The Storyteller's Stories

What happens when the distance between you and a friend you thought would always be there, grows? What do you do? Plant wildflowers? Not as a metaphor but as a fence that blocks you from the pain? You write blog posts in second person as a way to distance yourself from the embarrassment of the subject matter. Loving someone from afar feels like a mosquito bite you can’t stop itching. You wish you could just ignore it. You drink Benadryl. You apply afterbite. But still it gnaw

Life hacks for the perpetually online lady approaching 40. Gear up my gals for a post full of groundbreaking stuff that I’m sure you’ve never heard before. Anywhere. And is in no way satirical or commentary on what it’s like to live in the age of social media while appraoching a certain age, and also raising tiny humans. Let me be real with you for a second. If I am to believe what the internet is telling me I need a new face. Yes, a new one. the factory settings are a mess a

Ruth is almost finished her first year of school. It really does feel like yesterday I was just packing her knapsack for the first time. She is suddenly tall. Her hair is unkempt no matter how much I brush or braid it. It is wild and free. As is she. It shines in the sunlight as she runs from me at the park. “No, really Ruth, you have to come home. I mean it! Nowwww.” Being firm has never come naturally to me. But I play the part of competent mom as our wills battle in the la

We are all shaped by our environment. We are all born somewhere in the world. With a specific way of life. With specific conditions. Canada. This frozen country, I love it. And yet, I don't love every aspect of how we live. Maybe the cold creates distance. Maybe we are shaped by this landscape, and the cold enters our bones just a little. To help us survive the harsh winters. It ’s not our fault. The snowy tundra requires our houses to be fortresses. They are equipped to wit

November 12th, 2025 As I mentioned in my last post, the voice that urges me to write has been quiet. I haven’t felt full of insight or perspective worth sharing despite the seismic shifts happening in our lives. Ruth has started school. She’s in the extended day program. She’s starting to write. She’s learning French. Her brain is morphing and organising itself in so many new ways. The part of me that urges me to type is MIA. Replaced by its really loud mind-mate, The Critic.

Leaving, unlike waiting, isn’t the hardest part. I’m siding with Tom Petty on this one. I like leaving. I like finality. I like knowing a...

Honesty. The ability to lay yourself bare in an appealing way that doesn’t get too cringey— is an art. The skill of translating emotion...

I feel so far away from my creativity these days. It used to scare me. Keep me up at night. What am I if not making, tinkering,...

Ruth sits at my vanity. She sprays glass cleaner on the mirror. She knocks it over. Gentle, sweetheart. More gentle, please. Okay mommy! I’m just cleaning! She chants something under her breath. Independent girl. Independent girl. Independent. Girl. Another day, I tell her if a friend hits her or says unkind things she can say, stop. She can take space from anyone who makes her feel bad in her mind or body. She blinks. I get frustrated after a twenty minute melt down wh

We need to talk about Adam. No, not that Adam, I’ve embarrassed that Adam enough. It’s time to embarrass my new Adam and hopefully it...