The news of Dolly Parton’s death has touched so many of us.

We grew up listening to Dolly. Her songs were classics -the kind you knew by heart. Songs about love, heartbreak, strength, independence, hope, and finding your way through life.

But Dolly gave us so much more than music.

Her enormous blonde wigs. The rhinestones. The humour. The way she could laugh at herself before anyone else had the chance.

She could play the “dumb blonde” stereotype because she knew exactly who she was. She knew she was smart. She knew her worth. And she didn’t need to prove it to anyone.

Dolly showed women that we could be feminine without being fragile. Ambitious without apologizing. Successful without becoming hardened. Kind without being weak.

She showed us that we could create our own path, even when other people underestimated us.

And she showed us that you can have a lot and still choose to give a lot.

She used her voice, her success, her business, and her influence to lift people up. She gave books to children. She supported education. She helped communities. She created opportunities.

She didn’t just build a life. She used the life she built to make other lives better.

And that’s the kind of example we want our daughters to grow up with.

To know they don’t need permission to become who they are.

To dream big.

To take up space.

To laugh at themselves.

To speak up when something matters.

To be strong and soft. Ambitious and generous.

Dolly reminds us to:

Use our voice.

Take the risk.

Be a little ridiculous sometimes.

Laugh at yourself.

Love generously.

Give what you can.

And when you have the opportunity to make someone else’s life a little lighter, do it.

Maybe the tribute we can give Dolly is to be a little more Dolly.

A little braver.
A little kinder.
A little more generous.
A little less afraid to be ourselves.
And a whole lot more willing to use what we have to make someone else’s world brighter.

I can almost hear that sweet Dolly giggle and see that enormous smile. I think she’d like that so, let’s all be a little more Dolly.

I’m not one to have regrets, but I do feel sad about how little I’ve appreciated my body.

Not because it was perfect (it wasn’t), but because no matter what it looked like, I always found something to criticize.

My stomach was never flat.
I had no waistline.
My arms were never toned.
My neck was short
There was always something.

Looking back now, I wonder, what I was even comparing myself to? This was before social media so I honestly don’t know.

But I know that I don’t ever remember looking in the mirror and thinking, “look at you”.

Maybe in the right outfit, on the right night. But never just my body. Never just me.

And I don’t remember ever thanking my body. That’s what I regret.

As I look back at photos of my twenties, thirties and forties, I don’t see what I saw then. I see myself so differently. I wish I could have seen myself that way then.

The truth is that now I admire the strength in my arms - that have been massaging faces for 30 years.

I appreciate the belly that carried my baby at 40.

I wish I had thanked my body for everything it did for me, instead of focusing on everything it wasn’t.

I spent alot of time focused on what I wish I could fix.

If a friend walked into a room, I would never judge her stomach, thighs or waist. I would notice the things I love about her. I wish I had done more of that for myself.

At 62, I’m not interested in pretending I suddenly love everything about my body but I don’t want to spend any more time looking for what’s wrong with it. I’ve spent enough years doing that.

Thank you to everyone who has followed along, shared your dating horror stories and offered dating suggestions.

I’ve heard about fake profiles, scammers, people who just disappear after weeks of chatting, and grown men who think it’s acceptable to date multiple women while making one women feel like they’re the only one.

What the heck? You’re a grown-ass man. Behave like one.

Women don’t expect perfection but we do expect honesty, respect, and basic communication skills. If you’re not interested, just say so. If you’re not ready to date, just say so. If you’re seeing other women, be upfront.

Dating shouldn’t involve detective work.

Now, I’m grateful that I haven’t encountered any of these goons but here’s what I’ve encountered...and I don’t like it.

A man liking my profile and messaging:

“Message me…” No, just no. You liked my profile. Thank you. I appreciate the digital thumbs-up but then you expect me to message you?

Sir… that’s lazy. If you’re interested, take five minutes to actually read my profile and start a conversation based on something I wrote. Show some curiosity. Show some effort.

“I noticed you like travelling….where was your last trip?” or “I saw you enjoy salsa dancing… any other kind of dancing?”

That tells me you did more than look at my profile photos.

And now, an update on my distance man.

We’re still casually texting and he still doesn’t know my name but I have to admit that the texting is starting to feel boring. Maybe he’s someone who is better in person. Maybe he’s better on a phone call. Maybe the chemistry just isn’t there but time will tell.

And for your enjoyment, I want to share some more REAL profile gems:

“I’m not a photographer, but I can picture us together.”
It’s a classic… but NO.

“I like motorcycles and 80s hair.”
I have questions…mostly about the hair.

“My next adventure will be finding a pretty girl to chase around so that she can catch me.”
Sir… this is dating, not a game of tag.

“I am looking for a girlfriend, and perhaps a partner, if things go well. Long term if it’s in the tea leaves.”
Good grief…. I didnt realize that tea leaves handle the screening process.

“All I want is friends with benefits after just getting out of a 10-year relationship.”
I respect your honesty but are we talking a friend with benefits, or a friend with a dental plan?

““I believe life is beautiful and I would like to create memories with someone special.”
Somewhere a greeting card company is smiling… but I’m not.

“In search of my last first kiss.”
Okay, that’s a lot of responsibility for one pair of lips. I’m just looking for a coffee date.

“Very active and fit. If you’re not doing the same every day, I’m probably not for you.”
I admire the discipline… but you’re right, I’m not. Bugger off.

So still no coffee date but there have been lots of laughs, lots of eye rolling, and lots of “Did I read that correctly?”

This experience has made one thing very clear.

Effort is attractive. Honesty is attractive. Consistency is attractive. And showing up as the grown man you claim to be is attractive. Pick up lines are not.

I think most people are looking for someone genuine - someone who communicates, puts in the effort, and treats others with the same respect they would want for the people that they love. Those are relationship goals.

In the meantime, thank you for joining me on this wild journey.

Is this who we’ve become?

A culture where so much of our energy, conversation, and attention is spent trying to stay younger, thinner, smoother, smaller.

There’s:

Micro-dosing GLP-1s.
Collagen peptides.
Creatine.
Hormone optimization.
Intermittent fasting.
Red light therapy.
Anti-aging skincare.
Protein goals.
Longevity hacks.
Menopause supplements.

Another podcast. Another expert. Another promise. Another thing we’re told we should be doing if we want to stay young, stay thin and relevant.

What shocks me is that they all carry the same message:

Don’t age. Don’t gain weight. Don’t look like you’ve lived.

And then I hear women proudly say, “I fit into my daughter’s jeans.” It’s a flex to celebrate. Women applaud yet I wonder... what are we celebrating?

It’s not health. it’s youth. We measure success by how well we can cling to youth.

And I wonder…Is this really what we want our daughters to learn?

Because they are watching.

They hear the way we talk about our bodies.

They notice the way we look in the mirror.

They absorb the conversations about wrinkles, weight, food, and aging.

They are learning what we believe makes a woman worthy.

we don’t want our daughters to believe that the goal is to spend their lives fighting time.

We want them to see women who are alive in every season.

Women who care for themselves because they value themselves.

Women who understand they are more than their waist size.

More than smooth skin.

More than a number on a scale or a size on a tag.

Because we spend our lives becoming. Wiser. More compassionate. More resilient. More discerning. More ourselves.

Those are the things I want to celebrate with a woman.

Tell me about the experience that changed you.

The risk you took.

The boundary you set.

The dream you finally pursued.

The lesson you learned.

Because women are endlessly interesting and while our bodies are part of our story. they aren’t the whole story.

Maybe the most beautiful thing about a woman isn’t how well she has fought aging. Maybe it’s how fully she has lived.

I would guess most of us have seen the movie Mean Girls. It was a teen comedy that satirized high school cliques, teenage bullying, and the painful ways girls sometimes try to gain power by deciding who belongs and who doesn’t.

The sad truth is that this isn’t just high school behaviour.

Mean girls grow into mean women.

I’ve been having some fabulous conversations with women lately, and one heartbreaking theme keeps surfacing.

Women hurting women. Not teenagers. Grown women.

They shared stories of being excluded from friendships, intentionally left out of gatherings, talked about behind their backs, judged, undermined at work, criticized, and made to feel like they weren’t enough.

The most heartbreaking part was the shame they carried. They asked me not to share their stories. They felt embarrassed.

Imagine that. Strong, capable women questioning themselves.

“How did this happen?”

“Did I do something wrong?”

No woman should ever feel ashamed because another woman chose to be unkind.

The truth is that many of us have experienced some version of this. Sometimes it’s obvious. More often, it’s subtle.

That dismissive look. The snub. Walking into a room and feeling like you don’t belong. A conversation that abruptly stops when you approach. A condescending comment. A compliment with a sting attached.

The person delivering the snub doesn’t give it a second thought while the person receiving it feels the sting.

And let’s talk about grown women bullies.

As adults, bullying looks different. It’s more subtle, more polished, and harder to call out.

Gossip becomes character attacks.

Cliques become closed circles.

Exclusion becomes carefully chosen invitations, conversations you’re not included in, and making someone feel like they don’t belong.

It can happen in friendships, mommy groups, workplaces, boardrooms, between managers, coworkers, and employees.

Women disguise bullying with “I’m just being honest,” “That’s just my personality,” “I’m only trying to help,” or “You’re too sensitive.”

Making a woman feel small doesn’t make you bigger. So why do we do this to one another?

I think it’s jealousy or insecurity disguised as superiority.

The condescending comments. The subtle put-downs. The need to feel superior to someone else.

But the strongest, truly confident women don’t diminish women. They compliment, encourage, celebrate and inspire.

Another woman’s success, confidence, beauty, intelligence, or happiness doesn’t take anything away from us. There is room for all of us.

Now, we all carry childhood wounds. We all have a story but we also have a responsibility for who we choose to become. A difficult past may explain behaviour but it does not excuse hurting others. Pain doesn’t give us permission to pass pain on.

Healing requires honesty, self-awareness, and accountability. So heal, unlearn and do the work. Because we repeat what we haven’t healed.

I consider myself a kind woman, and I have no room in my life for women who need to tear other women down. I won’t tolerate it. We get to choose who has access to our lives, our energy, and our hearts.

So, in a world that already asks so much of women, can we please be each other’s safe place? Can we show our daughters what confidence, kindness, and inclusion truly look like?

Let’s be the women who build tables instead of walls. Who celebrate instead of compete. Who welcome instead of exclude. Who leave other women feeling stronger, not smaller.

We CAN do better.

Have you ever been excluded or bullied by another woman or group of women? This is an uncomfortable but important conversation women need to have.

Since writing “Am I Ready to Create Space for A Relationship?”, I’ve received a lot of messages asking “So, what are you doing about it?”

Fair question. It’s one thing to say you’re open to creating space for a relationship. It’s another to actually create the space.

So...one month ago, I did something I never imagined I’d do. I joined a dating app.

This is my first experience ever with online dating so I had no idea what to expect.

I’d heard the stories. Some funny, some frustrating, some surprisingly sweet…but I felt that I couldn’t have an opinion without experiencing it myself.

So here's my honest experience after one month.

It’s been entertaining, eye-opening and at times disappointing and I haven’t even been on a date. Not because no one has asked. Because, honestly, no one has sparked enough curiosity for me to say yes.

What I’ve missed

I miss male conversation. Not because my girlfriends aren’t amazing - they are but I miss a different perspective, the humour, the banter. The conversations that make you think and see the world a little differently.

So I put myself out there…. Honestly. No sexy photos. No carefully curated version of myself. No pretending to be someone I’m not. This is me. Take it or leave it.

For safety, I used a different first name. Every women will understand why.

And one of the nicest surprises?

The two people I connected with most both live more than five hours away. Apparently, that’s my dating strategy. One has become an online friend, the other is someone I’m still getting to know.

We’re both newbies to online dating. We’re both a little awkward. Neither of us knows the rules. And somehow, that makes it easier. No games. No pretending. Just honest conversation. It’s nice.

Five and a half hours is a long way for coffee, so I’m realistic about where it’s going but I enjoy our conversations. We’re two people who are curious about each other and connection starts with conversation.

Let’s talk about the profiles...Oy.

Now, I’ve been told I’m too particular. Maybe I am but at this stage of life, I’m okay with that.

Dating apps are built on first impressions, and apparently I have a few that I can’t unsee:

1. Teva sandals. I know they’re comfortable and practical “dad sandals”... but sorry. I just can’t.

2. Posing with a fish. Congratulations on your catch but again, not for me.

3. Sunglasses in every photo. I’d like to see your eyes. What are you hiding?

4. Photos from your twenties. We all looked good back then. I’d like to meet the man you are today.

5. Not smiling. Life is serious enough. Please let me know that you know how to laugh.

6. Poor spelling and grammar. Sorry. Effort matters so it’s an automatic no.

And then there were the bios...I honestly couldn’t make these up.

“Everything still works, just not under warranty.”

“I have a randy 18-year-old trapped inside me.”

“Most men want one night... a gentleman wants every night.”

And my personal favourite:

“Looking for someone to finish me off.” I’m sure he meant, “finish this chapter of my life.” At least...I hope he did but sir, it’s still a no. 😂

And then came the messages.

“Hey there, I like your profile.”

You’re a sixty year old man and that’s your opening line? Really?

Tell me something. Ask me something. Give me a reason to respond. I’m not looking for a perfectly crafted message. Just a real conversation. Because that’s what interests me.

It’s not really about the photos. Of course there has to be some physical attraction but what truly captures my attention is a great mind.

Curiosity. Kindness. Humour. A quick wit. That’s attractive. “Hey there, I like your profile” is not.

I want to know how you see the world, what makes you laugh and what you’re passionate about. That’s where attraction begins for me.

Now before anyone tells me that online dating works... I know. I have friends who have met incredible partners - companionship they never expected.

I love a beautiful love stories. So this isn’t a post about dating apps. It’s more about what I’ve discovered about myself.

So... what have I discovered?

Not what I expected.

I thought creating space meant making room for someone else. Instead, I think it meant making room within myself. Room to be open. Room to be curious. Room to let someone into an already beautiful life.

I’m not looking for someone to complete me. I already feel complete and need to meet someone who feels the same. Someone who has built a life he loves and would enjoy sharing it. Someone who feels like a soft place to land and someone I can be that for too.

I’ve committed to giving this little experiment three months.

Who knows where it will lead? Maybe nowhere. Maybe somewhere completely unexpected.

Either way, I’ve already learned that I don’t want to spend this chapter of my life scrolling through profiles, analyzing photos and filling my calendar with coffee dates. I’d much rather spend my time living my life.

I have a feeling the kind of connection I’m looking for will happen more organically. Through conversation, through mutual friends, through travel or just by living life. That feels much more like me.

So where does that leave me?

With a heart that’s open. A life that’s already full. And confidence that if someone wonderful crosses my path, I’ll happily make room for him. Not because I need him. Because I choose him.

Maybe that’s what creating space was really about all along.

Although...I’m still working on the Tevas,,,,but growth takes time.

She stepped off the bus after months of tree planting in Northern Ontario.

Her skin was tanned. Her hair was wild. Her body was covered in bug bites. Her nails were dirty from digging.

And somehow, I’ve never seen her look more beautiful.

Not because of how she looked.

Because of how she carried herself.

There was something different about her.

More grounded.

More certain.

A confidence that comes from finding your way through the self-doubt and discovering you can do something really hard.

That is such a gift.

She told me there were moments when she cried.

Moments when she wondered if she had made the right decision.

Moments when she wasn’t sure she could do it.

She was far outside her comfort zone.

But she stayed.

And somewhere along the way, she found her rhythm, found her people, and found out she was stronger than she knew.

When Kalyna decided to go tree planting, it was because she wanted to “build character”.

She wanted to challenge herself.

To spend time in nature.

To do meaningful work.

To put herself somewhere that would ask more of her.

And it did.

But what she found wasn’t only about the work.

She found community.

She built friendships with people who shared the early mornings, the long days, sore bodies, bug bites, laughter, frustrations, and the small victories that came with each day.

The kind of friendships that happen when you do something difficult together.

I’m so proud of her.

Not because it was easy. Because it wasn’t.

I’m proud because she moved through the self-doubt, the hard moments, and the days when she questioned herself.

And she kept going.

I think every parent understands this feeling.

You spend years wanting to protect your children from hard things, while also knowing that some lessons can only come from experiencing life for themselves.

We can encourage them.

We can remind them who they are.

We can stand beside them.

But eventually, they have to discover their own strength.

People often assume that because I work in the beauty industry, I must have raised my daughter with a strong focus on appearance.

The truth is, I cared much more about who she was becoming than how she looked.

Of course I want her to feel beautiful. Every mother does.

But I never wanted beauty to be the thing she measured herself against.

Yes, I believe in taking care of your skin. I believe healthy skin is part of healthy living.

But beauty, to me, is so much deeper.

It’s healthy confidence.

It’s self-worth.

It’s feeling comfortable in your own skin.

There is no serum, treatment, or facial that can create that feeling.

When Kalyna was growing up, I wanted her to know that the things I admired most about her had nothing to do with appearance.

Her kindness. her curiosity, her courage, her independence, her willingness to think for herself.

Even as a little girl, she asked endless questions, noticed things others missed, and looked at the world in her own way. She was never afraid to find her own path.

Tree planting didn’t create those qualities, it simply gave her another opportunity to see them in herself.

Kalyna, I hope you always remember this summer.

The hard days, the bug bites, the dirty hands, the friendships, the laughter.

The moments when you wondered if you could do it.

And the moment you realized you could.

Because life will bring challenges.

But now you know something about yourself that no one else can give you.

You can find your way through them.

And what a gift that is.

What a joy it is to watch you become more and more yourself.

I love you. ❤️

I’ve just returned from a visit to my hometown of Winnipeg.

While I was there, a friend texted me “come over.” That was it. No week’s notice, no elaborate planning, no apologies about the house, no, “let me see if Thursday works”, just, “come over.” Within 30 minutes I was sitting in her living room, having a fabulous conversation, enjoying some snacks and iced tea while catching up on life.

Then I dropped in, unannounced, to visit my aunt and uncle. They were so happy to see me. There was no “I wish you’d called first.” No embarrassment that the house wasn’t perfect. No rushing around trying to tidy up. My aunt offered me something to drink, pulled out a plate of sweets, and we settled in to a great visit. For them, having company wasn’t a production, it was a pleasure.

On the flight home, I kept thinking about my many visits and that somewhere along the way, many of us, including myself, have confused hospitality with a curated performance.

The charcuterie board must have the right meats and cheeses.

The wine must be perfectly paired.

The flowers must be fresh.

The house must be spotless.

The backyard must look like it belongs in a magazine.

This is most definitely not how I grew up.

My parents didn’t have a dining room set for the first eight years of their marriage. As a family, they hosted big holiday dinners around long folding tables covered with a table pad and tablecloth. Even the chairs folded.

No one cared.

I grew up with people dropping by our house because they were in the neighbourhood. Coffee went on. Whatever was in the fridge was offered. No one measured my parents’ hospitality by the quality of the food they served or whether there were fresh flowers on the table.

People came because they wanted to be together. And that’s what they remembered. Not the furniture. Not the dishes. Not the food. The people.

Yet, somewhere along the way, society has created an unrealistic expectation of what hosting should look like and I’ve bought into it.

I don’t invite people over for dinner very often. Working full-time, the house is rarely in order, and planning the perfect menu is overwhelming.

So instead of inviting people imperfectly, I don’t invite them at all.

I realize how ridiculous that is.

I have friends who are exceptional cooks and incredible hosts. I love being invited into their homes and experiencing the beautiful meals they create but that’s their gift, it’s not mine.

So I’m trying to release myself from that pressure. I’m working on becoming a “Come over” person. Someone who invites people into my home for simple, non-’Food & Wine Magazine’ meals. No performance. No pressure.

I’m creating a little “drop-in shelf” in my kitchen cupboard. Just crackers, dip, nuts, a little chocolate, coffee and tea. Simple things I’ll always have on hand so an unexpected visit feels welcome instead of stressful.

I’m also creating a few simple meals that I love making. Meals that I can serve to friends over and over again. No pressure.

I don’t want a knock at the door to make me think: I’m not ready for guests.

I want it to make me think: I’m so glad you popped by.

The food will be simple. The house will be lived in. The mail will likely be piled on the dining room table and the clean laundry will likely still be waiting to be folded.

But years from now, I hope people remember the warmth of walking through my door. I hope they remember the laughter, the conversations, and the feeling that they were always welcome.

And I hope they know there will always be room for them at my table.

This is a big vulnerable one!

I’ve been single for eight years. While our separation was amicable without betrayal, or bitterness, it was sad. Sometimes relationships simply run out of steam and reach their natural conclusion. Ours did.

I never imagined I would be alone at 62. I believed in forever. I believed the person I chose would be the person I would grow old with. I imagined we’d navigate life’s seasons together, celebrate milestones, and eventually look back on a beautiful shared lifetime.

But life doesn’t always unfold the way we think it will.

That doesn’t diminish what we shared for over 23 years. It doesn’t make it a failure. It simply means that forever wasn’t meant to be our story.

What followed was a life I never expected.

I helped raise an incredible human. I built a successful business. I created a life that reflected who I am and what and who matter most to me.

And being single stopped feeling temporary and it became my life. A life I’ve grown to love.

I learned how to make decisions on my own. I learned how to trust myself. I discovered people and interests that brought me joy and was completely comfortable in my own company.

I wasn’t waiting for my life to begin, I was already living it but truth be told, it’s not easy to build a life of one in a world that celebrates twos. Dinner parties are for 4, 6 or 8 people. Weekend getaways are planned around couples. Invitations naturally assume there will be a partner..

As a single person, you need to learn to navigate those spaces. You learn to arrive alone. You learn to sit at a table surrounded by couples without feeling incomplete. You learn that your worth isn’t determined by whether someone is sitting beside you.

There are aspects of my life that some of my married friends find enviable. Not because their marriages are unhappy, but because every life comes with trade-offs.

I have autonomy.

Freedom.

Space.

My time is my own. My decisions are my own. My life is my own.

And I’m happy.

As a single person, I watch the beauty and the heartbreak of long-term relationships around me. I love seeing couples who genuinely like each other, who are best friends, who still laugh together and face life’s challenges as a team. At the same time, I see couples who are lonely, disconnected, and have grown apart but choose to remain together.

I don’t say this with judgment. Life is complicated, and every relationship carries its own story.

But being alone doesn’t frighten me. Being lonely in a relationship does. There’s a sadness in sharing a life with someone and feeling unseen, unheard, or disconnected.

For me, having a relationship has never been the goal. Being in the right relationship is.

Over the last few days, there has been a heaviness I haven’t been able to shake. Not sadness or loneliness, just a heaviness. I htought that maybe it has something to do with losing my father. Grief has a way of revealing truths we didn’t realize we were carrying.

Yesterday morning, as I was opening the blinds, I felt a surprising sense of clarity.

For years, I’ve lived in my masculine energy—leading, planning, providing, solving, organizing, and carrying. Life required it of me. And truthfully, much of it comes naturally.

When something needs to get done, I just do it. . When life gets complicated, I find a way through it. When people need support, I show up. That’s who I am.

I’ve always considered my strength and resilience great qualities. But they have prevented me from giving myself permission to soften.

To stop carrying everything.

To stop feeling like the person who always has to hold it all together.

It’s not that I need someone, it’s that I miss having a soft place to land.

There is a difference.

I don’t need someone to complete me.

And I certainly don’t need saving.

I want a place to exhale. A soft place to land. That was a huge revelation for me!

So now the question isn’t whether I’m ready for a relationship.

It’s whether I’m ready to create space for one.

My life is already very full. Is there room for someone else?

Perhaps the next chapter isn’t about proving how independent I am. I know I can do life on my own.

The question now is whether I want to.

I don’t have the answer. Not yet.

But for the first time ever, I may be open to the conversation.

A 40th birthday facial.

I remember feeling excited when I saw the booking. Turning 40 is such a fabulous milestone. A new decade - honouring the woman you’ve become.

I was really looking forward to meeting her. When she arrived, she was exactly the kind of person you instantly like. Bright. Warm. Funny. Full of life.

We talked about the excitement of forty. Except she wasn’t excited. She was anxious.

We talked about her skincare routine. She mentioned she had previously had Botox and filler. I asked her about it - not from a place of judgment, but out of genuine curiosity. What had she had done? What made her decide? Was she happy with the results?

She smiled and said: “Everyone’s doing it. I’m a bit of a late bloomer. I was 39 when I first had Botox. I wish I’d started preventative aging sooner.”

I remember sitting there thinking……Late for what?

You’re not late for anything. You’re a beautiful, vibrant woman turning forty yet somewhere along the way you’ve been made to feel like you’ve missed a deadline. A deadline to prepare for something you’ve’d been taught to fear.

Aging.

Why do so many women feel this way about turning 40? Why does a milestone that should be celebrated so often arrive with anxiety? We’ve all heard women say they want their 40th birthday to “just come and go.” Why has turning 40 become something to dread?

For generations, women have been taught that youth is one of their greatest assets. That beauty has an expiration date. That getting older means losing something.

Women have often been valued for how young they look, how desirable they are, and how well they maintain the appearance of youth.

Meanwhile, aging in men has often been framed differently—as experience, confidence, and distinction.

A woman ages. A man becomes distinguished.

And somewhere along the way, we accepted this as normal. And then a term was created around preventing the inevitable.

“Preventative aging.”

This sounds harmless, even responsible but underneath it is a powerful message: That AGING IS A PROBLEM. That something natural needs to be controlled before it even happens.

Botox is a choice. Filler is a choice. Skincare is a choice. Every woman has the right to decide what feels good and right for her.

The issue isn’t the choices women make, it’s the fear that drives those choices.

The formula is simple: Create insecurity and then offer the solution.

Women are surrounded by messages telling them to worry about wrinkles before they exist. To protect themselves from looking older before they’ve even had the chance to appreciate who they are becoming.

Instead of asking: “How can I care for my skin?” We’ve been encouraged to ask: “How can I stop looking older?” There is a difference. Caring for yourself comes from love. Trying to outrun yourself comes from fear.

I think about my own 40th birthday.

I was pregnant with my first baby. I remember feeling so incredibly beautiful. Not because I looked younger or because my skin was perfect but because I felt grounded, strong, and present. My body was creating life.

Forty didn’t feel like something I needed to fight. It felt powerful.

I wish turning 40 wasn’t a countdown of everything we need to fix before we get there. I wish we celebrated the woman arriving at that milestone.

When did a 40-year-old face become something to correct?

When did wisdom and experience become less valuable than looking younger?

This is not about telling women what they should or shouldn’t do. Women deserve complete freedom over their own bodies.

Want Botox? That’s your choice.

Want filler? That’s your choice.

Want nothing at all? That’s your choice too.

But before making any choice, I hope you ask yourself:

“Am I choosing this because it makes me feel good, or because I’ve been made to feel like I’m not enough without it?”

Those are very different places to come from.

Don’t let anyone convince you that your future self is something to fear.

Don’t let a marketing message convince you that aging is a problem waiting to happen.

Your face is not a problem to solve.

Your wrinkles are not a failure.

Your age is not something to apologize for.

You do not need to race against time.

You do not need to fight a battle you were never meant to fight.

Care for your skin. Celebrate yourself. Make choices that feel good. But don’t give away your power. Because the most beautiful thing you can become is not younger. It’s more yourself.

There is no deadline for being beautiful.

No age where a woman becomes less interesting, less relevant, or less worthy.

And there is no such thing as being “late” to becoming yourself.

Forty is not too old. Forty is not too late. It’s a milestone. A privilege. A beginning. Every year that brought you here is something to honour. Because the woman you are today and the woman you’re still becoming is worth celebrating.

I am the proud daughter of immigrants.

Everything I have today is rooted in a story of arrival, hardship, and kindness.

During World War II, both of my grandparents fled Ukraine with their young children. In 1949, Canada welcomed them. They arrived with very little—just hope, resilience, and the determination to start again. They never forgot the kindness from strangers that helped turn a new country into a home.

My tato’s family made their way to Sioux Lookout, Ontario. Life was really hard. His father and brothers worked in a lumber camp, doing exhausting, physical labour but they never complained. They were grateful to be in Canada.

My tato loved telling the story of his first Christmas in Canada. His principal, Mr. Colburn, along with the students at his new school, collected money to buy him his very first pair of skates. He would light up every time he told the story because it wasn’t just a gift, it was belonging.

He would laugh recalling how a female teacher would skate with him at the public skating rink, their hands crossed over as they glided across the ice to Goodnight Irene, goodnight Irene… At 16, it was embarrassing—but so kind.

My parents never forgot those acts of kindness. They carried them with them throughout their lives and passed them on to us in the way they showed up every day.

My mama would always say that if someone has an accent, it means they speak another language and that is something to admire. That way of seeing people has stayed with me my entire life.

And there are so many stories like this.

Stories of teachers, neighbours, classmates, and strangers who chose kindness. Small acts that may have felt simple at the time, but became unforgettable to the people who received them. Acts that helped newcomers feel less alone, and slowly helped build a sense of home.

Canada is far from perfect. No country is. But as a daughter of immigrants, I carry deep gratitude for this country that welcomed my family, and for the many people whose kindness helped them begin again.

One of the most beautiful things about Canada is that it holds all of our stories. I speak Ukrainian and carry our traditions with pride while also being incredibly proud to be Canadian.

That is the gift of this country: arriving with nothing, and being met with the kindness of others that makes it possible to build a life that feels like home.

Happy Canada Day. 🇨🇦

Do you have a story to share?

Seasoned.

That’s what I call us.

Not ‘seniors.’ Not ‘elderly.’ and please... not ‘midlife.’ Good grief. Living to 124 would require a level of optimism I AM NOT prepared to commit to.

I’ve never been a fan of ‘Baby Boomer’ or any of the ‘Gen’ labels either.

None of them capture who we are.

Because women over 60 aren’t defined by a number, we’re defined by a life that’s been lived.

We’ve raised children and watched them build lives of their own.

We’ve balanced careers, families, aging parents, relationships, responsibilities, and expectations.

We’ve survived heartbreak, grief, disappointments, setbacks, and a few questionable hairstyle and makeup trends along the way.

We’ve celebrated weddings, graduations, new babies, promotions, second chances, and quiet victories no one else ever noticed.

We’ve learned that life rarely goes according to plan and often, that’s where the best parts happen.

And somewhere along the way, something unexpected begins to shift.

The house gets quieter.

The calendar isn’t filled with everyone else’s needs.

For many of us, this is the first time in decades that our lives begin to belong to us again.

We can travel because we want to.

Learn something new.

Start a business.

Write a book.

Take the class.

Volunteer.

Change direction.

Or simply sit with a cup of coffee while it’s still hot.

This isn’t the beginning of the end, it’s the beginning of a different kind of freedom.

So why oh why does society keep telling women that aging means becoming less.

Less beautiful.

Less relevant.

Less visible.

Less valuable.

I don’t believe that for a second.

At 62, I’m still learning.

Still questioning.

Still growing.

But I know this:

I’m not becoming less, I’m becoming more.

More comfortable in my own skin.

More protective of my peace.

More curious.

More courageous.

More myself than I’ve ever been.

That’s why I love the word seasoned.

Seasoned doesn’t mean old, it means experienced.

It means life has shaped us instead of defeated us.

We became stronger because we’ve lived through life.

We’ve earned our confidence.

We’ve earned our perspective.

We’ve earned the freedom to stop asking permission to be ourselves.

At sixty, women aren’t having a crisis. We’re having an awakening.

An awakening to the truth that our value was never in our youth.

So yes... call us seasoned because we’re not winding down.

We’re just getting interesting.

Last fall, I found the perfect Father’s Day card for my tato.

On the front it read, “Tato, you’ll always wear the sharovary in this family.” On the inside “Even if Mama wears the pants”.

For those who aren’t Ukrainian, sharovary are the traditional pants historically worn by Ukrainian Cossacks. You’ll see men wearing these baggy satin pants in traditional Ukrainian dance.

The card was a playful way of saying, “Dad, you’ll always be the one in charge here.”

I remember laughing the moment I saw it. I bought it and tucked it away, already imagining the moment I’d give it to him on Father’s Day.

That Father’s Day never came.

Now the card sits on my dresser. Something small but heavy with meaning. I still don’t know what to do with it. I can’t put it away, but I can’t quite let it go either.

There’s a particular kind of grief in holding something that was meant for someone you love, knowing it will never reach them. It makes the loss feel unfinished in a way, like my heart hasn’t fully caught up to the reality of it yet.

And in a way, I don’t think I’ve fully grieved him yet.

Grief, isn’t about the big moments of missing him. It’s in the smaller, quieter ones that still catch me off guard.

I’ll see something in a store and think I should get it for him. I’ll hear a story and think I should tell him. I think he’s still here and then reality hits a moment later.

I miss his presence, his humour, his steadiness, his love.

Father’s Day reminds me how deeply he loved and was loved.

It also reminds me of how easily we assume there will always be another holiday, another visit, another conversation and another chance to say what matters.

Sometimes there is. Sometimes there isn’t.

So much of grief lives in that gap between what I thought I’d still get to do, and what time actually allowed.

I wish I had one more Father’s Day card I could actually give him. One more laugh. One more ordinary moment that I didn’t realize was extraordinary, until it was gone.

Happy Tato’s Day!

I love you today and always.

Statistically, the average woman lives into her 80s, so I have about 20 good years ahead of me.

That number feels a little surprising, yet incredibly sobering. With 20 good years ahead, I want to focus my energy on what truly matters.

While I’m still figuring out this stage of life, one thing is clear: I like who I am and I like where I’m headed.

I’m so grateful for my past and I’m really excited about the fourth quarter. I plan to finish with a bang!

For the next 20 years, I’m not interested in chasing youth or perfection. I’m too busy being present for my own life.

I feel seasoned now. Not old, just more myself.

I care less about getting everything right and more about experiencing things fully.

I want to try things that scare me a little.
I want to travel more roads less travelled.
I want to say yes when something lights me up and no when it doesn’t.

I want to stay playful, not take life too seriously and always be able to laugh at myself.

I want to spend more time with family and friends I adore. Time is precious, so I want it real and authentic. I want to make it count.

And I want to take lots of photos because I don’t want to forget a thing. The people, the adventures, the laughter, the moments. Because, if this fourth quarter is going to be as good as I think it is, I’m going to need proof.

Now, society can be loud about aging. It tells us we become invisible. Less relevant. It tells us to fear aging, fight aging, and fix ourselves along the way.

I say: STOP IT!

We’re busy living.

And the truth is, we don’t become irrelevant, we become more evolved

We don’t become invisible, we simply become more ourselves.

I want to awaken women to a different conversation. We are not defined by beauty standards. We are defined by our strength, our resilience, our wisdom, and the lives we’re still busy living.

At 62, I feel awake, clear, and fully here.

I’m grateful for where I’ve been.
Excited about where I’m going.
And so incredibly grateful to be here.

So stay tuned.

I recently saw an old friend.

We met in Grade 10 and were inseparable through high school and university. We knew each other’s families, boyfriends, dreams, and disappointments. We shared classes, assignments, long car rides, and endless conversations about everything and nothing.

We laughed so much. I couldn’t imagine my life story without her in it.

Then I left Winnipeg to explore the world.

On one visit home, I still remember her asking, “When are you coming home?”

What I never really said was that I wasn’t.

Not because I didn’t love where I came from or the people in it. I did.

But there was a bigger world calling me. I was curious about experiencing different countries, cultures, and possibilities. What began as a desire to explore became a different vision for my life - one that wasn’t going to be lived in Winnipeg.

It wasn’t about leaving home behind. It was about following the person I was becoming.

Neither of us could have known then that my leaving marked the beginning of two very different journeys.

Life happened.

We grew. We changed. We built different lives.

When I saw her recently, I felt a disconnect. It made me sad.

I realized how much I missed who we were together: the girls who laughed until they cried, who knew everything about each other, who believed that friendship would always stay that close.

But we aren’t those people anymore.

People change. The version of someone we once knew and loved changes too….and that’s okay.

I think many of us hold on to old friendships because we expect them to last forever. We assume that if someone was once central to our lives, they always will be.

But people change. Relationships change. Life changes us.

Sometimes friendships grow with us. Sometimes they belong to a particular season.

That doesn’t make them any less meaningful.

As I sat with that sadness, I remembered a quote: “You are allowed to outgrow the version of yourself that other people fell in love with.”

And slowly, my sadness turned into gratitude.

We both changed, and I miss who we were together.

I probably always will.

But I don’t see our friendship as something to fix, only something to honour.

Outgrowing a friendship can be sad without being wrong. So, I’m choosing to cherish what was, accept what is, and be grateful for the friend who helped shape who I am. ❤️

I recently returned to Winnipeg to celebrate my tato’s life.

I was born and raised in Winnipeg and left 36 years ago. Back then, I couldn’t wait to leave.

I loved my family, my friends, and my community, but I felt confined by the familiarity of it all.

I was looking for adventure. I wanted to discover who I was beyond the city and community that had shaped me.

And I’m glad I left.

I needed to.

I needed to have adventures, make mistakes, take chances, and build a life of my own.

In many ways, leaving is how I grew up.

I’ve lived in different places, built a career, raised a daughter, and created a life I love.

But coming home reminded me of something I couldn’t have understood at 25.

The very familiarity I once wanted to escape is now one of the things I cherish most.

There is something deeply comforting about being with people who know your family, your history, and your story.

I loved driving around the city, down familiar streets, through old neighbourhoods, and past landmarks that instantly brought back memories.

But what I loved most was seeing the people.

Family. Old family friends. Friends I’ve known since childhood. Neighbours. People I grew up with. People who knew my parents when they were young and stood beside them through every stage of their lives.

There is something special about Winnipeggers.

They’re genuine, resilient, unpretentious, and loyal. They work hard. They help their neighbours. They show up when it matters.

Every time I come back, I’m reminded how much I love this city and the people who make it what it is.

Growing up in Winnipeg’s Ukrainian community, you didn’t just belong to a family -you belonged to a community. People celebrated together, mourned together, prayed together, and looked after one another.

Being back reminded me how fortunate I was to grow up that way.

Sitting in the Cathedral during the memorial mass, I found myself studying the stained glass windows and the beautiful details I had seen every Sunday throughout my childhood.

They brought back so many memories.

But what moved me most was the beauty of the service - the familiar prayers, the music, the rituals.

As a child, it was simply something we did. Now, I found comfort in it.

And then when we celebrated my tato in the church hall, I saw decades of shared history.

Stories were told. Memories were shared. We laughed. We cried.

It struck me that what we were celebrating wasn’t just a life but a lifetime of relationships.

The weekend was filled with joyful reunions.

I saw people I hadn’t seen in years, some for decades.

I reconnected with a university friend and within moments we were laughing like we were back in our twenties.

We talked about old friends, old loves, marriages, children, grandchildren, and all the unexpected turns life had taken.

And yet, it felt as though no time had passed.

There was something beautiful about that familiarity—the ease, the shared history, and the realization that some friendships remain part of who we are no matter how many years pass.

I also saw an old love. I felt no longing. Only gratitude for a sweet and tender chapter of my twenties. Gratitude for the love and memories we shared and the paths we ultimately followed.

And then there were the neighbours. The kids who lived next door and down the street. The friends I played hide-and-seek with, held yard sales with, and went to McDonald’s with. We even saved the wrappers so we could come home and play “McDonald’s.” We obviously didn’t need much to entertain ourselves. So many happy memories.

I realized that long after we leave our neighbourhoods, they remain a part of us.

I’m a North End girl.

Thirty-six years later, that hasn’t changed.

No matter where life has taken me, a part of me will always belong there.

The North End taught me about friendship, resilience, family, and belonging.

And Winnipeg taught me grit.

Those roots run deep.

And they still shape me today.

As I drove around the city, I found myself seeing Winnipeg differently.

Everywhere I looked, there were reminders of my father.

Certain streets.

Familiar places we had been together.

And then there were the trains.

Trains were always part of our lives.

My tato worked for CN, and he loved trains.

So every time I saw a CN train, it made me smile.

In a weekend spent celebrating his life, those trains felt like little reminders that he was still very much present with the family and community he loved.

When I think about the weekend now, what stays with me most is gratitude.

Gratitude for my tato.

Gratitude for family.

Gratitude for old friends, neighbours, and family friends.

Gratitude for the beautiful familiarity of home.

And gratitude for a city that helped make me who I am.

Thirty-six years after leaving Winnipeg, I still love this city.

Maybe even more than I did when I lived there.

Because now I see it differently.

What once felt confining now feels like a gift.

I came home to celebrate my ftato’s life.

I left with a deeper appreciation for my own.

Because home isn’t just a place.

It’s the people, the memories, the values, and the love we carry with us long after we’ve left.

And no matter where life takes me, a part of me will always belong in Winnipeg.

Imagine if your words could change a woman’s day.

You notice her.

The outfit.
The haircut.
The way she carries herself.

You give her the quick up-and-down glance.
A silent assessment… and then you move on.

I see it. Women noticing other women… and saying nothing. And I always wonder why?

There are women who will confidently and generously offer a compliment.
And there are women who never will.

And it’s not about confidence. It’s about generosity.

Because the women who give compliments freely understand something—
another woman’s light doesn’t dim theirs.

So why not say it?

“Your hair looks amazing.”
“That colour looks great on you.”
“You look so happy.”

Not over the top. Not forced. Just honest.

Because you have no idea what she needed in that moment.
Maybe she’s in a season where she’s not feeling like herself.

And maybe your words are just the thing that she needs to hear
Maybe your words will stay with her longer than you think.

We don’t need to compete.
We don’t need to hold back.

We can be generous with each other. Because making a woman feel seen matters. It always has.

So if you notice something beautiful… say it.

You might just be the reason she feels really good about herself today.

I attended an event with hundreds of brilliant, accomplished, articulate women gathered in one room having discussions about leadership, confidence and authenticity.

Women leading teams.
Running businesses.
Building careers.
Raising families.
Creating impact.
Using their voices.
Showing up powerfully in the world.

The day was really inspiring.

But I couldn’t stop noticing the faces in the room.

The fillers.
The Botox.
The injected lips.
The frozen expressions.
The same “youthful” aesthetic repeated over and over , including on the panel of celebrated speakers.

And it made me sad. not judgemental, just sad.

Because these were powerful, intelligent, accomplished women and yet even here, in a room focused on empowerment, so many of us still quietly believe:

Be successful.
Be respected.
Be influential.

But don’t look too old while doing it.

Women are responding to a culture that rewards youth, smoothness, plumpness, and perfection.

Of course there’s pressure.
No one wants to feel invisible, overlooked, or left behind.

But maybe that’s exactly why this conversation matters.

Because when even empowered women feel compelled to alter their faces in order to remain socially acceptable, aspirational, or professionally relevant, we have to ask ourselves what standards we’ve unconsciously normalized.

This isn’t about criticizing women who get Botox, fillers, or cosmetic treatments.
Every woman has the right to choose what she wants for her own body.

This is about compassion for women.

For how much pressure we carry.
For how much value has been attached to our appearance.
For how deeply many of us have internalized the belief that who we naturally are is somehow not enough.

But we are enough.

Not once we fix ourselves.
Not once we look younger.
Not once we become more polished, more perfected, more acceptable.

Now.

Maybe real empowerment isn’t about chasing perfection.

Maybe it’s about finally believing that our worth was never meant to live in the smoothness of our skin.

Not because your face doesn’t matter.

But because your life should matter so much more.

As a holistic aesthetician for over 30 years, I’ve spent most of my adult life working with women’s skin.

But when you spend that many years in the treatment room and in the shop — working on women’s faces, listening to their stories, helping them understand their skin, and guiding them toward healthy, radiant skin — you start to see something very clearly.

A woman’s face should not be the most important thing about her life.

Over the years, I’ve spent time with:

Women in their 20s worried about their breakouts.
Women in their 30s worried about maintaining their youth.
Women in their 40s noticing the first signs of aging.
Women in their 50s and 60s looking in the mirror and realizing their faces are changing in ways they never imagined.

And the truth is, it’s rarely just about skin.

It’s about confidence.
Identity.
Visibility.
How a woman feels moving through the world.

Of course women want to look good. That’s natural.

We want clear skin.
We want healthy skin.
We want to feel good when we look in the mirror.

There is nothing wrong with that.

But something else has changed over the years.

When I first started in this industry, skincare was much simpler.

The conversation was usually about the basics:

Cleanser.
Toner.
Moisturizer.

Women wanted healthy skin. That was the goal.

But the industry realized something very powerful:

Fear is profitable.

If women believe they are aging too fast…
If they feel insecure about every line and every change…
If they believe the standard they’re chasing is just slightly out of reach…

They will keep buying.

And the truth is that many of today’s beauty standards are completely unattainable.

Flawless skin.
Full lips.
Perfect brows.
Snatched jawlines.
Faces that barely show time.

These images are everywhere now.

And slowly the conversation changed from:

How do I take care of my skin?

to:

How do I keep from looking old?

That shift slowly changes the questions women begin asking themselves.

Instead of asking:

Am I curious about the world?
Am I engaged in my life?
Am I living fully?

Women sometimes catch themselves wondering:

Do I look older than my friends?

Not because women are vain — but because the culture around us has quietly trained women to believe that youth is their currency.

And that makes me really sad, because a woman’s life should be far more interesting than her face.

Her ideas.
Her humor.
Her courage.
Her friendships.
Her heartbreaks.
Her curiosity about the world.

Those are the things that make a woman magnetic.

Not the absence of lines around her mouth.

I’m in my 60s now, and I see the changes in my own face.

There are things I’m not crazy about.

My jowls.
My neck losing tone.
The pigmentation on my nose and chest.
My marionette lines.

I didn’t always look this way. A life well lived — and a little too much fun in the sun — has left its mark.

But here’s the truth:

I know I am so much more than my jowls or my marionette lines.

And I really like who I’ve become.

That feels like freedom.

It’s also the message I hope my daughter — and younger women watching us — can see clearly.

That a woman does not need to erase the years from her face in order to live a full and meaningful life.

When you stop letting fear of aging direct your life, something interesting happens.

You get your energy back.

Your attention shifts outward again.

Toward people.
Toward ideas.
Toward experiences.
Toward life.

You stop spending your precious energy trying to fight time.

You start living.

After thirty years of watching women’s faces — and their lives — unfold, I believe this deeply:

A woman who is curious about life…
who likes who she is…
who refuses to let fear dictate her choices…

will always be far more beautiful — and far more interesting — than her face.

And honestly, that’s exactly how it should be.

Because a woman’s life should always be bigger than the face she lives in.

A thought for you

What makes your life interesting right now — beyond your face?

I’d genuinely love to hear.

Lately I keep looking around and thinking… what is happening to women?

Celebrity culture has always shaped beauty standards, but this has moved far beyond Hollywood.

Women everywhere are getting thinner. Dramatically thinner.

You see it on the red carpet. On Instagram. In wellness culture. In fashion campaigns. In office conversations. In your own social circle.

The ultra-thin body is back, and culture is rewarding it in real time.

There was a VERY brief moment where I thought things were actually changing. Plus-sized models became fashionable. Brands embraced “body positivity.” We convinced ourselves beauty standards were expanding.

But looking back, most of those “plus-sized” bodies were just normal-sized women. Still conventionally attractive. Still acceptable. Still close enough to thinness not to truly disrupt the standard.

We thought it was progress, but now I’m realizing body positivity was never fully accepted. It was briefly tolerated and then reshaped to fit what was already considered beautiful.

Thinness never left.
It just waited for a rebrand.

And now it’s back stronger and faster than ever.

With GLP medications becoming mainstream, we’ve gone from “you’re perfect as you are” to “you could be smaller.”

The “GLP body” has become a recognizable look. We all know someone — a friend, coworker, or woman in our social circle whose body has suddenly become noticeably smaller.

And then the thought creeps in:
If I could change my body that easily… would I?

Because now staying in your natural body almost feels like choosing not to improve yourself.

And what’s really worrisome is how quickly women will compromise their strength, muscle mass, hormones, energy, and long-term health in exchange for thinness — because culture still teaches us that smaller is better.

Different decade.
Different packaging.
Same pressure.

And to be clear, GLP medications are real medicine, and for some people they are genuinely life-changing. This isn’t about judging anyone who uses them.

It’s about what happens when a medical intervention quietly becomes a beauty standard.

And then there’s Demi Moore.

I’m not attacking her personally, but when a 62-year-old woman is admired for how thin, toned, and young her body looks — when extreme thinness becomes the definition of “aging well” , we’ve got a problem.

Because women are looking at these images and absorbing the message that ‘This is the goal’.

Not strength.
Not vitality.
Not capability.
Thinness.

And the truth is, that level of body fat doesn’t come from yoga, Pilates, green juices, and clean eating. It requires an extremely controlled restrictive diet and a lifestyle that most women could neither sustain nor maintain without compromising their health.

Yet somehow it gets packaged as wellness.
As discipline.
As self-care.

And that’s dangerous for women our age. Science around aging well tells us something completely different.

If we want to feel strong and capable in our 60s, 70s, and beyond, we should be building — not shrinking.

We should be lifting weights.
Protecting muscle mass.
Eating enough protein.
Building bone density.
Taking care of our brains and bodies so we stay mobile and independent.

Muscle is protective.
Strength is protective.
Bone density is protective.

A fall at 70 isn’t about aesthetics. It can completely change the course of a woman’s life.

Yet, instead of talking about strength, we’re still obsessing over thin arms. That’s the part I can’t get over.

Women are being sold smallness when we should be investing in strength.

So woman to woman… what are we doing?

Are we really going back here again?

Are we really going to spend the next decade shrinking ourselves to feel acceptable?

Are we really going to hand this pressure to our daughters all over again?

Or are we finally going to see this cycle for what it is and stop it?