Perspective

I have been taking pictures of the light. Mostly sunrise and sunset pictures, but sometimes just the morning or afternoon light playing in the clouds. I am taking them to send to a dear friend, who has said they bring her joy. But I am also taking them for me. To remind me that I can do beautiful things. 

I loved taking pictures when I was younger. I took roll after roll on cheap cameras as a kid and pre-teen. Back when I had to take them to the negatives to the local drugstore to be sent off and magically return as pictures. Most of which weren't great, but I treasured them. 

In high school I was incredibly lucky to have a graphic arts program. I used my dad's old SLR camera to capture black and white pictures. Only this time I got to develop the negatives and prints myself. It still felt like magic, standing in a tiny dark room lit only by red light and watching the picture slowly emerge. I even matted and framed a print as a gift for my Grandpa Rene, who had loved photography as well.

And then I went to University. I didn't have access to a dark room so my SLR got abandoned. I did have a cheap digital camera, and I was the friend who always took pictures but never appeared in them. At one point I started to worry that if I died, there would be no pictures for my funeral because I only experienced photography from behind the camera. 

I didn't let myself love photography. I met so many people who were passionate about it and had fancy cameras and were talented. I convinced myself that it is just something everyone likes but that you had to be amazing and special to dedicate time to it. I itched to get a better camera and take pictures, but instead I listened to the part of me that said it wasn't worth it. Only those special people deserved good cameras. I would never be one of them, so why bother trying? I took pictures when I traveled, using my cheapy camera or eventually my phone, but pretended I wasn't craving more. I told myself over and over that I didn't have anything to say. That I was just taking the same pictures everyone else took. That it was a waste of time.

I don't know what changed this summer. I don't know if it was watching Kyle buy the bike he had wanted for years. Or if the part of me that wants to create became desperate enough to be heard. Or maybe I just knew that I needed to find some source of joy because I was already struggling. But I listened to some spark of impulse and decided to buy a "proper" camera. I took my savings that were intended to eventually replace my phone (whenever it dies) and bought a basic DSLR. I broke it in in the badlands, getting pictures of sunsets over ancient rocks and abandoned farm structures under the noon sun. When we got home, I planned some day trips to take pictures in nearby parks. I learned how to play with the pictures after the fact - shift the tone slightly, pull a colour forward, make them shine. I stopped worrying that I was just taking the same picture that thousands of other people had probably taken. I realized it was still going to be unique, because it was capturing a specific moment that only I was there for. I started to find my visual voice that I had been ignoring. 

I can say things through my photos. And right now, by capturing the light of the winter sun over my odd little neighborhood, I'm telling myself a story of perspective and light and the resilience of a sun that keeps rising and setting. I'm not completely sure where the story will lead, but I'm enjoying telling it one photo at a time. 

Depression Thoughts

When the darkness comes, I can remember days it wasn't around. I know those days existed, but it feels like they may never come again. When I can't get out of bed because my body feels chained down by despair, it's hard to believe I'll someday climb a mountain again. When the question of what to eat feels like slogging through advanced thermodynamics, its hard to believe there will be a day when I revel in sticky problems to solve again. It's hard to believe that future me can ever be as good as past me has in their best moments. 

I also remember the days the darkness came before. In my secret heart, I almost miss when the darkness came with the violence of a storm. When it lashed me with pain that was sharp and cutting. When I could scream that hurt back at the cruel world. Now it comes with heaviness. Instead of cutting, it drowns. I am no longer withstanding a fearsome tempest, but trying to dig myself out from a heavy mire. At least then it was interesting. 

I know I can withstand the darkness. I don't always know how, but I've done it before. I just wish I didn't have to. 

Canada Day

I have complicated feelings about Canada Day. I have had many fun July 1sts, hanging out with friends in the sun, eating yummy food, and oohing over fireworks. They were good days of community, celebration, and love. 

Around 2017, also known as Canada 150, I (and many others) started to think more critically about Canada Day and what we celebrate. Over the last few years, I have been more likely to wear orange than red on Canada Day, to show solidarity for the Indigenous peoples who have experienced that 150+ years very differently. 

This year, I have been doing a lot of thinking about culture. Over the last month or so I have been reflecting a lot on the parts of me that I sometimes don't fully embrace. I have been thinking about how growing up in a resource town surrounded by bush shaped me, and the differences between that and the farm-style "small town Alberta" childhood I hear from others. 

Yes, I grew up in an environment where people held some really problematic views. And I am still unlearning that. But I also grew up with resourcefulness and the ability to make due with limited options available. I grew up with awareness of and respect for the forest and the critters in it. I knew more about bears as a ten year old than many adults in the city ever will. I learned that your name and reputation are important, and that you need to work hard to ensure they have value. I learned that you have to find ways to work with the people around you and be in community with them, because the next closest folks are down a long and isolated highway. And I learned that, at the end of the day, we can survive scary things. 

We have a dark history to explore, and there are folks who want to take us in a dark direction. But, today, I embrace that there are also things that I love about having grown up in this country. And I can both honour those things things and work to address the harm that Canada has caused. 

I leave you with a song that puts it well. The songwriter collaborated with Indigenous artists and is donating proceeds from streaming to an Indigenous not-for-profit working on cultural preservation. 

Goodbye, Monster

On Sunday, June 4th, 2023, I had to make one of the hardest choices in my life - to say goodbye to my beloved Monster Cat (or, her actual name, Quirk). 

I want to write this because I think it is important to capture the big moments of life, and her loss is a big moment for me. 

I have written this post a dozen times in my head over the last week. I could talk about the "why" - about diabetic ketoacidosis, missed signs, and the knowledge that leaving her at the emergency vet for days of emergency treatment, with no guarantees, would be cruel to a cat who couldn't handle two hours at the vet for our last attempt at a blood curve. 

I mentally wrote posts about "how" - about them bringing her in a little nest of a cat bed and blankets, about her trying to crawl out of said bed to get to Kyle, about moving her to his lap and being holding her face as her heart stopped. I could talk about the bone-deep knowledge that she had already left her body before the vet even lifted her stethoscope to confirm. Or about the dark comedy of the poor lab tech trying to bring us her carrier at the exact wrong moment*. 

I also mentally wrote posts about the grief since, the moments that made me break down and sob. This included keeping a list of things that brought deep, sobbing crashes of grief over this last week. For example: 

• Realizing I had left the bathroom door ajar for her 
• Her not being in the window as I left the house, and again when I returned 
• Remembering I have gamecation days booked later this month and won't have her for company 
• Laying on the loveseat and knowing she wouldn't be jumping up to lay down right beside my face 
• Seeing my office garbage can and the fact it wasn't knocked over 
• Receiving a very kind gift of a pin with a cat hiding in a plant (and thinking about how she would have knocked the plant over and killed it, not hidden in it) 

I started posts describing her life. But how do you describe the amazing life of a cat who lived on two continents, got lost in a Manchester hotel room, bit me on command, and was adored by many who had never actually met her (but heard her adventures through my gaming mic) in a single blog post? 

I think what I want to say, at the end of the day, is that losing a beloved companion hurts. And it's okay to grieve. It's okay to love them when they are gone, and to miss them in your bones. I will grow around this pain, as I have with other losses before. I will find peace knowing she is still here with me, just in a different way. Someday I will bring in a new furry companion (or two). And she, my little Monster, will be with me the whole time. 

Practicing Compassion

This week Alberta elected the United Conservative Party to power again. I wasn't surprised to see this result - I never truly got my hopes up for anything different - but I was still hurt. And angry. I've been thinking all week of writing about my feelings (despite my having fallen off from weekly posts), and debating what I could say. 

I'm not going to talk the politics themselves. I am a queer, nonbinary person who works in public sector, has multiple health conditions, and is passionate about taking care of those who our society rejects. I have had all those conversations and explored all those topics. 

Nor am I going to share a theory on why the results were what they were, what it means, or how people should change to try to have a different result in future. To be honest, that all bores me. 

What I care about is: what do I do now?  How do I keep going in a province that has just chosen this government? How do I protect myself and the people I care about? And how do I do so with hope and not anger or hatred? 

The word I keep circling is compassion. I am choosing to actively practice compassion (and practice is a good word, because it isn't always easy) for those who voted in this government. Not out of any naïve belief I can convince them to care for my wellbeing. This compassion is not about them. It also isn't about forgiving the harm they have caused. It is about me and how I can survive. 

I can understand why someone would want to live in a world where they believe that, surely,  Good People* will be taken care of and treated well by The State**, so it's okay to support politicians who want to make life harder for Others*** (who, by virtue of not being taken care of, must not be Good People). 

I can understand and give grace to people who have been taught that the thing between them and a Good Life**** is Others who are cutting in line or asking for too much or misbehaving. That explanation is so much easier to swallow than considering that the Good Life doesn't exist other than as a tool of State control. It makes sense that one would keep voting in politicians who will deal with those Others, in hopes that maybe they can stop the Good Life from always being just out of reach. 

The world is a horror show if we let ourselves look at it. And their vote will not shield them from the harm that this Government will do. People who have leaned into the UCP will be worse off in four years just like everyone else. Some of them may start to question and change their opinions. Many of them will just be angrier, more determined that the Other is to blame, and more set on taking the world down with them. 

There is no point me wasting my precious energy on hating them. I am much better off spending that energy on building community and care. I would rather turn that energy into what I want to see in the world. I want to see people taking care of each other. I want to see us embracing models of family and community that work for us. I want to see all the amazing kids I know and love turn into really cool humans who know they are loved and cared for. 

Therefore, I am offering compassion. We are all going to be hurt by this world, but it does me no good to join in acting from hate. 

Definitions for this post: 
*Good People meaning people who look, think, and act like them.
**The State in the sense of a polity that has monopolistic authority to use violence (such as police and armies) along with many other tools to maintain control. Not in terms of the country south of us and how they have divided their regions.
***Pretty much anyone who doesn't look, think, and act like them. 
****Also known as "the American/Canadian dream" - financial stability with space for endless consumption, not having to interact with anyone you don't want to, and a life without having to see any ugliness or experience conflict. 

Fluff Post - Pushups

I have fallen off blogging, and since this is a thing I'm doing entirely for my benefit I'm not going to give excuses or try to explain. 

My life is mostly still wonderfully boring, with a fun discovery of gallstones, my always strange job, and the worrying about that world-being-on-fire thing to add spice. 

But let's talk instead about today's gym visit, because that's what makes me feel good. 

When I showed up, my amazing trainer (and friend) asked if she could comment on something and pointed out that how I dress for the gym has changed. And she's right. I've down from things I could hide in to things I can move in, and I didn't really notice myself doing it. It goes along with progress we've been making. I'm not hiding because I feel strong and am showing up each week ready to have fun doing hard things. 

And I want to focus on one specific one of those hard things. Push ups. 

As a kid in gym class, I hated push ups. We were taught two ways to do them: "real" pushups were done with our legs straight but if we couldn't do that we could, with a nice side dose of shame, do them on our hands and knees. I couldn't do them with my legs straight, and the hands and knees version was awkward and didn't seem to work right. I just faked my way through each time. 

I did thirty push ups in my routine today. That may not sound like much to some, but ten of those I specifically chose to do and I enjoyed every single one. 

Because they were modified. I used a bar about four feet off the ground and did the push ups off that. I focused on form and feeling my muscles and keeping my body working as a unit. Each time I do modified push ups I marvel at how fun they are, and each time I'm a bit sad that I hadn't known. 

I share this story for two reasons:

-because it's a good reminder for me that we can all do hard things, and might even enjoy doing them, but we need to be shown that it's okay to do them in ways that work for us.

-because I felt badass after today's workout and want to share. 

And so, here's a sweaty, happy, strong mirror selfie. I like this person. 

Finding the pieces of me

I am a habitual people-pleaser*. I learned from a young age that one of the ways to feel loved in this world was to be what people wanted you to be, so I learned to adapt. To smile along, go with what others wanted, and learn to like it. To put on an appropriate mask and make nice. 

Fast-forward to 2019. By all outward measures, I am living a good live. I have a spouse, a house, an adorable monster cat, a respectable professional job, all that good stuff. And I am sobbing in the dark at night because I have no sense of self. I felt like I had no identity outside the masks that I put on to please others. I felt like I had no me - no self that existed when I was alone. I found an amazing counsellor, did hard work in therapy, and started to reconnect to a sense of self. 

And then the pandemic happened. Living in survival mode pushed me back into that same place. All of my energy was going into surviving, I had no time to continue to cultivate that sense of self I had started to build. It crumbled, along with many other things. 

But I still had the tools I had forged in counselling. And over the last two years I have very slowly been working on finding those pieces of me that had gotten buried under the expectations of others and the need to survive. I have realized some big truths that I had buried far away from my own sight to protect me. I have embraced some of my idiosyncrasies that I felt I had to ignore. I have sought joy and things that make me happy on a soul-deep level. I have allowed myself to be imperfect and real without holding shame for those imperfections. 

Each fragment of myself I find gets stitched into the complicated whole of me. And they don't all fit well together. I love the contradictions within me. I love the places where I don't make sense. I love finding the things about myself that are difficult and make me hard to live with. I love embracing the softness - of my body, and of my heart. I will not feel shame for being sensitive to this world and for struggling to live in a world full of pain. I also love embracing my sharp edges - my stubbornness, my temper that can flare up when I feel safe with someone, my sometimes shady thoughts. 

I am nowhere near done finding who I am. I think that this is part of the journey of life - the constant finding (and refining) of who we really are under all the junk the world places on us. 

And as I start to figure out who I really am on the inside, I start to take that shape on the outside too. This week I got another step closer, connecting back to my flora namesake through a new tattoo. This beautiful piece is courtesy of Ky Blum, also known as goblinsinkpot, and I am absolutely in love with it. I cannot wait to see it once it is healed. And yes, I already have ideas in mind for what to add to my skin next...

*In reality, I have a deeply embedded 'faun' trauma response but that's not the point of this post, so we will stick with 'people-pleaser'

Things suicide intervention trainings miss

First - let me be clear that I'm okay. I'm going to talk about my own experiences with suicide and suicidality below, but please be reassured that I am in a good place. I am choosing to write about this now, having had it stuck in my brain for a while, because I'm okay. 

Second - I am going to talk very openly here about suicide and related thoughts. This is going to be hard to read, especially if you love me and want me to be okay. Or if you have your own history with suicidality. I want you, reader, to make sure you're okay to read this. Not just a quick 'yeah, yeah, I'm fine'. Do a body scan - are there signs of stress as you have started reading? Are your shoulders inching up? Do you feel that stress fluttering in your stomach? Or are you good. If nothing else, go drink some water before continuing. You probably need to move and hydrate. 

Now let's give some context. I have a long history with suicidality. Most of my active suicide attempts occurred at a young age, but I have experienced suicidal ideation for literal decades. It's not that interesting of a story, I promise, but I share so you know where I'm speaking from. Suicide prevention is not theoretical to me - it is a thing I have experienced many times as both the person needing intervention and as the person intervening. I have formal training (including Mental Health First Aid and Applied Suicide Intervention Skills Training), lived experience, and lots of practice. 

I had cause recently to reflect on some of the issues I see with suicide prevention information, especially when done in large groups. These thoughts can also apply to intensive, small-group trainings as well, depending on who is delivering them (and how closely they stick to the scripts). Those trainings are valuable and important, but there are things that I think they miss. I am sharing these ideas with you, mostly so they'll stop rattling around my brain.  But, who knows, you might even find this helpful if you have cause to support a person experiencing suicidality in future. 

Disclaimer: this is all just my ruminations. This should not be considered to replace existing trainings, or to in any way be professional advice. This is the ramblings of one weird person. 

Active Talk About Passive Thoughts

Asking about suicide is uncomfortable. You have probably been taught that it is better to ask "are you thinking of killing yourself" or "have you had thoughts of suicide" than to use coded language about 'harming yourself' or 'doing something stupid'. And that is very true. But that's only part of the story.

If you ask me directly if I have had thoughts of suicide recently, I can pretty much always say yes. Once again, I promise I'm fine. But I can still pretty much always say yes. This comes to that 'suicidal ideation' I mentioned above. I often add the word 'passive' for clarity when talking about this. See, I have passive thoughts about suicide regularly. These thoughts are often 'I could step in front of that bus right now', or 'I could turn this steering wheel and go off this overpass'. If you don't have these thoughts, this can sound intense. But I'm used to these thoughts popping up. I'll note I also have regular thoughts about licking dirty sidewalks, accidentally hurting my cat, and many other unpleasant things that I don't want to put in your brains. These are all intrusive thoughts related to my anxiety and depression. We all experience intrusive thoughts here and there, but I have frequent, stubborn, and highly repetitive ones. This includes ones about suicide. It is important to note that suicidal ideation is a risk factor for active suicidality, but not identical. Many folks who live with ideation never move into active risk. 

Why am I telling you this? Because asking me "have you had thoughts of suicide" isn't going to get you a clear answer. My usual answer is 'not active ones', but that isn't actually the right question for me. I might be having more frequent passive thoughts or they might have changed recently - and those are warning signs for me. If you know someone has passive thoughts (or their answer indicates they might), it might be worthwhile to explore a bit further:

• It sounds like you might have ideation or passive thoughts, is that the case? 
• Are your passive thoughts happening more frequently? 
• Have your passive thoughts changed or you had new ones? 
• Are you concerned at all about your passive thoughts? 

These questions can prompt some reflection and help identify if someone is living at their baseline of weird thoughts, or if they are having increased risk. 

Listen to the Youths

Do you know what 'unaliving' means? What about a grippy sock vacation? 

One of the other issues that I see with a lot of suicide intervention training is it focuses on the language that the professionals use. This makes sense - it is often professionals designing and/or delivering the training. And professional language is important - having the language for ideation and passive thoughts helps me understand my own experiences without feeling shame or guilt. But, we need to keep in mind that that language may not be what a suicidal person uses, especially a younger person. 

Social media censorship has led to a wild world of new language for generally censored topics as a way around filters. A young person who spends a lot of time online may not say that they are feeling suicidal, but they may say that they want to unalive themselves. Or that they they need a 'grippy sock vacation' (psychiatric hospitalization). And if you don't know these words, you might miss the reference.

Social media can be a scourge and a huge source of stress, but it is also important for those involved in suicide prevention to pay attention to how these discussions happen and how social media influences language. Those of us over (insert arbitrary young age here) may never be cool again, but we need to at least know how the cool kids are talking if we want to help them. 

Dark Humour

The final thing I think these trainings miss is that we need to become comfortable with dark humour. I'll be honest - I have absolutely laughed talking about my own ideation with people who get it. Just like any other shared experience, we have to laugh about the darkness sometimes to make it not feel so dark.

So here's a confession. I laugh when a video pointing out that advice to 'take the jump' is not actually meant for me crosses my social media feed. It makes me laugh every single* time. Seriously, every damn time. (There are other variations, but I'm lazy and google led me to ones with that one starting clip). More than making me laugh, it makes me feel not alone. And that's deeply healing.

One of the tools that I have found most powerful during interventions is being able to be human about it and dropping the formality. I make a big deal of being awkward getting out my ASIST card from my wallet. I gently make fun of myself (or my cat). I make myself clearly flawed and human, not some removed professional. Sometimes I can even get a small chuckle out of a suicidal person, and that brings the tension way down and creates space to move forward. I do need to note that how exactly I try to break that tension is very context- and person-dependent. This isn't the right approach with everyone, but when it works it works beautifully. 

Sometimes laughter is enough to chase the darkness away, even just for a moment of beautiful relief. And sometimes that's the only way we can get through this world together. 

So there are my ruminations on things we miss in suicide intervention trainings. I am sure that every person out there who has experienced suicidality would have their own thoughts and additions, so once again these are just my ramblings. 

As a final note, take care of yourselves. It's a hard world out there. All we have to get through it is each other - and if you are reading this because you know me, just know I am here for you with a map and a headlamp to help you fumble out of the darkness when you find yourself stuck there. 

*even if you don't watch the others, watch that one. It has Spiderman.  

Practice

It has been a rough few weeks in our household. I honestly don't know how to explain it all, nor do I think there is value in putting it out there in the world. The impacts - sadness, hopelessness, grief, anger, despair - alone are a lot to put on others. 

And that's not my goal today. My goal today is to talk about the idea of practice, and how it fits with having rough weeks. But first, I have to take you into the world of online video games. 

I play an online role-playing game, where I can play cooperatively with other players. I am in a guild (organized group), and I am in charge of leading members of that group through doing hard group content ('trials' or raids where 12 of us work together to get through a set of enemy encounters). 

If your eyes have glazed over, don't worry - I'm almost done with setting the context. Doing hard 'trials' means we often don't succeed our first time in. We 'prog' (progress through) the content, learning it together and getting (hopefully) a bit further each time. 

In this group, we often remind ourselves that 'practice makes progress'. I love this phrase. When we are in the same trial for the 5th week, this phrase reminds us to celebrate the things we have already conquered. I love that this version takes the focus from perfection, an often unattainable end goal, to growth and learning. It reminds me that end goals are guideposts, but often not what really matter. Trials are fun because I'm learning with my friends. Yes, of course, I cheer loudly when we finally clear something, but I do trials to be with this amazing group and improve our playing together. 

And this phrase applies so far beyond video games.  

Writing this blog again is practice. I missed a couple of weeks while my routine was up in the air, but that's okay. Because writing this blog isn't about being perfect - it's about practice and progress. And each time I write I feel like I'm finding my voice again and enjoying the process. 

Strengthening my body is practice. I ended up spending my training session last week crying and focusing on what my body needed to get through another stressful week instead of moving my body. And that's okay. Because this week I went in, said I needed to do something that made me feel strong, and had a glorious workout with weights and balance (and I could see so much progress from over the last few months!)

And maintaining my mental health and well-being is practice. It got knocked around this last couple weeks, and I'm under no illusion that I am fully in the clear. I am still having to be very cautious what I expose myself to in media (and social media), I am monitoring very carefully for signs of needing medical intervention, and I am taking steps to protect myself from overload. I am using the techniques I have learned from therapists and trainers and many amazing folks I have worked with. This is my lifelong practice, and when I focus on progress I can see how strong I now am, even in my weeks where I feel bruised and battered. 

The world is really rough right now. I am finding it hard to keep up hope. But, the idea of a little bit of progress is something I can believe in. So, this week my focus is on practice for the sake of progress. 

Surviving

It's been a rough couple weeks. Today things crested. My brain said no more. I ended the day feeling like the emotional and cognitive walking wounded, bleeding out from the soul. 

Those wounds aren't gone. But tonight has been focused on stopping the bleeding. Instead of bandages, I've applied a crackling fire and the weight of a blanket. Instead of applying pressure, I'm applying music and the sounds of Kyle puttering in the kitchen. There is no paramedic to staunch the flow, but a soft kitty on my lap does the trick. 

Stopping the bleeding doesn't mean the wounds are healed. There is healing to be done, and it will happen. But for tonight, it's enough to be stabilizing.

The joy of not responding (aka using social media wrong)

When I took my current role, I locked down all my social media. I set everything to private, changed some user names, and removed as much public information about myself as I could. This was all in the name of making it harder for upset students to find me. 

For the most part this has had little effect on my life. I am clearly not an influencer, and while I love a good selfie and bit of positive reinforcement, I am past the heyday of my social media use. This had roughly zero change on my social media habits on most apps. 

Except one. The blue bird app (the one with short, 140 character [or is it 280 now?] responses) has been really interesting with a locked down account. I think it comes from the nature of the app - said tweety app is designed for interacting in short messages with people you don't know. With my account locked down, I cannot respond to anyone I don't know. I get a polite little message reminding me that they won't be able to see my response. 

And it is glorious. I love not being able to respond to people. It is one of the best things I have done for my mental health. 

I love that I cannot argue with people saying awful things that I disagree with. I was never a huge internet-fighter, but I had my topics that I would let myself get sucked into arguments about. And that was playing into their hands. It gave them attention, encouraged the algorithm to spread their awful words further, and often destroyed my mood. I highly doubt it ever got anywhere anyways. There are plenty of other folks out there engaging in those fights. 

I love that it encourages me to take time. Not being able to respond to people encourages me to take time with their ideas, reflect on them, and decide if I want to do something with them later. It slows the process down (the same thing I like about blogging), which allows for better understanding and a more thoughtful approach. 

I love that it forces me to do the virtual equivalent of listening more than I talk. It reminds me that I don't always have to share my thoughts; that I can keep them inside, explore them, reflect on them, and nurture the ones that I want to see grow. It helps me practice the art of listening to understand, rather than listening to respond. 

On an app designed for short, fast responses and people shouting over each other in more and more extreme ways, I have forced myself to engage with it in the opposite way. I do post a bit, respond to friends, and share things with my little world of followers. But on an app based on everyone shouting their thoughts into the world, there is something wonderful about only being able to listen.

(All of that said, there are times I truly dislike it. I can't try to befriend the wonderful people that I see but don't already know. When I want to encourage someone who is having a bad day, I am limited in my ability to do so. Those are the times I curse the need to be private). 

I share this because it goes beyond social media. It has helped me practice these same skills - not wasting my time arguing with someone who just wants to argue, taking my time to respond to things, and listening rather than responding - elsewhere. If those are skills you also find valuable, I encourage you to joyfully practice not responding. 

(But respond to me and tell me you like my blogs. I do like that positive reinforcement after all <3)

Cultivating connection

This morning, as with most Saturday mornings, I went to the fitness studio. As I walked in, my trainer's mother was leaving. We have taken a few classes together, years ago now, and often bump into each other at the door. We smiled, said hi, and exchanged a few words about hair. A few steps later, I greeted a trainer I haven't worked with before who complimented my shirt. I talked with one of the owners about a project they are launching today. A dear friend ran out and gave me a soul-feeding hug. And then I had a powerful and healing session with my trainer (and did awesome things with my body that felt great, but that's not the point of today's post). 

Every one of these interactions made my day. I love connection. It is one of my values that I sorted out early - little moments of connection nurture me in a way little else does. These little moments of connection are also the threads that come together into the social fabric, that form a community. Some threads are tied tightly together, romantic partners and close friends and family that you build long shared histories with. Others are looser - the Second Cup barista recognizing you and knowing your drink, running into your neighbour on the street, smiling at someone you regularly see on the bus or in the parking lot.

We cannot talk about connection without talking about its absence. Our society has a problem, and that problem is loneliness and isolation. We talk about a loneliness epidemic, about a society that feels unconnected, detached, and uncaring. This is real - and it is explainable. We replaced public spaces with businesses. Town squares turned into shopping malls turned into strip malls. We have to work more to survive, and we don't have time to stop and talk. We moved from careers to gig work, from coworkers to contractors. We built our cities around cars, not buses or sidewalks. (Cue listening to Big Yellow Taxi by Joni Mitchell). 

Each of those changes reduced how often we bump into each other. They reduced our free time, made it so we see the same people less often, and pushed us into our own survival treadmills. And all the while, we have been told that that's okay. That we can replace those connections with things. That we can spend our way out of the pain that isolation brings. And I say this acknowledging the irony that my ability to enjoy a Saturday morning of connection depends on my resources and privilege. I don't have to work weekends. I can afford to have a fitness membership and to drive across the city to be there. I am not exhausted from working multiple jobs. 

Connection is a basic need that we have been told to try and live without. Yes, we need food, shelter, and water. But those are meaningless without connection and community. And, at the same time, actively cultivating connection is an act of resistance in a world that wants you to replace it with consumerism. So I have a challenge for you this week. Pay attention to connection. Where are the places (physical or virtual) you encounter it? What are the things that prevent connection? Who can you smile at or say hi to that you haven't in the past? Who have you been meaning to reach out to but keep putting off? How can you add a couple threads to your social fabric?

(This was supposed to be a blog post about celebrating acquaintances and the many types and shades of friendship. But this is what wanted to come out today, so that will have to wait)

Movement update and retrospective

This time of year in 2021, I was pretty sure I was going to die. Not of COVID, or at least that wasn't the only fear. I was essentially completely sedentary. Standing or walking for more than a minute was almost impossible. Taking the stairs in my house felt, at times, insurmountable. My knees would get angry, my back would hurt, my hips would protest. I was convinced that I would have a heart attack any day. 

I didn't do anything reasonable like talk to someone about it, or even practical things. I woke up every day, amazed I hadn't died in my sleep and simultaneously already exhausted for the day ahead. 

I have had a lot of cycles of increased and decreased movement in my life. In 2008 I was a runner and glowed with pride crossing the line at fun runs. By 2010, running was a distant memory, but my job and lifestyle kept me walking. In 2012, I was attending burlesque classes (is there video evidence? Yes. Will I share it? You have to earn that. And it's worth it for comedy reasons alone, I promise). In 2013, I was running again, hitting up the indoor track at nearby city gyms multiple times a week. In 2015, I was not but I walked a lot for work still. In 2017 I was attending a boutique fitness studio more days than not. 

And then the cycle changed. 2018 was both an amazing year (I married Kyle, I bought a house) and a devastating one (I planned a wedding, I bought a house, and Grandpa Tony passed unexpectedly). I took a couple of big falls, including (I believe) breaking my tailbone after slipping on stairs. I didn't listen to my body and tried to push through grief and pain even when it said no. I have a distinct memory of trying to push myself through a cardio class while sobbing with grief and refusing to give up even though my body was refusing to function.

And so it shut down. By Fall of 2019, I cried while trying to move boxes across campus for an office move. I was walking less because it hurt. My knees hurt and physio only went so far. My hips hurt, my back hurt, my body was saying no as loud as it could. 

And then COVID hit. I went from working on campus, where I was forced to walk even though it hurt (and I had already cut way back on unnecessary forays), to working at home. For the first few months I tried to get out and walk around the block. But it still hurt, and so I walked less and less frequently. I fell off from working with my trainer (the amazing Zita), for reasons that are all on me.  And this brings us back to when I thought I was going to die. It felt like this time I had gotten stuck. 

So, I reached back out to Zita. In June of 2021, we started small. I practiced walking by doing laps of my back yard. We found songs that made my heart sing and put moves to them. We build stability with focused work. And we focused on finding joy in movement where we could. That movement changed over the months - with weather, with pain, with interest. Some days I was doing a few songs of cardio or Pound. Other days I was aiming for 5 minute chunks of movement of various forms, or going into the studio to try things out, or doing part of an online class. 

More importantly, we got to work on my brain. I faced the fear and hurt that my body had not processed, and did not understand how to let go of. I incrementally taught it trust again, in tiny steps. I slowly, very slowly, started to get to understand what my body was telling me. I started learning how to recognize the smaller signals of 'yes', 'no', and 'I'm scared'. I began unpacking the ways I have been told, over and over again, that I can't trust my body. 

Jump forward. Today, I did fun stuff. I did back-loaded squats on a Smith machine with joy. I giggled as I did balance exercises and felt my body adjust without fear. I relished doing lat presses and tricep pulls. I played by choosing things that sparked feelings of fun and curiosity. I asked for more weight, because my body told me it wanted more of a challenge. And I stopped when it said it was done. 

And then I cried happy tears, because I am no longer walking around convinced I am about to fall over dead. I am excited to see what my body can do next, and what it tells me it wants to do. 

If you go back in these entries (I strongly suggest you don't), you will see a long journey with my body. You will see lots of work on trying to shape it, and learn to love it, and learn to live with it. You'll see a slow shift in focus, and a lot of fumbles along the way. That journey is far from over, at least I hope I have a lot more time with it. Because there I hope I have a lot of life left and a lot of joy left to experience. And a lot of time to play. 

Conflict Stories

My work involves conflict resolution. If you have known me for very long, you might be laughing right now - I am incredibly conflict averse. But, I am capable of learning and growth and have fallen in love with this work.

This week, I had the dubious joy of watching an incredibly bad training on conflict resolution. It had a good template, which I will happily adapt, but was awful. In it, the trainer described a conflict between herself and another person, in which she made multiple assumptions, called the other person a bully, and insulted the other person's intelligence, all while saying she was modelling how to break down a conflict rationally and reflectively. 

It was... fascinating. 

One of the biggest things that I have come to understand about conflict from my work is that it is all about the stories we tell ourselves. And there are a few things that are common to how we* tell stories about conflict:
*It is important to consider worldview. Coming from a Canadian culture, our worldview is highly individualistic (similar to the US). This cannot be generalized to other cultures without reflecting on underlying values, beliefs, and ways of being.

• We all tell the story in the way that makes us look as good as possible. While conscious lying does happen, I truly believe that much of this is unconscious - we remember a story in the way that we can live with, and that's with us in as good of a light as possible. (Inversely, we also tell the story in the way that makes the other person look as bad as possible. 
• We are quick to assume we know the other person's intent, and we will default to the worst intent possible for them and the best intent possible for us. 
• Most people are fundamentally irrational, but we crave rationality as an explanation for others' behaviour.
  
• We assume that the person's actions are about us (i.e. we center ourselves).

In the fall, someone did something that harmed me. It was a small thing, inconsequential in the grand scheme of life, but it's a good example for considering stories of conflict. The core of the harm came from them doing something that resulted in my exclusion from a group without talking to me about it first. It stung, and I did not practice what I preach. Instead of approaching them and having a compassionate curiosity-based conversation about it, I let it fester. Not ideal, but handy right now because it allows me to look back and reflect on the three stories I told myself about this act and how they relate to unpacking conflict.

Story One: this person did this because they don't respect me and/or don't care about my feelings. 

The first version of this story was one that put the person in the worst possible light. It assumed that the action (or the omission in this case) was deliberate and purposeful. It centered me - it assumed the decision was based on thinking about me. 

To be honest, this story served me. For the time that I held it, it allowed me to feel the hurt and anger I was feeling. Practicing compassionate curiosity is not just for others, it is for myself as well. I needed this story for a bit while I let the initial metaphorical wound scab over. 

Story Two: this person did this because they are a chicken and were too afraid to talk to me.

Eventually, I reflected and moved into a second story. In some ways this story is kinder - it doesn't assume worst intent like the first did. It still assumes rationality, however, insisting that this was a conscious choice made to avoid a difficult conversation. It also applies a negative personality trait (cowardice) to the person. 

This story also served me. It allowed me to move past the initial anger into a place of semi-understanding. It was a step in de-centering myself and having compassion, but it was still flawed in it's assumption of rationality and related character judgement.

Story Three: most people will avoid uncomfortable conversations if they can help it, often by 'putting it off' until it's either too late or no longer feels necessary. 

I finally landed on this version of the story. I don't know if the other person made a conscious choice to not talk to me, if they put it off until it was too late, or if they were in denial about needing to. But it is very human to avoid tough conversations. Let's face it, I have done the exact same thing by not talking to them about this situation. I have told myself I was going to talk to them multiple times and then just keep putting it off.

This story no longer assumes rationality or intent on their part. It also recognizes that they were likely making decisions out of the impact on them (discomfort) rather than centering me and my needs. It also doesn't assume or apply a negative personality characteristic based on my perception. All of that said, this story still doesn't mean it wasn't harmful or that it was the right choice. If this story is true, the person displayed a lack of leadership in a situation where they are in a leadership role. That is a failing on their part. 



Does this mean that every action or harm done by someone is excusable? No. Does it mean you should put up with bad treatment from others? Also no. For me, reflecting on and revising the story I have told myself is less about the accountability of the other person and more about my own healing. At the end of the day, they still messed up and I still have the right to make decisions about my boundaries and future interactions with this person based on the harm. What exactly that looks like might be different with story three than it would have been for story one, but that's up to me. What matters more is the healing that comes with the realization that it was never really about me in the end. 

Reset Part Two - Looking Forward

I have a funny relationship with New Year's. In many ways, September still feels more of a true 'new year' for me, having never left that school-based cycle. But there is something beautiful about a new cycle starting in the cold, dark days of winter. Of declaring possibility when the air is frigid, the ground is covered in white, and the light is just beginning to return. I have had my jaded years where I declared New Year's pointless and made up (ignoring that most of what we engage in as a society is made up) and silly. I have had my gung-ho years where I convinced myself I was going to change everything about who I am because of this symbolic date. 

Lately, I have mostly had reflective years. I think there is great power in symbolism, and in a date that we collectively pause to reflect, dream, and reset. A date we ask who we really want to be, and what it would take to get there. I think the problem is we see it as a linear path. That we can make a decision once, and either have 'will-power' (also a made up thing) to stick with it or not. And once we 'fail', that's it until the next year. We see a resolution as a single decision, not as a way of being. 

I don't make those kind of resolutions. But I do remind myself that I have resolve - I have determination, I have willingness to try, I have the ability to pick myself up for the fiftieth time and get back on the metaphorical horse. Life is made up of cycles, and that's not a bad thing. We can still set goals and work towards who we want to be, knowing that it will be a spiral path there rather than a straight line. 

So, who do I want to be?

I want to be kind and giving to myself. I want to listen to my body and continue rebuilding a relationship based on understanding what it needs and giving it that. I want to continue deconstructing all the ways I was taught to disbelieve and disobey and hate my body. I want to celebrate it, listen to it, and nourish it. 

I want to be curious. I want to continue learning and finding new ways to understand the world. I want to hear peoples' stories and understand their values and beliefs and consider the world through their lenses. I want to ask questions and sit with things that spark my brain and let myself ponder. 

I want to be in community. I consider community building and connection to be my fundamental purposes on this planet. I truly believe the only way to survive the crumbling of society is through community. If you are in my community, I am responsible for you and to you. Existing safety nets are being torn apart, so the only safety net we truly have is each other. 

And lastly, I want to be slow. I want to slow my responses, because responding before I have all the information is harmful. I want to pause and consider the nuance of situations, not jump straight in with an opinion. I want to celebrate the shades of grey in every story. This is one reason I am returning to this blog - I think one of the cardinal sins of social media is that it prioritizes quick, short responses. It encourages us to hit that 'like' or 'share' button quickly. It asks us to put our ideas into a limited number of characters. But there are very few situations that can be truly understood that quickly. I think we lost something when blogs got subsumed by social media. Blogs allow us to take as much space and time as we want to engage with an idea. They allow a reader to choose when to engage, and to spend as much time as they wish with our thoughts, without an algorithm trying to get them to scroll to the next thing. They remind us that we are speaking in and of our own world, that it is not a universal world but one shaped by our unique lives and experiences. This is why I am back here - my one concrete goal for this year is that I want to do weekly blog posts. I am going to pull way back on my posts (and shares) on social media for at least January, and instead I am going to be trying to post here each week. I don't know what they will all be about yet, but I'm excited to see what I end up with.

With that, I wish you a beautiful day and year to come. I look forward to how we navigate it together.