Not my time.

I like to think that I bleed truth through my writing.

Open.  Honest.  Without fear.  Without shame.  Real.  Raw.  Me.

But the biggest truth is that I proceed with extreme caution.  Whatever I choose to write.  Whatever I choose to share.  Whatever I choose to bleed.  I’m very selective about it.

My life is not my own.

As much as I would like to believe it is, it’s not!  I am a product of everyone I’ve ever encountered.  Hundreds.  Thousands.  Millions even.  Experiences.  Conversations.  Observations.  I am the combination of everything and everyone I’ve ever experienced.

We all are.

So many people have contributed to the Sandra I’ve become.  People who have shaped me.  Changed me.  Guided me.  Misguided me.

My stories are not mine alone.

I haven’t written anything on my blog for a while.  I haven’t been able to.  Writing, for me, serves a very simple purpose.  It gives me a visual for the chaos in my mind.  Sometimes, I don’t even know what I’m thinking until I put that pen to paper.  I don’t know what I’m feeling until my fingers hit the keyboard.  Words are my truth.  I write.  I read.  I understand.  I share.

But for the last couple weeks, my visuals paint a different picture.  The things I’ve been processing.  Thinking.  Feeling.  Doing.  I cannot share openly.

Those stories are attached to people who have played a much larger role in my life.  In my development.  In my journey.  People I care about.  People I love and have loved.  People that have dedicated their entire life to ensuring no one knows who they really are.  What they really do.  How they really feel.  What they really believe.

Their lies became my lies.  Their lies became my silence.  Their lies keep me silent still.

I can speak freely about the impact a stranger had on me.  I don’t know them.  You don’t know them.  I don’t care about them.  Neither do you.

But what happens when you love the people who hurt you the most?  I know them.  You know them.  Or maybe you think you do.  How can I bleed truth if it comes at the expense of their reputations and relationships?  If I make the choice to live a life of honesty, does that give me permission to reveal their lies?  And if I don’t, does that mean I am not as honest as I think I am?

2015.  It’s been the biggest transition year of my life.  I have figured out so much about myself in the last few months.  Made decisions.  Shared.  Laughed.  Cried.  Loved.  Lost.  Worked.  Lived.  I am in a peaceful place.  I am in a better place today then I have been in years.  I love who I am.  Where I am.  I have lost the need to control where I’m going.  I have released anger.  Guilt.  Pain.  Frustration.  I am good.

I’m great.

Absolutely amazing.

But getting there hasn’t been easy.  It’s never been easy.  Getting there has required a lot of processing.  Reliving experiences I never wanted to relive.  Digging deep into the lies I’ve been forced to feed the world.  Not my lies.  Facing the reality of some of the decisions I have made recently and why.  I’ve had to find myself.  Again.  After already finding myself so many times before.

It would have been impossible for me to understand any of this without that process.  The same way it would be impossible for you to understand who I am, without first understanding what has shaped me.  Who has shaped me.

I want to share that so badly.

I want to live a life of honesty.

There are so many stories I wish I could tell.  So many experiences I wish I could be more open about.

I am simply made of many closed wounds, just waiting for the right time to bleed.

But now is not that time.

My to-do list.

Here I am. 

It’s the eve of my long awaited 17. 

17 years on borrowed time. 

I made it!

There were days when I wasn’t sure I would. 

But here I am. 

Closing one chapter tonight, starting a new one tomorrow. A chapter full of wonderful adventures. Creative expression.  Personal freedom.  Love. Life. And so much laughter.

A chapter full of whatever it is that my little heart desires.  

I’m so excited, I can’t even express it with words.  There is no smile big enough, no jump high enough, no screech loud enough to express this kind of excitement.  This feeling.  This moment is mine.  Only mine. 

I’ve done so much with my time here. I’ve lived. I’ve lost. I’ve moved. And moved. And moved.  I’ve travelled. I’ve loved. I’ve cried. I’ve laughed. I’ve given life.  I’ve raised children. I’ve married. I’ve owned property. I’ve learned. And learned. And learned. I’ve worked. I’ve failed. I’ve succeeded. I’ve jumped. I’ve landed.  I’ve created. I’ve written. I’ve danced. I’ve played. And played. And played. 

Oh, how I have truly lived my 34 years.

And still, I have a long list of things to do. Things to see. Things to feel. Experience. Witness.  Hear. Touch. Smell.  So many things to look forward to. 

The most important lesson I’ve learned is that the only guarantee you get in life, is death.  No date. No time. Sometimes no warning whatsoever. Just an end and the knowledge that it will come.  

I’ve been fortunate to have already been given 17 years of borrowed time.  I’m proud of what I’ve done with it.  But I’m far from done. 

My to-do list is long.  But I have no idea how much time I will have left.  So, I’m making a promise to myself. A promise to keep crossing those items off my list. To put more energy into the things I want to accomplish and less focus on the things I cannot control.

As I was reading over my list, I started to reflect on the people that have been in my life.  I thought about friendships, relationships, co-workers, family. People who have a to-do list of their own. People who have added me to their lists. People I’ve added to mine.  I thought about how many people in my life never truly cross off their items.  How so many people allow life to get in the way of them living.  I thought about how many things I’ve missed out on because I waited for them to be ready.  For timing to be right. For everyone involved to be in a good financial position.  I’ve waited on others because at some point, I told them I would.  Because my word meant something. 

Not anymore!!!

No more promises to others.  From now on, my to-do list is mine alone.  It will only involve those who are ready and able to do it when I’m ready and able to do it.  If I want to travel, I will travel with whoever is ready to go. If I want to jump out of a plane, I will jump with whoever is willing. If I want to learn another language, I will do so with someone who wants to follow the same process. Sports. Movies. Activities. School. I will do whatever I want. Whenever I’m ready. Whenever I’m able. And alone if I must.  Happily.  

Clean slate. 

My life is mine to live. 

MY experience. These are MY memories. MY laughter. MY tears.  MY gift.  

This is MY to-do list.

And I’m doing it. 

History Repeats Itself

I’ve been looking forward to April 12, 2015 for half my life. 

17 years. 

Since April 12, 1998. 

The day I almost died. 

Since that moment, I’ve waited to celebrate this one.  

17 years on borrowed time. 

I’ve doubled my life. 

I am grateful. 

I’ve celebrated the anniversary every year since.  Counting down to this exact moment.  This day. 

On April 12, 1998, I attempted suicide.  That was the best failure of my life. 

I had never fought so hard to survive as I did then.  And I survived.  I knew that my life had to be about something more. Something bigger than what it was.  Something better than how it felt.  Something. 

The days that followed were all about setting goals for myself.  Preparing for that something.  Whatever that something was. 

I thought about where my life had been. Where my life was now. Where my life was headed.  I thought about the things I had wanted. The things I had sacrificed. The things I was doing, not doing and wanting to do.  I thought. Every single day.  

I made a list.  

I wasn’t interested in a life without spontenaiety, so my list didn’t include a plan. Just goals.  How I would reach those, that remained a mystery even to me. I just knew that I would.  

I made a list of all the things I would do in the next 17 years.  Everything I would have accomplished by April 12, 2015. 

A few months ago, I reviewed that list.  I went back to see where I was, to ensure that I would have it completed in time.  I had.  I had done every single thing I said I would do.  I was doing everything I wanted to do.  Every single thing. 

It was amazing. 

A feeling of absolute completion. Accomplishment. Satisfaction.  Pride.  

And then it hit me like a ton of fucking bricks.  I had planned the rest of my life as if it were going to end on April 12, 2015.  I hadn’t considered what my goals would be like after that.  As far as I was concerned, I was done. 

At 34, I had done everything I set out to do.

And then things got weird.  I found myself mourning the end of this stage and completely unsure about what the next 17 years would bring.  

I thought about where my life had been. Where my life was now. Where my life was headed.  I thought about the things I had wanted. The things I had sacrificed. The things I was doing, not doing and wanting to do.  I thought. Every single day.  

I’ve always had to feel like I was in control of myself. Of my life. Of my choices. Sure, I understood that absolute control was impossible, but if I could control something, I would. And I did. 

The day I found myself crumbled on the ground was the day I realized I was not in control.  I had somehow, without even realizing it, recreated the end of my first 17.  I designed the last 17 years as if they were my end. My last ones. Then I mourned it. Believed it. And I set the scene.  Right down to the emotions. 

At no point was I actually suicidal but I didn’t care if I lived or died. Looking back, I guess I never have. 

People ask me every day why I’m not scared to do the work I do.  The answer is simple, I’ve never feared death. 

I am not afraid to die. 

It sounds strange but there it is.  I enjoy walking on the edge of the cliff knowing that I’m strong enough to not jump.  I crave that feeling.  Not wanting to die but not caring if I live. 

And so, the universe gave me the lesson I needed. The real lesson about life and death. 

I returned home from my mission to painful news of another death. This one hit home. So close to my heart. It hurt.  

Here I was, mourning my own end. Fearless.  Not caring.  And what I had to see that day, was shattering. 

17 years ago, seeing my sister’s face when she found me.  I saw in her, what it would look like if I was gone. 

17 years later, walking towards her lifeless body, I saw what life looked like for my friend, now that her mother was gone.  

History repeated itself. 

I repeated history. 

This is the end of 17. 

April 12, 2015 is a few days away. 

I am so proud of where I’ve come from. I am amazed at where I’ve been. I’ve lived more in my 34 years than many do in 80. 

But I have a newfound excitement for whatever remains of my life.  A thirst for it.  A hunger.  There will be no more 17 for me after I celebrate this milestone.  

Just days. Every day. Weeks. Months. Years. Living. Truly living. Doing. Being. 

Creating. 

That’s the only goal I’m setting for myself.  I will create.  That’s it.  

Watch me. 

 

 

My reason.

The more people that offer me help after reading my blog, the more I see the importance of writing it. 

We have created a society where people are not comfortable with their thoughts.  Expressing themselves. Sharing their feelings. 

On a professional level, I have been in the social work field for 14 years.  I have heard thousands of struggles.  Pain. Loss. Confusion. Truth. I have heard and seen darkness over and over again. 

On a personal level, I have now lost count of my friends, family and acquaintances that struggle daily with depression, anxiety, stress and finding purpose.  Physical struggles. Emotional struggles. Mental struggles. Spiritual struggles. 

I can say with absolute certainty, not one person in my life isn’t dealing with some aspect of it.  

But they are doing it privately.  Alone or in a very small circle.  Not for a lack of support but for other reasons. 

Fear. 

Fear of being judged. Fear of how others will look at them if they know their life isn’t perfect. Fear of being “different”. Fear of what others may think if they find out they are on medication to help them cope. Fear of appearing weak.  Fear of hurting their family and friends. Fear of scaring people with their thoughts.  Their actions. 

We are all scared of something.   

Those feelings are very much valid. 

Fear is real. 

So we sit with it.  

We medicate.  

We medicate ourselves. 

With social media. 

With alcohol. 

With drugs. 

With work. 

With company. 

With sex. 

With the gym. 

With love. 

With anything and everything that will keep us from having to be honest. 

We succeed in other areas and we are celebrated for doing so.

People drown themselves in physical activity and we congratulate them for being determined. 

People drown themselves in their work and we congratulate them for being ambitious. 

People drown themselves in their social life and we congratulate them for being fun. 

But honesty. 

Pain. 

Reality. 

We fear it. 

The only consistent thing I find in everyone I meet, is struggle. 

That’s the real “normal”.   

THAT. 

IS. 

THE. 

REAL. 

NORMAL. 

And still we are told that it’s not. 

That the way we feel is something that needs fixing. With medication. With counselling. With anything. 

And the more we allow ourselves to believe this, the more we struggle. 

The more silent we remain, the more pain we feel. 

The more we fear, the more isolated we allow ourselves to become. 

So I’ve decided to write openly about what hurts.  To split myself open.  To come out of my head so that others know it’s ok to do so. 

Every day, hundreds of people read my blog.  I get feedback from all over the world about how my words have reminded them that they are ok.  

 

This is why I write. 

 

My struggle is real. 

But I’m ok. 

The more people that offer me help after reading my blog, the more I see the importance of writing it. 

Reality is raw.

Yesterday I wrote a blog about a very real experience. It was undeniably raw.  It was supposed to be. 

I was bleeding truth. 

Many of you sent messages of concern.  Some came directly to me. Others went to people close to me.  

The message that I was not ok spread quickly through every part of my life.  

Those who know me well understood the honesty in my story.  They read what I wrote.  REALLY read what I wrote.  They felt the pain, but understood the beauty I found in the moment. They allowed themselves to focus on each word until the very end.  They knew I was in a good place. 

Those who don’t know me well saw only the pain in my story.  They couldn’t see past the hurt long enough to process my actual words. They had convinced themselves that I must have been in a bad place. 

I don’t know where you fall on that spectrum.  I’m not sure if even you know.  While I appreciate the concern, I assure you, there is no need to worry. 

I am very honest about my process. 

I am quite comfortable with my truth.

I am incredibly pleased with the individual I’ve grown to become. 

I’m very much in love with my life. 

I. 

AM. 

OKAY. 

I believe that story needed to be written.  So, I wrote it.  It was raw. It was real. It was beautiful.  

It’s a truth we are no longer used to. 

I saw a quote the other day that made me think:

“There is no such thing as a bad picture, sometimes that’s just how your face looks.”

It stayed with me. 

We live in a world where we control how others see our reality.  We create profiles in order to collect “friends”, “followers” and “likes”.   We post happy faces. Filtered faces. Good times. We leave out all the rest as if it never existed.

I remember when I was a teenager. When taking pictures involved having to get film developed and printed.  You would be excited to pick up the pictures at the store.  You’d sit around with your family or friends and scroll through them, one by one.  You’d laugh at the horrible ones.  Those awful pictures made some of the best memories. 

Now, they are deleted instantly.  Retaken until we finally get it right.  We deny ourselves these memories because we don’t want evidence of anything shy of perfection.  

Reality is no longer real and we have just accepted THAT as our new reality. 

My story was raw. 

It had to be written. 

I wrote it because I want people to see that real still exists, regardless of the images of perfection we are bombarded with daily. 

We don’t always look perfect.  We don’t always smile. Not every moment is a good one. 

We breathe.

We hurt. 

We cry.  

We love. 

We lose.  

But our lives don’t always need filters. 

Emotion is not something to fear. Pain is not always something to be concerned about. We all experience it.  We’ve just become so used to feeling it alone. In silence. In private. Far away from the reality we feed the rest of the world.  And because of that, we forget that others feel it too. When smiling pictures turn to tears, we panic.  When life gets real, we worry.  

Yesterday I wrote a blog about a very real experience. It was undeniably raw.  It was supposed to be. 

I was bleeding truth. 

 

 

I was bleeding truth

I’m in a strange place.

Even the familiar, seems unfamiliar.

I feel like I’m frozen in time, while the rest of the world zips by me on fast forward.

Do they see me?

Do they know I’m watching them?

I’m distracted by everything.  Everyone.

I’m searching for distractions.  Distractions that will make me feel something.  Anything.

I’m numb.

Last night, I found myself curled in a ball on the floor of my bedroom.  I collapsed into myself.  Crying.  Sobbing.  Screaming.

Alone, thankfully.

Even for me, it was scary to watch.

I needed that.  Oh, how I needed that.

A moment of clarity.  A moment of truth.  A moment of strength.  A moment.  An instant.  It was not weakness, quite the opposite.  It was the result of having had to be strong for so long.  Every part of me was oozing strength.  Courage.

I was bleeding truth.

34 years.  So much pain.  I unravelled.  Came undone.  Allowed myself to feel everything.  Slowly, then all at once.  I removed my distractions and just felt life.  The overwhelming pace.  The never ending search for happiness.  Peace.  Love.  Success.

I asked myself what it was all for.  I asked questions and I allowed myself to answer them.  Truthfully.  Without distractions.

Just me and my heart and my mind and my body and my soul.

I was bleeding truth.

There are two other moments in my life where I found myself in this way; one was the day I tried to kill myself 17 years ago.

I was 17 years old.  Beautiful.  Tortured.  Sitting on my bed, in a house that was no longer mine.  One that never felt like mine to begin with.  I didn’t know who I was anymore.  I was so lost.

I was bleeding truth.

I stared at the pills for hours.  Hours.

My radio was set to play the same song, on repeat.  The same song over and over.  Every word a reminder.

I had pills.  I had water.  I had pain.  I had nothing and everything.

I was bleeding truth.

The first pill was the hardest, it took me hours to swallow it.  The rest went down easily.  One by one.  One pill, one sip of water.  One pill, one sip of water.  If I stopped the routine for even a second, I might change my mind.  One pill, one sip of water.  One pill, one sip of water.

I was bleeding truth.

My sister found me.  I remember her eyes.  The look of terror.  Fear.  I still can’t forget them.  She was the first person I truly loved.  My constant.  I saw in her eyes, what her life would look like without me.  I couldn’t put her through that, no matter how much I hurt.

I’ve never fought so hard to live as I did that day.  Being rushed to the hospital and everything that followed.  I found my truth.  My purpose.  My hunger for life.  My love.

I was bleeding truth.

The end of my first 17 years was filled with both life and death.  The day of my birth.  April 12, 1998.

Here I am, 15 days shy of the end of my next 17.  Suffocated by life.  Surrounded by death.  I find myself on the floor, crying.  In a house that no longer feels like my own.  My radio set to play the same song, on repeat. The same song over and over. Every word a reminder.

Without even realizing it, I had painted a scene that was familiar.  Comfortable.  The last time I knew what it felt like to be desperate to live.  What it felt like to find my truth.  My purpose.  My love.  That meaning.  That hunger.

I came undone in order to come back to me.  I rid myself of distractions in order to reconnect with my truth.  I fell apart only to come back together again, whole.

I was bleeding truth.

I know what it’s like to be afraid of my own mind.  But I am not afraid.  I’m fucking fascinated by the way it shows me exactly what I need to see, when I need to see it.  I thought for a second I was losing myself, but I was simply being shown the way to find myself again.

When I eliminated the distractions, I was able to find clarity.

Today, I make the decision to disconnect in order to reconnect.  I’ve decided to unplug myself from social media.  From Facebook.  From Instagram. When we focus to much on the perfection others portray publicly, we believe that to be reality.  We forget that we are not alone in our pain.  Our struggles.  I want to experience the world as it is, not as it appears.

For a while anyway.

That was unexpectedly painful

I woke up refreshed this morning. Yesterday was rough.  

Grocery shopping was overwhelming.  I talked myself through the process.  I opted to do my own basic manicure and pedicure, not ready to have to sit still for an hour and be forced to make small talk.  I spent most of the day at home, prepping food for the week and packing away all my deployment  items/clothing.  I didn’t answer my phone much. I responded to only a few texts. I sat and processed. 

Processed the last five weeks of my life. 

Processed the few months before those five weeks. 

So many decisions were made at the beginning of this year. So many decisions now have to be put into action.  

I processed the next five weeks of my life. 

I processed the few months after those five weeks. 

As I was returning home from grocery shopping, my neighbour was getting off the elevator. She was with her two young children and they all smiled when they saw me.  She let go of the stroller and gave me a hug.  It was unexpected.  I haven’t been able to hug many people in a while. I expected my family to hug and kiss me but this was a pleasant surprise. 

Ebola is so misunderstood.  Knowing that she wasn’t afraid, made me smile. 

Every part of me was drained by the evening. Jeremy took Cam and Linc to hockey practice and I spent the evening with Pearce.  We played a couple games of cards before the Raptors game started. Then, we put the game on, lay down with our heads touching and cheered.  I feel like I’ve been away for so long. 

I was sleeping within 15 minutes. Pearce let me sleep but held my hand the entire time.  My being away is always very difficult for him, this time was probably the hardest.  His behaviour and attitude was an awful reflection of that while I was gone.  

When the rest of the family got home, I got up, took my temperature, took my pills, and kissed the boys goodnight.  I don’t remember anything after.  I woke up at 6am.  I needed that!!!  

I packed up the lunches for the boys and prepared my breakfast.  I’m happy to be eating clean again, I can already feel my body functioning better.  When they leave, I sit down with my breakfast and the news. 

I don’t know what I’m doing today. I know public health will check in at 10am.  That’s it. 

My phone rings and it’s my ex, J, Pearce’s dad. I shouldn’t have answered. 

That call was the result of my first official post mission cry. 

He welcomes me back and asks how I’m doing.  Nothing out of the ordinary here. Small talk. He tells me about how P has had a really bad attitude lately and how he hopes it helps that I’m back. I remind him that he’s becoming a teenager now and he will likely have a bad attitude for the next few years.  I ask him how he is doing and he’s well.  I can tell he wants to ask me something so I give him the opportunity. 

“So, I just need to know if you being back puts my other kids at risk at all?”  

There it is!  

He has two children with his wife, a two year old and an infant.  How will my being back impact his life?  

I’m not sure how not to be offended by that question.  First, he knows I’m home.  How can he possibly think that I would put my own children at risk?  Second, we share a child, is there no concern for how this might impact him?  

I answer in the most respectful way I can. I give him the public health protocols and an Ebola 101 crash course. Still, that was unexpectedly painful. 

J and I met over 15 years ago.  I was working at Starbucks, he was new at the Chapters bookstore my store was connected to.  I saw him on the escalator and I turned to my roommate and said “he’s mine!”  It became a joke for a few weeks but I was serious.  Two weeks later, a bunch of us went for drinks after work to celebrate anti-valentines day.  I introduced myself and we spent the next few hours getting to know each other. By the end of the night, I knew we were going to be together.  Two days later, I asked him to hang out. He said no.  Said he just got out of a relationship and wanted to make sure he was in a good place before committing to anything. That’s cool. I respected that. I gave him three weeks.  

We hung out anyway for the next couple weeks, really enjoyed each other.  Two weeks later, he asked me out. I said no. Just to make it even. My real answer was yes.  We slept together that night.  When we woke up, we realized we hadn’t let go of each other’s hand the entire time.  I told my roommate that day that I was going to marry him.  I meant it.  

We were amazing together.  Just two young people in love. Free. Happy. A couple months after we met, we packed our bags and bought a one train ticket to British Columbia. There were no expectations for our new life, just us. We were together, that’s all that mattered. Life was beautiful.

15 years later, few people in the world know me as intimately as he does.  We’ve loved each other, we’ve despised each other, we’ve hurt each other and we’ve supported each other. We have ridden the longest, bumpiest roller coaster ride I’ve ever been on, together.  

The minute we conceived Pearce, was the minute we became forever.  We committed ourselves to being parents to our child.  It’s been 12 years since we’ve been a couple, we are still committed to co-parenting Pearce. 

J would be the first person to credit me for raising Pearce.  He knows how much I love that child.  He knows there is nothing in the world I wouldn’t do to keep him safe. He knows the choices I’ve had to make in order to give Pearce the best life possible.  He knows I was constant, even when he was absent. He knows. He knows. He knows. 

And somehow, Ebola makes him question that.

My neighbour gave me a hug in front of her two children.  J called me to make sure I wasn’t putting his family at risk.  There is something so fucked up about that. 

So, I cried. It seemed like the only thing to do.  

Shortly after, I get a text message from two of my girlfriends asking to meet for lunch.  

I say yes. 

Right now, I don’t want anything to do with those who believe I would put anyone at risk.  Anyone. A stranger. Family. Or a friend. 

Those who know me and love me, would never question that.

I’m going to lunch with two amazing women, and I expect a hug from both of them. 

She cries.

She’s a mother

She’s a child

A sister and a friend

Tattered sheets and cardboard boxes

where her days start and end 

She knew how it felt to love 

she built a house into a home

Now every sunset a reminder of 

another cold night spent alone

Trying to forget the things 

that she used to be

Holding on to what is left

of few precious memories

How quickly life has ended

Before it has begun

A crystal tear falls from her eyes

To the photo of her son. 

 

(Written about a former client.  Everyone has a story that deserves to be written. Spoken. Heard.  There are faces behind mental health and addiction.)

How many is to many?

At 33, I find myself surrounded by friends who are just beginning their families.  Some are planning their first child, some are thinking about a second, some are considering parenting nothing but animals for the rest of their life.  Personally, I’d say animals are the way to go.  Much less attitude and they are always happy to see you.  However, this is not about discouraging you from having a million babies, it’s about answering a question that I often get asked by my family wanting/planning friends:  What is it like having 3 kids?

Ok, I make it look easy.  I do.  But I assure you, it’s not.  It’s really not.  It’s hard work regardless of how many you have.  I had my first child at 21 and it was not planned.  (See blog “Gratitude Forgotten…and then remembered” for more details.)  It rocked my core.  Changed everything I knew.  After everything I had experienced in my youth, I decided I needed to start fresh, somewhere else.  My boyfriend, my roomate and I packed up our bags and bought a one way train ticket to Victoria, British Columbia.  I couldn’t wait to be by the water.  I couldn’t wait to get away from all the bad I was leaving behind.  I started my post secondary studies and planned on becoming a doctor.  I was going to work for Doctors Without Borders and surf my way around the world.  It was perfect.  My boyfriend and I were happy, maybe a little to happy.  Enter Pearce, my first born.  The universe has a funny way of telling you that you cannot simply run from your problems.  I heard the universe loud and clear.  Here we were, thousands of miles away from family, about to raise a child, finish our studies, and work full time jobs without any support.  Yup, the universe was not my friend.  Ok, it was, it always is.  But at the time, the universe and I were fighting.  FINE!!!  After three years in BC, we packed up any belongings we could fit into a small uhaul and our Hyundai.  After three years of happiness, my boyfriend, my 7 week old son and I moved back to Toronto.  Back into my parents house, where I had not lived for 6 years.  I swallowed every bit of my pride because it was the right thing to do.  I knew it was.  So, I apologized to the universe.  Now that we were on speaking terms again, the universe challenged my stubborn self in every way imaginable.  I thought I could do everything alone, pffffft, enter post-partum depression.  I thought I could ignore the strain on my relationship with my parents, enter the fighting.  So many thoughts, enter counselling, medication, repression breaking through every wall I had built, a break up, single parenthood, full time school, part time work, a custody battle from hell, crying, tears, wanting to run away.  Thanks universe!  No really, thanks!  It made me realize that I wasn’t ok.  Not yet.  I worked my butt off, repaired relationships, raised my son, excelled in school, worked on my physical/mental/emotional/spiritual health and learned the importance of a supportive network of love.  One child rocked my core.  It was not easy but it was possible.

I met my husband when Pearce was 3.  We worked together, we were friends, we fell in love.  I was a package deal.  It was clear.  I was willing to love and be loved but not to compromise the life I chose.  He wanted the package.  I couldn’t imagine the father he would become, life was wonderful.  I finished school, started my career in social work, I was physically, mentally, emotionally and spiritually healthy again.  THANK YOU UNIVERSE!    When Pearce was 5, I gave birth to my second son, Lincoln.  Child number 2.  This was a perfect addition to our family.  He was a wonderful child and he fit right in.  With two adults and two kids, we were perfectly partnered up.  When one needed to be fed and the other needed to play, hubby and I split up and tackled the tasks.  Hubby could put Lincoln to sleep while I spend some quality time with Pearce on our mommy/son date nights.  Hubby and I could have a monthly date night and my parents were happy to babysit their two favourite people.  It was great.  2 was perfect.  6 months later…Seriously universe?!?!?!

With a 5 year old and a 6 month old, I became pregnant with my third child.  The universe has a great sense of humour.  Really funny.  Hilarious!  At first, I thought about all that I’ve overcome.  Surely, this was no big deal.  I got this!  I had a wonderful husband, great kids and a supportive family.  Alright, here goes nothing!  But wait.  That’s when I realize the world is not built for families of 5.  It’s built for families of 4.  Vacation packages for 4.  The backseat of a car only fits 2 carseats.  3 bedroom homes.  Wait a minute, this isn’t going to work.  I find myself trading in my car for a minivan.  I said I would never drive a minivan.  Our 2 bedroom loft isn’t going to work.  Now, 7 months pregnant, I’m in the middle of a move.  After growing up in downtown Toronto, I have to move to the suburbs to find an affordable place.  Moving away from the support system I’ve built, away from the life I’ve known.  What is happening?!?!?!  Adding a 3rd child changed everything.  Campbell, spent his first couple years in and out of the hospital.  Lincoln was learning to walk and I was feeding a sick infant.  My commute to work was longer.  My monthly daycare bills have helped to rack up a debt that will take years to repay.  My car payments went up.  My housing costs went up.  My visits to the hospital with injured children went WAY up.  My condo is crowded.  I have to recruit more parents because they all play sports.  When the 3 of them run in different directions, hubby and I have to decide which two are worth saving based on their behaviour that day.  My life has changed.  It’s chaotic in ways I couldn’t have imagined it to be.  But I wouldn’t change it for anything.

The universe has a funny way of telling you exactly what you need.  One kid, two kids, three kids, or animal babies.  My answer is simple, stop worrying so much about planning the life you think you want.  Let the life you’re supposed to live find you.