How lucky am I?

It is luck after all, isn’t it?

Or is it something else.

Something already written, already known.

Our lives, our paths, this time we get here in this physical world.

Is our existence magnified while we’re in it, and then once we’re gone, does it all make sense?

Do you see the full picture?

My birthday was yesterday.

There’s no stopping.

Just moving forward.

Continuing.

One foot in front of the other.

Go. Keep going. Grow. Learn.

I had a beautiful day.

A meaningful weekend.

Full in a way that is hard to explain but easy to feel.

Daniel woke me up with a coffee, then had me sit on the couch with the kids to watch a video he made, a compilation of clips from the last year.

When I grieved the future without Lorne being here to watch the girls grow, when we were in it together, we would often wonder who Riley and Sadie would become.

All he ever wanted was for us, for them, to be happy, to be loved, to feel fulfilled.

And watching it filled my heart in a way I was not expecting, seeing myself from the outside, seeing moments I had lived but not fully taken in at the time, and realizing how genuinely happy I looked.

It hit me that even with the days that feel heavy, the ones filled with deep grief and sadness, there are more moments woven in between that are light, that are full, that are happy, and I am actually living them.

The tear jerker was seeing the girls so happy.

So incredibly loved and full of life.

I went to the garden centre.

Heard from friends and family throughout the day.

And I kept coming back to this feeling, how intentional my life has become.

The relationships I hold.

The ones I have let go of.

I have set boundaries over the last few years, with people I once thought had a permanent place in my life, and it turns out protecting my peace has made me a better version of myself, more grounded, more steady, more aligned with what actually matters.

This past year asked a lot of me and changed the way I move through my life.

There are things I can see so clearly now that are shaping how I move forward.

Don’t expect, create your own outcome.

If I take care of myself mentally and physically, I am a better mom, partner, friend and daughter.

I don’t need to try so hard to bring Lorne into my everyday life, he is already there, so deeply ingrained in me and in the girls, in the way we speak about him without even trying.

It doesn’t have to be perfect, it just has to move.

I am capable of more than I once believed.

Sharing my grief and trauma has made me feel less alone in it all.

Not knowing how is not a reason to stop.

I know Lorne would be proud.

I have always put pressure on other people’s birthdays, making sure they feel seen and celebrated, but I have rarely done that for myself.

Lorne always went above and beyond to show his love and gratitude for me, and now I have Daniel doing the same in his own way.

I hold both.

How lucky am I?

I know that
because I am living it

I still feel your loss
in my body
in my chest
in my breath
in the inhale

in the way my chest rises
and sometimes doesn’t want to fall

because in the falling
there is remembering
that you are not here

and still
I keep breathing
I keep living

I watch as our children grow
I watch them become who they are meant to be
and I hold the pain
of you not being beside me for any of it

grief takes me in many directions

it stretches
and pulls
and reshapes everything I thought I knew
about love
about life
about purpose
about fulfillment
about happiness

and inside of it
I am starting to understand

that love does not end
when a life does

that death only takes away one part of love
the part that holds the physical
the part we can no longer reach for

but there is another part

the part that keeps living
that keeps moving

that exists in memory
and in the way I still carry you with me

the part I am in now

and maybe this is what grief really is

not an ending
but a continuation

grief is love
still here
just in a different form

a new way to love

It’s a fear of losing you again.

Of carrying a grief I’m not even aware of.
Forgetting someone feels different than someone being taken.

I remember sitting at a café with you.
We were outside, the sun shining but the air crisp.
Just staring into each other’s eyes.
Crying without saying a word for minutes.

I finally spoke.

“I’m just studying your face, Lor. I don’t want to forget the details.
I’m so sad to think that one day you won’t be sitting in front of me.”

You cried.
Put your hand over your eyes.
Looked at me and said,
“I know, Ray. Me too.”

I think about the small things.

And the big things too.

The way you scrunched your nose when you were about to cry,
like it could distract from what you were feeling.

The way you pushed food from your cheek
with your index finger.

The way your hands grabbed your stomach
when you laughed so hard.

The bedtime snacks you made for us when we were dating.
Then when I was pregnant with Riley.
And then for Riley and Sadie.

The way you said yes to them,
even when your body was saying no.

The way you drove your car, the way you taught me me how to drive, shift gears and parallel park with ease.

The way you used to say,
“I love you, with my whole heart, for my whole life and beyond.”

It shattered me knowing your body was failing you.
That you loved so hard, so deeply, even when you were hurting.

The way you cared for me,
even through your own pain.

The way you let me care for you
in all the ways you needed me to.

Your courage.

Your laughter.

The music you filled our home with.
Piano. Guitar. Sound. Life.

And now there is none of that from you.

No more of your silly sarcasm.
No more of your daily jamming.
No more of you working on your car.
No more of watching you play video games.

No more of you.

And still, I remember.

I shouldn’t doubt my memory.
It should be embraced.

I can rely on myself to remember you.
I can rely on the photos and videos, the voice memos and written notes.

You always told me I had an incredible memory.

You are so deeply embedded in who I am.
As long as I’m alive, you are here.

In the girls, too.
You are part of them.

You are here.

You will never be forgotten.

I just wish we still had all of you.

You have grown into the most delicate, beautiful little human, and you’ve given my life a depth of meaning I didn’t know was possible. On March 27th, 2020 you made me a mama. You are kind and gentle, so deeply sensitive and compassionate in a way that feels rare and special. I feel so proud to be your mama. I’m proud of your honesty, your curiosity, and the way you see and move through the world.

I also hold tenderness for the hard things you carry. You feel deeply and that is both your strength and something I will always help you hold.

You are so brave, my girl. Always willing to try, always ready for the next adventure. You are a wonderful role model and big sister to Sadie. I love how your face lights up when you ride your bike, how fearless you are skiing and skating, and how you could spend hours in the water, diving, jumping, and completely in your element.

Dan Dan and I love you unconditionally, sweet girl. Even though Daddy can’t say it to you today, please know he loves you too, today, tomorrow, and forever.

That love will always be a part of you.

Happy 6th birthday, my beautiful Riley Sky.

We love you with our whole hearts, for our whole lives and beyond.

Not because I don’t want to share,
but because I’m scared to feel it all again.
What I’ve gone through.
What I’ve seen.
What it did to my body and my mind.

I fell in love very young, and over the years I witnessed a very real, very physical transformation in both myself and Lorne.

I became a mother at 26.

It was March 2020, the height of the global pandemic.
The world had shut down.

I was already filled with fear and uncertainty.
Would life ever feel normal again?

Less than three hours after giving birth to Riley,
Lorne was told he had to leave the hospital.
He could come back the next day to pick us up.
He waited outside.

My introduction to motherhood was anything but normal. I was isolated.
Scared.
Unsure.
Sad.

For over three months, it was just me, Lorne, baby Riley, and Mowgli.

Our parents met Riley through our backyard window.
Hands pressed up against the glass.
We were all tearful.
Happy and sad at the same time.

We wiped groceries.
Wore gloves.
Wore masks.
Got vaccinated the second we could.

It was all so much.

And then there were COVID bubbles. Testing before seeing people.
Months and years of that.

And in the middle of all of it, life kept happening.

Lorne’s dad, Howie, may his soul rest in peace, came to live with us while battling esophageal cancer.
We cared for him in our home.

On December 9, 2021, Lorne and I found out we were pregnant with Sadie.

Five days later, while Lorne was visiting Howie in palliative care, we FaceTimed.
I told him we were expecting.
He was the first to know.

We both knew Howie wouldn’t meet the new baby.
But we promised we would make sure she knew who her Zaidy Howie was.

On December 21, 2021, Howie passed away.

One month later, everything changed again.

I took Lorne to the hospital because of severe headaches and his inability to properly play his guitar.

COVID restrictions meant I couldn’t stay with him.
So I went home.
Pregnant.
Taking care of our toddler.

Hours later, I got a FaceTime call.

Lorne was crying.

“I can’t. Can you please tell her?”

The doctor took the phone.

“Hello. We’ve found a large mass in Lorne’s brain.
We’ve contacted the neurosurgery team for emergency surgery.
I’m so sorry.”

Frozen. No energy.

What do you mean a large mass?
What do you mean brain surgery?

“Lor, I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

I rushed to the hospital.
Through emergency hallways.
Through corridors.
Searching for his room.

I opened the door.

We locked eyes and collapsed into each other.

How?
Why?
Why us?

We held each other and spoke about everything.

Doctors told us it was most likely cancer from the chest.

Cancer? No.
He just got over pneumonia last year.
We’re pregnant.
We have a life to live together.

He underwent a craniotomy.

When I walked in to see him after surgery,
his head was bandaged.

He reached for me and said,
“You look so beautiful.”

In all the pain.
In all the uncertainty.
After a nine hour surgery.

He complimented me.

I fell to my knees and held him.
Grateful he was still here.

I told him I would be there every step of the way.

“It may be a long road,” I said,
“but we like to drive.”

They removed the tumour.

ICU recovery for a few days.

And then the question became, now what?

The plan was radiation and chemotherapy.

And so while they tried to kill the cancer,
I had a baby growing.

I didn’t know it then, but my body was keeping score.

The fear.
The uncertainty.
The waiting.
The loss.

Now, as a mother, I live with PTSD and it doesn’t always look the way people expect.

Sometimes it looks like this.

1. Language matters more than people realize

Words trigger an emotional and physical response that puts me in a fearful state.
Certain words or phrases now trigger my PTSD, not always related to cancer itself, but from my lived experience as a caregiver.

I don’t say my phone “died.” I say, there’s no battery.
Before appointments, I ask doctors or dentists to avoid words like diagnosis, severe, spreading, worsening.
Not because I don’t understand them, but because my body does.

2. Small things can feel really big

I hesitate over things most people don’t think twice about.
Red paint, a red bath bomb. Because sometimes red doesn’t just look like paint.

3. Anticipation lives in my body

Before appointments, before anything medical, my mind goes ahead of me.
I carry the weight of “what if” constantly.
I prepare.
I manage.
I try to control what I can.
Because I know what it feels like to sit on the other side of unexpected news and because I lived with anticipatory grief for so long.

4. Hyper-vigilance and hyper-awareness

I am always scanning, aware of my surroundings, looking for threats, even in ordinary situations.

My mind goes ahead of me, thinking through what could happen, what might go wrong, how I can be prepared.

Even in moments that are calm, there is a part of me that stays alert.
Watching.
Listening.
Ready.

5. Somatic reactions: living in my body on edge

Panic attacks, spasms, legs shaking, freezing cold, crying.
Sometimes I cannot move, my body is frozen. But when my kids need me, I can. I embody a strength I didn’t know I had.

Finding my calm

To calm my nervous system, I do a few things.

1. Breathe
Take slow, deep breaths to settle my heart and body.
Name sensations in my body to separate memory from the present:
“What I’m feeling right now is different than the experience Lorne had. This is not that.”

2. Moving my body
Going for a walk to get fresh air, stretching, playing and letting my body move while being present with them.

3. Use my senses to my benefit
Feeling textures. Noticing colours. Drawing, cooking and listening to music are all sensory experiences that take me out of my red zone. Anchoring in the present moment through what I can see, touch, hear, and smell.

4. Remind myself / Positive affirmations
I survived trauma before. I can survive this moment right now. I am capable and strong. I can feel.

A lot of the ways my PTSD shows up now are less aggressive than what I’ve described, but they are still present in my life.

I’m writing from a place of experience.
From what I went through years ago,
and what I still carry with me today, just not as intensely.

I have done extensive work on my trauma.
Through therapy.
Through psychiatry.
Through massage therapy, physical exercise, and more.

But therapy is only one part. Learning the tools is one thing.
Using them in real life, in real moments, is another.

It’s the practice of catching yourself.
Of grounding yourself.
Of choosing, again and again, to come back to the present.

None of it has erased what happened.
But it has changed how I live with it.

And I have not done it alone. It is so important to have a support system around you.
To not carry it all by yourself.

If you don’t have that built in, you can create it.

Friends.
Online support groups.
Support groups through hospitals.

There are people who understand.
There are people who will sit with you in it. You are not meant to do this alone.

Living with PTSD as a mother is hard. Some days, it’s invisible. Other days, it hits like a massive wave.
But I can still love deeply, care fully, and show up as my truest self.
Those that love me accept me and those I love get to see all of me.

We woke before the kids and felt the warmth of the bed
The safety of a roof over our heads.
I got small kisses and a hug.

The kids woke up.
Morning hugs and their big bright eyes.
Dressed, breakfast, cuddles and cozies, and off to skiing.

We listened to music and sang songs as the sun shone through the car windows.
Riley had her lesson and improved quite a bit.
Sadie shows no fear, fast down the hill with giggles
”More, more”

We drank hot chocolate and ate breakfast burritos.
Dan Dan makes sure our tummies are happy.

We got home and both kids sound asleep.
They woke up and ate, now have lots of energy to play.

We went outside and the fun began again.
Bike rides and scootering, playing family and only a few “hey, that’s mine!”
Chalk on the driveway and skipping around.

We cleaned the garage and organized it.
We now have space to breathe and I feel better about it.

We went inside and the girls snuggled on the couch.
They waited for dinner and snacked throughout.
Dan Dan made BBQ, one of my favourites.
I could have sat there and eaten all day.

The girls had a bath and giggled as they splashed.
It brought back memories of Daddy washing them as babies.
So gentle.
So soft.
As he wrapped them all up.

We laid in our bed and snuggled together.
Tears filled my eyes.
He is still with us in so many ways.

We are a family.
All of us.

Tucked into bed with some books and nice songs.
Kisses and hugs and off to dreamland.

The mundane.
The no fear.
The road feels clear.
It feels safe and not so scary anymore.

How do I explain the beauty in the ordinary?
It’s this.
Being able to inhale
and not worry
if you can exhale.

What a perfectly ordinary, mundane day.

Time is taught to us as both linear and cyclical.
Seven days in a week. Twelve months in a year. Milestones marked neatly along the way.

Seasons returning, anniversaries repeating.

But when grief entered and struck my life, my understanding of time unraveled.
One week. One month. One year. Now two.

Should I be more devastated?
More angry?
Should I draw more attention to the cruelty of an illness that infected, ruined, and destroyed his body, his future and his life?
That took him from this earth. From his family. From his daughters. From me?

Do I emphasize the joy and pride I feel knowing how much life was lived in the years he was sick?

I have gone back and forth about what it means to honour someone.
How to carry them forward.
How to bring the person who has passed into your life in a way that feels meaningful and authentic.

I remember approaching the one year mark and feeling lost.
What should I do that day?
What should I say to the girls?
What should we eat, read or listen to?
Nothing felt right.

And so I woke up that day and held my daughters.

I sang with them and painted with them.

I ate the foods Lorne loved most.

We looked at photos and watched videos.

And as gut wrenching as it was to move through that day,

I allowed my body and heart to feel it all.

I honour the moments my children see me grieve, because they are learning you can feel both happiness and sadness at the same time.

Riley often asks “are those happy or sad tears?” Sometimes I’ll answer with “they’re both.”

What I’ve learned since then is that grief is not all or nothing.
It is not black or white.
It is both.

It stretches you.
It pulls and pushes at the same time.
It asks and it gives.
And somewhere inside that tension is acceptance. Not peace exactly, but understanding.

So this year, marking two years since Lorne was taken from us, I will honour him in the way that feels true.

By being with our children.
By laughing about the silly things mommy and daddy used to do.

Flipping through albums and watching home videos.
By telling stories about the friend he was, the husband he was, the son, the brother, the uncle.
The absolute hero he was.

The girls have grown.

Their physical growth is obvious.
Their emotional growth is something deeper.

Sadie is tall like you. Curly haired like you too.

She finds comfort in music and dancing.

She is an absolute empath. An old soul. Wise beyond her years.
She loves through touch and acts of kindness.
She is brave and adventurous and would do anything for her big sister.

And Riley. Sweet Riley.
Her hair is longer now. She wears glasses and reads short books.
She still has her baby teeth, though I know soon enough she will lose her first.
She is gentle. Thoughtful. Observant.
Her hugs linger. She listens carefully. She asks questions constantly.

They push me to be better.
To laugh more.
To hug tighter.
To sing louder.
To live and love harder.

Lorne, they miss you. I miss you.

We miss your warm hugs and big smooches.

I promise you, they remember.

Riley tells me how you would warm your hands by blowing hot air into them.
She remembers dirt bike rides to the park and forest.

Sadie asks if you’re coming back.

Riley will look at Sadie with her big eyes and say “Sadie, Daddy Lorne died and even though he died and can’t hug us, we can still feel his love and love him back.”

“But Mama, will daddy become alive again?”

And I answer the only way I can.

“No, sweet girl. When someone dies, their heart stops beating, their eyes can’t open anymore and their body cannot turn back on, even if we want it to so badly.”

It is painful to say.
Painful to repeat.
Painful to explain death at the same age I once explained it to Riley.

Riley was almost four when you died.
Sadie is three and a half now.
The cycle of explaining continues.

I am proud of the way I speak to them about death.
About grief.
About feeling.

It is knowledge no child should have to hold.
But it is part of our story.

Because two years ago today, you were taken from us.

On February 26, 2024, at 2:22 a.m., you died.

And a piece of me changed forever that night.

Time is not guaranteed, that I know for certain.
So I promise that with the time I do have, I will spend living with passion.

For them.
For me.
For you.

I miss you Lorne and I love you with my whole heart, for my whole life and beyond.

As a child, it was exchanging cards in class.
Heart-shaped candies.
Construction paper envelopes.

And then, years later, I was already dating Lorne.
A teenager in love.
Madly, head over heels in love.

I remember the cards.
The handwritten notes.
The printed photos.
The little scrapbooks.
The fancy dinners out and the homemade meals in.
The tears from words.
The tears from laughter.
The hug where I could feel my nervous system settle against his.
The moments of staring into the eyes of someone you love and knowing, this, this right here is special.
This is what people search for, sometimes for years.

How lucky am I to have known that kind of love for fifteen years.
How lucky am I that I can now share with my children the kind of love I received, by loving them the way I experienced being loved.

I know love.
I have felt it fully.
I have been chosen, and I have chosen back.

And then, of course, there is sadness.
Deep in the body. Painful. Still at times frozen.
An ache in knowing I don’t get to experience a new season of love with my old love.

And yet, how lucky am I.

Lucky to know a love like that can exist.
Lucky to understand that love does not die.
Lucky to experience a different kind of love now.
Love that feels steady in new ways.
Love that came after devastation and didn’t ask me to be anyone other than who I had become.

This is my life.

Trauma and beauty.
Heartbreak and hope.
Grief and gratitude living side by side.

At 32, as a daughter, a mother, a partner, I’ve learned that navigating life is really navigating love.

We do not move through the world untouched.
We are shaped by who we love, who we lose, and who we allow ourselves to love again.

And today, I feel grateful.

Grateful for the love that was.
Grateful for the love that is.
Grateful that my heart, even after breaking, still knows how to open.

My perspective on this holiday has shifted.
I’ve lived through enough to know love is not meant to be scheduled.
I won’t wait for a calendar to tell me when to love hard.
I choose it in the ordinary days.

Write the note.
Make the card.
Cook the meal.
Spend the time.
Real, uninterrupted time, to show your love.

Living with grief is not linear.
But living life with passion is a choice, every day.

Motherhood has shaped me in ways I never could have imagined.
I have walked through trauma, through the deepest kind of grief.
I have held life and death in the same breath.

I have broken apart and rebuilt myself again.
Softer in some ways.
Stronger in others.

And still, I choose love.
I choose presence.
I choose to live and act in ways that stay true to my core values.

To show you, through how I move in the world, what it means to be a good human.
To help others when we can.
To smile at strangers.
To lead with kindness.
And to be gentle with yourselves, especially when the world feels heavy.

I choose to mother with intention, with honesty, and with gratitude.

Even on the days it feels heavy, I show up.
Because you deserve the very best of me.

Riley and Sadie, thank you for choosing me.
I love you with my whole heart,
for my whole life, and beyond.

Remember choosing to draw
and it was all circles.
And now it’s intricate animals,
kittycorns and penguins, rainbows and people.
Writing your name and little notes
like you’ve been doing it for years.

I remember your first days.
The days I got eye level with your chest
to make sure each breath was steady.
My finger under your nose,
waiting for your exhale.

I would lay you beside me and nurse you.
In those moments my body felt powerful,
and watching your tiny body work to eat
was otherworldly.

I remember Daddy and I changing you,
paying close attention to every change.
Your tiny fingers growing,
your arms stretching,
your legs going from small to chunky so quickly.

Your eyes,
changing from deep blue
to a bright sky,
finally settling into
a rich, streaked hazel.

And that nose scrunch.
The one you’ve done since you were a baby.
The one Daddy did as a child too.

Knowing how transient it all is.
That is why I remember,
why I document,
why I hold these moments so carefully.

What an honour to remember.
To document.
To immortalize
a feeling of motherhood,
parenthood,
life.

This time of year carries something heavier. Every day can feel strange and tender, full of reminders, but for the last four years, this stretch of time holds more. It holds so many layers.

My grief has changed. What once felt like an unfamiliar, purely physiological response like burning and itching skin, loss of appetite, a clenched jaw, muscle tightness and spasms, has become something I understand more intimately now. My grief looks different now, like time spent in front of the record player listening to music, reading written journal entries, wearing Lorne’s clothes, which for a time I couldn’t look at, let alone hold. It looks completely different than it once did. I know the physical and emotional weight grief can carry in the body and mind. I know how it can settle into muscles and breath. How it can live there, waiting.

The sun and the moon have always held meaning for me. The way the sun sets and the colours it creates. The way the moon illuminates the darkest moments. I remember travelling before getting married and one of the destinations was Bali. There, we sat and watched one of the most spectacular moon rises I had ever seen.

As time passes I continue to hold space for light and what it does to my body and mind. The natural light from the moon and sun, and the artificial light too, sirens, the front hall light turning on to let paramedics inside. The flash of ambulance lights illuminating foggy skies. The bleak white lights in emergency rooms, the sterile lights in the oncology offices. I’m learning to accept what the light meant then, and what it means now.

I’ve done and continue to do extensive work to understand my PTSD, my trauma and my grief. I’ve learned strategies for parenting, partnering and loving myself through it. I work every day to give myself the space and opportunity for deeper understanding, for how to hold both my pain, grief and new love.

I also work to find ways to bring joy and understanding of hard topics like grief to Riley and Sadie, while giving them the most fulfilling and emotionally healthy relationship with both life and death.

We have always been honest with them. When Lorne was alive, we told Riley exactly what was happening, truthful and age appropriate information, repeated again and again. What was happening to his body. How this sickness was different from a cold you get at school. “Daddy is getting the best medicine from the best doctors and it makes him sleepy and even when he’s sleepy he will try his best to play with you.”

And when he died, I reminded myself and the girls that even though Daddy isn’t here to play with us and hug us because his body died, his love will never die. We will always feel his love.

Repetition matters. Truth, offered honestly over time, deepens their understanding. It allows the reality of a situation to settle into the body instead of shocking it.

It has made my everyday simpler, returning to the same words, the same explanations, and watching their emotional intelligence blossom has been a remarkably rewarding thing to experience. For finding hope without denying pain.

The sky holds memories now.

It holds everything I didn’t know I needed. It holds the space for all I’m feeling and am.

I remember when Lorne first went to the hospital during Covid for what we thought was pneumonia. I remember thinking, what if it’s Covid and he dies from it, little did my heart know.

It was December. The air was cold, but my body burned. My cheeks wouldn’t cool. My skin itched with fear. At the time, the worst part wasn’t knowing, it was not knowing. Nothing outside felt calm. Nothing inside felt safe.

Most people don’t know what to do in moments like that. But the sky does.

It witnessed the looks from doctors. The drives to hospice. The hugs and tears before the ambulance doors closed. The moments no one else saw. The sky knows it all.

February 22nd I sent Lorne a photo of a sunset after leaving hospice, sharing that it was so beautiful and then had a Face Time call, just to enjoy and experience the sunset together.

That was our last.

If the sky could speak, I think it would exhale. I think it would shed a tear for the way love and pain have coexisted for years. I think it would want to look away, to unsee the suffering Lorne and I endured. The sickness that entered our lives uninvited. The grief that our girls and I carry, and will continue to carry, as they grow without him beside them.

And still, the sky remains. Calm. Vast. Holding it all.

Time felt suspended.

I stood there watching the birds pass through the sky, noticing how the light caught each branch, each ripple of ice on the lake.

And the lake, wow. There is nothing like watching a sunrise and feeling the energy it brings, the spark it ignites in you.

Does the sun rising have a sound, or is it just me?
My heart beating louder.
My muscles stretching.
My hair loosening out from its clip as I stand there watching.

And then, colour.

A rainbow appeared. The sun rose right through its arch, light weaving itself through colour. It felt like a sign. Like we aren’t alone here. Like there is more.

In that moment, standing beneath an empty yet impossibly detailed sky, I felt everyone I have ever missed. Their energy and mine. Their presence and mine. Their warmth and mine. We were all there- welcoming the light into our lives and becoming that light we all need so badly. I felt wrapped in something bigger than myself, held by the light of nature itself.

I’m choosing to move forward with open arms, embracing and allowing in what feels most authentic, while honouring the boundaries I’ve created.

New beginnings. New opportunities. New accomplishments. Openness. Allowing more in. Moments that arrive from intention and stay. Gestures and practices that slowly become instinctual.

I feel excited for the adventures still ahead. For the memories I have with me and for those I haven’t made yet. For my girls, for their new beginnings, and for being part of the pages still waiting to be written.

I’m welcoming this year, this time, with softness. With open arms. With positivity, perseverance, and compassion.

Its engrained in me to now,

Live Life With Passion

It’s such a social construct, the new year. An arbitrary line between ending and beginning. Yes, twelve months have passed and a new number will appear on our screens, calendars, and chalkboards, but nothing really changes. Nothing changes until you do.

There are two more sleeps (that’s how I explain it to my kids) until the year is over. And suddenly we’re meant to decide who we’ll be next.

Be more active.

Be more creative.

Be money conscious.

Be more social.

Go on adventures.

Start the thing I’ve been wanting to do for years.

Why now? Why does it have to be all or nothing? The January 1st pressure that says if you don’t begin perfectly, you’ve already failed.

I’ve lived with decision fatigue for as long as I can remember. Maybe it started in childhood, standing in a store, being asked, “Do you love it?” And If I didn’t love it, I shouldn’t get it. But how do you know you love something until you try it? I think that question followed me into adulthood.

When Lorne was diagnosed with inoperable, incurable stage four intimal sarcoma, everything shifted.

Time stopped behaving the way I knew it. When you can’t plan a week ahead, when a night out only happens because the body allows it, life becomes strangely direct. Intentional. Purposeful. Living in the moment isn’t aspirational, it’s unavoidable.

Which brings me back to timelines.

We’re taught to understand our lives through years passing, birthdays, milestones, cultural markers. But no one talks about the timeline of death. Especially not young adults who’ve just started a family. No one prepares you for living minute to minute. No one tells you what happens when the future collapses into the present. When planning a year ahead feels absurd, and planning a week ahead feels brave. When your life is suddenly measured in test results, pain-free days, good nights of sleep.

We’re taught to think almost exclusively in futures.

Five-year plans. Savings. The next house. The next version of ourselves.

And while the majority of your friends are talking about summer plans and travelling, you’re just hoping for a tomorrow.

The new year asks us to make promises. Which ones will stick? Which ones will break and then punish us with guilt?

When Lorne was diagnosed, my decision fatigue evaporated. It was as if I was granted a different way of seeing. He used to say, “Rach, just choose the picture frame. The longer you look at frames, the longer the photo sits on the table instead of on the wall.”

I didn’t realize then how much small decisions shape confidence. How choosing quickly can create momentum. How joy often lives on the other side of action, not perfection.

So maybe the point isn’t the year changing.

Maybe it’s just this:

Spend your days and years enjoying, helping, growing, learning, gathering, accepting.

This will look different for everyone, thats the point.

Let the decisions you think require so much time be quick.

And don’t wait for a new number to begin.

I wonder how many more smile lines you would have by now. How many more grey hairs. How many ordinary moments we would have added to the ones we already loved so much. But you aren’t here. Not physically. And words like tragedy or sad don’t come close to touching the truth of it.

You, Lorne Meyer, had a presence in this world. A warmth and ease that can’t be taught. A kind of wisdom people spend lifetimes chasing. You were a gift, one not meant to last forever, but one filled with immense purpose, deep love, and wild, meaningful living.

It hurts, deep to the core to know you will remain forever young in my memory, while I keep aging forward without you.

What a gift aging is.
What a privilege it is to stay.

Today, I’ll hold our girls a little closer. I’ll let myself feel you, through them. What a gift they are.

What a gift it is that love leaves echoes.

This morning, I woke up early and looked out over the water with a hot coffee in my hands. The world was cold. The sun hadn’t risen yet. The landscape stripped of colour, bare and quiet. Some might have called it desolate. I found it calming.

I felt you, and not in the way people mean when they say you never truly die, but in the way that matters most. Your spirit and soul continues. You gave me the ultimate gift life has to offer, our precious and sweet daughters Riley Sky and Sadie Grey. And through them, you are here. You always will be.

We were given fifteen precious years together. When you died, part of me died with you. At 30 years old, with two small children I had just had my husband taken from me and in that moment I realized that I had spent half my life loving you. And now, I will miss you longer than I got to love you next to me.

I think about all the birthdays and anniversaries, the big ones and the small ones. Breakfasts in bed. The notes, poems and cards you wrote. The videos. The travels. The laughter. The tears. I remember all of it.

It’s a strange thing to carry so many memories with someone who isn’t here to remember them with you anymore.
“Remember that time in Spain?”, “Remember scuba diving and everytime we held hands?” or “Remember sleeping on the train in China?”

No one else remembers. No one experienced those moments. Just you and me.

And yet, because I remember, I get to pass those stories on. I get to share you with our girls. They don’t yet understand the magnitude of the legacy you left, but they will, I promise.

Grief feels like this strange thing that follows you, like a dark, looming presence, something bigger than a physical form. For a long time, I thought it was a monster. Something to outrun.

But it isn’t scary.
It’s comforting.
It’s acceptance.
It’s both refuge and pain, existing at the same time in a complex way.

Grief is a place to lean. A place to rest your head. A metaphorical hug you can be held by, if you let it.

We’re at the cottage today. We’re making you a crepe cake. Thirty-seven crepes stacked high, topped with a Spider-Man figurine the girls picked out last year, surrounded by your three girls, Mowgli and plenty of penguins. We’ll watch videos of you and look at pictures, listen to your favourite songs and It feels exactly right.

We miss you so much it hurts.

I love you. I miss you. And I know you wouldn’t want me to stay stuck in mourning. So I’ll let today be tender. And tomorrow, I’ll keep honouring you the way you would want me to, by choosing life, by choosing joy, by choosing happiness where I can find it.

Happy 37th heavenly birthday, Lorne, my love.

I love you with my whole heart, for my whole life and beyond.