This could be a post about the emotional teeter-totter of watching my daughter move to a new city and start her adult life. The ache of missing her, the joy of watching her grow. My anxiety thinking about her bank account, remembering my own anxiety as a 19 year old. My shame, frustration that I can’t be her personal ATM, and instead practicing a trust in the uncomfortable process. Meanwhile my son carves out his own dynamic with me one-on-one. The beauty of him, and the clunkiness of learning how to relate to each other. My curiosity about who my son is without his older sister as a buffer – what are his quips, his observations when unbridled by a sibling’s presence? His hilarity, his acute sensitivities that I have missed because of his placement in the line up. Up and down I teeter. This could be a post about that.

This could be a post about aging, the thing that won’t stop. My continued lament at my deepening wrinkles and loosening skin. The aches and pains that seem to be nestling into my body. And yet every now and again, I catch a glimpse of acceptance, and I try to chase it. I do feel happier than I have ever felt. That frequency has an effect on my skin, my smile. My body is alive in ways I find so much more appealing. I see 20-somethings and want to rush at them Don’t worry, one day you will know your body so well and it will feel like a gift to live in something that gives comfort and feels pleasure like you can only dream of right now. I think I am at crucial stage of being re-wired about appearance, worth, embodiment and I am thrilled. So that’s something.

This could be a post about my deepest gratitude for the man in my life that I get to love everyday. My giddiness when I see him, the earthly weight of security he brings me when I am spinning. He’s my weighted blanket, personified. His unwavering draw to me, that even at my most complicated, he finds joy and connection. Without being authoritative, this has given me spacious permission to be my full self. Our sharing of sleep stats, dreams, and energy levels. Hopes and dreams for the future; pains and regrets of the past, held in acceptance and love. One day I will finally explain it to him, my gratitude. I try to, but the words just create a container, and I want something more like the Northern Lights. Streaming and wild and colourful. Something speechless, that imprints and makes him think of the wonders of being alive.

Or I could write a post about our slow and thoughtful process of bringing our families together. Navigating our own limits, our kids’ curiosity, the collective pain, fear and excitement. My overthinking that leaves me analyzing so many details I miss the big picture. I could write about our commitment to a loving and inclusive family, about the blocks to get there. I could write about how desperately I want my kids to be as excited as me, and the truth about how long it took me with my own step-parents. The ease of his approach, how much I love following his lead because it feels safe and knowing and solid. The complicated layers of feeling happy even though one of your parents is missing, and you worry you are betraying them. The reality that I no longer talk much or check in with my co-parent to see what kind of approach is taking shape on his end. Moving into the unknown with a lot of hearts on the line is stressful.

I should probably write a post about work – about how dead inside I feel, how much I miss feeling like my skills bring value to something. How I hope I don’t die before that happens again. How powerfulness I feel, given the federal climate right now, and how tired I am of feeling desperate. Desperate for somebody to notice me, for a bigger paycheque, for a team that feels excited. I could admit that sometimes I use AI to pull me out of my victim-thinking and how I reach out to people and use my resources to try to get in front of people who make decisions. I could write about how when I met my love’s family, my biggest fear was being asked ‘so what do you do Miriam?’ How that question always makes me want to burst into tears. How leaving the arts meant I left a part of myself that I miss.

All these things are happening. All these things have been happening, and it’s been hard to stop and write. There is still so much. But these are the posts I would write, and maybe I will, after a few things settle down.

Thanks to you all for reading.

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And now it feels I’m playing the game even though the rules have radically changed. It feels like flying blind, like jumping without a parachute. Like showing up for a card game and being given a trick deck. Needless to say, I am losing miserably.

I am told this is normal. That at age 43, things are changing. That after the great change, I will feel something like freedom. Until then, it’s just uncomfortable. Torture. I am riddled with insecurity, which makes me feel very insure. Where once I was rich in confidence, I am now rich in shame. Wake me when it’s over. Maybe I’ll still have my hair.

To make matters worse, I am in love with a 10/10 who happens to be loving, attentive, playful and kind, so while I witness my body morph into a new shape that can only be compared to the likes of SHREK, I am also mystifyingly happy. This blatant contrast is sometimes too much for my psyche to process. I catch a glimpse of myself in a store window and wonder who that soft, happy ogre is.

I don’t believe a word my love says about being attracted to me. I don’t believe my friends who say I am still hot. And I definitely don’t believe the strangers who offer compliments when I overshare.

To make things even more complicated: I am deeply aware of the beauty standard, of the toxic messaging around ageing, of the battle women fight to move through life without being made invisible as they get older. I see the value in older women, I see the connection between our failing world and the failure to hold women up. I try to focus on health, not shape. I don’t conform to anything that alters my body or face, and I practice acceptance when looking in the mirror. So the embarrassment I feel when I can’t look at myself because I am no longer a size 2 fills me with a secret shame that probably adds a few pounds. I am mortified when I am consumed with my body and not my spirit. I am disappointed when my beliefs aren’t stronger than my habits.

There is no solution to this. It’s just a rant, a public acknowledgement to signal to the universe that I see what’s happening. I see the way it was, the way it is, and the way it should be. I can’t quite get there yet, but I’m trying.

I am in love with a man that travels regularly for work. At first this was exciting, it was thrilling to feel so much longing. Being away from him was physically difficult, and reuniting felt like being able to breathe again. But soon I became a little unnerved by my plummet into what can only be described as the depths of despair.

While logically I understand the circumstances – he’s working, there’s a time difference, his schedule is packed - I am catapulted into a world deep inside me that becomes a nightmare I can’t wake up from. My responses are childish, underdeveloped. He calls and texts, and I respond like we are strangers. Inexplicability, I lose the ability to use punctuation. What was once an expressive ‘hi love! i miss you so much!’ becomes an Eeyore-infused ‘hi hope you have a good day.’ I make myself cringe, but I can’t seem to help myself. I can feel a tug of war between the child and adult in me fighting to gain ground. Because of course, this is the world of my inner child.

Proactively, I set up a therapy session a few days before another work trip and laid it out. I don’t want any suggestions for Cognitive Behaviour Therapy, I don’t want homework, I don’t want to write anything down. I know this is my inner child freaking out about abandonment, but I want to be normal. I want this gone. She adjusted her air pods. ‘Did you say you want your inner child gone?’ I hunched like a child scolded for swearing in church. I thought about it, and admitted that I think I do. I think I’m sick of having to strike deals with her all the time just to stay in control.

Yes, I talk to my inner child and yes, I reassure her that she doesn’t need to control the situation any longer. Thank you for keeping me safe – I have been taught to say. But this time, I was sick of it. I was watching myself create PTSD for both me and my love because of my rooted, rotted issues. And my inner child wasn’t going away. She kept making appearances at the worst times and she was starting to piss me off. A child of a 1980’s divorce, of course I have abandonment issues but enough is enough. I have a life to live here! a love worth healing for! no time for my inner child! My therapist shifted in her chair and said ‘It’s not about getting rid of her. She’s you. She’s part of why your partner loves you, how you relate to your kids, who you are at work. You can’t remove her, you can only let her coexist with you.’

I took this information and walked 19.8km with it.

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In the video game this is when you die.

In real life it’s much worse.

When Luteal hits, it’s like the virtual sun explodes and a fork in the road has been placed in front of me. I am shoved down a path I don’t want to travel, forced in the direction that takes me into darkness, away from myself. Everything and everyone becomes a threat. I walk this path alone, on high alert; eyes straining, blood pumping, trusting nothing and weapons ready. And tired, oh so tired.

I don’t sleep. My heart rate functions as though I am being chased by tigers and faithfully wakes me up. We are in danger! it warns me. Forget falling back to sleep – it’s off the table this week, so on top of not dying, I am forced to be awake for the bulk of a 24hr period. If it’s not the pounding of my heart that wakes me up, it’s my schizophrenic temperature. Hot Sweat and Cold Shivers, like they are battling for ground inside my body. In the stillness, they fight it out and I feel them wreaking havoc on my landscape while I toss and turn angrily. It feels invasive and slightly abusive, this civil war that I am hosting involuntarily. I often wonder if the earth feels something similar while we fight our wars, depleting her resources and destroying her beauty.

While exhausted and unrecovered in every way, each month I am shocked by how much my body changes. My body thickens and I’m 99% sure my legs shorten. My go-to work-out turns into my reoccurring childhood nightmare – running in slow motion while my breathing sounds like I’m sprinting. During Luteal running feels terrible and to my dismay, probably looks comical.

My wardrobe undergoes a drastic change – from hip to pathetic. I prioritize jogging pants which are comfortable sure, but my self-esteem takes a hit when I regrettably catch my reflection. My Google searches during this phase include ‘loose jogging pants’ and ‘flattering jogging suits’. If you find one, let me know. My children suffer a permanent grimace while I don the look of a walking clothing donation. I secretly long for linen and clogs and want to buy items from: Three Wild Women — Fashion Boutique — Ottawa, Canada

Besides my physical discomfort, it seems that my most embedded fears and insecurities rise from the ashes like toddler phoenixes. Any sense of self-worth vanishes from my grasp and in preparation for the inevitable rejection coming, I build a wall made of defensive comments. I love you and can’t wait to see you, he texts. I stare at the message and can’t connect his words to the body I am living in, so reply, No you don’t. Impenetrable. Receiving softness feels painful. Responding in softness feels impossible. I’m stuck between wanting love and rejecting it. While wearing ugly jogging pants.

I don’t look in the mirror. I chug supplements. I try to work out or walk outside. I force gentleness. I inevitably cry. I search available surgeries or procedures. I mostly hang on for dear life and hope that when it’s over, people will forgive me. I’m sorry for what I said when I was Luteal.

When it’s over, it’s as drastic as as when it began. The sun comes back out, pushing those dark clouds into the distance. I feel the frenetic energy that has been coursing through me finally relax, and there is a truce between the warring parties inside. My friends return, or maybe it’s just that I can see them again. For the next 28-31 days, we can play and laugh, and I’ll store up on energy to keep my health bar full. And maybe before the next Luteal I will find a flattering jogging suit.

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I watched the Olympics with the naive gusto of unity and then felt kicked in the stomach after the locker room laughter. My skin has been crawling since. I am sickened at the abhorrent behaviour of men in power, and grossed out at the women next to them holding them up. I ache for Tumbler Ridge. I want to be able to look up and see the stars, the galaxy, and it’s becoming painful that I can’t – that I can’t even see where we are. I want to see more wild animals and different landscapes but have you seen the cost of bread, blueberries, vanilla extract?

The world we built is being revealed to us now that we can record and stream and post anything. In the chaos, there is truth and it’s paralyzing me. The world we built seems to be gasping for its last breath and it’s getting dangerous. Animals are dangerous when they are threatened and I can’t help but feel like we are witnessing the unpredictable feral side of the systems we live in. In the world we built, criminals are calling the shots, people are turning guns on each other, men and boys are facing an epidemic of loneliness, women and children are systemically terrorized, the earth is on fire and I am supposed to pick up pizza for dinner tonight. It is getting harder to pretend that I am ok.

I have been circling a sense that the only way forward is to balance the scales that are heavy with toxic masculine energy with some goddamn feminine energy. I’m not talking men vs women, I’m talking the energy we all have, the feminine energy we all carry to varying degrees. I have it, you have it, your brother has it, my mother, my son – we are not whole without. We are not whole without both living in harmony and for too long we have been doused in masculine energy and vilified the feminine. We have stripped the feminine of power and choice, burned them at the stake and given them impossible standards to spend their lives trying to live up to. A shift is needed, drastically, immediately and I implore everyone to ask themselves how they can embrace their feminine. It’s not colours or dress code. It’s nurturing, creating, holding. Water your plants, touch someone sensually, invest in community, kiss a baby, rest rest rest, feed your loved ones, create art. The actions are simple, attainable and so important right now. Feel your actual feelings and let them soften you.

If the discomfort I feel is the beginning of the necessary change, I welcome it. But today I welcome it from a tender place – with tears and warm baths and snacks and music and candles and journaling. My act of feminine to push the world forward into the light.

(image from www.thebeeandthefox.com)

I was confident in our imperfect home, but I often felt like a fool.

Disinterested in being a repeat offender, I spent hours piecing together events and moments from that relationship searching for evidence. Cork board, pins and red string - I wanted to trace the crime from beginning to end. Anything that I could link back to myself as having caused or contributed to the final gasping breaths of the marriage needed to be analyzed. I would be rehabilitated, goddamnit.

Examining Exhibit 1a.

Case No 2 - Exhibit 1a - 01-2026

I withheld my thoughts and feelings. Over the years, I barricaded my emotional heart behind a wall and it hardened against the isolation. I don’t just mean not voicing ‘I had a bad day’ or ‘I’m feeling sad.’ I mean the wordless, formless energy that causes my body to tense, avoids vulnerability and senses resentment building. It’s in these milliseconds that connection is either lost or built stronger and I had racked up too many losses. Irks left untended, hurts unmended. I suffocated that energy in the name of peace-keeping, people-pleasing and care-taking. Selfless on the outside, fearful and protective on the inside.

And so as part of my court order, and as I entered a new relationship, I committed to myself to push past the fear and discomfort of the milliseconds. Every time I felt myself glitch at something, I forced my thumbs to type it out and pressed Send. I forced myself to answer the phone, because he turned out to be a caller. As soon as I recognized a feeling that I had so often brushed aside I zeroed in and tried something new. I put words to it, cried through it or shut my eyes and lamented about it. He received without judgement, didn’t try to fix it, and he always brought his towering 6’3 frame to eye level. In a surprising twist, I now felt safe to be messy and noticed there were two of us picking up the pieces, helping to restore order.

That’s when I learned how these small, inconvenient moments were actually enormous opportunities. They offered a chance to repair together, a pivotal step I am only just learning. And so even though I have a tarnished record, I am confident that I can change.

There’s more evidence to sift through, but I’m getting closer to solving the crime.

When I cry, he holds his hand to my chest. Like cradling a baby bird, he folds his hand over my heart, and protects it from the storm. After my waves have stopped crashing and the torrential downpour of tears has eased to a drizzle, I find my breath safely in the palm of his hand.

The thing about him is that he shocks me with his observational skills. He can feel the slightest shift in energy over text. A tone that would go unnoticed by most people, he hears over the silent airwaves. He can read my body language and gauge my energy levels before we are in the same room. He catches fleeting moments between strangers, exchanges between friends, tensions between family. I know how exhausting it can be to have so much information coming in and to hold it all. Sometimes his fatigue is obvious, sometimes it’s hidden by his exuberance. I do my best to quiet his mind.

When I’m anxious or feeling insecure, I have a trick for hiding in plain sight right in front of him. Sometimes I bury my head into a pillow while monologuing the thing I am upset about. Sometimes I just shut my eyes really tightly while talking. He can’t see me if I’m not looking at him, my toddler brain convinces me. He doesn’t laugh, or poke, or call me crazy. can you look at me my love? he asks gently. The thing about him is that he understands. He knows I’m scared, and so he approaches gently, coaxing me out of hiding. The smallest request, though it feels enormous in the moment. A request that is actually a gift - one that I don’t feel deserving of, but that I always open my eyes to.

His touch is a poem and an R rated movie.

His communication is direct, defenseless, clear and confident. He punctuates passion with swear words. I fucking miss you. He listens to what’s happening in between the words, not just what’s being said. The relief I feel when I am stammering on my sentences and he responds to the thought in my head is a relief that is deep. When I ask how he does it, he says because I see you, even when you can’t see yourself.

I’ll find you he said once. I took it to mean that he’d find me through the complicated obstacle course of life. There was something about it that I believed, even though I had no right or reason to. Regardless, I took those words in and they became his signature in my mind, his stamp of identity. Sometimes I couldn’t remember what he looked like, but the words would float across my mind and that was enough. Today, there are moments when I am truly lost. Where are you? I have no idea, somewhere near the appliances section. Or, Where are you? Hmmm, I think I parked on the second level. Or, Where are you love? Trapped in emotional hell. To all of these he replies I’ll find you.

The thing about him, is that he always does.

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I met myself alone in my apartment.

I went to bed at night and felt something like peace. This filled me with guilt. I woke up and went to work. A cried at work a few times. In the car, on walks. Most of my crying had already happened though, between meals and hidden from my children. At some point I just didn’t have anymore to let out.

I don’t know when it happened, but the hard moments stopped centering on letting go, and shifted to filling up. A slate had been wiped clean and I had an opportunity to add layers to myself. Or reveal layers that had calcified.

One of the first surprises was the return of my early 20s diet - soups and sandwiches. Having been shrouded in shame and shoved into a closet a decade ago, I now dusted that desire off, slipped it on and twirled in front of the mirror. I made gourmet sandwiches and paired them with soups from around the world. Different breads, condiments, vegetables, meats and spices. Fresh things! Fermented things! I experimented with combinations, delighting in new successes. For the first time in a long time, I embraced a once-rejected part of myself with excitement. A simple, nourishing part of myself that didn’t have to feed anybody but me.

I became inexplicably obsessed with action movies. Spy plots, explosions, unchecked egos - gimme. Good ones, bad ones, as long as it had decent fight scenes I gave it 5 stars. Quippy banter? Even better. I indulged in the ludicrous worlds of Mission Impossible and John Wick. Jason Stratham and Chris Hemsworth lulled me to sleep. I dreamt of chiseled jaws and rippling biceps. I suckled on guns and knives and explosives like rotating soothers. The Gray Man was my safe place, Ryan Gosling my best friend. Turns out your Divorce Genre (DG) is a thing, and my other divorced friend shared that her DG was sports documentaries. Overcoming the impossible really spoke to her. Blowing shit up really resonated with me. Sitting on her couch we laughed and laughed at our makeshift Band-Aids to our gaping wounds and then I left to watch all the Terminators. My Watch it Again list reads like a diary entry - it’s deeply personal and full cringe.

One of the surprises that shocked me and the nation was becoming a cat person. After my beautiful dog Houla died, I knew I wanted to share my home with another being, but it felt like a betrayal to a dog. I had long been drawn to the odd hairless Sphynx cat, and fired up Kijiji. It was quick. I saw a picture of a dark shadow with big eyes and knew we were meant to be. Her name is Baba Yaga and she lives up to her namesake. Her energy is deep and ancient, a bit witchy. She came home with me and we just knew how to be together. We both suffer morning sneezes, and choke on our food when we eat too quickly. I clean her face and bathe her, and she yells at me when it’s time for bed. She rubs her face into my neck, begging for closeness. I get it. We are perfect for each other.

It’s a special things when you can still surprise yourself, especially after 40. It’s like muscle building and synapses forming - new pathways being formed that create new life. One falls in love with oneself. And if somebody else falls in love with you, that’s just the icing on the cake. Or - the pesto on the sandwich.

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My husband and I have left the house to go for a Walk, the naming convention we have assigned the activity we announce to our children as we depart. The activity is a Walk but the purpose is to Talk. The Talk is about the Marriage and the Marriage has been under a microscope for careful observation for 8 months. Like any science experiment, seeing something you thought you knew magnified is unnerving, discombobulating - makes you question the universe. Our shock at seeing the Marriage and its ailing cells sent us into separate bedrooms, into therapy and into a stalemate of needs. But oh how we wanted a good grade on our lab effort.

We head west and walk with the heavy weight of blocked emotion, interrupted occasionally with the chime of bells as men shout ‘on your left!’ and whip past us on speed bikes. It’s 6pm and the sun is in my eyes. I have not worn sunglasses out of respect for the honesty needed for these Talks, but my eyes hurt and I worry about the wrinkles forming as I squint. Does my squinting reveal too much age? Am I pretty enough? I hate all these superfluous thoughts, but they are so familiar to me, I wonder if I am trying to comfort myself as we head into the unknown.

The Talks were tiring me out and I knew it. We kept circling the same issues, dizzying ourselves in urgent conversation. A painful Hora. It seemed I wasn’t able to put the perfect words in the perfect order for him to hear me. Nor could I hear him. I was starting to suspect that the problem wasn’t in our wording, but that the space between us could no longer translate our individual languages. Still, I had written and rewritten various statements to open the Talk with generosity, honesty and connection. I had not taken this task lightly because I wanted us to hear each other, I wanted to stop the spinning. And so I opened with my carefully curated statement, “I haven’t been trying to be selfish, I’ve been trying to be thorough.” This to me was honest and true - and spoke to his previous laments that I was taking too long in making a decision about the future. I had struggled with this request to helm our ship, to captain a sinking vessel. If I was going to take the wheel, I knew I needed to feel and think and understand everything. I knew the pain it was causing, but I was trying to protect my health, knowing that if I didn’t scrutinize every last detail and read the wind wrong, I may never sleep again. I may be blamed by children. I may die alone.

Well it feels selfish.

So many cuts, but I knew this one was fatal. My skin prickled and my face flushed. After months of holding my breath, this response finally punctured my lungs and my words fountained out of me. They came without my choosing, my body producing energy that my mouth formed into sound. Piercing through the fog of fear from the last few months, I suddenly felt how far gone it was; that a tone of voice could undo me so completely. My attempt at peace, derailed, because I couldn’t reach him anymore. My dying words came to me effortlessly.

This has to be over.

Overcome with the urge to walk a long distance a few days earlier, I had committed to it when I saw that the heat wave we were suffering was going to break on Saturday morning. I haven’t enjoyed the stifling heat and humidity as much as I used to, and my running routine has taken a hit because of it. But I was missing the feeling of movement, of thoughts flowing in rhythm to my arms and legs moving me onwards. So I decided that on Saturday morning I would walk 10km along the river and over the bridge into Ottawa, and back. Maybe I’d pick up a sandwich.  

I don’t like equipment, I don’t like over-preparedness. I just want to do the thing. When I have run my half-marathons, they have been without intentional training, without an audience, without water or gel packs -  just my feet and a goal. So I eat a decent breakfast to limit more burden in my backpack. It’s just 4 hours of walking. 

I leave the apartment that I live in, the space that I crave when I am away from it because it’s so beautiful and peaceful. I hit shuffle on my playlist. The first song that comes on is Jennifer Castle’s ‘Sailing Away’ and I note that it’s only 30 seconds into my walk before my first cry. And now I’m sailing away / I learn from the best, how to cut the rest and then I’ll take what I get and won’t want for anything / And now I’m sailing away / I don’t need a home, don’t need a lover I’ll be out on my own come hell or high water. I wipe the quiet river flowing down my cheeks and head towards the Outaouais, the river that so many of my tears have flowed into recently.

As I pass through the heart of the small town I live in, I see a man stepping out of the bakery. He has a paper bag in one hand and a coffee in the other. I know that inside the paper bag is his favourite fresh loaf of bread, available exclusively on Saturday mornings. I know he spoke French when he placed his order and that sometimes the staff reply to him in English but he sticks to French out of principle. I know that he will turn the corner and walk towards a house painted in Benjamin Moore’s Sunshine yellow, and a young dog will greet him. He will have to hold on tightly to his coffee when the dog jumps up for affection. I know he will put the bread on the kitchen counter and then immediately cut himself a slice, it is his favourite after all. I know that the children in the house will lumber into the kitchen from their rooms and cut themselves a piece too and then all my knowing stops. I don’t know what they will do today, I don’t know what they will talk about. I do not live there anymore. I do not know if my presence has been removed from the space that was our home, I do not know what is in each room. This violent and personal collision of my knowing and unknowing hits me hard, and my second cry begins 18 minutes into the long walk. This time it’s scored by Frazey Ford’s ‘September Fields’ (acoustic version) You better grab the best of your life / I know you're ready / To get older / Anyhow / Well all you have to do is wander  / Over fields of dark time / Where do you find yourself / Feeling lonesome / Do you reckon your body and your mind? 

By the time I reach the bike path that hugs the river shoreline, my tears have dried and my lungs have opened. Now I walk on the path sandwiched by trees on one side, the river on the other. The beaten paths that lead to rocky beach fronts where people have built fire pits are like quiet beckonings. I always want to follow them, they are so inviting. In the winter they are poetic. As the bike path rounds the rapids, the river rages and people park their bikes to watch the water, mezmorized. We are such simple creatures. I cross bridges that invoke a sense of wonder, wooden and old, escorting pedestrians over swamps and streams. While I am not yet of the age to consider myself a birder, I notice the ones I’m familiar with and feel a twinge of interest. It’s just a matter of time before I have a booklet of North American Birds in my backpack.

Like a children’s theatre crankie, all these images slowly move past me in a delightful reveal. The magic is in the slow pace of the experience. It’s the opposite of the endless dopamine hits I get all day with notifications and short reels and bursts of texts. I see a tree ahead and it takes me 2 minutes to get in front of it. Feeling the simplicity of one foot in front of the other is powerful. That’s all anything takes, isn’t it? One step. Then another, until you are somewhere new. The scenery of your life may not change drastically with each step, and you may wonder if you are moving at all. But eventually if you stop to notice, you will have to acknowledge that you are somewhere you were not. Each small step was movement, and the fact that it was so gentle you didn’t feel it, doesn’t mean it wasn’t happening. This, while The Tragically Hip’s Ahead by a Century plays. First thing we'd climb a tree / And maybe then we'd talk / Or sit silently / And listen to our thoughts / With illusions of someday / Cast in a golden light / No dress rehearsal / This is our life.

The walk took 4.5 hours. For all its gentleness, my body did ache. When the rain really started to come down, I felt strong. When it eased off, I felt grateful. I was thrilled I had packed dry socks and a shirt (but was equally thrilled I hadn’t overpacked) and changed in the bathroom of a grocery store (where I bought a sandwich). When I got home, I knew I had moved through something personal and necessary. Maybe I needed to embody the journey of many little steps, to affirm I am indeed somewhere new.

I’ve been staring at sheets hanging in my bedroom window for 68 days, like a banner lifted after a battle to be seen by all. I lost the battle because I have been unable to decipher the coding invented by IKEA - measurements. I have succumbed to the endless, multiple options that overwhelm me. There’s the measurement in my head vs the measurement I took with a measuring tape, but that number is semi-factual because props confuse me. The result of the emotional exhaustion in knowing measure twice, buy once, but really, I measured about 18 times on different days of my menstrual cycle so none of them can be trusted unless I note exactly which measurement was taken during my follicular phase and then suddenly I need the calendar app open, a calculator app, plus a chat thread with my friend about my overwhelm - has been 68 days of gloating. The only thing to do is to go to bed, keep staring at the sheets in the window, and consider my options for a rebellion. 

New Appliance

It’s funny how alive you feel when you learn how to use a new appliance. When you light a candle, pour some wine and open the manual to conquer your fear. Pressing START that first time is thrilling and deeply spiritual if it’s the right chapter of your life. 

Food

It’s not that I don’t want to eat fresh fruit, it's that I don’t want to buy fruit on a day I am craving it and then for it to sit and rot. I pass the fruit aisle and head to the veggies, which at least offer longevity. I don’t appreciate the giant bags that are meant to feed the mouths of a small familial army, when this week I am only feeding myself. I debate between a bag of potatoes or one or two singular ones, imagining the one-pot meals I would need to cook and freeze to make the bag worth it. I tally up my emotional grit based on the weather, work, fatigue and am unimpressed by the sum I arrive at. I move on to the breads and pastas; the jars of pickled everything; the frozen foods and dairy section. Every decision seems to reflect who I am, and who I’m going to be.  

5pm-9pm

The evening hours are the ones that hurt the most. Listless, sometimes hungry, and as sensitive as a fresh wound. I rely on two craft beers to reduce the pain and fight the swelling. I bandage the time with journaling. A walk to get the blood flowing, as those 4 hours are like an emotional tourniquet. I have a list of activities I’m supposed to be doing - hobbies - like reading or painting or sewing clothing for newborns, but I don’t have it in me. I eye the clock and ache for the hand to reach an acceptable bed-time. I slink into bed, sore and exhausted from the violent evening hours.

New

A singular cup of tea on the counter

A dog ageing quietly

Laundry on delicate

We are handed some forms and told that the information on them is extremely important and so to please take our time. Once completed, we are to ring the doorbell. I look to where he is pointing and there is a doorbell nailed to the wall outside of his office. It’s slightly crooked on its screw and looks like it was a solution to a bad day. He passes us some pens with his name on them, and my husband and I click them open and begin our extremely important work in capital letters. The forms are populated with the standard fields: name, date of birth, place of birth. Mother’s maiden name always makes me pause. I’m not sure why this is necessary, but I like writing my mother’s maiden name. This is who she was before, like her identity before marriage still means something.  None of the information is triggering, until my husband asks me what year we were married. I am hurt and say ‘2013’ and then look down at my form and see that I have written 2019. Maybe we are both frazzled. 

When we have both clicked our pens closed, I ring the crooked bell and we are ushered into the small office. Coats unzip and unsnap, chairs are scraped along the floor. We are told we can keep the pens. 

Our mediator is in his 70s, I would describe him as musically bumbling. He has a sing songy voice and a fluidity to his hand gestures that would be perfect for soothing the nervous systems of children on a kids TV show. There’s not a lot of eye contact, but he’s pleasant. He begins his rehearsed speech with “So I’m here to help you come up with a plan that you both agree on, as you go through this difficult time in your life.” 

The panic attack I’d been sustaining all morning, that crescendoed 15 minutes before our appointment, with me weeping on my bed into my blankie, re-emerges. While writhing in my anxiety, I had tried to deepen my breath (“it works for Navy Seals before they shoot somebody” - Instagram) to find calm. It had only sort of worked. Now in the office of this gentle man whose job it is to navigate emotional violence, my eyes water and tears stream down my face. I say between gulps ‘I need a tissue.’ Not a question, I am in a family lawyer’s office, I demand a tissue. ‘Actually I don’t have any.’ I look to my husband because the absurdity and juxtaposition of this is too much; with the doorbell on the wall and his Winnie-the-Pooh voice and no tissue available. Everything about this experience is a clown turn. My husband and I studied clown turns in Theatre School, we know this magic. But he does not look at me. Instead he fishes into his pocket and produces a napkin. It’s brown and made from recycled paper from his favourite coffee shop. He passes it to me and I take it tenderly, looking at him in thanks. He digs into his pocket again and produces a second napkin - white, stiff - and I take it, quietly tickled at his dedication, and the coming comedy. He shoves his hand back into his pocket and I burst out laughing because the power of threes (clown turn classic). But instead of a third napkin, he zips his pocket closed. I flinch. It stings, that he didn’t finish the bit. 

Our mediator goes through the whole speech while I try not to disturb anyone with my weeping. He’s rushing and mumbling and in between pauses, I notice that a pop radio station is playing in the background and Family Affair by Mary J Blige is playing. Lets get it crunk up on, Have fun up on, In this dancery-y-y-y-. I can hardly believe this is happening, the severity of the situation and the comedy of it. 

I can’t help it. I start to set the stage for the scene. I imagine the costume I’d put the mediator in. A big red nose, big suspenders (yellow), with a smart bowtie to show he is truly somebody important. He’d have papers stuffed and rolled in his pockets, of which there would be many in his oversized pants. Pens clipped to every edging of clothing, each one with its own purpose. Each signature would require a specific pen that of course he would have to search for and insist on. He’d forget where his glasses were, and of course, they’d always be on his head. He’d lick his finger with great intention before turning every page, his favourite part of the job. When the page didn’t turn, he’d lick his finger again and again, and when that finally didn’t work, he’d use his tongue directly, sending children in the audience into fits of laughter. The couple sitting timidly at the other side of the table would be in stark colour contrast - wearing dark clothes and their red noses would be smaller. One would be crying dramatically most of the time, the other sitting stiff as a board. The crying clown drops a paper, and the stiff one tries to bend over to pick it up but cannot make the trip down on account of his rigid body. The stiff one produces three tissues from his pocket for the use of the weeping clown (to finish the bit, thank you very much) and the weeping one mops up her tears. One comedy bit after another, in the office of a clown who has a sign above his desk that reads Family Affairs. 

But back to reality. After all signatures are obtained, our mediator explains that this session is only 30 minutes, but that we have homework for the next session. He produces two blue folders and shows us the stapled package inside. ‘At our next session, we will discuss the children.’ Instead I hear ‘At our next session we will divide your children in half, and they will never be whole again.’ The weeping starts again. We are to write out three custody schedules, so that we can pick one as close to our top priority as possible. Do we have any questions? Silence. I can’t feel my tongue and my mouth is glued shut. We tuck the folders under our arms and agree on the date of the next session. Three weeks. Three weeks to consider how often I may see my children. Three weeks to wonder how long it will take before I ache for them. Three weeks until we are sitting in this office again, carefully dismantling a life we have built, underscored by pop music and my quiet weeping. The power of three is not lost on me.

A litany of tasks I have to do to remain a contributing member of society and a reliable parent. 

• I won’t bore you 

• with the list 

• but it’s long.

It was a separation not just of a partner, but of everything that seemingly held me together. Now I have to meet and acquaint myself with who I am in this new phase. I’m apprehensive. Sometimes I really like her, and sometimes I am not sure I’d pursue. 

I have to stay open and true to where I am, which means allowing myself to cry at times, but then also explaining and checking in with the kids so they understand the context. 

I am still recovering from turning 41, officially in my 40s and facing the next half of my life. 

I need to respond to those texts, not out of obligation, but because I need to stay connected. I need to stay light and humorous because all of this is ridiculous. 

I’m holding everything together and I still catch myself focusing on the imperfections; those developing wrinkles, the item that hasn’t been crossed off the list, a missed call that I can’t bring myself to return. I have to prioritize sleep and hydration. I have to prioritize making the space tidy and beautiful. I need scented candles. These small things bring me calm. 

Chasing calm and clarity is my focus. Putting pen to paper or fingers to keyboard again. Capturing moments, living them and sharing them. Getting them out of my brain and body. Putting myself out into the universe.

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It comes as a surprise when social media nudges me with a fitness program and I stop scrolling. The click bait is an image of a woman with purple war paint across her eyes, frozen in motion while using the battle ropes. She looks strong. And sexy. And fearless. She’s clearly battling a war, and she’s the hero. The text outlines a search for women looking to commit to an intensive 6 week program designed to weed out the weak. Something about the threat of being held accountable, and the allure of a challenge and wanting to prove to myself that I am not weak, catches my eye. Without fully understanding in the moment why, my body reacts to the words on the tiny screen and before I know it, my thumb is hovering over the ‘Click Here’ button. 

It’s been a tough year. My heart has been stretched and bent in ways I didn’t think physics allowed. There has been some ventricle crushing that has sometimes affected my ability to breathe. Self diagnosed with takotsubo, the shape of my heart has undoubtedly changed, adapting to stress and breakage. I can feel it at night, pounding out its worry and sorrow. 

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We all begin at the starting line, and cross the finish line with varying displays of grace, fatigue or commitment. We are born into it and we all finish. You may not even know you are running, but you are. 

We all start out with different levels of support, awareness, equipment and motivation. It’s advantageous to have health, but I have seen people who develop their health over the course of the journey - so it’s not a dealbreaker to start at a disadvantage. Is your family on the sidelines? Maybe you are on your own, or have a friend with you. Maybe you wish for one or the other. Did you eat? Everything we show up with can be useful, but they are not determining factors for crossing the red tape. Everything we do between the start and finish is a choice. 

We can choose our pace, our thoughts, our mental state. We can choose when or if to refuel. Do we recognize the importance in slowing down to realign? We can slow to a walk and catch our breath, or push past the crowd for some breathing room. Do we stay positive or do we start comparing ourselves to others? We can lock into somebody with amazing form and try to mimic their style and see if it spurs us forward. We may run with somebody for a while. Then we may let them pass us, feeling the sting of being left behind. Or we may decide to overtake them. It’s not personal. We can take what we need from each person, or stay in our inner world and trust that what we have is enough to cross the finish line. We may follow the path, or take a trail unmarked, and hope we meet up with a group again.

We can decide what we notice. That bird overhead, those blooming flowers. Everything is a gift if we want it to be. When we get tired, are we choosing to push too hard, or lighten our step? We can choose to breathe deeply, and keep our form strong, even when dark thoughts start creeping in. We can hunch over and start to panic, or lift our chest and drop our shoulders. Incredibly, that usually helps. There is no right or wrong, only hard and harder.

I have found that at 40, the second half of the Long Run is the hardest part, but it can reveal astounding things. It might be the moment we discover there is strength not yet tapped into. We might pace ourselves with others, feeling inspired. You will certainly ache and sweat and wonder if you will make it, but the thing about the finish line is that once you cross it, everything will have been worth it. 

Day 1: I planted the bulbs that my friend gave me. He had prepared 6 pots with black soil mixed with fertilizer, and handed me a paper bag of tulip bulbs, and garlic bulbs. He gave them to me because the future is uncertain and he didn’t want me to stop planting things. “Tout est une graine. Ce que vous plantez pousse. Même si vous n'en profitez pas, l'important est de planter la graine.” Emotional Translation: plant at every opportunity and don’t worry about the outcome. 

It took me a few days to find the faith in that, and then to access the energy to do it.

The weather has turned sharply, and the soil was already frozen in clumps against my hori hori knife. I dug into the soil and planted the bulbs, 4 or 5 to a pot. I felt the loamy soil envelop the bulbs, still warm under the surface. I covered them, and carried the pots to a sunny spot. Here they will sit all winter, collecting ice and snow, seemingly taking a beating that any delicate tulip or garlic head should surrender to. Instead, they will use the dark and the cold to collect energy, grow stronger roots and then bloom in the early spring - a signal to the rest of us that it’s time to blossom too. 

Day 2: I had to leave early in the morning for the office, so I went into my son’s room to kiss him goodbye. He moaned his protest against waking up, but reached for my face in the dark, and we kissed. I thought of the phenomenon that humans can always find lips in the dark. I wished him a good day, but then he jumped out of bed and started to rush to get dressed. I said ‘you still have a few minutes honey, you don’t need to rush’. And he replied ‘I want to be in the window to wave to you like you wave to me.’ A few minutes later, as I drove out of the driveway, I waved to my son standing in the living room window blowing kisses and waving, alternating between the two, just like I do when he leaves for school. What a lovely way to start the day.  

Day 3: When your meme/gif game with your bestie is on FIRE and both parties are laughing out loud at the nuanced choices that communicate so much. 

Day 4: My daughter has requested that I speak to my therapist about what she describes as ‘your ageing wound.’ My new obsession with trying to maintain my youth seems to have been activated by my latest birthday which catapulted my awareness of time’s visual effects on my appearance. Sometimes I wake up and feel like my 40 years are sitting well, and other days I wonder who that old lady is in the mirror and denounce all lighting other than candle light. I have entertained anti-ageing remedies like facial peels, botox, needling. My algorithm in sensing a chink in my armour and has carried out multiple attacks. I finally made a decision and landed on some serums that promised to reduce the appearance of life on my face. Face yoga was next, convincing me that these facial exercises would ease off signs of being human. I happen to love the word serum, and I love massage, so why not.  I slather these precious serums on my face in secret, like a troll under a bridge, delighted in the possibility of regaining my youth. I tout my face yoga as lymphatic massage, to avoid nosey questions. Every morning and evening is a little secret party for myself, just like when I was 24.

Day 5: The back and forth with your best friend about what book to read, given the Climate of Life. 

Day 6: A sleepover at my parent’s house, with my son. I wake up next to him and both of us laugh hysterically while re-telling stories from the night and we build on moments within our recounting that makes us laugh even harder. I am so excited to be able to have these moments more often with my beautiful son. 

Day 7: Making supper and using leftovers seamlessly in a new meal. Emptying the fridge of one container and placing it in the dishwasher. Appreciating the meal-plan that had prepared for this usage. The kids eating the meal. 

Day 8: My daughter accompanied me on a trip to the pharmacy so we could restock on shampoo and conditioner. I loathe the inordinate prices, all for the same useless ingredients. Shampoo/Conditioner branding really gets under my skin. On the way to the cashier, my daughter gently asks, ‘Should I ask for mascara now, or next week when you aren’t ovulating?’ This made me burst out laughing and since she knows her audience so well, she got the mascara.

Day 9: The dog walks. Morning, afternoon, early evening and night. My dog has taken to refusing to walk once she feels grass and soft earth under her paws. She’ll sit, and lift her nose in the air, usually facing the river, even if she can’t see it. I have come to copy her on these occasions. I think she might be onto something. 

Day 10: Music as therapy: Hide and Seek by Imogen Heap, Solsbury Hill by Peter Gabriel, Alco by Half Moon Run, The Valley Town by Elliot Brood, New Perspective by Noah Kahan, Pour mieux s’unir by AuDen. Some songs hit different, and can change my thought patterns, lower my anxiety more than all the walks and talks and all the best practices I have in this life.