I’m not someone who ever knows what they’re writing about.

When I put headphones in to start drafting, I may have a loose idea, or something that has been haunting me, but that’s about it. There are no bullet points or outlines, just an openness to see where things go. I used to think this was problematic and unproductive.

Now, I see it as the magic.

Elizabeth Gilbert talked on a podcast about writing and the aliveness of ideas. This is the premise behind Big Magic, which I read (and then reread) a couple of years ago with great interest.

Anyways, on an episode of The Telepathy Tapes, an insane, must-listen podcast on the telepathic abilities of non-verbal autistic individuals, Elizabeth Gilbert is a guest. Her episode is on the consciousness of creativity and is basically an abbreviated, conversational version of Big Magic.

She talks about how ideas are alive and that they choose us (cool, right?).

But for me, the clincher is this: Gilbert likes to leave ideas a bit restless.

Instead of drawing out a writing session, she purposefully stops writing midway through a sentence. The theory, as I recall (and forgive me for my notoriously poor paraphrasing skills), is that by stopping our writing abruptly, the aliveness stays percolating.

Like teens in a mall parking lot, the energy behind the words stays loitering, waiting to be released.

When we put a nice little bow around a writing session, we can lose steam. I’ve felt this before, where ending on a high note creates more intimidation for the next day’s work.

I like the idea of ideas being alive. It feels like it alleviates some of the responsibility and labour around writing. Maybe I’m willing to buy into any excuse to “do less,” but the permission (nay, encouragement) to step away and go eat bonbons before continuing a piece jives with me.

And so, I’ve been trying to do this more with my writing. I arrive not knowing where a piece will take me, let myself get carried out to sea for a bit, then before I get too tired or my foot cramps up, I return to shore for some watermelon and libations.

My mantra as of late is to write more and struggle less while doing it.

With that, I don’t mean to brag, but my latest piece, I Thought Adults Knew Everything, revealed itself with little torture. It flowed pretty seamlessly, and instead of rewrites, I mostly trimmed out the unnecessary.

As someone who is drawn to the “all that and a bag of potato chips” or “everything and the kitchen sink” style of writing, I’m trying to exercise restraint. I’m learning to let go of lines that I like to honour the piece as a whole.

Often, an entire buffet isn’t as satisfying as one nicely plated meal.

I’m trying to serve one cohesive, well-portioned plate rather than offer chicken soo-guy, prime rib, and lemon meringue pie all at once.

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I remember being in Grade 3 and feeling like I knew everything.

By this point, I’d never moved houses, been on a plane, or changed schools.

Every morning, I rode the bus to my tiny elementary. All of the kids were local, from families who worked at the post office, grocery stores, or carpet barn.

I still recall the name of a student, James, who was called for attendance on the first day of class. He never ended up in our homeroom because he was dying. That was the first time I heard of leukemia.

A few years later, another kid, Sammy, who I sat beside on the bus, drowned in a pool on a family vacation.

Another time, a group of girls ran into a hornet’s nest in the schoolyard. They got stung so many times that one of them ended up in hospital.

Going to the hospital sounded exciting. I was naive to the cloud of worst-days-ever that hangs over every wing. I was envious of those who broke their arms and came to class with a hunk of plaster to sign.

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At some point during Grade 3, I asked my Mom if I could skip the grade.

I had already learned all there was to learn.

Math? I memorized the times tables!

Spelling? I knew every word!

Music? I could play “Mary Had a Little Lamb”!

I decided that I knew everything. And this was very disappointing.

What a pity that no more new ideas could slide across my desk!

I figured I’d crossed over into what it must be like to be an adult. Adults know everything.

I didn’t end up skipping a grade.

It wasn’t long before fractions and verb conjugation (en français) entered the picture. I also got invited to train early for my “pen license” which was a worthy prize. I’d get to leave the lowly pencil-users, whose penmanship made them unworthy of ink, in my wake.

In a way that feels inconceivable, I think back on this slice where I thought I’d reached the ceiling on knowledge. That somehow, I’d hit the finite wall of all there was to know.

This feeling, unique to a couple of days in Grade 3, is the only time I’ve ever felt like I had all the pieces.

Funnily enough, the older I get, the more I realize how little I know.

Each year seems to reveal another room behind the room. A yellow wallpapered living room leads into a wall-to-wall walnut library, then into a moody velvet parlour, then down a creaky staircase into a cobwebbed cellar.

In Grade 3, I imagined adulthood a lot more linearly.

We’d finish school, get glossy jobs, strike book deals, then spend the rest of our lives building families and dispensing wisdom next to a lake somewhere.

Instead, adulthood feels like venturing deeper into the house. Outgrowing rooms. Finding trap doors. Leaving convenience behind for space.

For that brief, all-knowing slice of Grade 3, I had maxed out on everything at my limited disposal.

Those of us in the middle, stuck somewhere between demo and reno, are aware of too much.

We know that good-on-paper can eat away.

We know about sacrifice.

We know that people can get sick.

And still, we’ve chosen to trade in well-appointed rooms for basements.

We are acutely aware of the possibility for beauty and disaster, and that both are attached to a timeline we, unfortunately, are not privy to.

We only get one chance to explore, overhaul, and design a life that is “us”.

There are entire countries, hobbies, and versions of ourselves that we’ll never get to try on.

We will never get to all of the doors, and now, we know better than to try.

In Grade 3, my world hadn’t yet been cracked open.

I didn’t understand the empty desk, the burden of a plaster trophy, or that limitlessness was just around the corner.

In Grade 3, I was overwhelmed by the belief that there was nowhere left to go.

Today, I am struck by the opposite.

I’ve shut countless doors in favour of wandering the halls.

I enter rooms, but I’m afraid to unpack more than a toiletry bag.

I want to put up art, find the perfect wool rug, and fill each corner with tchotchkes. But I know that choosing one room means leaving another unexplored. And that every yes becomes a thousand quiet nos.

The house is bigger than I’ll ever have time to see.

As a kid, I mistook a small world for a complete one.

Now, I know better. And maybe that’s what adulthood actually is.

It’s not wandering the halls forever, but learning how to be happy with all of the doors you’ll never open.

Then it’s choosing a room anyway, and finally hanging some fucking art.

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One of my favourite things about writing is thinking we have nothing to say, sitting down, and surprising ourselves. Often, things just flow. Like turning on a cottage tap, expecting nothing, then needing to compliment the host on their fine water pressure.

I want you to know, dear reader, that this is exactly how this post is starting.

I am typing on this page with zero idea what’s going to come out.

I have a few topics I’m avoiding, but nothing in my “to write” pipeline.

I believe that going in with a plan is beneficial. It’s grounding. It alleviates pressure.

But this is only in theory.

I, for one, am voluntarily planless.

When I’ve managed content teams, the onus fell on me to provide the article outline for writers to fill in.

I found this skeleton work to be soul-sucking and…bone-crushing (forgive me).

Coming up with an outline for technical stuff works, but the type of writing I love is more of an impromptu shake out of the soul. We can’t overplan it; we just create the right conditions, get over ourselves, and start walking.

A couple of years ago, when I was drafting my 70,000-word essay collection, I thought I needed more structure to be successful.

I’ve always assumed that what works for other people is probably right and my way is wrong or, at best, risky.

I’m not sure where demoting my nonroutine approach stems from.

Is it a result of growing up a 90’s girl?

Taking boomer men too seriously?

An eagerness to please?

A history of being rewarded for following the rules?

Not knowing what the fuck I’m doing without borrowed structure?

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Without something guiding me to the next thing, whether from myself or some external body, there’s a bottomless unknown. As someone who has learned to play the game successfully but no longer wishes to, self-trust takes a while to regain.

It’s something we’re born with, and something we lose along the way.

I want to believe this period of uncertainty will amount to something pointed. And so, I am actively trying to override the parts of my brain that think other people know best, and that their winning models should become my own.

But for starters, my personality type is the kind that genuinely forgot to file taxes. It’s the kind that doesn’t do the same thing, in the same way twice. It’s also the kind that, after living in a house for two years, had rarely made garbage day.

Last week, with my husband at work and me here to tend to art and home, I thought:

I am going to make garbage day! Won’t that be a nice normie win?

I opened our patio-cushion-storage-box-turned-garbage-room and counted seven torn and tattered garbage bags. An animal had gotten in, exposing coffee grounds, chicken bones, and egg shells.

I put on gloves, rebagged the fallen soldiers, and put them all out on the curb.

With smug satisfaction, I headed into town, grinning at garbage mountain as I pulled out.

Upon return, I found our heap of black plastic still very much summitable. Adorned on the foothills was a passive-aggressive sticker that read: “2 bags max per household.”

Don’t these garbage keepers realize that our disorganization should grant us indefinite volume immunity?

If anything, we’re owed retroactive credits!

The combined weight of our uncollected garbage could rival the body mass lost in the Bravoverse or Greater Los Angeles area to Ozempic.

Dejected, I gathered the garbage bags, put them in the back of my husband’s truck, and closed the lid.

The next day, he was off to a week-long company retreat. With no time to drive the opposite direction to the dump, I mapped one en route.

Unsurprisingly, the garbage attended the company off-site as well.

My husband drove five hours with overflowing bags of banana peels, rib sludge, and hair drain slime. Like a psychopath concealing a dead body in their trunk, he parked far out of range and avoided driving anyone from his work.

Once home, we waited another three days before going to the dump.

When we got there, I sat in the passenger seat while Kevin unloaded our flatbed of sin.

As he discarded our unthinkables, an SUV backed in beside us.

A husband and wife emerged from their car, wearing matching cargo pants with t-shirts tucked in. They had on ballcaps and gloves.

They hit the button of their trunk, and began unloading small bundles of taped-up carpet. Each pinwheel of carpet was no greater than a submarine sandwich in diameter.

Once they were rid of their perfect coils, they moved on to wood trim. The husband held out his arms while she loaded him up with a couple of twigs, also taped tightly.

The wood pile, if set on fire, couldn’t provide warmth to a family of hamsters for more than 90 seconds.

I found this couple infuriating.

In an assessment I’m not proud of, I referred to them as “Twin dweebs who probably talked about their ‘Big Construction Day’ to family, friends, and church groups all month long!”

These people have never forgotten garbage day.

They don’t let chicken sludge marinate in the back of a Toyota Tacoma.

They have grass-stained sneakers only for lawn-cutting, and probably plan a cruise for their anniversary every third year.

They leave nothing to chance or uncertainty.

I understand the mental decluttering systems offer. I also crave rhythm, routine, and order.

But the second something starts to resemble a pair of perfectly pressed cargo pants for “Big Construction Day”, I want to light it all on fire and flee.

We need people like the carpet couple. They uphold civilization.

Meanwhile, people like me spend half our lives trying to build systems, and the other half trying to escape them.

Maybe that’s the trade-off.

Some people move through life with perfectly taped bundles of certainty.

Others marinate in a proprietary blend of chicken sludge chaos until they ripen.

Join us for weekly, often funny essays about our “what’s next” becoming.

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There are a lot of things I love about writing, but getting started isn’t one.

I suffer from a “you’re only as good as your last meal” mentality. This adds unnecessary pressure between hitting publish and drafting the next thing.

On top of being toxic, this fear is unfounded. I genuinely believe that the more we write, the better we get.

Sure, some early editions may outperform contemporaries, but generally, barring a newly formed four-bourbon, deep-fried chicken bucket writing ritual, the arc is upward.

With this logic, we should have nothing to fear when it comes to writing anew.

We should welcome the blinking cursor against a plain doc.

We should hand over the keys to our literary becoming and enjoy the ride.

But logic isn’t feeling, and feeling includes a medley of past shortcomings and public bombs.

Psyching ourselves up to make art is justifiable. But it also creates a barrier to entry that I’d like to remove.

Getting started on my latest piece, Then, Everyone Died, felt no different.

Amazingly, despite the premature death of a family dog, the passing of my husband’s Oma on the same night, and flying to Germany for the funeral—all in one week—the devil on my shoulder suggested I probably had nothing to say!

“Plus, no one likes talk of death!”, I thought with eyebrows scrunched.

And then, I got over myself and started writing.

Writing this particular piece reacquainted me with one of the things I love most about writing: once we lock in, magic happens, and we get to be surprised by where it goes. As we write, part of us becomes the reader too, observing our own reactions and discovering how we actually feel.

I had most of the draft in place after a couple of mornings. The real work happened later, inside Substack, when the piece went from free-flow to finished.

That’s where I figured out how to merge the family dog and Oma. As I was writing, I was convinced these two stories would have to live separately. I spent a hefty number of words at the beginning on the “dog” end of grief, and didn’t want Oma’s transition to feel light or less significant.

But with an ending that captured the theme, I think it felt balanced. I was able to stitch them together into one connective piece about, well, connection.

Here are the final edits I made, along with the ending I drafted on Substack:

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A week ago, it was my birthday. Then, everyone died.

It started with a missed call. And a second.

I called my Mom back, who, through uncharacteristic tears, said to “hang on a sec” while she stepped outside. She was with my 97-year-old grandmother, whom we must mask all emotion from or fall victim to an excruciating line of questioning.

“Who’s sick?”

“What’s their doctor’s name?”

“Were they the ones that bought the old Hutchsinson farm on the 9th Line?”

On the phone, my Mom explained that Gus, their blimp-shaped Boston terrier, was about to die.

He was only eight and lived like a king. Or more accurately, like a former child star that peaked too early and spent his adult years binge-eating and sleeping the day away.

Note: Gus was, technically, a movie star. He appeared in Riot Girl, a 2019 feature film with a 4.5/10 IMDB score. He earned $300 for his minor yet integral role.

Gus is my dog’s littermate and polar opposite. Dewey rides hard, with a lower deck of missing teeth, a cauliflower ear, and a bulgedy-eye passion for Chuckit.

I always said that Gus, like someone in a medically induced coma, would live forever.

From day one, Gus’ energetic output hardly registered among the living. He was like a soft-handed developer who’d never seen the sun. He was well-preserved and untarnished, with a tank that never dipped below the three-quarter line.

I was in disbelief.

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A few days earlier, Gus had been to the vet for a lump in his neck. The tests revealed advanced-stage lymphoma. I skimmed Reddit threads and cited miracles of dogs in three-year remissions. Naively, and perhaps a trait of the youngest-born, I thought we had a few good weeks, or even months left.

But here we were, my Mom’s voice cracking through the phone, saying that Gus was about to die. He’d been throwing up blood, had laboured breathing, and was too weak to stand.

The vet was coming in a couple of hours to put him down.

When she broke the news, I didn’t cry. I come from a family of non-cryers, and feel a duty to hold it together, even if it means dropping a deflective joke or coming across as indifferent.

I don’t like the overexposure of crying. Plus, once I start, I can’t stop.

I have a distinct memory of being five or six, watching The Fox and the Hound, and feeling tears well up. Instead of allowing myself to cry in the comfort of the living room, I went to the bathroom, sat on the toilet, and cried alone. Once composed, I reemerged to watch the final scenes with feigned unaffectedness.

Initially, I didn’t offer to drive the hour and a half to be there for Gus’ end. I had appointments in another city, and truthfully, I didn’t want to see Gus die. When we don’t see, we get to draw from our imagination. I wanted to draw a soft passing where life seamlessly fades into death.

As people who treat their dogs as seat-at-the-table family members with nicknames, rolodexes of greatest hits stories, and dinner time rituals that include “one dollop of sour cream on the side, not touching the kibbles”, we take the loss of our dogs hard.

To this day, with some level of guilt, the premature death of the first dog I got living on my own remains the most grief-stricken I’ve ever felt.

When I got the call that he died in his sleep, I was sleeping in a bunk bed at a Nashville hostel. I nearly rolled onto the floor. I cried so much my eyes swelled shut.

I remember looking around at happy people in cowboy boots, thinking, “Don’t they know what’s happened?”

I thought I’d never recover. My life got filed into a “before” and “after”. “After” was knowing that bad, unexplainable things can happen. One night, you can be eating Hattie B’s fried chicken, and by morning, this thing that you loved more than anything can be dead.

Admittedly, I see the privilege of this scenario. For my deepest marring of grief to be from a dog is entry-level.

However, it remains my clearest window into how inconceivable life after can feel.

While almost a decade ago, it still steals my breath.

It has made me clench at missed calls.

It has made me enter dark rooms to watch the rise and fall of breath.

It has made me redraw the depths of worsts imaginable.

But today, Gus, the brother of the dog that filled the void of my biggest loss, was going to die. And for my parents, and for him, I had to bear witness.

I got to the farm just ahead of the vet. Gus lay outside on his favourite blanket—a tacky, synthetic fleece with words like “believe” and “dream” written across it. As I walked over to him, he lay still. His eyes opened and closed heavily, and his breathing was choppy.

It’s surreal knowing that the life of another is about to end. That once the next vehicle drives down the long, gravel lane, we’ll be one less family member.

Until then, I sat next to him, patting his soft fur, before offering him a final piece of cheese.

“This will be the last thing he ever eats,” I thought. He didn’t eat it.

When the vet pulled in, I backed away. I didn’t want to be part of the final scene. I planned to go inside and re-emerge with feigned composure. But my parents and sister stayed close, so I held vigil.

A few minutes later, Gus was gone. We all cried together in private.

It’s strange, the way that grief behaves.

It doesn’t wait until you’ve processed one loss before introducing another. Perhaps grief is designed this way, stacked together like car dealerships on the edge of town.

That night, Kevin’s beloved Oma died.

She lived in a small village in Northern Germany and was a relic from another time.

When she spoke, everyone listened.

When she cooked, everyone ate.

When she joked, everyone laughed.

She had a not-to-be-messed-with attitude that felt anchoring and safe. There was nothing flippant or nonsensical about her.

She was the village bookkeeper, sharp as a tack. She remembered everyone’s name and birthday.

She fed her family by growing her own food and slaughtering their pigs. Kevin recounted seeing blood speckled across her oversized lenses. Her hands were the size of a baseball glove.

After the first family in the village got a TV and didn’t let anyone come over and watch it, she took out her first and only loan to buy one. Every evening, all the neighbourhood kids would pile into her tiny living room to watch whatever was on.

Her door was forever open.

She spoke German and Plaudietsch, sharing anecdotes and one-liners that cracked every room. Her children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren stayed close, marvelling at her comedic timing.

Whenever we got to visit, she’d hug Kevin so tightly, she’d lift his 6-foot-three frame off the ground. She always remarked how much Kevin’s smile reminded her of her Dad. Our wedding photo sat close to her command center, a recliner and fold-out table next to the TV.

She loved watching detective shows, soccer, and hockey—just for the fights.

Recently, I came up with the nickname Bro-ma, but never got the chance to roll it out.

For Kevin, this call, the one where his Oma was dead, was his great fear. And now, it had happened.

Without hesitation, we flew to Germany for her funeral. I was afraid of how sad everyone would be. She was everyone’s favourite person, and the final connection to a world that no longer exists.

At the funeral, there were many tears. For me, hearing anyone’s long and wonderful life get reduced to a highlight reel always feels grossly deficient. But that wasn’t what lingered. It was the connection.

The morning of her funeral, everyone mentioned a large circle in the sky. It was a perfectly drawn white contrail.

Despite arriving from different villages and directions, we had all seen it.

I don’t know what happens after death.

But for a moment, we stood there together, eyes wide, looking at the same thing: a full circle somewhere between us and whatever happens next.

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For many, the New Year promises an opportunity for a fresh start. Or at the very least, a cheese and booze detox.

For others, September’s back-to-school energy breathes new life. It makes us want to put ourselves out there again.

For me, taking honest stock is captured across a holy trinity: the New Year, September, and my birthday.

Conveniently, this checkpoint trifecta happens to be spaced four months apart. And without fail, each one brings a pause, an internal audit, and the inevitable wince that I’m not further ahead.

It’s about to be my 36th birthday.

This means I’m one year closer to needing a hip replacement. More justified in being asked, “Are your parents still living?” by a 60-year-old woman who deemed me a peer. A little less likely to put on “mom jeans” as a non-mom and have them not just read as “mom,” if you will.

I don’t think I’m alone when I say that the last year has been unusual.

For good and bad, it’s been unpredictable and uproarious.

I think I can represent the collective when I say, we’re tired.

We’re tired of not knowing if we’ll get jobs again.
We’re tired of not knowing if our neighbours will fall in love with bots.
We’re tired of not knowing if the world is gonna blow.
We’re tired of not having the kind of community we had growing up.
We’re tired of having zero attention spans.

Somehow, we’ve gone embarrassingly astray in our relentless pursuit of more.

We bought the McMansions, but the cheap laminate cost too much to replace.

We used our credit cards for the vacations, but we were too stressed to enjoy them.

We posted perfectly staged dinner tables, but had nothing to say when it came time to eat.

The reflection of the last year, my 35th year, is this: it’s time to cut the shit.

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To offset the estrangement, singed retinas, and gluttonous bloat, we need to get back to basics.

Perhaps these tradwife-adjacent, peasant-skirted weirdos have a point: less is more.

If we step off the treadmill, acknowledge the cataclysmic shift, and play with some wild-ferment yeast, we might discover that we already have everything we need.

We’ve proven ourselves. We played the game. None of it made us happier.

In the last year, I wrapped up ever working for anyone else. After 13 years in tech, juggling contract clients by night, gut-renovating three properties, trying to write, and be a good friend and partner, I let a lot go. I got laid off, dropped clients, sold things, and created space.

It took months—hell, almost my entire 35th year—to arrive here.

So, with 36 in the queue ready to drop, I want this year to be guided by the small and sweet. As I wrote in my New Year post, the antidote to uncertainty is to chip away. It’s not about exhaustive big swings, but righting our ships incrementally.

In honour of my birthday, and our theme of lightening the load, here are 20 small things to look forward to this year:

1. Outdoor swimming: Grab your finest aquatic garb, full-body saturation will soon be upon us! Pools, lakes, and oceans. We don’t do ponds, and rivers are the poor man’s lake (everyone knows it). Taking the literal plunge is an unmatched summer treat, and we’re ready for sweet release.

2. Bonfires: Whether it’s because I ranked in 23andMe’s 99th percentile for “most neanderthal”, I can’t be sure. Regardless, we can all agree that fire is magic. Sitting around a bonfire bonds us. It’s a truth serum that forces us to drop walls and shed skin.

3. Thrifting gems to unearth: Listen, not everyone is gifted at the thrifted. Long before thrifting haul videos made my sport popular, you could find me a siftin’. In high school, I used a KitKat lunchbox as a purse. This year, I got a velvet, fur-trimmed Christmas gown for $1. I also acquired a deceased ballerina’s glove collection (hey, if the glove fits).

4. Getting better at things: Nary a year goes by that we get worse at stuff. Sure, there are shutdown series, bad stretches, and several consecutive months we’d rather forget, but overall, learning and getting better remain constant. That’s life.

5. Shutting down some assholes: There are times when we bite our tongue, weighing the pros and cons of telling someone deserving off. After all, we’re adults with self-control! We’re better than that! Why get worked up for nothing? While I mostly air in this direction, there is a duty I now feel as a fully-formed adult, to let line-crossing creeps know that I see them, and they suck.

6. Fun shows: People are out there making some good shit, and this year, we’re gonna get to see some of it. Music, comedy, one-woman shows, photography, painting, jumping on one foot playing a trombone. Why don’t we let ourselves get taken away? Let’s go.

7. Roadtrips: Waking up at the crack of dawn, coffees loaded, a down-filled feather throw pillow in the front seat (don’t knock it till you try it). There’s nothing quite like hitting the pavement early and eating a bag of gas station cheese curds before noon. Destination unknown.

8. More good writing: The more we write, the better we get. Over the next year, if we protect a few minutes a day, we’ll have our own shabbily painted, little library to wedge into our lawn for neighbours and passersbys to pick from (or not).

9. Make some money: Not to be uncouth, suddenly capitalistic, or to bait-switch this thing into something it is not, but this year will bring shillings (for all of us). And while the focus is on small realness, there is ease and exhalation with being above water and on the board. I haven’t been for a while, so here’s to getting back in the green.

10. Putting into print: There’s a shift towards the tangible. A thing that we can hold in our hands. Wouldn’t it be cool to print a book, a zine, or a Substack collection that gets shoved into bookbags, stained with drool, and leafed through on trains somewhere?

11. Pet naps: As a childless adult, nothing is cuter than your pet falling asleep on you. We have more of this to look forward to. That’s all.

12. New things to eat: I love cooking, and I love eating. The next few months promise both. We’ll try new recipes, burn a few things, and freestyle wilting fridge items into a questionable medley. We’ll also eat some memorable dishes that make life worth living.

13. Redeem airplane points: Before you get the wrong picture, let it be known that I’m not a points collector or couponer. I wish I could be that organized. The only thing I passively accrue are airplane points (Aeroplan, if you must know). And every year, we bank them for an outlandish one-way business class flight with lay-flat seats. Highly recommend.

14. Garden basil: If pesto isn’t one of your favourite foods, I can respect our differences, but I don’t like it. If you don’t love basil, I will clock this fact and stash it into a folder of oddities about you. But beyond that, growing your own herbs is a joy and gift that keeps on giving (until frost).

15. Touching toes: As someone who was born with the flexibility of a mostly wheelchair-bound geriatric, a strange shift is happening. Suddenly, I’m able to bend over and reach into the general vicinity of my toes. To many, this is a marker of average wellness. To me, it’s almost mystical. Why now? Why suddenly me? Is this self-employment? Stay tuned.

16. Not working for anyone I don’t want to work with: Being in an environment that could, at any moment, start branding employees with pet names adjacent to “family” never sat right. There’s a particular confidence in stepping out and breaking the chain. Designing our own day is a privilege that hits different, and like getting your first dishwasher or king-size bed, there’s no going back.

17. Hosting events: Maybe it’s the growing stemware collection or the adorable glass olive martini picks I thrifted for $1, but I feel called to host. Whether it’s new or old friends for dinner, or more community events, I plan to follow this and see where it goes. If at my place, we’re on septic, so please, no unnecessary flushing!

18. Saying “no”: Historically, in a way that doesn’t suit my personality, I’ve been bad at saying no. I agree to too much, string things along, and feel guilty for not showing up. But stretching ourselves shouldn’t come at our own expense. Plus, turning what’s inside us into something real requires great attention.

19. Moving into our house: We gutted an 1890’s townhouse down to the gills. Sadly, we didn’t find gold or even an opium pipe behind the walls. It’s been a mountain of coordination and hemorrhage of borrowed funds. This year, we’re going to move in. While not exactly part of this living “small mantra”, being close to family and friends will make way for stackable moments, like wine nights, patio hangs, and pizza nights.

20. Saying “yes”: Part of this “doing it my way” era means I haven’t left much opportunity for shit I don’t wanna do, but probably should. And this isn’t totally right either. Sometimes going out when we’d rather be in pyjamas, showing up at the event alone, and signing up for the weird workshop are what we need. Mallard feather habadashery intensive, anyone?

When I set out to write this, I thought, “I’m turning 36, so the list will be 36 small things, of course!“ Then I got to number 8 or 9 and realized: holy fuck, 36 is a lot of items.

36 is not light and airy.

36 is not a cute, lean 20-something. It’s a full 30-something who has seen some shit and should not be underestimated.

So, to save us both, I tightened the list to a cool, skimmable 20.

Why? Because sometimes less is more.

Anne Lamont, whom many of us admire for Bird by Bird, teamed up with her husband, Neal Allen, a writer and life coach (beige flag), to author Good Writing: 36 Ways to Improve Your Sentences.

Allen, a decades-long published author, compiled 36 rules he uses when editing. He turned them into a book and asked Anne Lamott to help…edit. Instead of just editing, she came in to save the project from becoming a snore by adding her take on each rule (with all her senior dreadlocked quirkiness).

Full disclosure: I have not read the book.

What I have done is listen to Lamott and Allen talk through the rules on Rick Rubin’s podcast, Tetragrammaton. Twice. And the episode is a breezy two hours and twenty-two minutes long, so one could argue I’m as committed as a reality TV showmance.

The first time I listened, I was in a creepy castle-turned-hotel in Bairrada, a region of Portugal known for sparkling wine and suckling pig (I didn’t get any because pig skin is too thick and reminds me of a mummy!).

Now, a double bed for two is a challenge at the best of times, but when the mattress feels original to the monarchy, let’s just say nobody caught a wink.

On my re-listen, I had the luxury of modern Tempur-Pedics and found the rules even more useful.

I also noticed how many of the rules I break, including a few I’d never really considered. For example: always stick with “said” in dialogue instead of trying to be cute with a “muttered” or “whispered.” Their argument is that anything but “said” cheapens the writing.

“I can see that,” I contemplated with my eye half-cocked and my fly undone.

Around the second listen, I had just published my essay Why Do I Feel Better There? Naturally, I started mentally running it through the 36.

There are things Patron Saint Anne of Bird by Bird would not approve of.

These rules feel less like technical grammar and more like fine wine refinement.

Here are the 36 ways to improve your sentences, according to Anne Lamott and Neal Allen:

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Every year, we spend a couple of weeks in Portugal.

Besides 23andMe indicating, then later retracting, that I’m 0.3% Iberian, we have no ties. Yet, we visit more than a favourite grandchild would their Portuguese granny.

For optics, we usually tack on another European destination. But our hearts belong to Porto.

Heading to the airport for this recent trip, a friend texted that Portugal was “our cottage”. In other words, that we go to Porto like an Ontarian might Muskoka, or a Missourian, The Ozarks.

Without fail, our days in Portugal are always among the most relaxed, joyful, and connected I feel all year. During this stretch, my husband and I walk more, talk more, and plot more.

Despite our bodies drowning in levels of bread, wine, and cheese that would incapacitate a lesser man, our synapses are firing.

We take photos of design ideas for house projects.

We discuss how to recreate no-fuss wine bars in Toronto.

We *mentally* found and take public several tech companies.

Over the years, we’ve ventured further and further from the touristic core of river boat cruises, roasting chestnuts, and caricature portraits. Instead, we settle into the ‘real’ neighbourhoods, opting for the cash-only holes that test our language skills and digestive tracts.

In these neighbourhoods, where we don’t know a soul, I feel alive. And looking around, so does everybody else.

Patio seats are shared among friends with lit cigarettes, laughter carries, and, almost cartoonishly, people break into song.

What I’m documenting is a romanticized vacation bubble. In Portugal, we’ve never done real tasks, filed a government document, or broken any limbs. Rosé coloured glasses are a factor.

Regardless, there is an aliveness and a livedinness that I rarely experience elsewhere.

I wonder if we, specifically those of us who inhabit places with six months of winter, live too inwardly.

Because of weather, culture, and six-lane highways, we don’t spill out into the streets.

We grab pint-sized coffees to go.

We sit in traffic.

We loaf inside our oversized homes.

In tight cities like Porto, life happens in public.

Espresso is drunk leaning against cafe counters.

Roads are built for walking, and stoops for sitting.

Houses are too small to hold it all in.

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As a visitor, we huff on the fumes of these rich internal lives lived out loud.

We absorb their energy in a way that feels familiar, and possibly even North American: passively.

Without any pressure to contribute, perform, or produce, we are granted entry into people and place with total abundance.

And we get fed.

This relaxed anonymity is not unique to Portugal. Like any place we visit for a few nights, we occupy a small bubble inside a suspended reality.

We don’t have to worry about finding parking, texting (or not texting) friends, or feeling like we’re missing out.

Everything unfolds effortlessly. There’s wonder in the ordinary. There’s freedom in having only ourselves and 10kg of curated clothing.

Somewhere between the baggage we leave behind and the small bag we bring, we are freer.

And this begs the question: why can’t we replicate this feeling at home?

By most measures, I am free.

Sure, I have two mortgages, including one gut-renovation on a house we overpaid for. I have dogs to care for, opaqueness around the future, and the occasional mystery rash. But I don’t have kids. I have no boss to report to. I am happy, healthy, and afloat.

On the scale of free, I’d score in the green.

And yet, between figuring out a business, growing my writing, and choosing goddamn countertop edges, I find myself stuck. Or worse: uncreative with my time.

I stay inside my oversized house.

I go to yoga but don’t talk to the other women.

I live two hours away from most of my family and friends.

Sometimes, I feel like I’m pissing it all away. But other times, I feel so grateful for this time and space, my stomach aches.

On the flight home, my body alerted to the “back to work” feeling. The Zoom calls, Coles Notes talk tracks, and feigning care whilst jetlagged and totally over it. My chest tightened. Then, I remembered that I don’t have a 9-5 to return to.

Freedom.

Right now, my job is to capture inspiration and turn it into something tangible. Preferably, something that pays the hydro bill.

This requires dismantling old patterns and rebuilding what I trust is possible.

But with this carte blanche, I worry that I won’t find “my thing” again. That I won’t make money again. That I won’t fit in without having to pretend again.

And this is the part that doesn’t quite line up.

Because in Portugal, I feel untethered in a way that feels expansive.

But at home, I feel untethered in a way that feels like a responsibility.

I’ve been granted precious space, and instead of filling it with Porto colour, I’m standing in it, waiting for something to happen. Or more accurately, waiting for me to make something happen.

Away, I get to borrow on the aliveness of others.

Here, I have to create it for myself.

No one is spilling it into the street for me.

I think I’m still carrying more than I need.

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This week, I posed a question about revisiting old writing:

I wanted to know if writers, once they’re 10,000-hours-deep stop wanting to edit earlier work. Whether these literary deities peacefully read old texts, puff on a cig and think, “Fuck, I’m good.” Or is it part human nature (and growth) to forever find adjustments?

Comments on that note ranged from: yes, forever cringing and wanting to edit old work, to: no, earlier writing is a preserved artifact of time/place and shan’t be touched, you optimizing pleb (this part was adlibbed).

I like and agree with both angles.

In content marketing, not essaying, best practice is to update published articles every six months. This helps the algo-Gods bless our digital fruits. But writing isn’t marketing, and in the traditional sense, perhaps a published work should be locked in (just like it would be in print).

Regardless of your preferred flavour, I’ve been revisiting my catalogue of essays. I’m thinking more and more about bundling them into a self-published—yes, printed—collection, and want to get a sense of whether my older posts pass today’s sniff test.

As I leaf(blow) through 75,000 words, the long and short is both yes and no.

While I stand by the premises and most of the copy, I want to take a red marker to all “finished” pieces. I find my earlier Substack stuff too show-boaty, blown out, and with inevitable errors.

Note: With remarkable frequency, I use the idiom, “Without further ado” in my writing. Only, I’ve spelt it, “Without further adieu” like a beret-wearing Parisian bidding farewell.

Revisting earlier works is where my latest essay, It’s Just You Thinking About You, stems from.

It’s a rewrite of a 2023 piece called Truth #1: You’re Not That Important. Yes, a rewrite—sue me!

The original essay had some great lines, but when I revisited it through the lens of Would I print this today?, it needed love and refinement.

And so, without further ado, here is the 2023 version with today’s edits overlaid.

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As a product of the 1990s, I grew up before helicopter parents descended.

When I was young, pregnant women still smoked.

Dads drank beer on country roads.

Grandparents kicked you out of the car for bickering.

While participation ribbons had hit the printing press, “you suck!” still echoed across classrooms, playgrounds, and dinner tables.

While we were largely removed from the abuses of our foremothers, trauma lurked just below the surface.

More akin to rescue dogs than golden doodles, our adults had love to give but weren’t afraid of showing their teeth.

Millennials are the gateway generation. We’re low-fi and high-fi. Then and now.

While we were spanked, we weren’t struck with a ruler.

While we were encouraged, we were reminded of where we came from.

While we were told to dream, we believed that Hollywood was for hussies and con artists.

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We caught the tail end of tough love parenting, but occasionally bathed in the softer wave.

Today’s kids are soaked in “to the moon and backs” and told that they’re special—as they should be. But balance is required.

The messaging that “everyone is a winner” and “it’s not you, it’s them” is dangerous.

Being protected rather than butting up against our limitations doesn’t create a safer world. It creates a fear of failure. It fertilizes anxiety because there’s too much life we can’t control.

Buffering honesty and failure also makes people fragile, unaccountable, and self-important.

So, for anyone who’s soaked up too much of today’s first-wave, institutional adoration, there’s something you need to hear. And this probably goes for most Gen Z’ers with parents who encouraged tone-deaf singing lessons.

I hope we’re all sitting down.

Despite what you may have been told, you are not that important.

Read it again.

Let it sink in.

Let it marinate overnight in a ziplock bag with Kraft Italian dressing.

Hearing the words, “You’re not that important,” probably has your hackles up. You may even disagree. And that’s fine.

I don’t like hearing “You’re not that important,” and I’m writing this damn thing.

But as they say, the truth shall set us free.

There is genuine freedom in understanding that we’re not the center of the universe.

Feeling the smallness of our place is a gift—an inconspicuous, brown paper-wrapped gift!

Granting ourselves anonymity makes putting ourselves out there, taking risks, and self-promoting manageable. Without it, the weight of our fuck-ups, cringiness, and shutdowns feel too public.

As someone who was born artfully self-involved, know that I say none of this flippantly. I’ve had to learn to override a default setting that suggests everything is about me.

But in doing so, I’ve gained back invaluable space to discover and build with less perceived consequence.

When you recognize that not everything is about you, you get away with more.

You don’t have to second-guess.

You avoid stepping in as the jazz-handed host at someone’s failing dinner party.

You understand that it’s not on you to make it great—or to fuck it all up.

When you no longer see yourself as Truman in everybody’s Truman Show, you get to explore without reservation.

After all, there are few things you can do or say that will imprint more than a temporary “ha-ha” (Nelson from The Simpsons, duh) into someone else’s consciousness.

So, when you do or say something stupid, know this: the recipients of your asshattery didn’t notice. Why? Because they’re too busy replaying their own stupidity!

To register as more than a blip on anyone’s radar—good or bad—you have to really go for it.

On the good end, you need to show up and leach your sweet authenticity into the beds of those around you.

On the bad end, you have to repeatedly suck, or go out in a blaze of glory as a controversial creep. This is not a dare.

A few problematic qualifiers that people will remember:

Being racist, homophobic or misogynistic

Venting political or social extremes

Piling on the underdog

Shit-talking someone’s mom (even if they just did)

Revealing that you never liked the TV show Friends to a group of 35-year-old women (do not recommend)

If you’re a good person, your not-very-important self will largely go unnoticed.

That is until you have something you want us all to see.

This should embolden you to confidently do your shadow work in plain sight.

Start to build things.

Hit publish.

Take the risk.

Show people before you’re ready.

Paint something so ugly you have to forget it outside in a rainstorm.

Recognizing your unimportance lowers the volume. It takes the sting out of things beyond our control. It also helps us become consciously unselfconscious.

When you’re not fixated on how you appear to others, you get to be more of yourself. Accepting that not everyone is thinking about you, nor clocking your every pigeon-toed movement, is liberating.

So, when you think that someone is thinking about you, know this: it’s just you thinking about you.

In the same capacity that you think about how you’re coming across, most people are doing the same. To confirm, thinking about themselves, not you.

Nothing is about you until it is.

In reality, only close friends, parents, and loved ones are registering what you’re up to. So, if you want to shape any narrative, or be seen in a certain light, start with being a better person to your inner circle. To them, you are the most important.

So, to the co-worker you blew milk breath onto…

To the group of “cool girls” you bombed in front of…

To the boss you nervously told about a hospitalization after a ‘foam party incident’...

Fuck it.

Your moment of cringe was as fleeting as pop culture’s body positivity movement.

And if your failures do get noticed, we can borrow from the youth of today: it’s not you, it’s them.

Unimportance is our freedom.

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Dearest Paid Subscriber,

First of all, thank you for your support, words of encouragement, and yes, financial contribution. I am genuinely chuffed to have you in my corner and have the privilege of knowing you. Alright, enough of that.

Part of being a paid subscriber to Substack is the promise of gated, exclusive content. This is a promise that I have never upheld… until now.

I would say the guilt has eaten me alive, but alas, I’m still here typing this while eating a date square (not my own arm).

Guilt or not, today that changes. I thought it could be interesting to offer a behind-the-scenes look at the road from final draft to published post. Amazingly, a lot happens between my “best and final” Google doc and copying it over to Substack to go live.

There’s something about the prospect of hitting publish—even if it’s just to a handful of people—that forces a different lens.

Suddenly, you picture a frenemy reading your post line by line to a room full of your detractors, and wonder: could this line get me cancelled? Is that even what that word means? And for the millionth time, how the hell do I use a semicolon?

In the same vein, over-editing can happen, and we must be careful not to smooth out all of the edges.

And so, without further ado, here’s what I changed between my last Google draft and the published version of Should I Have Kids?

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I am envious of people who know.

Those who know what they want to do for work, where they’ll live, and the things they would never compromise on. I respect conviction, steadfastness, and certainty.

I, however, am not this person.

For most of my life, I’ve operated with fluidity.

This isn’t to say that I’m directionless, but historically, I’ve run on some combination of hard work and “vibes”. I’ve gotten to where I am without much planning. I like to stir things up, see which opportunities bubble to the surface, then go with the best thing available.

In any job interview or therapy setting, when asked, “Where do you see yourself in five years?”, I’ve always just delivered a noddable string of bullshit. On more than one occasion, I’ve answered with “happy!” (*insert smug smile*).

Unsurprisingly, big questions like “should I have kids?” fall into the category of the unplanned and uncertain.

I always assumed that one day, I’d just know. Or better yet, a cosmic “whoopsie” would seal my fate.

But without a northerly breeze of clarity—or a fertilization accident—I find myself here:

I have a life I like very much.

I am happily married.

I have two perfect gassy Boston Terriers.

I am heading deeper into my own becoming.

I have renewed focus, and I want to see where it goes.

But herein lies the conflict that all good lit demands: I can’t cast off this major, life-altering decision much longer.

Despite feeling like I just doused myself in Hawaiian Tropic before Driver’s Ed, I’m about to turn 36.

In a way that is classically offensive to women, I have entered “geriatric pregnancy” territory—a medical label that feels like a cruel relic.

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I salute all women in their mid-30s (or greater) trying to make the to-kid-or-not-to-kid decision. I doubly salute those who are single, with far less certainty, and opting to put their decision on literal ice.

None of this is easy.

Even with a partner and relative stability, to-kid-or-not-to-kid feels heavy.

And for better or worse, my husband and I are both equally uncertain.

We have not accepted white linen sofas into our hearts, nor have we cleared counter space for a Baby Brezza.

If I had two versions of myself, I’d offer one up to ride in the family minivan and the other to ride top-down into the adults-only resort.

Unfortunately, there is only one version we get to play out. And making a choice that could dramatically and irrevocably change our lives carries enormous weight.

A few months ago at our local brewery, my mom and I stood at the bar. We’d already had a pint or two (one benefit of being childless) when the subject came up.

She admitted something controversial for a mother: she doesn’t really like kids unless they’re her own.

I relate to this entirely.

I find babies intimidating, and truthfully, a bit odd. Whenever I hold one, I feel like I’m doing it wrong—like one sudden hand jerk could put them (and their parents) into a permanently precarious position.

I have nieces and nephews, and I do feel a heart pang for them. When they giggle, cuddle, or inadvertently say something offensive, there’s a surge of warmth. I feel an innate part of me awakening.

But then I see their shitty toys littered across the floor and remember they wake up at 6 AM and apparently aren’t allowed to watch TV anymore. Suddenly, I’m sobered.

I don’t like aquariums and petting zoos.

I don’t want to step on Barbie’s briefcase.

I don’t want to be sleep-deprived for a decade.

My mom capped our barside conversation by asking, “Isn’t there a physical urge that you feel?”

I briefly shuddered at my mom loosely circling our animalistic urge to breed.

Then I responded, “No, I don’t.”

And I don’t. At least not yet.

When I picture the two versions of my life—the minivan and the adults-only resort—I can see happiness in both directions.

I can imagine love expanding in ways I don’t yet understand.
I can imagine a life shaped by untethered curiosity.

I am envious of people who know.

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It could be my own heightened awareness, but I keep encountering “the middle”.

Friends, peers, and fellow writers talking about the in-between.

Sharing their experiences between seasons.

Articulating life amidst the old and new.

I could chalk this up to me, and my closest circle, being in our mid-30s.

It’s the career burnout. The changing family dynamics. The entering into our literal middle life.

But that’s not it. At least not all of it.

This feels a lot bigger.

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As a collective, it’s like the curtain has been drawn and Oz has been revealed. We can’t simply unsee and return to life before. Whether it’s the AI of it all, the dismantling of public trust, or a newfound understanding that we can’t rely on old systems, there’s been a palpable shift.

The way of life we’ve grown accustomed to no longer feels fertile.

Previously held versions of carefree living and “following in our parents’ footsteps” are laughably retro. When someone under the age of 50 mentions their work pension, I want to swaddle them.

“Doesn’t this adorable man-child know that probs won’t exist anymore?”

Ready or not, we must leave the sepia-toned, simpler times behind and rebuild. This time with hurricane ties.

After all, we’re not going to smoke indoors, wedge ourselves into the backseat of a friend’s car, or pass out on the beach in that same careless way again.

We’re not going to graduate and lock in jobs like we used to.

We’re not going to be rewarded for yesterday’s playbook.

Sure, every generation remarks on things not being like they used to. It’s a rite of passage. But this is different.

We are not aging as quickly as the new world is arriving.

And this world does not favour playing small or “25 years of service” pins.

Those of us who’ve felt this shift have already started walking.

We’re walking without knowing where we’re going—meandering through the messy middle.

And we know we can’t go back home. Even if we could, it wouldn’t feel the same. The living room looks small. The chipped paint revealing.

Was it always like that?

The middle is somewhere between death and rebirth.

It’s grief and possibility.

Fear and excitement.

Personally, I’ve never known less about what my future will look like.

We moved to a new town, but got a place back in our old city.

I was laid off.

On New Year’s Day, my husband was also laid off.

I’ve panic-applied to jobs I’d probably hate and never heard back.

I’ve thoughtfully applied to jobs I want and not gotten them.

I want to build my own thing, but don’t know what that is.

I am entering “geriatric pregnancy” territory (how dare they) and can’t decide if we want kids.

I feel like I loaded every major life variable into a confetti cannon and pulled the trigger.

Pieces of coloured parchment are dancing in the air, delicately suspended in time and space. Most of them have yet to fall and secure themselves onto chair backs, baseboard corners, and sticky tile floors.

And yet, I feel an energy and hopefulness that I haven’t in a long time.

There’s something beautiful about the middle.

Like a still frame photograph of an uproarious scene, it’s a piece of quiet in the chaos.

As we march further into the void, we still have lots of questions.

Will we get stupid and sunburnt once more?

Will all of our jobs, minus accordion playing and ice sculpturing, be taken over by bots?

Will a cauliflower cost $47?

We don’t know what comes next. But we know we’re not going back.

And that feels like progress.

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Most women have exerted a Doug, Bill or Mike’s lifetime worth of “smoothing over” energy in a single, fiery night.

And we did so wearing too little clothing in 12 degrees.

To avoid conflict, women sacrifice for the greater good. We’re taught to colour inside the lines. Mirror popular vote. Hand out invites with bipartisan strategy.

We tend to the needs of the harshest person in the room. We tamper down. Cross legs to make space.

After all, being liked is a measure of success.

This is true until it isn’t.

As we step deeper into our adulthood, this version of girlhood loses its sheen.

Being liked comes with sacrifice.

By tap dancing our way into the approval of others, we avoid the shit-talk-worthy risks that buy our freedom.

When we focus too much on making other people comfortable, we trade in our own vibrance for beige.

So, herein lies an important question: if you’re a woman trying to do anything in the world and people don’t openly wish ill upon you, are you even breathing?

Criticism is not a character flaw. It’s proof of life.

The aim isn’t to collect detractors. It’s to stop being less.

To no longer laugh at the unfunny. To not politely listen to the energy-suck. To not compliment the bolero jacket just because they expect it.

There’s a natural pull toward people who are shamelessly themselves.

People who don’t chameleon feel sturdy and decisive.

That said, some amount of censorship and role-playing is required for grandparent relationships and gainful employment.

At work, I haven’t always been myself.

A former boss once told me to be more assertive and “peacock” at a conference (like the real me, who is a shrewd Facebook Marketplace negotiator and owns feather-trim pants, needs a reminder).

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Most cringey of all: I have been called nice. Like, as a main descriptor.

Being nice is fine, but when “nice” is your default adjective, something’s amiss.

Tapping into a truer voice, instead of being the star of our own M. Night Shyamalan multiple personality thriller movie, is a forgotten key.

When we’re busy toning it down or hamming it up, we’re only executing who we are part-time.

Playing it safe and shaving down personality removes substance from the equation. It eliminates any chance of us bringing that extra je ne sais quoi to the table. And I, for one, require that je ne sais quoi for all that 2026 demands.

Plus, we didn’t beat the odds and turn one sweaty romp between our parents (*ew*) into living, breathing, sniffling life to be agreeable (and forgettable).

So, if you don’t know what your opinion is, are slinking in corners, or people around you are calling you “nice”, then we’ve got a problem.

Being your true self—unless you only love top 40 hits, working in HR, Dad jokes, Hallmark movies, and quietly smiling out the goddamn window—will mean going against the grain. And being less likeable.

Not everyone will understand our work, funny, projects, interest in taxidermy, or willingness to throw it all away and start over.

Good.

It means you’re actually doing something.

If stepping more into you feels scary, remember:

People eat mattresses.

More than a dozen people attend Nickelback concerts.

Someone is dyeing Trump’s hair with a straight face.

Comicon geeks wear rainbow wigs in sold out convention centers.

People vacation to Ottawa, Ontario.

There is a lid for every deranged pot.

Obscure, underground “anythings” have found their place.

There’s room for a more authentic and unlikeable you in the new wild west.

And remember: no matter how likeable you try to be, you will always piss someone off.

So, you may as well do it as yourself.

P.s. If you haven’t received hate mail by a male colleague, stranger, or family member in the last 30 days, it may be time to up your shameless. Join us.

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Every so often, we have an awakening.

For me, a lot of these awakenings are reintroductions to things I already know but haven’t felt deeply—at least not for a while.

These awakenings are truths like, “If you want something different, you have to do something different”.

The difference is that instead of smiling at this quote on a sticky note, there’s suddenly oomph behind it.

With an awakening, passive concepts become unignorable realizations.

They grab our attention and lock eyes.

Visually, I see these moments as wandering down our street and noticing a gate for the first time.

We must’ve walked by it a million times, but today the sunlight is hitting it just so.

We decide, “What the hell”, and creak the door open.

Stuffing ourselves through the passageway, we arrive on the other side to find a beautiful garden.

There are people there, conversing on bistro chairs and sipping espresso like Parisians.

“Was this here all along? How did we not notice it before?”

This bountiful place that will feed us was hiding in plain sight.

We just weren’t ready to see it.

This happened to me this week.

This revelation is a truth I’ve known. Hell, it’s something I’ve even written about encouragingly.

However, until now, I hadn’t fully experienced it.

It’s the realization that if we don’t make it happen, like actually try, it’s never gonna happen.

Before you say, “duh?”, understand that I know this. I have known this.

But something happened where I remet this truth, looked her dead in the eyes, and saw the ghost of myself living small.

This awakening happened on Substack.

I was basking in the afterglow of publishing my post, Creation Before Clarity, when I clicked the “notes” feature.

I was scrolling along, minding my own business, when I came across an alarming trend.

Countless new-to-the-platform writers were thanking the community for the 500, 1,000 or 10,000 subscribers they received in their first month.

I clicked back to my own profile.

139 subscribers.

139 subscribers in 3 years and 79 posts.

I had an out-of-body and reencountered my abysmal subscriber count.

Note: To my dear 139 subscribers, I mean no offence when I call the readership (that you’ve generously participated in) “abysmal”. Many of you have been here since the beginning and without your support, I wouldn’t have kept chugging along. I am grateful (beyond words) for the support. Truly. Madly. Deeply. But…

139.

At first, I was pissed.

Who are all these nepo baby writers with their grandpappies controlling the algorithm?

Then, I was ashamed.

How could I have squandered years of writing that I felt proud of by never *really* trying to make it visible?

Irresponsibly, I always assumed that success would find me.

In a way that’s too young for my years, I thought I’d be rewarded for showing up and doing good, sporadic work.

Despite being a marketer by trade, I’ve treated my work with careless whimsy.

I’ve been operating with a dated, likely Canadian, outlook that to promote thyself is uncouth, taboo, and high-key embarrassing.

So, like a leather jacket-wearing teen in the school’s smoker pit, I’ve maintained a deep aversion to showing I care.

I’ve believed that if my writing is good enough, people would simply come.

Well, guess what?

Barring my beloved 139, the people haven’t come. And unless I behave differently, they aren’t gonna.

For something that matters to me, I’ve been grossly flippant, stubborn, and unaccountable.

And only after reflecting on the ‘Fateful Scroll of 26’’ did I realize I wasn’t acting in a way that matched my intent.

I want my writing to reach people.

I want to see this thing grow.

And so, I arrived here: I want these things more than my disdain for self-promotion.

In today’s world, creative work remains unseen without the machine.

If I want a life where I get to be creative and successful, I have to actively participate and *deep breath*, show that I care by towing it across the line.

I can’t afford to be “cool” about my work.

To get what we want, we must do everything in our power to make it happen.

This means addressing our limiting behaviours when an awakening reveals herself.

But we can only see it when we’re ready.

If we don’t want to go for it, and I mean try in a way that any self-respecting “cool girl” feels is, “Hide your Ma, hide your Pa, block your friends” cringy, I get it.

I’ve spent most of my adult life standing with you, waiting for “talent” and under-the-radar efforts to carry me into my best life.

But the truth from behind the gate is this: no one is coming for you.

Only you can come for you.

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Back to shameless is about letting go of fear to step more fully into ourselves.

I see this as a homecoming, rather than a new frontier.

To me, authenticity feels childlike. It’s getting back to the place before outside influence made us malleable.

It’s the tutu over the jeans.

The juice-moustached belly laugh.

The “I wanna be a singer, a horse doctor, and have a house full of cats!”

It’s the untainted belief that we can do anything.

And sure, since childhood, we’ve refined our palates and probably don’t want a house that reeks of cat. But this isn’t the point. The point is that our shameless self isn’t afraid to express inner desire.

This fuller self speaks dreams into existence without self-deprecation or nervous laughter. It creates from a place of knowing. It’s uncensored, impractical and emboldened.

Somewhere along the way, that freedom learned to flinch.

As adults, we’re bogged down by unavoidable fear and responsibility. We have to toe a more delicate, thoughtful line than when we were three-foot and feral.

However, this doesn’t excuse us from pursuing the high-impact, exaggerated versions of ourselves.

Discounting our ability to be a reasonable adult and alchemize imagination is a fatal flaw.

Radicality, all-or-nothingness, and living out of a Westfalia are not required ingredients for our own becoming. But a focused commitment to creating is.

And we are more than qualified. We’ve kept things chugging along during some of the most unhinged times in modern existence.

We worked, travelled, made friends, ended relationships, found hobbies, bought shit, sold shit, fixed things, got lost, found inspiration, discovered, confronted, and occasionally, puked.

Don’t we owe it to ourselves to go after what we truly want?

If you’re like me, or are me, you’re probably thinking: un problemo, what if I don’t know what I want?

Sí Señor. That is a problem.

Not knowing is paralyzing, but it’s not an unrecoverable plague.

If we want to stretch ourselves to a place bigger than where we currently are, we must work at knowing.

And here’s how I think it can happen.

Unknowing gets shaken loose through creation.

We can meditate, listen, conjure, journal, horoscope, cardio, sunbathe, microdose, and talk to dead people. That’s a valid part of discovery.

But eventually, we have to put out.

Even without a clear end goal, we must follow the feeling and get stuff out into the world, switching from dreamer to doer.

Creation is challenging. But like exercise, cleaning, or returning a phone call (*cringe*), exponentially more effort goes into dreading it than doing it.

It’s the part that comes after creation—release—that is the true test. Catching our inner world, then sharing it, is work for the brave. The ego dead. The delusional.

Before publishing a post, I’ll spend hours on the draft, biding time in feigned indignation.

I’ll hum and haw about imagery being off.

I’ll fear that the piece has become too overfluffed, contrived, or worse: boring.

Then, before hitting publish, I’ll visualize “2 likes” stained across the digital letterhead in a public declaration of weakness.

The process of translating something from the inside to the outside is arduous. This is especially true when we care.

But it’s a requirement to have our public lives align with who we are.

If we don’t create, whether it be via writing, speaking, hosting, sewing, cooking, hacking, designing, playing, coding, or fucking, where does that energy go?

Like a forgotten tall can rolling around your trunk, you can ignore it for a while, but one day you’ll either open it or throw it away.

And if you choose to open it, a hose of stale piss may launch across the room.

It’s a flow of energy you’ve been carrying around for weeks, months—maybe years. It gets freed. There is release.

Clarity doesn’t precede action. Action releases pieces of the puzzle from the darkness. It reveals more of what we’re working with.

Naturally, as we age and open more cans, our compass draws closer to center.

Self-realization is a core meaning of life that is gifted back to most of us.

However, I don’t want to wait to be mauve-haired and tent-titted before I stop letting fear, or two likes, dictate who I am in the world.

I want to have energy, tooth enamel, and hip mobility when I start filling in the lion’s share of my puzzle.

And so, I create.

I create because I’m more afraid of what will happen if I don’t.

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In the summer, my Mom handed me a copy of her latest must-read book.

She presented it after I chipped my front tooth on a glass and then, on the way to the dentist, knocked another tooth on my car trunk—a calamity of calcium.

At the appointment, the dentist said that if my tooth didn’t permanently brown from bruising, I’d need braces or veneers to straighten my bite.

At this suggestion, I replied, “There’s no point. I’m not on TV…right now”.

I, a 35-year-old who’s never made a television debut, included the words right now.

To the dentist, this likely indicated that I’m between acting gigs — or more broadly, that I think I’m one carefully hashtagged Reel away from getting cast in Law & Order: SVU.

All to say, after a series of shutdowns, I was vulnerable, scattered, and searching for enlightened marching orders.

The book had a dated self-help aesthetic. The cover leaned on primary colours, oversized font, and featured a goldfish jumping from its bowl.

The name of the book was (and is) completely forgettable.

The Tipping Point? No, that’s Malcolm Gladwell.

Unstuck yourself? Too edgy.

Gaylord’s if You’re Sick it’s Your Fault? Close.

As it turns out, the book is actually called “The Big Leap” by Gay Hendricks. Gaylord’s thesis is that we, as humans, sabotage our next “big leap”.

In other words, we are comfortable with our status quo and want to avoid stretching outside of it. As such, we unknowingly invite chaos, illness, and all types of self-destruction into our lives to cockblock greater success.

This could mean slamming your head on your trunk so that you’re concussed, haggard and unable to focus for the next week.

It could mean getting into an argument with your partner on vacation so that you can’t relax and connect.

Or, if this were reality TV, it could mean behaving so atrociously that the network has to “part ways”, causing you to lose brand deals with Fit, Fab, Fun.

However, where I get lost is when Gaylord Hendricks asserts that once he recognized his own undermining, he was able to avoid illness and injury.

Through conscious unblocking, he claims to be rid of most suffering. This is a claim that airs on the fanciful, edging towards gurudome.

Plus, my hackles flare when my lack of immunity from the flu (and my own bullshit) is called into question.

At the same time, this hokey stance has burrowed within. I’ve replayed countless interceptions that have excused me from forging ahead.

As I blow the remaining green snot from my Christmas cold, I wonder, has self-sabotage caused mucus mutiny?

Could phlegm have been avoided if I’d successfully “unstuck myself”?

Is illness or a brown tooth a preventable personal failure?

Contemplating derailments through the lens of agency versus randomness is torturous. As if we need more reasons to blame ourselves. But reframed as an inquiry into the power we have over our luck, good and bad, it feels lighter and harder to dismiss.

Closing out the year, “Theory de Gaylord” was front of mind. 2025 ended with a Grade A, top-tier energy suck of horrors that prevented me from doing much of anything.

Enter, center stage: the rash. Or bug bites. Or hives.

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Starting in early November, I awoke to a constellation of red, itchy marks on my forearm. A few days later, red swells appeared on my ankle. And then my back and chest.

These marks coincided with us moving into a 6-week rental apartment to be closer to our dumpster construction site. In an attempt to pinpoint the cause, I stopped going to the apartment altogether. The marks kept appearing anyway.

Naturally, like any adult who’s ridden the subway, I assumed the worst: bed bugs.

I tore through mattress corners, baseboards, couch cracks, dog beds, and drawer seams.

We had an exterminator come through. They found nothing.

We took the dogs to the vet. Nothing.

I went to the doctor. Nothing.

I washed and dried dozens of loads of laundry on high heat (I’m afraid to see our gas bill). Then, I bagged every pillow, blanket, and item of clothing and stacked them on the porch. To any passersby, it looked like 11 metric tonnes of garbage bags barricading our front door.

Each day, I vacuumed, laundered, and scoured.

I drove across the border to Trump’s America to search for illegal bug-killing chemicals.

I dusted diatomaceous earth across baseboards and bedframes.

I started taking allergy meds, just in case.

I slept in a cast-off bedroom.

Like a sad vacationer with lost bags, I spent the holidays living out of a hand-luggage-sized wardrobe deemed safe to reenter the house.

And still, the “bites” continued.

As of this writing, I am still getting red marks. While they’ve died down, every week or so, I get a new crop of sporadic, itchy red welts.

You may be thinking, did anyone else get “bit”?

No.

And believe me, like any irresponsible adult with nothing left to lose, I created ample opportunity. Over the last two months, we’ve hosted several overnighters. My husband (whom I live, eat, and breathe with) has also remained unscathed.

While my weeks-long work-up may sound abbreviated, the trial and error, wishing it away, thinking it’s gone, reappearing, research and discovery, mental toll, and bottomless loads of laundry, have taken up an appalling amount of time.

And so, I’ve had time to sit with Gay and think about what I might be avoiding while I’ve tended to house and rash.

What uncomfortable thing could I be skirting as I vacuum baseboards, log symptoms into ChatGBT, and lay awake at night with tickle tyranny?

I don’t know.

I also don’t want to assign all of this bad luck to myself. Some things are self-inflicted. Others are unavoidable.

Maybe the real sabotage isn’t a rash, or a brown tooth, or a cold, but the urge to look too deeply for meaning instead of creating it.

Some things are just itchy.

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Years ago, I remember driving my older sister to University. At some point during the three-hour drive, I was bored enough to leaf through her welcome package. Among the glossy printouts was her acceptance letter. At the top, in bold lettering read, “Graduating Class of 2010”.

“Holy shit! 2010! That sooooo futuristic,” I declared from the backseat.

With little reaction from the mobile gallery, I ran through the feeling of 2010. It felt like the fake tanning and “boots with the fur” of the 00’s, but with a dash of hovercrafts and cyrogenics.

I experienced the duality of how far away this double-digited decade felt, yet how quickly it would approach and become stale history.

2010 was 16 years ago.

As it turns out, the decade wasn’t marked by flying objects and frozen dicks, but by Netflix and iPhone filters. In the 2010’s, we embraced the new gig economy, downloaded apps, and unmasked predators. We lived with relative financial certainty, hope, and an understanding that change is rapid. But I think we’ve always known this.

Now, we’re freshly stepping into 2026.

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A couple of days ago, an acquaintance posted on Facebook, “Was 2025 really that bad for everyone?” to which dozens of comments flooded in with a resounding, “Yes! It was a hellscape!”.

Personally speaking, 2025 wasn’t a banner year. It was a bit of a slog, befuddling, and our collective global futures toggled more “bleak” than “chic”.

But luckily, as we’ve seen from 2010’s arrival and swift departure, time flies when we are (or are not) having fun. Somehow, we’re more than halfway through this mind-fuck of a decade.

So with respect to the swift passage of time, and honouring the fact that we could be low-energy as we struggle to plug-in our USB SAD lamps, perhaps we go small.

What if the antidote to the last year(s) of overwhelm and disorientation is committing to the incremental?

This goes back to my highly touted (and sometimes acted upon) philosophy that small change grows with interest. Our daily jumble of dimes and quarters, once rolled and stacked, can buy us something big at year-end.

If we want to make 2026 a more aligned and fulfilling year, why don’t we focus on what we can control rather than waiting to feel epiphanized? This means baking in barely discernible crumbs of effort each day that will eventually make us better.

In times of uncertainty, the best course of action may not be the big swing, but rather, showing up to tee-ball practice with a baggie of snacks, a decent attitude, and a commitment to chip.

My dear cousin asked me what my New Year’s resolution is, to which I deflected with a lame, “Not sure, I’ve been sick. Blah, blah. I need to focus on it. You?”

She responded, “My resolution is to go to sleep before 11PM on weeknights and not watch TV in bed.”

And I think that’s just it.

We should aim for resolutions that are controllable, measurable, and over time, impactful. Sure, they may lack some Hollywood punch, but this is the point: to aim for greater stability, achievability, and realness.

With 2026’s theme in mind, here are micro-resolutions that I plan to stack this year:

• Less phone time—leave it behind, don’t bring it to bed, and be mindful of doom-scrolling.

• Write for 30 mins a day, most days—close tabs, set a timer, and commit to writing, judgment-free.

• Cardio or walk, most days—leave the house for fresh air, take a class, and break a sweat for the future.

• Regular journaling—offload mental clutter, sort ideas, and organize priorities.

• Daily self-care—look in the mirror, do a mask, moisturize, floss, put on new socks.

• Meet up more—make plans with friends and other interesting people who energize, teach, and inspire.

• Work toward a bigger goal, most days—identify top big swings to break down, and chip away at them.

A new year is about possibility.

It’s also about taking stock, shaking off the shortbread crumbs and ethanol fumes, and committing to trudge forward.

But this year, instead of trudge, why don’t we lighten the load and step gently with intention?

This year, we can work with time to shape our world, chip by chip.

And while I still have you, doesn’t 2030 sound soooooo futuristic?

What happens when we gain back the extra time that we assumed would change our lives?

Think: If I could have 3 months, 6 months or one year off, I’d have…

A debut novel.
A new language.
A stamped passport.
Intermediate guitar.
A billion-dollar idea.
Dresser drawers that finally close.
Abs (ignore).

But then, what happens when we loaf atop unprecedented freedom and not much changes?

As someone who’s fantasized about quitting most things, I am in uncharted territory. For the first time, I have nothing to quit.

Through divine timing and a poor job market, I have successfully dismounted from working for anyone else. For the first time in adult history, I have put down more than I’ve picked up.

And truthfully, the extra space is confronting.

Easy is daydreaming about alternative versions of yourself. Difficult is junking the excuses and laying naked to your own creation.

While I’ve long known that I’m done doing shit that I don’t want to do, I haven’t spent much time thinking about what I do want. Instead of being purposeful, I’ve always taken the next reasonable thing that a country breeze blows past.

But today, in my mid-30s, I don’t want to do that. I am actively avoiding tepid opportunities because I want something different.

Plus, no neatly packaged “next thing” has ruffled my gingam curtains. I’ve only been recruited for jobs that have gone nowhere or turned down shoe-ins that dizzied me with boredom.

So, with a constitution to avoid “meh” and the bewilderment of choice, I feel stuck.

Without the well-grooved rigidity of a boss and a paycheck, I’ve been more directionless than I care to admit. Reprogramming a lifetime of being told where to be and what to do is tough.

Designing a new day-to-day is a great privilege, but without clear marching orders, this long-awaited period of freedom has felt ironically stifling.

I think it’s because with certain liberation, we no longer rub up against the boundaries imposed by others. Instead, we must confront the limitations we place on ourselves.

And like our latest, busted, old house project, we have layers of hidden ceilings. Once we remove drywall from one drop ceiling, we hit another ceiling. And then another.

Suddenly, chipping off a layer of lath, plaster, and asbestos (the renovator’s holy trinity) evolves into a 20-yard dumpster bin. To see what we’re truly working with, we have to go all in. We must discard the years of debris that we didn’t even know we were holding onto.

We have to take her down to the studs.

And only once we start ripping to the point of no return can we identify the structural parts that matter—and be rid of the shit that’s slowly sinking us.

The dumpstered shit is the:

“I’m too old.”
“I don’t have the energy to try.”
“I’ve already peaked.”
“My idea won’t make money.”
“I’ll just quit after I start, anyway.”
“If it was gonna happen, it already would’ve.”
“I should’ve started 4 years ago.”
“Failure is embarrassing.”
“They’re better than me.”
“I don’t know where to start.”

And so on.

When we’re adults who’ve been adulting for a while, we absorb a mature outlook. Unless we’re diagnosable, we have a realistic amount of dumpstered shit to lug around. We’re no longer naive to how hard it is to make things happen.

Plus, when we want something that uniquely suits our quirky, broken, ambitious selves, there is no playbook. We have to conjure it, confront what’s holding us back, and choose to trudge ahead anyway.

But once we commit to ripping down our first ceiling, we’re officially in this bitch.

We can level ourselves up with a patch job, or we can go for it. And if we do, we’re going to have to make a huge mess first.

But only then do we get the chance to truly rebuild.

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As a person with a realistic sense of themselves, I (unfortunately) don’t subscribe to a dick-shaped deity that convinces me that my creations are great.

I recognize when something I write could be better. I go back and reread older posts and find redundancies, drawn-out anecdotes, and aggressive em-dashing.

Note: I went hard on the em-dash BEFORE ChatGBT turned it into the #1 “Is this written by AI?” giveaway.

When I hit “publish”, I know that sinking in another hour could take a post to bigger, overly-produced heights. At the same time, I recognize that done is better than draft. Published is better than perfect. And outtie is better than innie? Ew.

Also, when in doubt, I usually arrive here: stupider things by stupider people are being posted online at this very moment.

[Pause]

And in this moment.

[Pause]

And in this one. And so forth.

Since I started posting on Substack, millenials who inhabit “podcast nation” have chanted, “What about audio?”. In other words, “We’d love to pick up what you’re putting down, but me no longer readssss.”

Due to the aforementioned realistic sense of my abilities, I have avoided creating audio. Before now, I attempted to record, but could never shake sounding like an elementary teacher reading The Berenstein Bears to her students. Believe me when I say, it was cringy.

Then, I decided it was time to get over myself.

In keeping with the essence of Back to Shameless, I had to get out of my own way. And if releasing half-baked, amateur audio could help push this thing further along, then so be it!

All this to say, I’m happy to officially announce the audio launch of Back to Shameless!

For the last few weeks, I’ve spent hours recording in my closet, learning to edit, and creating a 10-second opening jingle. It’s been daunting and terrible. Fun and rewarding. And while I haven’t gotten abs or helped thy neighbour, I have overcome a long-avoided roadblock from my own shameless landscape.

So, thank you for your readership, words of encouragement, and now, potential listenership.

May these recordings get better in due time, but until then, may we continue to put ourselves out there despite firm grips on reality.

You can find Back to Shameless on:

Spotify

Apple Podcasts

Amazon Music

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