dies, Olivia and her niece Agnes meet for the first time. Agnes grew up being unfavourably compared to her aunt, but Olivia is barely aware of her niece’s existence. Getting to know her is like looking into a mirror and seeing her eighteen-year-old self again. It forces her to confront a past she’s run away from, and to help her niece avoid making the same mistakes she’s made.

In the process they find themselves, the trust they both lost, and most importantly: true belonging.

It’s coming out in September, and I’ll give you more details as the date gets closer. For now I wanted to let you know the reason why I’ve been even more sporadic in writing letters than usual, and that it’s going to stay like it for a while—it’s because I’m writing another book. I’m having a lot of fun with these characters and love spending time with them every day.

I wish you all peace, purpose, and great relationships!

Much love,
Miriam

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It totally snuck up on me. One day I was still feeling like I have for several months: heavy, weighed down, worried. And then I woke up one morning at 5 am, my old magic hour, and I jumped out of bed, rearing to go! What brought on this magnificent change, I hear you ask?

Several things:

1. I found a new author I LOVE

   

   About a month ago I downloaded the book Call of the Camino onto my Kindle. It was a random recommendation, and I downloaded it on a whim. I’ve been having a dryspell when it comes to books I can’t put down, and as any reader knows, that’s a very sad state of affairs. The dryspell is officially over! I raced through it, and I have since read three more of her books: In an Instant, Moment in Time, and Hadley and Grace. If I love an author I read all of their work, and I’m thrilled that Suzanne Redfearn is a prolific author who has published nine books so far, with a tenth coming in September.
   Other authors whom I love: Liane Moriarty, Lisa Jewell, Jojo Moyes, Michael Finkel, Susan Elizabeth Phillips (I don’t usually read romance, but I’ve read all of hers! They’re delightful).

2. Moving an armchair has changed EVERYTHING

   

   I’ve been struggling to write for months. It was mostly due to needing an extended rest after overdoing it last year with our marathon move, building a ton of animal shelters, yoga teacher training, work stress, and dealing with my hormonal issues. But I think another culprit was that I hadn’t found my ideal writing spot in the new house yet. I have a gorgeous antique desk right by the window, and I love using it for writing letters and cards, paying bills, and doing small craft projects. But it hasn’t worked for writing books. It felt like a chore having to sit down on it and working on my novel, so I’ve been avoiding it; but not writing makes me feel grumpy and unsettled, so that’s definitely been contributing to my funk over the last few months.

   
   But then I had an idea last weekend: move the armchair from the bedroom into the living room right by the window. Friends, IT HAS CHANGED EVERYTHING. I don’t know how or why, but it’s a magical writing spot! I’ve written more in the last five days than in four weeks, over 1,000 words in each sitting, which is unheard of for me! Is it Feng Shui? Is it sorcery? Don't know, don’t care. All I know is that it works, and I’m in writing heaven!

3. More light

   

   The days are getting noticeably longer again, and that extra light is like an extra infusion of energy.

4. My little “oil painting” gallery

   

   I love a gallery wall. Nothing looks more forlorn to me than having just one small picture on a large, blank wall. In my opinion, pictures are herd animals! They like to be surrounded by friends.
   For several months I couldn’t figure out how to decorate this one corner in my living room: paint another wallpaper? Get one giant picture? Finally, the solution came to me: create a little collection of oil paintings! At first I wanted to commission them from an Etsy artist, but we’re on a budget right now, so that didn’t work. I came up with a very affordable alternative: I used the BeFunky app to create “oil paintings” from some photos I’ve taken of our pets, had them printed, and bought some inexpensive gold picture frames. It cost only a fraction of what the real oil paintings would have cost, and I love how it turned out!

5. Painting wallpaper

   

   I’ve been painting different wallpaper designs for several months, and it makes me so happy. Painting is a much more affordable alternative to wallpaper, and it’s easy to change if you get bored of it. I’ve used a couple stencils, different sponge designs, and freehanded a couple others. I’m planning on taking some proper photos of it soon and share it with you.

6. The year of the Fire Horse

   

   We’re starting a new lunar year tomorrow: the year of the fire horse. I’m not sure where I fall on the spectrum of spirituality and astrology (I’m somewhere between “don’t believe in it” and “gotta charge my crystals”) but I love a good omen as much as the next woman, and fire horse years are rare: they only come around once in our lifetime, every 60 years. I love what it stands for, I love fire and horses, and as an intuitive person who’s been sensing a shift in the air for a while, I’m excited! The current patriarchal, late-stage capitalistic system is imploding, and I hope that we’re about to see a huge, global shift towards more equality, more justice, and more accountability. Which brings me to my next point:
   

7. The (possible) resolution to a problem

   

   On top of global injustice, inequality, and oppression, most of us deal with smaller versions of it in our daily lives as well. It’s no wonder that so much of it is around when our society regards behaviour such as manipulation, dishonesty, and lack of remorse as strong leadership qualities and rewards it with promotions, pay raises, and the presidency.
   I haven’t been spared either, and until a few years ago, I didn’t do much to fight against it. I’d endlessly complain about it to my friends, but I didn’t have the courage to stand up to bullies or unfair treatment.

   But ever since I’m medicated, therapized, and have entered midlife, my priorities have shifted. I choose my battles carefully and let most things go, because a lot of stuff is small stuff not worth getting into an argument over. But not everything can—or should—be ignored. I have defined my values over the years, and came up with a set of rules for myself I try to live by. As much as I dislike confrontation, some things are worth fighting for.

   Accountability is what’s been sorely lacking, not only in the world at large, but in my own little world as well. But I’m hopeful that things are changing for the better, because: Fire Horse Year!

   Today is the last day of the Wood Snake Year. No matter where you fall on the spiritual scale, I think for many of us 2025 has felt difficult, emotional, and heavy. This post I found on IG resonated with me:

   

   I’m hopeful and filled with optimism. I wish the same for you!

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One of the women in my life is in the process of packing up her entire life and moving to a new country on the other side of the world. She’s in her mid-forties, old enough to know her own mind, but too many people around her are giving her a hard time: she regularly has to face disbelief, ridicule, comments such as “you’re too old”, “you’re crazy”, and “have you thought this through?”. Luckily, there are a few exceptions, most notably one from her 89-year old client who told her to go for it “because you’re still young”, and to ignore the nay-sayers. I love older women who’ve gained wisdom and kindness along the way, instead of narrow-mindedness and bitterness. This huge change is both thrilling her and making her feel nauseous, because two things can be true at once. I still remember vividly what this kind of bravery feels like: like fear. Doing it despite the fear is what real courage looks like.

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Another friend, this one in her fifties, changed careers last year. It’s a better fit for the season of life she’s in, and she went into that change with her eyes and heart wide open. It’s never easy to give up certainty for something new, particularly if the certain thing paid well. But she handled that challenge how she handles everything: with confidence, grace, and an openness that I deeply admire. None of us knows how much time we have left on this earth, but we all know our time is limited. Why not change our minds, try new things, and get as much out of life as we can while we still have the privilege of living it?

A third friend started a passion project painting banners for special occasions, a creative hobby that not only sparks joy for her, but spreads it around to the people she makes them for. I’m certain that creativity and making art is what helps us get through dark times, feeds our soul, and adds beauty to a world that feels so ugly at times.

Another woman in my life is young and full of energy, and she uses that energy to further her education, work full-time, and take any chance she gets to explore the world. She also loves creating and she sews, makes jam, cooks and bakes, and is an incredibly thoughtful gift giver who personalizes her gifts and tailors them for the person she gives them to. She is curious and kind, passionate and inquisitive, and she inspires me daily.

Then there’s the woman who takes in her friend’s dogs; drops everything to be with someone who lost their spouse; and lends money to friends who need it, aware they may never be able to pay it back. Those acts of kindness are done quietly, without fanfare or the need to announce it to the world. She does them because she cares, and because she can.

Yet another woman founded a yoga school because she recognized that something essential is being neglected in the mainstream, commercial yoga world: inclusivity, permission, adaptations for different body types and abilities, and a shift in focus on how it feels versus how it looks. She saw the gap and decided to open a space for people to learn how to become yoga teachers the world needs more of: teachers who welcome everyone as they are, no improvements required.

I have many more examples: the woman who lent us a large amount of money when we were in a tough spot, no questions asked. The woman who lost the love of her life and still gets up every day, still opens her big, beautiful, bruised heart to the world and cares deeply for the people in it, weeping for the injustices and fighting against them. The woman who is in the busiest season of her life, working full-time, raising kind, thoughtful kids, planning a huge project, just fought cancer, and still shows up with love, kindness, patience, and generosity, being an endless source of comfort and joy for the people she loves.

And then there are the others. Women who regard fellow women as competition or even enemies. Women who watch others with eagle eyes, waiting for them to fail, because they mistakenly believe that their failure will make them look better. Women who cherry-pick popular wisdom to suit their own agenda: put your own needs first, make yourself a priority, care more about yourself than anyone else. These pieces of advice are meant for people who always put everyone else first, not for women whose number one priority has always been themselves.

Like all of us, I have a few of those women in my life. Not by choice, but by circumstance. And for years I dealt with them by choosing the path of least resistance: going along to get along, not speaking up, biting my tongue over and over to keep the peace. I mistakenly hoped that by giving them what they want, they would stay out of my way and leave me alone.

That didn’t happen. By now you’ve probably heard the poem by Martin Niemöller that’s being quoted all the time in response to the atrocities committed by the Trump regime:

First they came for the Communists
And I did not speak out
Because I was not a Communist
Then they came for the Socialists
And I did not speak out
Because I was not a Socialist
Then they came for the trade unionists
And I did not speak out
Because I was not a trade unionist
Then they came for the Jews
And I did not speak out
Because I was not a Jew
Then they came for me
And there was no one left
To speak out for me

They came for me. But that wasn’t all; they also came for people associated with me. And I realized that I had to speak up, even though my voice was shaking, I felt sick to my stomach, and I was worried that it could threaten my livelihood.

People who are convinced that they’ve done nothing wrong are formidable opponents. Their conviction of their innocence is a powerful shield that effectively protects them from the doubts the rest of us have: they convincingly deny, attack, and reverse victim and offender. You see Donald Trump do it all the time: if he gets asked a question he doesn’t like he immediately attacks the person asking it, calling them names, insulting their person or company they work for, and making himself the victim.

Facing an opponent like that is incredibly draining, and you will never be able to have a fruitful discussion with them. To find a compromise or have any sort of resolution, both parties have to be open. They need to listen and try to understand the other person’s point of view. A person who’s convinced they’re always right is unable to do that. They demand a full apology and for the other person to grovel, and if they don’t get that they will feel like the victim.

However, despite how bleak a situation like that is, it’s important to speak up anyway. Because even if you give someone like that everything they (think they) want, it will never be enough. Nothing satisfies them for long, because of the immense black hole inside of them. No matter how much you throw in it—money, success, admiration, compliments—it disappears inside, greedy and insatiable. Sooner or later, these people will come for everyone, including you.

I have no illusion that these people will change. Change requires the willingness and courage to take a long, hard look at oneself, and these people have neither. The best solution would be to get them out of your life permanently, but for most of us that option isn’t within our control. The next best thing is what I’m currently working on: to set firm boundaries, remind them to return to their lane when they inevitably step over those boundaries, and most importantly: don’t give them the power to doubt yourself. Don’t become like them. Stay kind and compassionate, keep your sense of humour and your humanity. Don’t let their corruptness and unhappiness infect your sense of right and wrong. Don’t let them turn you into a mirror of themselves, just so it’s more bearable for them to be the miserable human being they are. Misery loves company; deny them the pleasure of yours.

What I’m discovering is that bravery is a muscle that becomes stronger the more we exercise it. We change the world for the better by challenging cruelty and unkindness in our own circles; by showing up for others; and by standing up and speaking out for what we believe in. Community has to come before individuality once again, because the hyper-focus on the self above all else is what has turned human beings (who need community to thrive) into lonely, depressed, scared people who hurt others to distract from the pain they feel and don’t know what to do with.

Speak up, ask for help, connect with each other. Together we can change the world for the better!

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A week off work stretches ahead of me, and I eagerly survey the choices on display: productivity, exercise, quality time, rest, pleasure, “getting so much done”. I have lots of plans: crosscountry skiing, downhill skiing, writing at least 10,000 words on my new novel, organizing my home, recording a yoga video, painting, cooking healthy meals, going for long walks with the dogs every day, chopping a ton of firewood, journaling, going through my clothes and donating what I don’t wear anymore, celebrating our 21st wedding anniversary, maybe visiting the kids? The phrases new year, fresh start, new beginnings bounce around in my brain, and I feel like I owe it to myself to be productive. After all, I’ve had my normal routine interrupted last year with the move and everything, but now that I’m living in my dream place and we’re settled, shouldn’t I be back to it? I’m the person who set her alarm for 5am every morning to work on her last book! Why can’t I seem to get back into that routine?

Don’t should all over yourself, my therapist Nicole’s voice echoes in my head. I know, I know, I silently answer back. If only it were that easy.

The smorgasbord analogy is also from Nicole. A few months ago we were talking about everything I’ve learnt in my nearly five years with her: to choose self-compassion over self-criticism, growth over agonizing over past mistakes, kindness over contempt, shifting my focus from fear of failure to allowing for success. I expressed my frustration that despite everything I’ve learnt, there are still days where I fall back into old behaviour patterns: believing that love needs to be earned by being “good”, which in our society and as a woman means to be productive and be everything to everybody: maid, therapist, cheerleader, mother, buddy, pretty woman.

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“Imagine that all the different coping mechanisms that exist are food items on a smorgasbord,” Nicole suggested to me. “There are the old ones: guilt, shame, self-criticism, condemnation and punishment, disappointment,”

“Self-loathing,” I add helpfully, and she winces slightly.

“A particularly nasty one.” She continues: “But there are also the new ones we’ve talked about: compassion, growth, kindness, focus on positives instead of negatives, knowing that you are inherently worthy, recognizing that you can’t control the behaviour of other people, shifting the focus from others to yourself, self-forgiveneness. Just like with food on a buffet, you won’t always choose what’s healthiest for you. You know that the vegetables might be the more nutritious option, but some days you’ll go for the fries anyway. It’s normal, and it’s okay.”

I’m very good at giving others sage advice about being gentle to themselves and taking enough rest. I’m the first one to point out that winter is hibernation season, that humans are part of nature, and that we will only be whole, balanced, and healthy if we honour the different seasons and cycles we are in.

And yet—it’s different for me, the little devil on my shoulder whispers. I should be stronger, tougher, faster, better. Why? Because my mother raised no weakling. Because I’m German. Because so many people are worse off than me. Because I know so much more now. Because I’m tough. Because, because, because.

From my smorgasbord for the week off work that’s ending tomorrow, I chose a bunch of items I hadn’t planned on: sleeping, weeping in bed, napping, being glued to my phone about what’s happening with 🧊, worrying, weeping some more, spiralling, bad cramping, several baths, reading, screaming into the void. My body told me in no uncertain terms that she needs to hibernate (and also, to get the f*ck off my phone).
So, instead of being pRoDuCtIvE, I just—was. Hurting, worrying, laughing, cuddling the dogs, baking bread, walking, resting, reading, snuggling with my husband on the couch, watching endless episodes of Death in Paradise, making fires, doing some light reorganizing, puzzling, hiding from the grey days, lifting my face to the sun like a flower on the sunny days.

It’s okay. The timelines and deadlines I keep setting myself are the old items I used to choose all the time. I can put them down; they’re made up. It’s okay to slip up, to choose poorly, to fall back into old behaviour patterns. I can course-correct, put down the plate and pick up another one.

Be gentle with yourselves. That goes for you, too, Miriam.

Some news!

I contributed an essay to Dr. Samantha Harden’s anthology Research Yourself. It’s a collection of essays based on the universal themes of career, faith, struggling to belong, and fearing not to be good enough. You can buy a copy here or download it for free here!
My essay Angry women: The legacy of multigenerational undiagnosed mental illness offers an intimate glimpse into my personal history with suppressed anger, undiagnosed mental conditions, and the price we pay for silence.

It’s the morning of January 1. Dawn is just breaking, the fire is crackling behind me, and I’m finally sitting down to take a look back at the last twelve months. I’m a huge believer in looking back before looking forward, to take stock of everything that happened in the year that ended before starting fresh with a new one.

2025 was a big year for me, bigger than most. I feel like I’m in danger of becoming a broken record because I’ve talked about it so much already, but moving to our wild 40 acres has been an all-consuming, draining, truly unbelievable amount of work—but also the BEST thing we’ve ever done. It marked the end of a painful chapter and the beginning of the rest of our lives in a place that has felt like home from the moment I stepped foot on it. We bought this piece of land in March of 2022 and decided a couple of months later that we’d love to live here if we could make it habitable. The journey from getting from a wild piece of land with no water, no power, no road, no house, no shelter for the animals to today—a veritable compound with half a dozen outbuildings, a barn, a brandnew house, a cabin, high speed internet, our own well, power, our personal snow removal team—has been such a long, incredible adventure that I will share it in detail one day—but not today.

Today is for looking back at the last dozen chapters before starting the book of 2026.

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Chapter 1: January—The house arrives!

The big event of January was the arrival of our modular home in the middle of a snow storm in the middle of the night. Due to the size of the load, the two pieces had to be transported at night, and due to the snow storm they had to then wait for our road to be cleared before they could safely maneuver it up and down our winding, steep driveway. The day before we’d spent several hours clearing the snow off the home foundation pad with our ATV. Would I recommend getting your home delivered in the middle of the winter? Hmm, what do you think? ;-)

January was also the month we celebrated our 20th wedding anniversary with a couple’s pedicure (Rich’s first!), and where our daughter’s cancer treatment began. Joy and worry, determined optimism and secret sorrow were close together that month.

Chapter 2: February—Wintering

February was one of those chapters where nothing exciting happens, but lots of necessary groundwork is being done. Our daughter started chemo, the crew started putting the house together, we continued filling out the endless paperwork required to get power to our new house, our dog Teddy had minor surgery, and I worked, yoga-ed, puzzled, and kept the dogs close by to hold on to my sanity.

Chapter 3: March—I shave my head

You know why I shaved my head (I wrote about it here), but what’s interesting is that the only concern I had was “what are people going to say”? I thought I was past that, but I wasn’t. I was so nervous to go to work the day after the chop that I wore a massive headband that disguised it when you looked at me from the front—but it was still glaringly obvious that my hair was gone. What’s also interesting is that people wanted to know the why—as if there had to be a specific reason to get rid of one’s “crowning glory”. In my case there was, but I also have a friend who shaves her head because she feels like it, and several women told me that they’d shaved their head before, simply for the reason that they wanted to. Let women do what they want with their bodies!

March was also the month where I finally started on my sourdough-journey! I’d been dreaming for years to become someone who bakes her own bread, and I’m finally that woman today. I bake on average two loaves per week, most often sourdough but sometimes rye bread, and I love feeling like a pioneer woman, barefoot and wearing a long skirt—albeit with all the amenities of the 21st century.

Chapter 4: April—I’m back in Costa Rica

In 2024 I went on my first ever yoga retreat in Costa Rica, and it was life-changing. It healed something in me that had been broken since I was a little girl: my distrust in women. Ever since that retreat I have found my trust in women again, I’ve joined the sisterhood, and I’m deeply in touch with the feminine. It was a no-brainer for me to go again this year, unite with some of the friends I’d made the year before, revel in the heat, the ocean, doing yoga twice a day, talking and laughing for hours and hours, and try something new: surfing! Looking at my face you might think it was a painful experience—and you would be correct. It was thrilling, but way too much saltwater entered my body, my eyes were burning, and I came to the conclusion that, while it was amazing to try it out, surfing isn’t for me. I’ll stick to kayaking my Canadian lakes.

I also started working on a book that I would abandon a few months later—40,000 words in. It just wasn’t right.

Chapter 5: May—I’m starting my 200-hour yoga teacher training

In May I started my online yoga teacher training. I had never seriously considered becoming a yoga teacher, but when I was asked in December of 2024 if I’d be interested, my entire being responded right away with yes, please.
For six months, we met twice a week online, learning about the history, anatomy, the science of yoga, breathing, meditation, koshas, yamas, niyamas, cueing, sequencing, holding space, being of service, regulating ourselves and others—it was intense. As is life’s way, the training came at a particularly inconvenient time, as I was in one of the busiest seasons of my life. But in fact, it came at the perfect time, because I was so busy. It was a constant reminder to slow down, take a breath, and sink into the wisdom of my body. I have some exciting plans for what I want to do with my brand new certification, stay tuned! Also, if you’re interested in a nurturing, inclusive, heart-centered YTT-program, check out Intentional Vibrations Yoga School (IVY). I highly recommend it! Megan and Samantha are the best.

May was also the month where I used the white walls of our new home as canvas for trying my hand at painting wallpaper. I love the look of wallpaper, but don’t like the price tag, and I’m also not great at hanging it. Painting is the obvious solution! I started painting in May, and I still haven’t stopped yet. It’s a new obsession!

Chapter 6: June—my nieces are here!

Having my beloved nieces come for two weeks was one of the highlights of the year. We hiked, kayaked, roadtripped, hung out with family, swam, danced at the beach at sunset, secondhand-shopped, and they helped us choose a couch, install light fixtures, and clean. I loved having them here.

Chapter 7: July—it’s all about the house (and an experiment gone wrong)

In June I started to wean myself off my antidepressants. I did it very slowly, halving the dose for two weeks, halving it again for two weeks, then skipping every other day, until I was SSRI-free for the first time in thirteen years.

It didn’t go well.

I had some unexpected stressors at work, we had a ton of work at home, I was yoga teacher-training, and I also had significant pelvic pain (I’d later learn that I have several large fibroids in my uterus). I lasted just over two weeks before I started taking my antidepressants again. I’m on a lower dose now than before and I feel much better. Going without isn’t in the cards for me, at least not while I’m in perimenopause.

Chapter 8: August—more visitors!

In August we hosted Rich’s niece and her husband for three weeks. We had flown them in to help us train the horses, and while they did that we also had plenty of fun going canoeing and swimming, doing some sightseeing, and continuing the never-ending move. Which included—moving our little cabin!

Chapter 9: September—more painting, yogaing, and granddaughter visit

September started with a heart stopper: a fire broke out the night before very close to our home, caused by lightning. Luckily, there was no wind and it was under control very quickly, but it was nevertheless a reminder of how fragile life and our possessions are. It all can be gone in a moment, which is why I try to practice non-attachment to wordly possessions. Easier said than done, though.

Our (cancer-free!!) daughter came for a visit with our granddaughter for a girl’s trip, and the first signs of fall made my heart soar. I also painted outside: we built half a dozen chicken coops and bird aviaries, and I stained them all over several long painting sessions.

Chapter 10: October—is it hibernation season yet?

By October we were both exhausted. I backed my car into our backhoe and smashed the back window, damaging the backdoor so much that it needed to be replaced. We still weren’t done doing work at our new place (we had to get water lines put in to the horse paddocks), bills still kept coming, and I was still YTT-ing. Long walks through a gorgeous fall landscape with the dogs kept me sane(ish), as did lots of baking and decorating.

Chapter 11: November—we’re getting our stove!

My most-anticipated item of the year arrived: our wood stove! I’m a sucker for a fire, and having a wood-burning fire place has been one of the things I’ve been most excited about. It’s even better than I thought! I love everything about it: chopping wood, starting the fire, feeding it, staring at it dreamily—it’s the best meditation in the world.

I also decided to abandon the book I’d started in April. It was a memoir, and I stopped it while I was about halfway through. Writing it was incredibly therapeutic, but the further I got, the less I wanted to publish it. I’m pretty sure I have one more memoir in me, but the time isn’t right. Maybe in another decade or so.

Chapter 12: December—a sparkly one!

Historically, December has often been one of the worst months for me. The pressure of the holiday-season, old demons resurfacing, and having unmet expectations have made the end of the year hard for me. Not so this year, though! I’m becoming more clear about what I do and don’t want for the Christmas-season, and I’m getting better at finding joy and disregarding the rest. We also got a ton of snow for a white Christmas, and the dogs and I had the best time frolicking around in a winter wonderland.
I also started working on my next book, my second novel! I’ve been writing every morning, and it’s so nice to get back into this beloved routine. I feel more grounded and balanced when I have a regular writing practice.

My word for 2025 was expand, and boy, did the year live up to it. 2025 challenged me, brought me to my limits, and made me grow in countless ways. It was a year for building the foundation for the rest of my life: by physically settling down into our forever home, adding more tools for my mental and spiritual health, deepening my friendships and relationships, and doubling down on my exercise routine to keep my physical body as strong and flexible as possible. I’m preparing my body for my old-lady self, and my goal is simple: to not break a hip!

Thanks for following along this year. I can’t wait to see what 2026 has in store for us!

They are usually not terrible when you first meet them. In fact, they can be very charming, and even if they’re not, at first they seem normal. If you’re intuitive you may sense that something’s off, but you can’t put your finger on what it is. Maybe you’re overreacting? Imagining it? That must be it.

Of course, there are also terrible people who have shown their true nature already, who have treated you dismissively or with contempt, ignored you or made a cruel remark. You think you’d know to stay clear of them, wouldn’t you? But maybe you have to face them daily at school or at work, and one day they’re suddenly nice to you, and it feels like a balm on your injured soul. They must have had a bad day when they were mean to me, you tell yourself, eager to normalize their behaviour so you can maintain the illusion of normalcy. Because here’s the thing: As enjoyable as drama is in books and on TV, in real life we don’t want it. Or to be more precise: most of us don’t want it. Life is hard enough without adding petty grievances, childish rages, and vindictive vendettas into the mix. Most of us want to get through our days with as little conflict as possible, do our jobs well, take care of our families, and hopefully have a few laughs with our friends and coworkers sprinkled in.

If we sense that one or more of the people that populate our daily life might be difficult, we’ll do anything in our power to deny that possibility while simultaneously minimizing the threat. We downplay bad behaviour and make excuses for it (“they don’t mean it, that’s just how they are”), and we placate, cajole, and people-please to keep the difficult person happy. Most of us—particularly women— will go to great lengths to keep the peace, because conflict is uncomfortable. Besides, we’ve been assigned the role of peacekeeper from birth, being the “responsible” and “sensible” gender, and most of us do it without even being aware of it. It seems easier in the moment to bite our tongue and swallow down what we’d like to say to keep things ticking along smoothly.

However—and this is important, so listen closely—with terrible people you are going to lose no matter what you do. You can be the most pleasant, easy-going, agreeable person on the planet, and sooner or later you will aggravate them. The reason is simple: terrible people are not happy people. They have a lot of dissatisfaction within themselves, holes they can’t fill no matter how many shiny things they buy (or participation trophies they’re being handed), and once in a while that dissatisfaction spills out of them and onto whoever happens to be close by. Their behaviour has nothing to do with you.

Unfortunately, terrible people don’t do you the curtesy of giving out a disclaimer that “hey, it’s not you, it’s me!”. On the contrary, they’ll turn their considerable internal anger outward, projecting it onto another person, because it takes the agony out of them for a while. To them, external conflict feels good because it distracts them from their internal, much more painful turmoil.

Terrible people thrive on chaos, division, and drama. That’s why it’s impossible to please them in the long run: they’re not satisfied with harmony and peace. In fact, the calmer things are around them, the more it highlights how unhappy they feel on the inside.
To get to the root of unhappiness takes years of long, painful reflection, asking oneself some uncomfortable questions, and doing a lot of work to heal from wounds that are sometimes decades old. Not everybody is cut out for that work. It requires real courage, and terrible people are cowards. It’s so much easier to point a finger at someone else and blame them instead of taking responsibility for their own actions.

When a conflict starts at our school or workplace, most of us are keen to resolve it as quickly as possible, ideally by finding a solution that benefits everyone, aka a compromise. What you don’t know is that the terrible person isn’t interested in compromises. They’re not even interested in resolving the conflict. Oh, they will claim that they are, that they hate this toxic environment and suffer terribly, and if only everybody else would be nicer to them, everything would be fine. They have convinced themselves that this is the truth. But it’s not.

The terrible person is in their element. Now their external environment matches their internal landscape, and they are masters at it. Where most of us feel ill at ease and out of balance, the terrible person thrives. They have a keen sense that they’re the wronged party, and they’ll gleefully unleash all their penned-up frustration at the people around them.

Most people are aware that the world isn’t black and white. We realize that we’re partly responsible for conflict because we probably didn’t behave perfectly either, so we come to the table being aware of the part we played in it. But the terrible person doesn’t. They are 100% convinced that they’ve done nothing wrong. They’ll state their case of innocence with such conviction that you’ll start to doubt yourself. Are they right? Are you the problem?

Most of us feel nervous or even sick to our stomachs when we have an argument with someone, especially if it’s someone who is in a position of power—a teacher or boss, for example. We are worried about what they might do to us, how they could harm us. We feel unsafe. Safety is one of the basic human needs that comes even before our need for love and belonging. If that basic human need is threatened, our nervous system rings the alarm bell and switches into fight, flight, or freeze mode. Our blood pressure and heart rate increase, palms get sweaty, and it feels like our brain stops working properly. We become panicked or tearful, angry or scared, and our logical thinking decreases while our defensive responses increase.

Meanwhile, the terrible person stays cool as a cucumber. Their conviction that they’re innocent makes them feel—and appear—invincible. Going into a fight with them is unevenly matched: on one side there’s a person with insecurities, doubts, and butterflies in their stomach; on the other side is the terrible person, oozing confidence and the unshakable belief that they’re 100% right. That certainty is an immensely powerful weapon. Going against that requires an equally matched confidence that’s difficult to find when you’re in fight, flight, or freeze mode.

After a confrontation with a terrible person, most people will feel like they’ve been hit by a truck. Bewildered and unsure of what just happened, they’ll feel battered and somehow diminished. The terrible person might have used insults they didn’t see coming (“quiet, piggy”), attacked with a viciousness they weren’t expecting, and twisted the truth so expertly that they don’t know what’s real and what isn’t.

Terrible people also like to use a tactic that’s popular with abusers called DARVO: Deny, Attack, Reverse Victim and Offender.
It’s what it sounds like: it turns reality upside down. A simple question or suggestion can set them off: if they don’t like it, they’ll deny it (“I never did that”), attack (“you’re a terrible reporter/person”), and make themselves the victim. Suddenly you are the troublemaker and they are the innocent, wronged party. Terrible people are so skilled at DARVO that it makes your head spin and question your reality: if they’re so utterly convinced of their version of events, maybe they are right? Maybe you are more culpable than you thought?

Most of us tend to believe other people. We work from the assumption that what they’re telling us is the truth. That’s why it’s so jarring when we encounter the boldfaced lies of terrible people. Depending on how trusting we are, we may give them the benefit of the doubt for a very long time, trying to make what they’re saying fit with our perception of the truth. It’s extremely confusing and can make us doubt our sense of reality.

If you’re unlucky enough to have a terrible person in your life, you will ask yourself:

How do you deal with terrible people?

Let me tell you what doesn’t work:

• Hoping they will change. They won’t. There are no magic words that will manage to make them see the error of their ways and reform. They will always, always be convinced that they’re right and you’re wrong.

• Hoping you can convince them of your point of view. You won’t. Again, remember that they believe down to their core that they’re always right.

• Believing that if you do what they want, they’ll be happy. They won’t. There’s a vast emptiness inside them that makes it impossible for them to feel true contentment. The tragedy for the terrible person is that they don’t know what makes them happy. Nothing can satisfy them. They’re like a bottomless pit that needs endless feeding: attention, praise, gifts, admiration, compliments. But it’s never enough. Sooner or later they have to lash out, just to quiet the echoing nothingness inside them.

• Hoping that if you’re nice to them, they’ll be nice back. It will work to a point—and then it won’t. The goal posts are always moving, and one day you will do or say something they will choose to be hurt by. It’s impossible to avoid. It can be the most innocent of actions, something that you had no way of knowing could be taken as offense. But it will, because they want to be seen as the victim. Terrible people have the thinnest of thin skins. Don’t take it personally. It’s their problem, not yours.

• Pointing out that they’re a terrible person. Don’t ever make that mistake! They will be mortally offended and move heaven and hell to destroy you. They will accuse you of bullying, of making them feel unsafe, of being the most toxic of toxic people. In short, they’ll DARVO the hell out of you and use every last anti-bullying policy that’s been put in place against you. They won’t ever forgive you, and they won’t rest until they see you punished. Because you have committed the unforgivable sin: you have seen them for who they truly are.

Damn. So nothing works?

Don’t lose hope, young grasshopper. If you take a look at history, you will see that every dictator and tyrant has been toppled sooner or later. If you treat people like dirt long enough, they will eventually fight back.

Here’s what you do:

• Remember who you are. The terrible person will try to destroy your self-esteem by painting you in their own image: as selfish, uncaring, cruel person. Don’t let them. Remember your values and act accordingly. Don’t let them steal your kindness and compassion.

• Accept that they won’t like you. Terrible people hate anyone who stands up to them or disagrees with them. In their limited mindset, if you’re not with them, you’re against them, and that means war! They also don’t like authentic people or anyone who’s well liked by others. Life is a competition to them, and they feel threatened by anyone who they fear might take away their position as prom queen or king.
  While it feels uncomfortable and threatening to be disliked, try to wear it as a badge of honour. Do you really want the approval of a terrible person who’s mean and dishonest and exploits others? No, you don’t.

• Keep talking about it. Don’t let the terrible person isolate you. They’re master manipulators and very good at sowing divisiveness. One of their strengths is playing people against each other and making you feel like you can’t trust anyone. Confide in trusted friends, talk to a therapist, get reality checks from people who know both you and the terrible person. Don’t let them doubt your integrity or sanity.

• Document, document, document. Keep notes, write down conversations, save emails or other items of communication. Terrible people are expert gaslighters. They will look you straight in the eye and insist that they’re right even though you know that they’re lying. You can hold the proof in your hand, and they’ll twist your words and make you doubt yourself. Remind yourself of the facts, check your notes, and remember that they’re playing a different game: it’s not about truth or making peace for them—it’s about winning.

• Terrible people will try to silence you. It’s one of the first rules in every terrible person’s playbook: shut up the opposition. Since they’re incapable of taking responsibility for their actions, they’ll blame anyone who speaks the truth about them. This is very important: You don’t have to keep their secrets for them. You do not have to lie for them. If they behave badly and have to face the consequences for their behaviour, it’s on them, not on you. Don’t let them convince you that you’re at fault because you told the truth.

There’s strength in numbers. Ideally, you will find allies who are brave enough to stand up with you against the terrible person. But even if you don’t, take comfort in knowing that the terrible person is afraid of you. Ruthless people are cowards, and every tyrant is afraid of the people they oppress. Since you can’t please them anyway, you might as well live your life according to your rules! At the end of the day, the only person you have to live with permanently is yourself.

And trust me: your company is a lot nicer than the company the terrible person has to keep until the day they die.

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I did a survey a few days ago where one of the questions was how happy I am on a scale of 1-10. Without hesitation I clicked on 9. Another question asked to rate how well I know my purpose (10), and yet another wondered how satisfied I feel with my life in general (9). I paused then, marvelling. “Well, damn”, I whispered to myself. “Will you look at that.”

At no other time in my life have I been able to rate my life like I did the other day. I have been happy many times, but was still searching for my purpose. Or I have felt satisfied at a certain point in time (on vacation, upon achieving a goal, when I received outside validation), but I always had the sense that it was fleeting and could disappear in an instant (when the vacation ended, the newness of achieving my goal faded, the validation disappeared when people moved on to the next thing).

This time it’s different: I have learnt that my level of happiness and life satisfaction doesn’t rely on outside factors; it’s coming from within me.
For the longest time I believed that happiness meant the absence of sadness. I thought that happiness is an eternal state of bliss, like being hooked up to an IV that supplies you with a neverending stream of endorphins and dopamine. As you may suspect, that’s not true. A rich, vibrant life comes with all emotions: happiness and sadness, excitement and boredom, pleasure and annoyance, satisfaction and frustration. Having only one emotion, even a “good” one like happiness, would lead to a pretty one-dimensional life.

I love taking stock on my birthday. I think it’s so important to pause and take a moment to see where we are, where we want to be, what worked and what didn’t.

So here’s where I’m at, a few hours before turning 46:

• In my forever-home, and so grateful for it. It took a lot to get here, but it’s been worth it. As I’m writing this it’s snowing outside, the trees are wearing their white winter coats, and I’m completely happy. We’re currently watching a detective show that’s set in the Bahamas (Death in Paradise, I highly recommend it), and I can honestly say that I’d rather live here in snowy Canada than on a tropical island.

• Still with the same man I’ve been with for 23 years. We have our challenges, but the love between us has grown deep and strong roots over the years, and sustains us through all our ups and downs. He’s my anchor, my confidant, my love.

• In the midst of perimenopause, and on hormone replacement therapy because of it. I have a progesterone IUD, an estrogen patch, and take my SSRI. Those three medications are saving my sanity right now.

• At peace with my body and face. I don’t count calories, steps, or my workouts anymore. I move daily because it feels amazing and calms down my overactive mind, and because I want to maintain my strength and flexibility for my future old lady-self. I walk, hike, kayak, do yoga, chop wood, and haul heavy shit around the farm. Being strong is an empowering state to be in. However, I have no intention of smoothing, filling, plumping, or tightening anything on me. I love that I’ve stopped worrying what others think of my looks. I like what I see in the mirror, and how my lines have many a good story to tell. As a story-collector and teller, why would I want to hide the signs of my own history?

• Feeling loved and having found my people. This one is huge for me. For most of my life I felt like I didn’t quite fit in: not in my family (too different), not at school (too awkward), not with my husband’s friends (too old), not with the other moms (the kids had their real mom, and I couldn’t quite find my place), not with my peers (they were just getting married and started families while I had been living that life for years, minus the bio kids). I tried to make myself into whoever I thought would be most acceptable to the group I was trying to fit into, and that never works. What works is this: become your most authentic, real self, show up like that in the world, and trust that the right people will find you.

• Having a clarity I’ve lacked before. I know who I am, what I want, and what fulfills me. I know my strengths and weaknesses. I also know what kind of person I strive to be, how I want to show up in the world, and what I admire in others. Having a clear picture of yourself is an incredible gift, particularly if you’ve spent years of your life seeing yourself through the lens of others. I let the judgement of other people influence me way too much, believing their opinion of me over my own. No more.

• Feeling pain in my wrist, foot, and pelvis. Noticing my eyesight and hearing getting worse. Observing a general decline in energy.

• Having forgiven most people. Having acquired some enemies. Being okay with both.

• Planning my next trip with my fave travel companion, my niece: hiking in Ireland!

• (Re-)starting my next book.

• Finding the humour in everything.

• Taking myself less seriously.

• Taking the world—and most people—less seriously.

• Still not drinking (almost 4 years sober!).

• Eating sugar daily and unapologetically.

• Baking bread once a week.

• Meditating (ish); I do it best while puzzling.

• Loving—and trusting!—women, finally.

• Standing by my beliefs. Having beliefs in the first place! For the record: liberal, pro-choice, love is love, black lives matter, equal rights for all, pro-trans, tax the rich, free Palestine, release the Epstein files, fight fascism, burn the patriarchy, treat others with kindness.

I could go on, but it’s time for bed. See ya on the other side! And don’t forget: aging is a privilege denied to many.

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I live with two elderly gentlemen: my husband and our old dog Tom. One is seventy-one, the other is ninty-one (in human years). These two beloved members of our household determine the rhythm of our days, which can be summed up in one word: unhurried.
We don’t do fast and hectic around here. Our mornings start slow, with a leisurely walk around the premises, to empty various bladders that have filled up over night. I don’t always get there in time, and some mornings I’m greeted by the pungent, sharp ammonia-smell of a puddle of urine that’s on the floor, left there by one of the residents (I won’t say by whom; no need to embarrass the gentleman). No matter; hot water with a healthy measure of Pinesol takes care of it in no time. I’m once again grateful for the flooring we chose, because it’s so easy to clean up.

Once that’s taken care of, it’s coffee and tea time. In the old boozing days, my husband would often sleep in until late in the morning if he didn’t have an appointment; these days he rarely sleeps past eight o’clock, thanks to a combination of alcohol-free sleep and age, which seems to make early risers out of most of us.
We sit and chat, watching the horses and cows through the windows, and comment on the weather. It’s mild for this time of year, and rainy; we’ve only had a handful of nights with frost, can you imagine? Enjoy it while it lasts—the cold will be here soon enough.
I get an update on how everyone is feeling this morning: Tom rubs his head affectionately against my leg, a sign that he’s happy and excited to be alive; Rich reports on his various ailments, which currently include a stubborn pain in his hands (caused by Lyme? his tendons? arthritis? we don’t know), and the normal-for-him-at-this-time-of-year sore knees and shoulders (Lyme). If need be, I dispense medication for my seniors; this morning it’s just the usual pills for Rich, and my own small handful of vitamins, supplements, and SSRIs.

Once coffee-and tea-time is over, the younger contingent of the sanatorium is ready to release some of their penned-up energy. While the male population is getting on in years, the female one is in their prime: Winky, our Australian Shepherd, is not yet two; Mia, our Border-Heeler-cross, is four; Dixie, our Blue Heeler, is six; and I’m almost forty-six, not a spring chicken anymore, but by no means a senior yet. They have been patiently waiting for me to finish my morning hour, and now they’re dancing around me, eager to get going.

I feel the same way. And even if I don’t (which happens regularly, because I’m human), once we’ve reached this stage, there’s no turning back. The ladies are vibrating with energy, and it would be cruel to deny them their run. So, off we go!

While we’re out, the two senior boys continue their leisurely morning routine. Tom is napping while Rich is on his third cup of tea and talking on the phone. Mid-morning phone calls is a favourite pastime of his, because for his friends in Germany it’s evening, so even the ones that are still working have time for a chat. Most of his friends around here are retired or semi-retired, and enjoy taking the time for a little chinwag.

Once we’re back home it’s meal time for the dogs. Tom still has a healthy appetite, and the girls are definitely hungry after running at full speed for an hour or more, and for a while all you can hear is the sound of strong teeth crunching kibble. The appetite of the other senior member of this household has been slightly decreasing over the years, but the biggest difference is his intolerance of many spices he used to have no problem with. My spice cabinet is turning into a ghost town, with favourites like garlic, chili powder, spiced paprika, cayenne pepper, oregano, or thyme being used less and less frequently because they don’t agree with him. I vividly remember Rich making fun of his mom for using basically nothing but salt and pepper when cooking. Look at us now, doing the same thing. Maybe we truly are doomed to turn into our parents one day?

But despite the blander food and the occasional puddle of pee on the floor, there are many benefits to living with seniors. One of them is that naps are always a good idea around here. I only have to look tired or mention that I’m exhausted, and I’m urged to lie down. “Have a snooze for an hour or two, babe,” my husband tells me, and who am I to argue? We’ve designed our house with frequent napping in mind, with a couch large enough for both of us to stretch out on, countless blankets of every variety (heated, fleece, wool, thin, thick, large, small, etc.), curtains to block out the sun, and two rooms with a TV (Rich can’t sleep without background noise) and two without (I can’t sleep with background noise). Is there anything nicer than lying down in the middle of the day, the dogs stretched out around us, and the cat draping herself on my husband’s chest? I don’t think so.

Another wonderful element of living with seniors is the “one thing a day” rule. Oh, you haven’t heard of it? It’s marvelous. It goes like this: in the morning during coffee and tea time, we usually discuss what we’ve planned for the day. I work three or four days a week, so there’s that, and then I pretty much always take the dogs for a run, and maybe I have yoga, a coffee date, a writing project, or I’m planning to do something around the house. Rich might have a doctor’s appointment, something ranch-related (hay delivery, preg-checking cows, vaccinating the chickens, someone looking at a horse for sale, fixing fences, trading pigeons, etc.), or he wants to spend some time in his workshop to make nest boxes, fix a cage, or build something for the yard.

We have the best intentions. There are the chores we have to do every day: feeding and watering the animals is nonnegotiable, there’s work, and scrounging up something to eat for ourselves is also one that can’t be ignored. But if we’ve done one other thing from our list—let’s say Rich dealt with the hay delivery, which involves moving the 700-pound bales from the delivery truck and stack it somewhere safe—he’ll often suggest to go into the house to warm up/cool off (depending on the season) and have a tea/cold drink. Once in the house, he’s just going to “watch the news”, and once that’s done, why not fit in an episode (or five) of our current favourite show?“We’ve already done one thing” he’ll say, meaning we’ll do the rest of the list another day.

The trick is—and that’s very important, so listen carefully—to not feel guilty about it. Because at the end of it all, when we’re looking back at our lives and how we’ve spent our time, it won’t matter if we ticked off every item on every to-do-list we’ve ever created. What will matter is the times we’ve spent with our loved ones, sitting and laughing together and enjoying each other’s company. We will fondly remember the times where we’ve chatted with friends, discussing our dreams and paying attention to our blessings. We’ll be grateful that we found out in time—maybe thanks to having a senior or two in our life—that all these little moments, watching a sunset or horses running around, skipping a task to sit around a bonfire instead, or lying on the couch with a dog stretched out beside us, are what add up to a rich, beautiful, love-filled life.

And at the end of the day, isn’t that what we all want and deserve?

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I wake up early, the three cattle dogs stretched out around me. All I hear is the roosters crowing outside, the furnace rumbling to life, and the rain gently dripping down the window. I stretch and kiss the dogs good morning, and they excitedly climb all over me, knowing that we’re about to go outside. “I’m coming, I’m coming,” I tell them, swinging my legs out of bed and sliding my feet into my fuzzy slippers. I head into the kitchen first, beelining it to my cheery coffee station with the tropical leaves I painted on the wall a couple of months earlier, and turn on the coffee machine. The dogs are running between me and the door, jumping up and down, urging me to hurry up. I throw my coat on over my pyjamas, slide my feet into whatever pair of shoes is by the door, and head outside.

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Arnie and Teddy, our large guardian dogs, greet me enthusiastically. The three cattle dogs run ahead towards the trees to pee. The big dogs and I follow more slowly, and even though I’m still sleepy, my heart swells with pleasure. This is what I’ve always wanted, I think to myself, and I send a brief prayer of gratitude to the universe. I’m surrounded by trees, mountain air, nature, and most preciously: peace.

It’s been a year of hard work. Looking around me, I can’t help but feel proud of everything we’ve achieved: we built a house, several horse paddocks, a round pen, miles of fencing, and a long row of beautiful chicken coops. At our old place we took apart our three large bird aviaries and our workshop and put them back together here. We also moved my SheShed, loading it with a crane onto a trailer, trucking it up the mountain, and setting it up on the hill with the woods as backdrop.

We had power poles set up and power lines installed, water lines dug, Wi-Fi put in (a tricky operation due to the poor reception), and then it took us months moving everything: not only furniture and our belongings, but animals, tools, farm equipment, horse paraphernalia, and lots and lots of building material such as plywood, fence posts, barbed wire, roofing, and other odds and ends.

I’ve spent several weeks staining all the outbuildings to weather-proof them, we put down half a dozen loads of gravel so we won’t drown in mud in the fall and spring, and we’ve made so many big and small decisions all year that we’ve reached severe decision fatigue. I can’t even make up my mind what I want for dinner these days, because my brain refuses to decide anything at all right now.

I’m also dealing with some health issues, hormone imbalances, work, looking after the animals, did a six-months long yoga teacher training, watched a loved one go through cancer treatment, and of course there’s the rather alarming fact that the world is on fire.

It’s been a lot.

But you know what? I’d do it all again in a heartbeat.

Dreams aren’t linear. Very few of us know what we want when we’re young; we don’t know enough yet to realize what the important stuff is. Oh, we want a lot, usually career success, money, love, a house, travel, maybe some material goods like a really good wardrobe, expensive car, and all the latest electronic toys and kitchen gadgets we keep seeing online.

We’re told that there is a timeline: school, college, job, student loans, mortgage, house. Relationship/marriage is somewhere in there, as are a couple kids. With the hefty student loans and mortgage we’re bound to our jobs for 30+ years, and we have to squeeze the living part in there, a few stolen hours at a time, dreaming of a time when we’ll be free—for many of us when we retire.

A life like that doesn’t leave much room for dreaming. It’s busy busy busy with responsibilities, bills to pay, and a neverending exhaustion, and to make it all more bearable we keep buying ourselves little and not-so-little treats, because we’ve got to live a little, right?

When Rich and I met twenty-three years ago, we changed our pre-determined timelines. Instead of preparing for retirement within the next decade or so, he was starting over at almost fifty years old with a new wife, a new mortgage, and a lot of old and new responsibilities. I had dropped out of college and moved from Germany to Canada to be with him, and for a while I was working a minimum-wage job, had a side gig as an organist at church, and did a ton of upgrading to get into college, and then a lot of studying at college to finally get settled in a career.

It takes time to build a life together. For years we were both working flat out, conscious of the possibility that this might be our life forever. Retirement for Rich wasn’t something we even considered—we thought he’d have to work until he physically or mentally couldn’t do it anymore. I was thirty when I started in my chosen profession as an x-ray technologist, and I thought I’d work till at least mid-to late sixties, probably way past our time together.

One of our favourite topics of conversation was imagining what we would do if we’d win the lottery. “Buy some land,” he always said, “and a few cows. Get myself a few more horses. Go riding right off the property through the woods, not in a park with rules and restrictions and lots of other people.”
“Work part-time,” I’d chime in dreamily, “so I have more time to write and go for long walks. Never having to worry about money. Bake my own bread. Read all the books.”

We agreed that we wouldn’t change our lifestyle much; neither of us has any interest in expensive cars, designer clothes, or any of the usual status symbols. All we wanted was space, time, freedom, and peace.
The clearer that vision became, the more we started working towards it. We knew that we had to move, because we were living in one of the most expensive areas of North America, and not only would we never be able to fulfill our dream there, we also needed the proceeds of the sale of our house to make it happen.

When we moved nine years ago, we only got it half-right. We got the financial freedom and time, but we didn’t get the space or peace. A lot of things happened in the last nine years that have been difficult; but it all ultimately led us to the here and now, which is the culmination of everything we’ve always wanted. It’s a story that wants to be told, but not right now; it deserves more time and energy than I can give it in a single afternoon.

What I’m trying to express with my rambling is that you should never give up on your dreams, never listen to the naysayers, and never believe that it’s too late. My husband is seventy-one; we have lost count of the amount of people who’ve asked him why he’s undertaken such a massive project at his age. Would we have liked to do it ten years earlier? Of course we would. We already sense that no amount of time here will be long enough. But that didn’t happen, so there’s no point dwelling on it. We are here now, and we are grateful every day that we’ve built our dream together with our own hard work, courage, some luck, some help from family and friends, and the belief that if you want something badly enough, you will manifest it.

Rich wanted something like we have now when he first arrived in Canada forty-five years ago. I did when I followed twenty-three years later. It took us some time, but you know what?

We fucking did it. And we’re pretty damn proud.

As soon as I’m winding my way up the mountain, my heart lifts. There’s pine and sagebrush on either side of the road, and I regularly glimpse a herd of half-wild horses taking a drink at the small lake, the odd cow or two, and deer along the road. A young black bear crossed it early in the summer, and I always keep an eye open for the coyotes I’ve seen several times on their evening hunt.

After ten minutes I turn onto the gravel road that leads to our place. Two years ago, that road ended abruptly in front of the house that used to be the end of the line; now it continues on, built for the sole purpose of getting us to our sanctuary: Hidden Hills.

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Trees greet me. They’re the first thing you see when you make your way down the road, long before you glimpse the house. The next thing you see is the herd of horses, the foals frolicking around, having the time of their lives. You come up the last few hundred yards of the driveway, so steep that it elicits a warning from most people who drive it for the first time—“it’s going to be so slippery in the winter, you guys!”—but I just smile and tell them, “it’s going to be okay”.

I know it will be, because everything else has turned out okay, and it hasn’t always been easy. Turning a bare piece of wilderness into a livable home with all the comforts and necessities of the 21st century—running water, power, heat, WiFi, a working phone—has come with challenges every step of the way. When we first walked on those 40 hilly acres in the spring of 2022, we both fell in love with it immediately. It was exactly what we’d been looking for all our lives: peaceful, spacious, and most importantly: private. No matter which corner you go to, there’s only one house you can see from our property. Everything else is trees, sky, and wind. The air smells differently: fresher, with a hint of mountain and pine. The climate is also different than it is in town, because it’s a thousand feet higher in elevation: it’s a few degrees cooler, rains more often, and snow will arrive earlier and in greater quantities.

Falling in love with it was the easy part—making it livable was trickier. We listed everything we’d need while still walking around: a road, proper fences, water, power, a house, shelters for the animals, a barn, a workshop. We looked at each other. “Do we really want to do this?” I asked him, hoping for one answer only; I’d never wanted anything more in my life. He looked around, smiled slightly, and then said: “Let’s do it.”

I was thrilled—and immediately worried. About his age, his Lyme disease, money, time, the sheer size of the project. Neither of us had ever built a house before. There were countless unknowns ahead of us, and I had a feeling that this wouldn’t be easy. But there was also a deep certainty within me, a knowing that we were meant to be here. My entire being was convinced: this was our place in the world.

It’s Thanksgiving in Canada, the first Thanksgiving in our Forever Home. Instead of eating turkey, I’m at work and Rich is laying water lines at our new place. We may skip the traditional festivites this year, but we are not short of gratitude. On the contrary: we’re both happier, more content, and more grateful than we’ve ever been in our lives.

We’ve both fought hard to get to this place. Like all lives, ours has its rewards and its challenges, and some challenges test everything you’ve got: your resilience, strength, perseverance, and maybe most importantly—the knack not to lose hope.
What helped me a lot to change the way I see challenges is something my therapist taught me: instead of thinking that something is happening to me, I try to see it as something that’s happening for me.

It may sound like not much of a change, but let me tell you, it is. It’s much more powerful to look at what a challenging situation with a difficult person can teach you than wailing to your friends “why is this person so meeeeeean to meeeeee”. It’s a fact that we learn and grow more from challenges than from easy times. We need the easy times, but we need the difficult ones as well. Otherwise we stay where we are, not evolving but remaining the same.

Looking back at the past few years, I know that every hardship led me one step closer to where I am today. And where I am today is what I’ve written down in journals, scrawled on scraps of paper, and pasted on vision boards for the past 20 years: in a cozy farmhouse surrounded by trees, with horses and cows milling about. My husband goes riding with his friends every week, saddling the horses right outside the house, exploring the hundreds of acres surrounding our place. I walk the dogs there daily, following the narrow trail amongst the trees or visiting the creek at the bottom of the hill, spotting the occasional white-tailed deer on the way.

I bake bread at least twice a week in my beautiful new kitchen. When our two-year-old granddaughter came with our daughter for a visit recently we baked cookies, and I’m still getting a thrill of pleasure when I make a cup of coffee in my old-fashioned drip coffee maker at my fancy little coffee station I painted recently.

I write at my antique desk in the living room, and roll out my yoga mat in front of the large windows facing the sunset and chickens.

The life I now have is one I’ve been manifesting for a long time. And every adversity, difficulty, and challenge has brought me one step closer to it. Today and every day, I feel deeply grateful for everything that I’ve experienced thus far, even the tough times. Maybe especially the tough times—I wouldn’t be who I am without them.

My hope and wish for you is that you don’t look at the pictures posted on social media today and feel inferior or lesser than. I have complicated feelings about holidays and social media: the volume of (seemingly) happy family gatherings that’s posted on those days is a tough pill to swallow for many of us. Maybe it’s best to stay off it on days like today if it’s sad or depressing for you.

But I do think it’s very healthy and beneficial for us to regularly take stock and practice gratitude for the good things and people in our lives. We all have something to be grateful for; the more we practice gratitude, the more items to be thankful for we will find. Gratitude is a muscle that, if trained regularly, becomes strong and vibrant.

My greatest desire in the world is to feel safe and at peace. I’m obviously not alone in that—it’s what many of us want. There were times in my life where I had one but not the other; sometimes I had neither. Having found both peace and safety in my marriage, my home, and my own body, I feel immeasurably rich.

I wish for you, your family, and the world to take steps towards both goals. We all deserve to have that.

Happy Thanksgiving!

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If you’ve got opinions but
you can’t voice them or you’ll be called “toxic”, “hostile”, “difficult”
what’s a woman to do?

You bite your tongue
until you bleed
choking on the blood of your silence.

You dig your nails into the fleshy part of your hands
until it hurts
marking yourself with your compliance.

You smile through clenched teeth
while you scream on the inside
Is it any wonder your insides churn?
Your body begs you to
let it out
release the tension
SPEAK UP
but you can’t.
”You’re creating an unsafe environment”
by telling the truth
in a world that values lies more than honesty.

You listen to their prattle,
going on and on about themselves
”poor me, I’m so hard done by”
claiming victimhood
while kicking the ones that are down

You’re keeping their peace
at the cost of your own.

It’s rough out there
everyone’s competition
if you’re not first, you’re last

They’re out to get you
because you’re different
or love differently
or—here’s a radical idea—want equality for everyone.

Know your place
play the game
don’t rock the boat
don’t rock the boat
don’t rock the boat.

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I want to live a good life. What makes a good life is different for every person, but for me I’ve narrowed it down to one word: peace. I want to live in harmony with myself and within my environment. This goal is the driving force behind everything I do: where I live, how I interact with people, how I treat myself and the ones around me.

The most important switch I’ve been making this year is to replace money, fame, and power with relationships, purpose, and service. It’s at the forefront of my thoughts before every decision I make. In the past, I’d cancel everything for work: coffee dates with friends, my own plans to do something creative, my body’s desire to rest. After all, I’d make extra money, and what could be more important than that?
But I would work beyond my limits, become tired, stressed, and irritated, and buy myself shit I didn’t need in order to “treat” myself. All the extra stuff was making my house cluttered, which in turn made me feel anxious, vaguely guilty, and more stressed.

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No more. I treat my time as sacred these days. Nothing is more important to me than filling my days with activities that feed my soul and spirit. I want every day to feel like a gift, and to be truly aware of it. It’s in your power to reimagine your life, and that’s what I’ve done this year: I found little ways to infuse more joy into every day and take out unnecessary pressure.

Here are 10 things I’ve let go of that have significantly improved my life:

1. Numbers. Numbers used to rule my days: step count, word count, weight, measurements, calories, money earned, books sold, reviews received—you get the picture. Numbers could make or break my day, and I based much of my self-worth on them. If I reached my arbitrary goals, I felt worthy; if not, I felt like a failure. The kicker is that it was entirely self-imposed! Nobody told me to do that, at least not specifically—culturally, we all get send that message countless times every day. But I realized that it was up to me if I wanted to act upon the social pressure, or put down my foot and do my own thing. I’ve chosen door number 2, and I feel free!

2. My FitBit. It began to rule my life (again), so it had to go. I know that it’s a valuable tool for many and can help make positive change, but for me it became a little drill sergeant on my wrist, and drill sergeants and peace don’t mix. I’ve finally recognized that I will walk because I crave it, and not because of a random step goal I set for myself. I trust that my body and intuition guide me towards what’s best for myself. I haven’t worn it all year, and I love it.

3. Deadlines. I used to be the queen of deadlines. Loved them. Created them constantly, and got a thrill when I achieved whatever goal I’d set myself on or before them. Deadlines were helpful for me when my mindset was quite different from what it is today: goal-oriented, striving to achieve, perched on an imaginary ladder I yearned to climb higher. Where to? The place where happiness and satisfaction were waiting for me, of course. But turns out, I’ve found happiness and satisfaction in the here and now, in the middle and mess of it all.
   Again, deadlines can be very motivating, and I’ve found them helpful myself. But we don’t stay the same, we grow and change throughout our lifetime, and at this stage in my life, I don’t want or need them.

4. Massages. Until recently, I went to get massages twice a month, sometimes even more. I thought that my body would turn into one giant, painful knot without them, and that I needed them for my wellbeing. But then I started my yoga teacher training, and the combination of a more regular practice, knowing what exercises to do, learning how to breathe properly, and becoming more aware of my posture has done wonders for my back.
   I’m also becoming more selective with my time, and I wanted to use the time I usually spend at massage in a different way. This may not be forever, but for now I feel empowered to be able to support my body with movement I’m in control of.

5. My long hair. In March of this year I shaved off my hair. You can read about the experience and the reasons why here. While I had a specific reason for it, I’ve also been fascinated by women with shaved heads for a long time. I admire their daring, their defiance of complying with beauty standards, their decision to face the world without the camouflage. We use our hair to hide behind, as security blanket, to fit in, and to be seen as attractive—what would it feel like to take all that away? I was curious to find out, and honestly more nervous than I’d imagined I would be. It’s been a fascinating, empowering experience to go through, and one that oddly made me feel more beautiful than before.

   

6. Fast fashion. Buying fast fashion has been my worst and most shame-inducing habit since I quit drinking. I know how terrible fast fashion is for the environment, but I simply didn’t seem to be able to stop doing it, craving the dopamine-hit I experienced whenever I hit the “add to cart” button. But early this year I put myself on a spending freeze, and something amazing happened: I finally broke the habit! I have a lot of clothes, and I’ve been buying versions of what I already own for years. Shopping my own closet has been a revelation, as has been buying just a handful of pieces in real stores during my travels. Every piece of clothing I bought this year has a special memory attached to it (i.e. buying something while I was on vacation with my nieces), and I intend to keep that up. I want to surround myself with things that have meaning to me, that I connect with a memory or a person. Many items I own were thoughtlessly ordered online, so much so that I sometimes didn’t even remember what was in the package by the time it arrived, and I’m done with that. I’m all about intentional living and slowing my life down these days, and not buying fast fashion is a big piece of that.

7. Striving to be universally liked. Oof, that one has been a lifelong struggle. It’s been one of my biggest problems in life, and the source of much angst and despair. I used the approval of others as the yard stick I measured my likability and worth with, which is a terrible way of going through life. Every mean comment, criticism, or disapproval tips you into an existential crisis, because it makes you think that you’re an awful person.
   I’m happy to report that there is a cure for this! It’s the old cliché of learning to like yourself, but it actually works. Live your life according to your own values and principles; show self-compassion; and forgive yourself when you slip up. In short, treat yourself like you treat someone you love—because you have learnt to love yourself.

8. Saying yes. Learning to say no is surprisingly difficult for many of us, particularly women. We are taught to be helpful, accommodating, and polite. We think we’re selfish if we prioritize our own energy and peace of mind. In short: that’s bullshit. We can be giving and helpful while also taking care of our own needs. Both can coexist, and in fact, they have to coexist, or we exhaust ourselves. One sentence I like to use when someone asks me to do something that I’m declining is this one: “My plate is as full as I’d like it to be at the moment.” No more explanation necessary.

   

9. Being hyper-focused on the goal. As I already mentioned, I used to be a very goal-oriented person. For example, when I started writing books, I focused heavily on what would happen once they were published: would people like them? Buy them? Criticize them? Would my parents finally be proud of me?
   It’s ironic, because that’s the part you don’t have control over. It’s also arguably the smallest part of the massive, time- and work-consuming book-writing process. You spend hundreds or thousands of hours writing it, thinking about it, and dreaming about it. You have to enjoy that part, because that’s what you spend most of your time on. What happens afterwards is none of your business. It’s like raising kids: enjoy the years you have them at home where you can teach and guide them. Once they’re grown adults, you have little influence over the kind of people they are.
   I’ve learnt to prioritize the process over the end result; the journey over the destination. That way, I enjoy every step of the way as opposed to waiting for just one day/moment far in the future.

10. Thinking I always have to be doing something “useful”. In my number-focused and deadline days, I believed that everything I did in a day had to have a purpose. Let me give you an example of a typical day back then:
    Write 500 words in the morning. Walk 13,000 steps throughout the day. Do 30 minutes of yoga. Earn x amount of dollars at work. Read something educational. Cook a nutritious meal. Clean the house. Work on my project so I’ll finish it before the deadline. Do my skincare-routine, exfoliate, shave, pluck, scrub, peel, massage. Go to bed, sleep, repeat.
    I didn’t see anything wrong with it. Maybe you don’t, either; after all, that’s what’s being shown to us in movies, on TikTok, and what our collective consciousness has absorbed as a “normal” way of living. It’s not, though. Human beings were never meant to live like that. Animals show us what a healthier way of life looks like: lots of rest and play. Naps. Bursts of activity mixed in with long periods of relaxation.
    These days, I’ve turned off the “I should”-task master in my head. I listen to my body instead, who is a much kinder and wiser guide. I rest when she asks me to. I do what I like to call “puzzle therapy”: do an old-fashioned 1000-piece puzzle, which is arguably a waste of time: you spend hours putting something together, only to take it apart again a minute later. I don’t even take a picture of the finished product; I look at it for a moment, then take it apart. The hours I spend puzzling are my form of meditation: it’s one of the easiest ways I’ve found to turn off my brain. I swear I can feel my brain relax, sighing with relief at the break. I’ve always been an overthinker with an overactive brain; the rest I give it during meditation/puzzle time has been incredibly beneficial. I’ve found solutions for problems that plagued me for ages, have more patience during my day, and feel a lot less stressed.

Letting go is the secret to living a more relaxed, peaceful life. What have you let go of that improved your life?

For the longest time I had one goal: I wanted to be known for being nice. My ambition in life was to have people hear my name and automatically say: “She’s so nice.” I hoped that one couldn’t hear the name Miriam without adding nice to it, as if it was my middle name or title. Yeah, I knew that it was supposed to be impossible, that nobody could please them all, that even the most popular person in the world had haters. But you know what? I was going to be the exception—I would be the one who pleased them all. Just you wait.

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There was only one problem: my personality. I was a bit awkward, especially when meeting new people, where I’d either get tongue-tied or was in danger of saying the wrong thing. Once I was comfortable with someone I was fun and funny, but sometimes my wit had a bite to it that could hurt. To bond with others I’d eagerly participate in gossip, and when I felt strongly about something or someone, I’d get into heated debates where I’d sometimes speak before thinking, which is never the best idea.

And then there were the nagging voices in my head, reminding me that I was selfish, overly sensitive, lazy, difficult—anything but nice. I just have to try harder, I’d resolve, and with renewed vigor I’d attempt to be all things to all people.

I know I’m not the only one. And is it any wonder? Little girls are being trained to be nice from an early age. We’re taught to make everybody we encounter comfortable, to be polite, accommodating, and not to talk back.
I’m not saying that it isn’t important to teach kids to be polite. But there’s a difference between politeness and losing oneself, between sacrificing one’s own comfort to make others comfortable. Paulo Coelho, author of The Alchemist, sums it up nicely: “If it costs you your peace, it is too expensive.”

The problem with being nice is that it wants us to trade our authenticity for acquiescence. It demands the softening of edges, the biting of tongues, replacing individuality with conformity. There are countless rules for nice girls: Don’t be too loud. Don’t dress provocatively. Don’t argue. Don’t be difficult. Don’t be bitchy. Don’t speak your mind. Don’t brag. Don’t be too ambitious. Don’t make him feel bad. Don’t talk too much. Don’t be too full of yourself. Don’t be argumentative. Don’t be lazy. Don’t expect too much. Don’t be sexually aggressive. Don’t be a prude. Don’t be promiscuous. Don’t be a tease.
Smile. Be pleasant. Be pretty. Make him feel comfortable. Listen. Be successful, but not too successful. Be feminine. Be nurturing. Be caring. Be whatever someone needs you to be.

Niceness can be used as a weapon. There’s the famous Southern “bless your heart”, delivered with a sweet smile and often meant as an insult. It can also be presented as fake concern that delivers precise cruelty aimed to hurt. Someone will pretend to care about you while insulting you, such as: “You’ve really let yourself go; I worry that your husband is going to leave you if you don’t start losing weight.” Or making it about themselves when they know you’re going through a hard time: “I’m hurt that you haven’t spent more time with me lately. I feel like our friendship isn’t important to you.”
I’ve been on the receiving end of the insidiousness of someone causing trouble for me and then “comforting” me; it made me want to punch them. And, of course, there are those people who will smile to your face and stab you in the back, all the while pretending to be nice.

Niceness is superficial; kindness goes deep. Being kind includes being considerate, respectful, caring, compassionate, and empathetic. To me, the main difference is that kindness strives to not hurt other people, while niceness is sometimes used as a disguise to hide spite, even cruelty. You can be nice and unkind; it’s actually shockingly common.

Niceness can make you hard. If niceness is expected as a performance or as a prerequisite to be accepted, it will become a burden. Sooner or later, you will start to resent it.
Kindness is soft, because it comes from love: love for oneself, love for others, love for the world. Kindness can’t exist without love. Staying soft in a world that has been designed to cultivate competition, fear of scarcity, individualism over community, money over connection, and mistrust over trust requires enormous courage.

Most of us will have to do some healing, unlearning, and digging deep inside ourselves to uncover the ancient wisdom that the capitalistic world has tried to hide from us: that we can trust our intuition, that our bodies know better than corporations who profit from our insecurities, that we all yearn for similar things: love, safety, connection, community.

Kindness is soft, but it’s not a pushover. Your softness is allowed to have a spine: you can be firm, have boundaries, and put bullies in their place. The key is to do it with empathy and an understanding for the human condition—to be assertive without being cruel.
Kindness doesn’t equal niceness. Niceness is surface-level politeness, often driven by a desire to be liked or to avoid conflict; it’s the easier way to get through life. Kindness is rooted in realness, guided by one’s values, and can therefore be difficult and uncomfortable:

Being kind in a world that demands niceness of women is an act of rebellion. Standing up for what you believe in is necessary to change what is wrong or broken. I believe that kindness starts with self-compassion and self-forgiveness, and grows from there to encompass other people. Kindness is rooted in compassion, understanding, forgiveness, and a desire to see everyone thrive.

Our world doesn’t need more nice people; it needs more truth, authenticity, caring, and kindness.

I’m currently writing less in this space than I want to, because this season of life is a hurricane. Everything around me is moving, whirling, chaos, work, upheaval, change—I’ve been feeling overwhelmed for most of the summer. But then I remember that there’s also peace and quiet if I make room for it. I have to seek out the centre of the hurricane, go towards it instead of running away from it, because that’s where the stillness is. So this is where I’m writing from this morning: the eye of the storm; the quiet amidst the chaos.

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When we decide to live a life true to ourselves, to embrace our authenticity and refuse to settle, we sign ourselves up for a lot of work. Swimming against the current requires a lot of effort. First, we have to wake up, stop numbing ourselves, start paying attention and form our own opinion instead of letting others think for us. Then we have to follow through: let go of people that are a negative influence on us; make changes in our life that reflect our values; possibly change careers, houses, cities, countries. It’s a process that takes years, and it’s not easy. We have a lot of learning and unlearning to do. We might lose money and “status”, because we’ve been chasing those things our entire lives, waiting for the promised happiness at the end of it, and all we’ve gotten is a soul-deep emptiness and indefinable dissatisfaction. Once we stop worshipping at the altar of money, our priorities will shift. We will start prioritizing time over money, because one is limited, and the other one isn’t.
We will lose relationships, habits, parts of ourselves. It will be painful. And it will be the best thing we’ll ever do for ourselves.

I read something online that deeply resonated with me:

The first half of life is about becoming who you needed to be to survive. The second half is about unraveling everything that no longer aligns with your soul’s purpose. That’s not a midlife crisis—it’s a rebirth.

That’s exactly the stage I am in, and have been for a while. As we all know, birth is a messy, painful, bloody process. But it’s also the most beautiful, wondrous event life has to offer: the creation of new life.

Recreating yourself—or, to be more accurate, uncovering and honouring your true self—is also messy and painful. But oh, the joy! The deeply comforting sensation of coming home to yourself, of not having to pretend anymore, of feeling aligned with your values and your beliefs! It is worth the pain a thousand times.

I was a lifelong people pleaser, a trait born from being the daughter of an unpleasable mother. My decisions in life were largely guided by doing what I hoped would give me people’s affection, and I twisted myself into a thousand different shapes trying to be liked. While it worked sometimes, on some people, it never worked on all, and certainly not every time. The inevitable disapproval, judgment, or indifference always felt like a slap in the face, leaving me feeling unworthy and unlovable.

It has taken me a very long time to accept a few facts about life, but now that I have, I’ve unlocked the door to a place I’ve not been before: complete self-acceptance. I believe that radical acceptance is the key to happiness and peace.

Here are some of the things I’ve radically accepted:

• People don’t change. That’s a huge one, which is why I put it first. As long as we think we can get someone to love us if we just change/lose weight/work harder/be nicer, we will never be happy. Hoping for people to change is a surefire way to unhappiness, not to mention that we will lose ourselves. If people have shown us who they are, we have to believe them. Yes, I realize that some people can change. But it’s rare, and it will have to come 100% from their desire to change; no other person can make them. Hoping for something so unlikely will set you up for disappointment. It’s much easier to assume that people are who they are, and be pleasantly surprised in the unlikely event that they do change. Don’t expect it.

• Being You is your superpower. We live in a world that urges every single one of us to change and “improve” ourselves. We’re being told that we have to become someone else, because we are too flawed to be acceptable. It’s the favourite lie of capitalism, because they can sell us lots of stuff to make us “better”. The patriarchy also loves to tell women that they’re lesser than men (weaker, too emotional, irrational), because it justifies their unfair treatment of women. Oppressors everywhere thrive on classifying some people lesser than others, because then they don’t come across as the monsters they are by treating them inhumanely. Never forget: You are as worthy as everyone else in the world. We are all equals. Nobody is better than you.

• I am worthy of love. Every single person in the world is inherently worthy of love. We don’t have to earn it, and if it’s withheld, it’s a reflection on the person withholding it, not on us.

• You won’t be liked by everyone. So simple, yet such a hard lesson for many of us. I truly believed that if I tried hard enough, I’d be the exception to the rule. Like yourself, and don’t worry about the rest.

• Honouring your values won’t always be easy. At times it will require you to go against the group, to be the odd one out. You may get called difficult, or not being a teamplayer (the worst sin in corporate world). Don’t compromise yourself. Remember: it’s more important that you can look yourself in the eye than pleasing other people.

• We all need help. I was raised to not trust people. Our family motto was “We don’t need anyone”—a huge disservice to every single member of my family. We have all suffered as a result. Asking for help isn’t a sign of weakness—it’s the most natural thing in the world. Human beings are group animals, born to live, work, and be together. Community is vitally important to our emotional and mental health, and denying ourselves of it makes our lives significantly poorer.

Most importantly, you need to radically accept yourself. Yes, you have flaws, and yes, you’ll make countless mistakes. You are human. But you also have strengths, gifts, and beautiful quirks. Become your own best friend. Love yourself. Like yourself. Continue to work on yourself. Un-become what you thought you had to be, and embrace who you already are. People may not change for others, but we can work on ourselves, let go of harmful conditioning, and be kinder to us and others.

If I’ve learnt one thing in my years of therapy, it is this: we have no control over others. We can only control ourselves. How we show up in the world matters, and it shapes our experiences. Embrace your flaws, because it will make you more accepting of the flaws of others. Love yourself, because that love is contagious, and may just help someone else to love themselves as well. Be kind, because kindness feels good to yourself and others, and the kindness we receive multiplies and spreads.

Hurt people hurt people, but you know what? Healed people heal people. Loved people love people. People accepting themselves accept other people.

Practice radical acceptance—and your world will expand, open, and become kinder.

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Growing up with a bully will teach you one thing very quickly: to bite your tongue. Disapproval, guilt-tripping, blaming and shaming happen so frequently that you will do anything in your power to avoid confrontation whenever possible. And if that means to not take the bait, to swallow your retort and go along to get along, you do it.
It’s hard, and it will make you feel like you’re going to choke, but you think that’s a price worth paying for the apparent peace your silence achieves in the moment.

But is it really peace?

Is it peace when you carry that anger around with you, knowing it will come out eventually, and probably aimed at someone who doesn’t deserve it?

Is it peace when your mind is churning and you still think about the interaction days, weeks, or even years later, brooding over what you should have said?

Is it peace when you feel sick to your stomach from the suppressed rage, when your immune system suffers from the constant flood of adrenaline that happens every time your bully says something that activates your fight-or-flight-instinct, when your heart rate is constantly as high as if you were running a marathon, and your nerves are shot?

Is it peace when you can’t stop talking about your bully, when your friends and family are getting tired of spending time with you, because all you do is complain about that one person in your life?

Is it peace when you spend more time with that person that torments you than almost anyone else, because you think and talk of them so frequently?

Is it peace when years go by, then decades, and you’re supposed to be getting wiser, and in many ways you are, except for that one area in your life where you still feel and behave like a child? Where you stick your tongue out after their retreating back or give them the finger when they’re safely out of sight?

No, it’s not. All you do is make it nice and comfortable for the bully. You’re their dumping ground, the receptacle for their ever-changing moods and grievances. You’re a safe space for them, because they can unload on you with impunity, safe in the knowledge that you won’t say anything back to them.
They feel better after an interaction with you, while you feel worse.

Bite your tongue often enough and you’re in danger of biting it off—and without your tongue, you have no voice.

I lost my voice.

I tried so hard to make sense of the senseless, to shape the confusing truth into something more palatable, that at some point I didn’t know what was truth and what was fantasy. I was told to tell one story, then I told myself a different story to try to live with it, and eventually, truth and deception became so convoluted that I couldn’t keep them straight anymore.

Life keeps happening so you shove it down, tell yourself it’s not that bad, and before you know it you’re middle-aged, drowning in a pile of unhealthy coping mechanisms. Unpicking it all sends you in a years-long tailspin of reliving, unlearning, exchanging unhealthy for healthy coping strategies, and getting triggered by expected and unexpected events and people.

Let me tell you: the healing journey is not for the faint of heart. It hurts like hell at times, it makes you scream and cry, and it causes you so much grief: grief for the years of gaslighting, grief for what you never had, and grief for what you have to change and lose in order to find peace.
But it’s also brought true friendship, a deepening of existing relationships, a newfound respect for myself, and the most astonishing gift of all: befriending my own mind. Hanging out with myself is a true joy these days—something I never thought possible.

Finding true peace has been my number one priority over the last few years. I was often scared and anxious as a kid, I’ve feared my own mind for most of my life, and it’s only since I started digging deep, unearthed a ton of unprocessed baggage that’s accumulated over a lifetime, and systematically started going through it piece by piece, that I’m moving into the light.

And what I’m discovering is this:
I’m no longer willing to hold my tongue to make the bullies of this world more comfortable.
To be honest, it’s not the most welcome discovery. Life would be much easier if I would be able to let the bullies do their thing, stay out of it, and shake it off at the end of the day.
Turns out, I’m not made that way. And in my quest to honour my true, authentic self, I must do what is right for me.

So that’s where I’m at now: testing out my newfound resolve. I stood up for myself a little while ago for what was honestly one of the first times of my life, and while my heart was racing, my palms sweating, and my face felt hot, I didn’t bite my tongue and smiled through it—I said what was on my mind. In a nice and respectful manner, but with an honesty that startled the other person. And you know what? It felt amazing. I’ve got to admit, I’m pretty proud of myself.
It also made my 22-year old niece proud, who’s my role model when it comes to speaking one’s mind, and that’s cool, too! I want to be like her when I grow up.

I already know I will stumble often, because I have a lifetime of conditioning and old behaviour patterns to unlearn. But stumbling is okay—stumbling is part of life.

It’s a season of learning, growing, and rebirth—and while it’s exhausting as hell, it’s also the most amazing, empowering journey I’ve ever been on. Here’s to staying curious, open, and ready to receive all the lessons and gifts life has in store for us.

Much love to anyone else who’s in a challenging, rewarding, draining, overwhelming season! We got this 🌱

Our current world is getting darker every day: it’s rewarding the users, the takers, the selfish and the cruel. It rules in favour of people who have agendas instead of compassion, who plot how to harm others to get ahead themselves.
Giving to build is replaced by taking to survive. Instead of healing from what’s hurting, people become what hurt them.

Trying to be good in a selfish world is painful. It drains the people who feel the deepest. The ones with soft hearts who carry the heaviest loads. And it makes you wonder: is there something wrong with me? Am I too soft? Too naive? Too stupid?

Darling, there’s nothing wrong with you—there’s something right with you. Staying soft and loving in a hard world where the cruel becomes normalized isn’t weakness—it’s incredible strength. It requires courage. And it won’t always feel good at first. Having a good heart comes with consequences.

Yoga literally means to “yoke”, or to unite. Its goal is to unite body, mind, and soul with the Divine or spirit. It wants us to live in peace and harmony with ourselves, and with the world around us.

Unity and harmony are now needed more than ever. But you can’t be united with people who want to be divided, and the disconnect this creates is painful for those of us who are sensitive to it.

That’s where the yoga practice comes in. It reminds us that all we need to focus on is the current moment: the solid ground beneath our feet, the breath in our lungs, the breeze on our skin. When I get discouraged or disappointed, when people’s twisting of the truth makes me question my integrity, when I’m being told I’m wrong for caring—I ground myself.

Take a few deep breaths. Feel the solid ground beneath your feet. Close your eyes and listen to your heartbeat. Remind yourself with every beat: don’t stop loving. Don’t stop caring.
But also: protect your heart from shallow people who are determined to misunderstand you.

I remind myself of the yogic guidelines I try to live by, known as the yamas and niyamas*: nonviolence, truthfulness, nonstealing, nonexcess, nonpossessiveness, purity, contentment, self-discipline, self-study, surrender.
I ask myself what’s more important: how others see me, or how I see myself?

I remind myself that I don’t have to do a anything—I get to do it.

I focus on the kindness that blossoms in dark times, that actually grows and spreads when things get difficult: the little notes and messages dear friends and family send my way. The hug offered (and gratefully received). The acts of generosity almost-strangers and new friends perform.

I focus on the light, the hope that refuses to die, the knowledge that evil never wins in the long-term.

I remember karma.

And I remind myself that finding my voice, stepping into my truth, and fighting for what I believe in are not bad deeds. As Susanna Barkataki says: “Yoga isn’t just about peace, it’s about power. Not the kind that dominates, but the kind that dismantles injustice, centers love, and awakens real change.”

Howl and find your pack. Speak up. Refuse to give in to despair. Be a light. Shine bright. Stand firm. Ground to rise. Together, we got this.

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* I highly recommend Deborah Adele’s book The Yamas & Niyamas

I haven’t read a book for pleasure in two months—highly unusual behaviour for me. The reason? I can’t focus. I’m lacking the inner peace and tranquility that reading requires. I kinda hate it when people bang on about how busy they are, especially if they treat it as a badge of honour—as if it’s a competition, and the winner gets to take home indigestion and a stress disorder. I’ve built my life to be un-busy, and I take great pride in that. However, I’m sorry to say: I’m in a busy season.

It’s the move, obviously, and everything to do with it. Our house stuff is done, but we’re also moving several buildings—my She Shed, three bird aviaries, and a barn—and it’s a lot. The to-do list is never ending and always growing, and it’s mentally, physically, and financially exhausting. There are all the usual hiccups and complications, made more difficult by the fact that we don’t have a landline yet and very poor cell service. We’re also in the process of getting the old place ready for sale, which is a huge undertaking requiring heavy machinery and a lot of elbow grease.

We are currently living in the part of the movie that’s usually shown in time lapse: the protagonist physically training for a big sporting event, or going through a hard time like a breakup, or being buried in exhausting work, all squeezed into two minutes before the story resumes at normal speed and the heroine emerges victorious. I wish we could fast forward through the messiness, but that’s not how life works.

But! Don’t, not even for a second, feel sorry for me! Every morning, I wake up in my new house filled with joy and gratitude. I’ve spent three years dreaming of this house, visualized living on this tranquil piece of earth halfway up the mountain, and seeing it all come to life in front of my eyes is the thrill of a lifetime. My soul belongs here—I can feel it in my bones.

As I shared last time, I’m also on the lowest dose of SSRIs I’ve ever been on, and I’m monitoring myself closely. Am I annoyed because of my medication change, or because that person/situation is annoying? It’s the age-old question, isn’t it.

My struggle right now is that I’m not as calm and serene as I’d like to be. On the contrary, I get pretty fucking mad, and I’m still in the process of reconciling it with my yoga practice, wanting to be non-judgmental, and figuring out how to show up in the world with kindness when I sometimes just feel like yelling at people to quit being so selfish and stupid!

Many wounds start to itch when they’re healing. I feel like that’s where I’m at right now: I know exactly where I belong and where I’m supposed to be going (for the first time in my life!), but it’s uncomfortable and sometimes irritating. It’s so much work, it requires faith and patience, and it’s just like the physical healing of a wound: raw and tender.

Part of healing is to recognize your nonnegotiable needs—the things, activities, and habits you need to make you feel whole. For me that’s enough sleep, a daily walk/hike, writing, connecting with loved ones, and making the space I occupy orderly, pretty, and calming. I’ve prioritized decorating our new space right from the beginning, painting some accent walls and putting up art and personal knicknacks, because surrounding myself with memories, photos, personal gifts, and trinkets I collected while travelling makes me feel grounded and loved.

I’m also trying to make my yoga practice and stretching part of my daily routine. That one is still a work in progress, tending to fall by the wayside when I can’t squeeze everything into the day. The old me would beat myself up for “failing”* , but the healing version of me is approaching my behaviour with curiosity and compassion instead of judgment:

Am I skipping my yoga practice because I don’t want to do it? No.
Am I skipping because it feels like yet another item to check off my to-do list? Yes.
Will my plate always be as full as it is right now? No.
Do I practice yoga in other ways (being mindful and present, taking breaths throughout the day, studying literature, thinking about it all the time)? Yes.

Is it “failing”* when we listen to our body and honour its boundaries? No, it’s not. On the contrary, that’s what yoga is about: using the body to discover the self.

Healing isn’t linear. It’s something my therapist reminds me of regularly, and I need the reminder, because I can’t help but think I already know all of this. Why is it still so fucking hard?

We’ll have to learn and relearn the important lessons over and over. That’s what I also love about yoga so much: it’s always a practice; we are never “done”.

That’s where I’m at right now: deliriously happy, grateful, exhausted, irritated, excited, blissed out, tender, tired, emotional, worried, exasperated, appreciative, open.

Beautifully, wildly, alive.

* I put “failing” into quotation marks because I don’t agree with the negative connotations it evokes. Failing is such a universal, common experience all humans share, that we should never see it as something negative. It’s just feedback that tells us that something didn’t work. I look at it as a lesson, nothing more.