This Blog Post Will Self-Destruct

Sometimes I feel like I don't exist... except for other people to pin their hopes and dreams and fantasies on. Ideals I'll surely never live up to anyway.

My eyes were meant to see things. My hands were meant to touch edges, no matter how brutal or sheer the drop. My words, should they ever come with reckless abandon and without hesitation, were meant to make people feel... something. Anything.

I like living in liminal spaces. I hate closing any doors. I've never been that kind. I want to find room to contain all of it.

Sometimes I feel like I'm going to die before seeing my depths. Depths others wouldn't know or even want to swim to.

Sometimes I feel all alone, and I recognize the beauty in that. If no one truly knows every part of you, they can't take anything.

Sometimes I feel like I'm safe above the water.

Sometimes I think I might just drown here.

Figuring Out What I Wanna Be When I Grow Up: In Pursuit of Erudition

Last week, my younger cousin asked me to review her med school application. She respects me as a writer and wanted my help fleshing out her experiences. I was honoured she trusted me with something so important. People in my life often ask me to edit or review their academic and professional work, and if I can help, I do.

But it made me pause: what am I doing with my own academic and professional aspirations? Do I even have any realistic ones anymore?

I want work that nourishes my soul without taking from the energy I could give my family. For a long time, I imagined myself as a humanitarian—but that feels out of reach unless you’re wealthy. Writing has always been my dream, but I’ve come to accept that it’s rarely a viable career. Still, the desire to write, to create and connect, refuses to leave me.

I’m disenchanted with formal education, with the 9-to-5 grind, with the burnout and corporate ladders I have no desire to climb. I need work that stimulates me emotionally and intellectually, work that protects my core and allows me to keep learning. Books have always been my refuge—a way to understand other worlds and harness my sensitivity to help others.

I want to make a difference, yes, but in a way that leaves me unbothered. I want to spend my workday doing something meaningful for seven hours, then return to my family—without grinding or ass-kissing for a living wage.

Even now, in my current role, I witness small breakthroughs—helping hardened men open up about their struggles, cracking through defenses, witnessing moments of vulnerability from even the most violent offenders. Yet it often feels incomplete, and icky, being able to get men to open up so quickly only to leave their wounds open like that, since I rarely see them until the next time they’re in custody again. The system is broken; despair persists, and those exist within it typically don’t fare well in the end.

I need work that sparks light in me while still helping others.

Lately, I’ve been exploring Master’s programs. After dodging the well-meaning suggestion of counselling psychology, I’ve realised that SFU’s Gender, Sexuality, and Women’s Studies program excites me. I don’t yet know the exact career path it would lead to, but it feels right. I could also weave writing into it, creating a space to make a difference.

I’ve looked at UK programs, including Narrative Futures at the University of Edinburgh—my dream school—but the costs are prohibitive. I’ve also considered a MA in Radical Political Thought, because I can see myself doing so much with that, but it’s not online. When my daughter is a bit older, I’ll probably apply to the SFU program, unless something else sparks a light in me.

In the meantime, I need something to keep me engaged—maybe a class in poetry or fiction, an editing course, or continued self-education. I’m also building a new blog, a politically attuned space for progressive parents navigating cultural noise. Raising kids in this is no easy feat, and it feels alienating at times, so I want to give a mother’s voice to this worldview.

Of course, I need to earn money too. I’ve never been motivated by money, but practicality cannot be ignored. If I took a full-time position at my current job, I’d be making a six-figure salary, but pivoting means accepting that financial success may look different. Whatever I choose, I need to truly love it and believe in it. I’m picky, and nothing ever feels quite enough—but I want work that aligns with my values, sparks my curiosity, and enriches the world.

In short: I don’t fully know what I want to be when I grow up. I do know that writing, while it may never fully support me, will always be part of who I am. I’m figuring things out—even in this season of motherhood—and learning to embrace the slow road. And that’s okay.

Youth's Folly Seen Through Older Eyes

School hasn’t even been back in session a week, and my daughter is already going through her first breakup. I try to put myself in her shoes, but if I had a dollar for every boy I was completely wild about who broke my heart… well, I’d have one dollar.

And here’s the thing: I was actually in love. Not the cringey, shallow middle school version of love. I’m talking all-consuming—the I’ll love you until my dying day kind of love. But no matter how you slice it, rejection stings. Even if it’s from a dopey middle school kid with a questionable haircut.

I wasn’t a self-conscious teenager when my heartbreak hit, but I do remember how destabilizing it felt. In true scorned-woman fashion, I wasn’t exactly my best self. I questioned my self-worth, just like she’s doing now.

But last night, she went completely unhinged, cutting up a very expensive hoodie of her ex-boyfriend’s. Apparently, she’d seen this method on TikTok (not that she has the app, but that’s beside the point) and went full chaos mode. I found her on the floor, scissors in hand, fabric scraps everywhere, like a miniature hurricane of teenage fury—maniacally laughing. Maybe it’s just her way of coping, but I couldn’t help feeling sad about all the energy she was pouring into this situation.

I want to be a supportive mom, but a part of me feels triggered by her constant ruminating over this tiny slice of her life. The “relationship” lasted only four months, and they barely saw each other over the summer. Doesn’t she understand her worth beyond how boys see her? Doesn’t she see that she’s beautiful, smart, funny—and that this is more about him than it is about her? That circumstances change, people come and go, and there will be many more boys in her life?

I know all these answers. And yet, watching her, I feel that pang of guilt—like maybe I haven’t prepared her well enough, like maybe I haven’t taught her how to handle rejection or filled her up so she has the self-worth to see herself beyond one boy’s opinion.

It also brings up some shame for me. Seeing her act out so wildly reminds me of how I handled my own heartbreak. I think maybe I could’ve walked away with more grace. But even though I wasn’t a young teen, I was still growing up too.

And maybe that’s the point. Heartbreak is messy, raw, and sometimes loud. The best we can do is ride it out, learn something from it, and hope our kids come out the other side knowing their value—scissors and all.