The Book Bully

I Am Here.

2019-06-18T22:50:00.001-02:30

This year has been brutal.

The details matter but aren't best shared here. I'll just say I've experienced bullying, isolation, loneliness, and purposelessness for such a prolonged time and by/from people I deeply cared about that my anxiety and depression have been regular companions for the past seven months.

I think humans have two fundamental needs that keep us going and fulfilled in our lives: we need to feel loved, and we need to feel like our existence on this earth matters. And I think the fear of not having those things - fear that I am unlovable, fear that my existence doesn't matter - is what can lead you to some bad places.

I'm beyond lucky/blessed/fortunate - any word of gratitude fits: throughout the past months, I've never once felt unloved. My family and friends have gone above and beyond to support me in basically every way imaginable. They've listened, offered very sound advice, reassured me that I'm not crazy, fed me cookies, left me alone when I wanted and also forced me not to be alone when I really needed to not be. I know many people do not have the support that I have and I wish I could find a better way to express my gratitude.

But I have often - very often - felt like I don't matter.

I know that it perhaps seems counterintuitive to feel very loved but also feel like I don't matter, but it's been hard sometimes to connect the reasons why people love me when I feel like I have nothing to offer.

When I'm really at my best and firing on all cylinders, I really like myself. I'm funny and quick and creative and say yes to every event and I feel fun. I listen well and offer good advice and cook and bake and clean and still have time to know what's happening in the news and have an opinion on it while binge watching whatever new thing everyone else is.

I haven't been at my best lately. Most days I'm flying at half mast and some days I can't even get off the ground.

I had a friend once tell me that on the days where she just lies in bed she thinks, "I could have not lived this day and nothing would be any different."

She said that more than 10 years ago and I've thought about it almost daily since. It used to be quite a positive motivator for me to not waste time, but lately it haunts me as confirmation that my existence doesn't matter.

I was talking to a therapist a few months ago and I was telling her how I don't feel fun anymore, and the idea of not being a fun person gives me unlimited anxiety. And, because she's a therapist, she helped me unpack that why.

I rely so much on being funny or smart or talkative or passionate or engaging or fun for my value. I fear that if I am not those things, then I am erasable. My existence doesn't matter. And so because dealing with the situations that have been making me depressed and anxious takes up basically all of my emotional and physical energy, I don't have much left in my reserve for being fun. And I can say that sometimes, that makes me feel worst of all.

It's obviously a massive lie that people only matter if they behave a certain way or offer a particular thing. A person matters because they are alive. This is a courtesy I extend to others on a very regular basis, but had never thought to extend to myself.

So lately, especially on the really hard days, when I start to wonder if I matter, I give myself a minute. I take a few deep breaths. I think about how I am fearfully and wonderfully made, and how I do not have to make someone laugh or create something or even leave the house to have value.

I matter because I am here.

When I Was a Writer

2018-12-17T13:55:00.000-03:30

I distinctly remember sitting in my counsellor’s dimly-lit office, my thighs sticking to the faux-leather chair in the damp heat of late-July. I was still completing coursework for my first MA, but I had long quit the program in my mind. I was experiencing the classic early-twenties, post-graduate struggle of finding direction outside of a semester-based schedule.

“I have no idea what to do with my life. I don’t even know what I like to do, or what I’m good at,” I admitted, cringing at how cliche I sounded and, indeed, was.

My counsellor — my third one that summer — was observant and direct: “Well, when you talk about writing, your whole body shifts. You take on a different posture. You become more animated. You are clearly very passionate about it, and it obviously brings you joy. Why don’t you focus on that?”

She was right, of course. I had spent the previous nine months living in Vancouver and blogging regularly about my adventures and challenges adapting to living and studying in a new city, and I loved it. But I had always been a writer. From almost the moment I could read, I would write my own stories. My first grade teacher would staple white printer paper into booklets for me and let me write and draw throughout the day. When my dad bought our first family computer, I taught myself to type by writing the first few chapters of a new book almost every week. I kept journals and wrote poetry and submitted stories to contests. I studied English literature at university so I could write papers instead of studying for exams, wrote for the campus newspaper, and tutored at the university Writing Centre. Writing was so much a part of my daily life that it was basically part of my DNA.

I decided in that sweaty office that I was going to do it: I would call myself A Writer.

I kept writing as a I switched programs and finished my MA in Communication. I wrote and wrote and wrote. I published things, and sometimes got paid for them. I wrote papers for school and book reviews and taught my students how to write; I kept a notebook filled with opening lines for novels and article titles. I used my blog as my safe space to work through the things that were challenging me, or breaking my heart, or just to put the mess of things that lived in my head into black and white text so they could live somewhere else for a while.

Writing was my joy and my challenge; my safety net and my identity.

Lately (well, an extended lately. A “several months…almost a year” lately) I’ve struggled to write. A blinking cursor on a blank screen has felt more like a burden than an opportunity. There’s a long list of things I want to put into words, to process through text in the way that has made me feel free and proud for so long. But I am paralyzed.

Part of me is afraid that I’ve missed the boat on some of it. For example, I saw Rob Bell, a writer and podcaster and thinker and theologian who has changed the course of my life on not one, but three separate occasions, speak live this summer. It was an evening so special and important to me that even now, four months later, it brings tears to my eyes. I wanted to try and capture it for myself, but also to share some of the profundity of his performance, but I am struggling. If I didn’t capture it right away, did I miss the rawness of the experience? Maybe it’s too fresh, maybe I don’t have the distance to capture the weight of the moment; maybe not enough time has passed to see it in its full scope. But I’m frustrated that it lives in my head and heart and not on the page.

There are many other things I want to explore, too: my best friend’s wedding, my surgeries and how they’ve affected my relationship with my body, the (now) hilarious story of a train journey in Germany gone horribly wrong, my experience and feelings about becoming an Indeterminate employee in the Government of Canada. I’ve tried putting all these things into text, but I am blocked each and every time.

I am worried. I am worried that I’m done. That I can’t do it anymore. I’m worried that this is not just a lull but the finish line, and my writing life ended not with a bang…not even with a whimper. Mostly I am worried that if I’ve lost my writing, I’ve also lost my identity. Because how can you call yourself a writer if you don’t?

I’ve been trying to reconcile that some things do not need the written word to live on. There are feelings and experiences and thoughts that are meaningful if they are shared in conversation with a friend, or in two sentences in a text message, or just in your memory.

So if I cannot write about them, they still matter.

So if I can no longer write about them, I still matter.

I Turned 31 and Let My Dream Die

2018-07-24T11:32:00.000-02:30

When I was 10 years old, my dad went to England on a business trip. He was to spend the majority of his time driving in and around a village in Cornwall called Gweek. I thought he was, as my father is wont to do, joking.

It turned out Gweek was indeed a very real place, and I was about to embark on the longest love affair of my life.
My dad came home laden with pictures of rolling green countryside and roads framed with low rock walls. He told us about Cornish pasties and navigating the narrow and ancient streets, playing cornet with the local brass band in an old stone church, and the perils of driving on the opposite side of the road. He brought back Cadbury Flake chocolate bars for me and my sister. I was smitten.
I spent my teen years periodically begging my parents to move us to England; or, at the very least, take us on a grand tour of London and beyond. But my mother didn’t fly, and a trip across the pond in the mid-1990s was unimaginable for my family. So I did the best I could with what I had. I read voraciously, from The Guardian to Harry Potter to histories of the Tudors, completely undiscerning in my consumption as long as it was set in or about England. I borrowed my uncle’s collection of BBC miniseries on VHS and practiced speaking in a British accent. For about six months in grade 12, I was an expert in Cockney Rhyming Slang.
In the summer of 2008, my long-awaited dream finally came true. Memorial University has a sister campus in Old Harlow, Essex, and as part of my English degree I was able to study there for a month. It was as formative of an experience as you can imagine: my first time travelling outside of North America and without my family; living away from home and in a dorm with 18 almost-strangers for the first time; trying new foods and learning to navigate the Underground. My program was theatre-based, so I spent most of the month in the audience of theatres in London, Liverpool, and Cambridge. The plays and musicals, combined with the cities’ architecture and history and my deep-seated obsession with England - it was sensory and emotional overload.
I had the time of my life.
When I came home to Canada, I vowed I would return and make a life in England as soon as humanly possible. My research revealed that the best way to get me back to London was the UK Youth Mobility Visa - an amazing program that lets young adults between the ages of 18 and 30 work in the UK for two years. For a little paperwork and not that much money, I could live my fantasy life. And I had 10 years to apply: this was my in.
At every milestone over the next 9 years, I told myself that I’d get all of the pieces ready and I’d soon be sipping tea with the Brits. I talked about it all the time. I dreamed about it as I finished my degree and moved to Vancouver to start another one. I planned my escape across the pond as my sister and friends got married to and I flew all over the country to attend weddings and meet newborn babies. I relocated again, finished my Masters, read books, fell in and out of love, quit jobs and found others, adopted a cat, learned to make cinnamon roll scones: while life happened, I imagined the other version of me who was supposed to be doing all these same things 5,358 km away.
In February 2017, I was at a decision point. I was unexpectedly unemployed after a government contract fell through, and, disillusioned with the public service, I was ready to leave everything behind for a new life. England would be my land of opportunity and renewal. London would save me. I was finally making good on the only promise I’d ever made to myself.
I had just over a year before I aged out of eligibility for the UK Youth Mobility Visa, so I made a plan. I budgeted the money needed to apply for the visa. I found someone interested in subletting my apartment. A friend agreed to temporarily adopt my cat. I began purging my apartment of knick-knacks and slowly parting with my large (and much adored) library. I had friends on the look-out of job opportunities for me. This was it! I was making my dream a reality!
And then suddenly and out of nowhere, a year had passed. It was my 31st birthday, and I was still living in Canada without a youth visa, and now no chance of ever getting one.
I spent a few weeks post-birthday feeling quite blue. My lifelong dream, the one big goal I had set for myself, was dead. I couldn’t get my act together to focus long enough to make it happen. Not only had I let my dream die, I had killed it with neglect, so slowly and silently I didn’t see it coming. I had failed my 10 year-old self spectacularly.
It took a few days of wallowing and a conversation with a good friend to help me ask myself why. Why hadn’t I gone through the relatively simple process of getting the Visa? I’m not inept at doing paperwork and I’ve saved money for other things I’ve needed or wanted. Why did I fail on the thing I (thought I) cared about the most?
What I hadn’t realised was that as I was building my imaginary life, things started falling into place in my real life.
I found a job and colleagues who inspired, challenged, and uplifted me. My work suddenly, and for the first time, was immensely fulfilling and meaningful. I started volunteering with my community, spending time with my neighbours, and recording a podcast with a friend. My sister had twins and I started travelling halfway across the country at every opportunity to spend time with my baby niece and nephew. I had great friends and laughed all the time. I became so happy with and invested in my Canadian life that, slowly, London took a back seat.
In talking with my friend, I realised that I had been so focused on England as my Big Dream that I had forgotten about all my other goals and things I wanted. They were less shiny and glamorous, and it was much harder to prove I had achieved them: stability, purpose, friendship, love. I thought I needed to uproot everything for my life to start, when instead it was slowly growing and blooming over the years.
I am still an Anglophile through and through, but I am also more than that. I have goals I want to achieve, other dreams I want to fulfill. I still hope to live in the UK someday, but if I don’t, I know it’ll be because of choices I made for myself, in service of my best self.

How to Cope When Your Confidence is Shot

2018-04-09T20:22:00.001-02:30

I am, generally, fairly confident. Like any human person, I have my normal ebbs and flows - sometimes I feel like I could win over the world with a single glance; other times I feel like hiding under my desk and waiting for the apocalypse.

But I've recently experienced a real Confidence High, and now I'm sitting deep in the Confidence Low.

My team at work has just finished delivering our annual conference. It was a massive undertaking and we delivered a complex and engaging conference experience to 500 people in a very short period of time. The lead-up to the conference was a full pendulum of emotions, as successes and failures came daily - even hourly. Still, as I checked more and more items off my to-do list and looked back at the growing pile of accomplishments, my confidence level remained pretty steady.

The two-day conference was a roaring success - both for my colleagues, but also for me personally. I've never felt so proud of what I had produced. I made great connections with new people and people I had only known online, and deepened relationships with colleagues and friends. I hung out with and discussed future plans (and hugged (several times)) one of my biggest inspirations from the UK, and I finished the night with people who made me feel beautiful, interesting, and fun. I was walking on the moon.

But we are just over a week out from the conference, and I have crash-landed somewhere in the Elephant Graveyard. The realities of the daily grind can no longer be ignored, and my failures and inadequacies are taunting me like Scar whispering "Long live the King" before throwing Mufasa into the stampede: I haven't filed my taxes! I've lost the contract that tells me what my new rent bill is next month! I'm seven weeks behind my 10-k training schedule! At this point, my body is largely composed of miscellaneous chocolate and Subway! - in addition to a slew of other, more complex work and life issues that make me feel like I'm being trampled by a herd of antelope.

I was sitting on my couch, watching The Greatest Showman for the 21st time and polishing off a box of Girl Guide cookies, when I started thinking that I had to find a better way to cope with my current confidence low than cramming my face with calories and dreaming of the day I join the circus.

Because it's 2018 and we still aren't tired of listicles, I've made a short one of the patterns and behaviours I've adopted - and recommend - to try and ride out a confidence low and begin the climb back to the top.

1. "Get off Twitter"
she said, like it was the first time anyone on the internet had ever offered this pearl of wisdom. But actually: get off Twitter. We all know that social media does wonders to help plummet our self-esteem. I found that scrolling through my professional Twitter account was making me feel awful. I would see all these conversations I wasn't part of or knew nothing (and, truthfully, couldn't care less) about, and felt inadequate for missing out on this (absolutely not) vital dialogue. Twitter reminded me of work I hadn't done, or something I had failed to accomplish. I irrationally started to feel like my career would take a massive nose-dive if I didn't have something witty or impressive to say about everything on the internet.

So I just decided to log out. I turned off my work phone outside of work hours. I gave myself permission to not be part of that world until I could contribute from a better mental place. And honestly? It's been great, and I don't feel like I'm missing out on anything.

2. Paint your nails
I love having manicured nails, and I love doing my own at home. Painting my nails is a time and labour intensive process (okay not intensive - labour light). In order to get the opacity I want and to avoid any smudging or imprinting, I need at least 1.5 uninterrupted hours.

For me, painting my nails is an act of indulgent self-care. It's not self-care in the sense of basic upkeep - showering, eating, doing laundry - but it is a luxury that demands I set aside a real chunk of time for nothing other than doing something I love for myself. It is relaxing, familiar, and makes me feel great. These kind of self-care acts obviously look different for everyone - baking, playing video games, going for a bike ride, or organizing your bookshelf (okay that is also me). But by making specific time to do something for yourself that is not a necessity, you are telling yourself that you are worth luxurious and special care. Such a small, indulgent act can lift the spirits in a profound way.

3. Celebrate your recent accomplishments
And I don't mean work stuff, I mean every day life stuff. Living alone, I've realised how hard it is to keep everything under control while also working 14 hour days and trying to have a social life. I sat down this weekend and wrote out all the things I had done in the past week that took effort and accomplished something:
- Submitted a work order to my Superintendent to fix those broken tiles in my bathroom
- Sorted the recycling
- Washed all the sheets and towels
- Volunteered
- Bought cat food before I ran out
- Got all the information needed to start my taxes (I am really fixated on my taxes right now)
- Saw a bunch of friends and had lots of hugs

All of these small things are actually really important to my existence and they all take time and brain power to do. Even if I feel like I haven't accomplished anything at work, I still did manage to get important things done. We should feel success in these moments too.

4. Explore the peripheries of your comfort zone
This weekend I was invited to a couple of events with people I didn't know well or at all. Normally I'd try to convince a friend to come with me, or I would find a polite reason to decline. But everything sounded different and fun (and I desperately needed to have some fun) so I decided to make a day of it. And it was the most fun I've had in months. I met warm and friendly people, laughed a lot, and finally got to wear a fancy red lace dress I've had in my closet since November.

When I'm feeling like I need a confidence boost, I often find it easier to do new and unfamiliar things. The risk feels lower when I already feel like there's not much to lose, and because I am looking for a lift, I am more receptive to new conversations and people. A weekend of the unknown couldn't have come at a better time.

5. Sit in that low
When we're not feeling great, I think we spend a lot of time thinking about how to stop feeling not great. But I think that does a disservice to ourselves and to the reality of being human. One of my favourite thought nuggets from Stephen Fry is: "If there is one thing happiness can do, it is mask deadness of the soul." We are supposed to experience the full range of human emotion, and that means not being happy or confident all the time. But it does mean experiencing the richness that is human consciousness.

(I should probably add a 6th point here - write about it. Writing this has definitely given me a lift, especially because I love all my references to The Lion King.)

I think the most important thing to remember is that you will not always feel this way. My confidence may have been shot, but I'm already starting to feel an upswing. We are always moving through a series of hills and valleys, and that is both the struggle and joy of being alive.

It's onwards and upwards from here.

To the Year of Returning

2017-12-13T21:26:00.003-03:30

A toast to 2017, the year of Returning.

A toast to Melinda,

whose death sent shockwaves through my present and returned me -

to summers at Starrigan; and

every second Saturday; and

staying far too late; and
nights around our family dinner table; and

an airport photoshoot; and

a tearful declaration of your imprint on my life.

To January 1st, 2017,

when we rang in your last New Year - together.

A toast to London,

where I've dreamed of returning since the moment I left.

Everything, everything reminded me of that first summer -
cobblestones and clocks and crowds, and
bridges and books and Bank, and
trains and tea and the theatre, and
delights, dreams, desires.
To the city where I first left my heart a decade ago,
and returned to tuck it in; safe among aged streets
until it calls me home again.

A toast to stories,
whose beloved prose I've revisited time and time again.
To the characters and worlds I've lived in many times before -
the boy who lived; and
Barnum and Skip; and
heavy boots, and
carrots.
I am a vessel for their narratives, their themes, their lessons.
To the pages that know me, miss me, remember me
and welcome me home.

A toast to the people,
whose friendship has waited until it was most needed -
now -
to unfurl itself from the stillness.
The beautiful people who wax and
wane, and
always pick up where we left off.
To a universe who fans the flames when a soul cries out
for connection.

A toast to home,

which is completely different and exactly the same.
The histories of my Rock beckon me "come back" -
to the cruel winds and wet winters; and
the good humour and unmatched generosity; and
family dinners and babies' steps; and
the Other Life I am not living.
To the city and people who loved me first,
I will come ashore.

Shouting Into the Void

2017-08-21T19:11:00.000-02:30

Since 8 November 2016, I haven't felt quite right.

I had invited a few friends over to watch the American election with me. I had snacks and a smile. It was supposed to be a monumental night as we welcomed the first female President of the United States. Instead, everyone left early, needing to process what was happening on their own terms.

The next day, I cried at my desk. I flew into a fury as my fingers typed insanely, pounding out my feelings at an undeserving male coworker who chose the wrong day to make a sexist joke.

I joined in the online outrage at first. I retweeted pictures of protest signs and I got involved in the political fights I had previously successfully avoided on Facebook. I read endless think-pieces and I engaged in lengthly and loud conversations with other people who were shocked and sad and outraged. They often ended in tears.

As I checked Twitter one day in early 2017 to see what fresh hell had been unleashed on this planet, something snapped. I closed the app and deleted it. I signed out of Facebook on my phone. I cancelled my subscription to The New Yorker.

I just couldn't do it anymore.

I couldn't really articulate why I felt so exhausted and outraged and disassociated all of a sudden, until I saw Tina Fey's sketch about the Sheet Cake Movement on SNL. She took a lot of heat for that sketch for a bunch of reasons, but unfairly, I think.

In the sketch, Tina tells people to buy a sheet cake from your local non-white owned bakery and just start screaming your feelings into the sugar as you stuff your face. What I took away from that sketch was a perfect translation of how it feels to exist in a reality where you feel you have no power to do anything. Peaceful protests are met with violence and/or indifference in equal measure. The environment is melting and people are still shipping pineapples from Mexico to Alaska. Hashtags on Twitter are just screaming into the void.

I stepped away from my blog for half a year because that's what writing felt like to me: screaming into the void. There are so many truths I feel deeply need to be shared, but I feel like, what is just one more voice among the millions who are already saying way too much? Am I just adding to the noise?

I've found ways to replace this creative outlet and find moments of peace and hope, like by

reading. A lot. I've been listening to audiobooks and reading fiction and essay collections and rereading stories I've long loved. I've been reminded that this isn't the first time in history when everything was terrifying, and nothing instills compassion like reading stories of suffering and triumph.

bullet journalling. I started drawing and taping and highlighting my own little journal/agenda, and the quiet and repetitive work of measuring lines and counting grids and cutting Washi tape has as calming power.

podcasting. My friend Jenn and I started a podcast called Next Segment with Jill and Jenn. It's a complete self-indulgent form of creative expression and I love it so much.

I've often thought about coming back here and writing. I've started so many posts and left them half-baked in the unpublished folder. I haven't had the emotional commitment to stick it out. But I haven't forgotten about this corner of the internet, and I'm not done with having my say.

There's nothing wrong with shutting up for a while, though, either, and listening.

The Art of Abusers

2017-03-09T20:05:00.002-03:30

In 2014, two big pop culture events rocked my small world: the YouTuber sexual assault scandal, specifically one creator called Alex Day, and the termination of Jian Ghomeshi's relationship with the CBC following accusations of sexual harassment and violence.

A few weeks prior to the accusation that Alex Day had sexually assaulted several past girlfriends and fans, I had preordered his book about the history of the London Underground. His publisher dropped him almost instantaneously, and I assumed the book would never see the light of day. However, a few months later, Alex emerged anew on the internet, sitting in front of 2000 copies of his book that he no longer had anyone to distribute or promote. He offered personalized signatures to anyone who purchased his book.

I thought about it a lot. I was so interested in the subject matter, and I am a sucker for an author-autographed copy; however ordering it felt like a betrayal - but of who or what? His past girlfriends? My morals and ethics? All women who'd ever been abused?

I felt convicted about it, but I ordered the book.

I had, and continue to have, similar struggles with Ghomeshi. I had met him at a book signing just a year previously. I had his personalized signature sitting on my bookshelf. I considered throwing it out. I considered deleting every single one of the hundreds of saved Q podcasts I had on my computer. I debated deleting the photo of me and two friends with Ghomeshi, his once-charming smile seeming like a sinister grin now.

I felt convicted about it, but I kept the book and the podcasts and the photo.

This is not an original question or an unfamiliar struggle. Hollywood has been plagued with racists, rapists, child abusers and assaulters since forever. Everyone knows that Woody Allen sexually abused his daughter; Roman Polanski raped underage girls; Bill Cosby drugged and raped more than 50 women; Mel Gibson is a bigot and a racist; Nate Parker is a homophobe who sexually assaulted women; Casey Affleck sexually harassed and assaulted his coworkers, to name but a few.

But we keep watching their movies, their shows, their interviews. We give them awards and applaud them in front of millions of people. We discuss how gross Woody Allen is over coffee and muffins, and then we watch Annie Hall on the weekend. We buy their books and we endorse them over, and over, and over.

Except: are we endorsing them? Or are we endorsing their art?

I know there is a separation between art and artist. I spent most of my academic life discussing the separation of author from text, how the two entities exist independently of each other. How the author's intent doesn't matter - all that matters is the final product. And yet when it comes to real world repercussions, I struggle.

How do we separate Manchester by the Sea and Casey Affleck's Oscar-winning performance from the man himself? Are we awarding Casey the Actor, or are we awarding Casey the Sexual Predator? Does it even matter?

Can you love Annie Hall as much as you did before you knew Woody Allen was a child abuser? Can you watch the movie and separate the script, the performance, the feeling it gives you from the man who sexually assaulted his daughter? Does it colour our affection? Is "no" or "yes" even the right answer?

How do I listen to Ghomeshi read out letters from survivors of sexual violence on air without cringing and screaming HYPOCRITE at the top of my lungs?

The problem is both practical and ethical. Art, or at least the art I'm talking about, is a product to be consumed. On a practical level, does it matter if I read Ghomeshi's book over again? I've already paid for it, so he won't benefit financially from me. If I watch a friend's copy of Hacksaw Ridge, Mel Gibson will never get a dime from me.

But what is my ethical responsibility? Do I continue to give my time and attention and headspace to the work of people who have committed crimes that offend my very being? Do we try and lessen the amount of cultural capital that these men are allowed to hold onto?

I don't have any answers. I think I struggle because this isn't a part of the cultural discourse. Sure, websites will detail the minute pieces of information about Nate Parker's acquittal, but we don't talk about how we approach his art. We don't make collective conscious decisions - why, for example, did Parker's Birth of a Nation tank at the box office, while Casey Affleck continued to earn accolades for Manchester by the Sea? What are the parameters?

My hope is that we start talking more about the separation of art and artist, and what the cultural capital is of their work. I don't think there are any right answers, but we certainly need to start asking ourselves and each other these big questions.

Art matters. Who we laud and who we bury matters. Because whoever we put on a pedestal is a reflection of our own values reflected back at us. And I certainly don't see much I like in the mirror.

** While the men I've written about have not been convicted, I chose not to use the phrase "accused of" or "alleged".

My Definitive Ranking of the Best and Worst Love Actually Characters

2016-12-17T18:54:00.001-03:30

Love Actually is my favourite movie. It is a glorious masterpiece of storytelling, peppered with quintessential Britishness, moments of hilarity, and the full range of relationships and their complications. It is in a lot of ways terrible, and it is in every way perfect.

It also happens to be a favourite Christmas movie of the masses. Consequently, there are countless think pieces and "Definitive Rankings Of" lists. Buzzfeed has given us a great hoard of them over the past 5 years: This is What it's Like to Watch "Love Actually" for the First Time, 50 Things You Probably Didn't Know About "Love Actually", Which Political Party is Hugh Grant Representing in "Love Actually", and, most importantly, The Definitive Ranking of All of the Turtlenecks in "Love Actually".

But I figured, as Love Actually's biggest fan, it was time I do my own Definitive Ranking Of.

Here is my Definitive Ranking of the Best and Worst Love Actually Characters.

WORST

10. That Radio Host who Slags off Billy Mack Right Before he Goes Live in Studio With his Colleague

First of all, not only is it unprofessional to bad-mouth a musician just trying to do his best on public radio, it is inconsiderate that he hasn't even seen what is on his friend's show for the day. He's a music snob and a bad friend.

9. Tony, Colin's friend

This guy is a terrible friend to Colin. Instead of listening when Colin tells him he's lonely and wants a girlfriend, or giving him advice on how to talk to women so he doesn't get shut down as much, he calls him "an ugly, lonely asshole" and tells him he "must accept it." Rude! Also, he never makes it quite clear if the movies he's directing are porn; if they are, he's made questionable life choices himself and should ease up on his only friend.

8. The Woman in Charge of Hiring Help for Colin Firth

This character, whose name I JUST learned is Eleonore, can be viewed as a hero - she inadvertently sets up the greatest love story of the movie when she hires Aurelia to work for Jamie. But she's actually really condescending when Jamie tries to speak French, and instead of trying to help translate his English to Portuguese for Aurelia, she just mocks him repeatedly. WHO ARE YOU HELPING, ELEONORE!?!?

7. Annie

Body-shames Natalie. Women bringing other women down is the WORST.

6. Peter

TBH, Peter is a halfway decent character. His two huge flaws, though, are that he is 100% oblivious to his BEST FRIEND'S feelings of being in love with his wife, which tells me he is self-absorbed and makes no effort to ask Mark what he's feeling, AND he hates carollers.

5. Jamie's Brother

I mean, Jamie's girlfriend should just as equally be on this list, because she was the other half of the cheating pair. But who does that to their own brother?!? This cuts deep. He also calls Jamie boring, which is accurate but still pretty harsh when he's just finished having sex with his brother's girlfriend.

4. Billy-Bob Thornton

Probably worse than the current President of the USA, Billy Bob is slimy, creepy, and arrogant. His worst feature, though, is his complete vagueness when it comes to what his "bad policies" were. (This is a gaping hole in the entire plot of Love Actually; everything all the politicians say is so vague and meaningless that we have to wonder: do they even know what government does?)

3. Mia

MIA! Close your legs at work! Stop hitting on your married boss! Don't wear devil horns as an accessory to a Christmas party! Don't act so mean about someone thinking Mark is your boyfriend! Don't accept a gift from your married boss! STOP LISTENING TO THE RADIO LOUDLY AND DISTURBING YOUR COWORKERS!

2. Karl

Karl is the most tragic character for me, because he's a wimpy little poop head. He knows Laura Linney is in love with him and he reciprocates but he waits two years to make his move. And when he finally stops being a coward, he can't handle a woman as robust and loyal and complicated as Laura Linney! I mean, he is a walking contradiction. He tells her "life is full of interruptions and complications" but as soon as that complication interrupts his sex life ONCE, he puts a kibosh to the whole sordid affair without even having a real conversation about it! He is a pitiful, lonely asshole (Tony should've saved that line for him (except no one could ever call Karl ugly)).

1. Alan Rickman (aka Harry but I have never called him that)

Not to speak ill of the dead, but Alan Rickman is the WORST. He does so many terrible things that I have to list them in bullet-points:

Cheats on Emma Thompson, his loving devoted wife and mother of his two children, not to mention the sister of the Prime Minister, with the aforementioned terrible Mia. He's not even smart or cool about it. He's awkward and too old and he lets Mia lead him down a terrible road and sees it coming and does nothing to stop it.
Basically ignores Emma Thompson when she's pouring her heart out to him about finding meaning in her life, and then criticizes her for liking Joni Mitchell.
Is outrageously inappropriately involved in his colleagues' personal lives. Pro tip: if your much older male boss calls you into his office, tells you to turn off your phone, and advises you to tell another colleague that "you'd like to have lots of sex and babies," REPORT HIM TO HR.

BEST

10. Natalie's Family

I'm lumping this group together because as individuals they are great, but together they really shine. Natalie's mum is completely unfazed by seeing the Prime Minister at the door. The dude with the spikey hair is straight out of a mid-90s teen after-school special. The garland on the door is Over. The. Top. Look at how many Christmas cards are on the wall! They are obviously a hit with their friends and neighbours, too. And of course, this family gives us the iconic Christmas Octopus. Eight really is a lot of legs.

9. "I Hate Uncle Jamie!" Kid

This girl in pink knows what is up. She sees Jamie drop off armloads of presents and food before disappearing back to France to ask Aurelia to marry him, and she is not having any of it! Her loud and proud declaration, "I hate Uncle Jamie!", shows us that her priority isn't gifts and food, but sharing the holidays with her family, and she isn't afraid to express herself . You go, Jamie's feminist niece!

8. Aurelia

Aurelia is badass. She goes to work for an Englishman without knowing any English. She dives into the water to save his book because she recognizes it was her mistake and takes responsibility. She is smarter than Jamie because she knows it's important to make copies and not over-indulge on baked goods!

7. Laura Linney

Not only does Laura Linney, AKA Sarah, look awesome in hats, she is a self-sacrificing hero. She deals with her boss giving her sex advice, she tries to comfort Emma Thompson while they watch Alan Rickman dance shamelessly with Mia at the Christmas party, and she chooses the needs of her brother over her own happiness. Do I wish she could've been more forthcoming with Karl? 100%. Is it tragic? 110%. But watching her interact with her brother shows that she understands her responsibilities and she believes and hopes she can help make his life better. I LOVE YOU LAURA!

6. Sam

Sam believes wholeheartedly in soul mates, and he's more committed than any man I've ever dated. He's goal-oriented and resourceful and resilient. He also inadvertently is grieving the loss of his mother through the pursuit of his one true love. Also, he has the agility of an olympic gymnast.

5. Gavin the Copper

The minorest of minor characters, Gavin is the bees knees because he has the richest, deepest singing voice, and he doesn't hesitate for a minute to regale the young children with his sultry baritone. A good sport and enjoys a good carol sing. Exact opposite of the aforementioned Peter.

4. Joe, Ugliest Man in the World

Joe is the unsung hero of this movie. He has maybe 4 lines in the entire film, but is facial expressions say it all. He has the impossible task of making Billy Mack relevant again, and he works relentlessly to achieve it. Billy tries over and over again to sabotage himself, nearly giving Joe a heart attack. Joe also deals with a battery of public insults from Billy, but he sticks around. He doesn't even get an invite to Elton John's party! Joe is a good man, and I think his relationship with Billy is truly the greatest love story ever told.

3. Daniel

We see the most character growth from Daniel in this movie. He's a sad sack at the beginning (and rightly so; his wife just died!), but by the end he has found renewed meaning in his relationship with Sam. He reveals himself to be a great step-dad in that he takes Sam's concerns seriously, and he genuinely does what he can to help make his dreams come true. Daniel is encouraging, helpful, and funny. This is obviously backstory for Taken.

2. Emma Thompson (aka Karen)

Question: Has there ever been a character as likeable, relatable, and strong as Karen? Answer: no. Karen has no ego: not only is her brother the Prime Minister and she never talks about it, she acts genuinely excited about her daughter being the First Lobster in the Nativity play. She is a great friend to Daniel, dropping pearls of wisdom such as "get a grip," she is a fantastic mother and a loyal wife, making papier mache lobster heads and cooking dinner and doing all the Christmas shopping for her family. But she also loves Joni Mitchell #CanCon. She also confronts her horrible cheating husband in the most straightforward yet sentimental way. UGH she is just the BEST and deserves SO much better than gross Alan Rickman! (in the movie, not real life, RIP Alan you wonderful soul.)

1. Mr. Bean

Rowan Atkinson is my favourite character in Love Actually because I think he is a wizard. In my headcanon, he somehow knew that Alan was going to cheat on Emma, which is why he delayed him forever with the gift wrapping. He also knew that Sam was on his way to say goodbye to the love of his life and was able to let him through at the airport. So I ask you, could he be anything BUT a wizard (coming soon to a Fantastic Beasts near you)?!

In Defense of Whimsy

2016-06-20T19:11:00.003-02:30

I was late to the Doctor Who train. It wasn't until the summer of 2013 when my friend Samantha, who also happens to be my television soul mate, loaned me the first season of the 2005 reboot that I finally gave it a try. I wasn't smitten instantly - it's hard to be taken with giant green alien blobs whose greatest threat is they fart too much. But by the end of the season, I had been charmed and intrigued just enough to keep watching. By the end of the summer, I had cried myself to sleep over the end of season 4, ordered Doctor Who-themed earrings off Etsy, and heard my roommate humming along to the theme song in the shower. I was a Whovian.

* * *

Last week I saw play at the Ottawa Fringe Festival all about the struggles of turning thirty. It was one of the worst productions I've ever seen for a lot of reasons - no overarching narrative, unnecessary audio and visual interruptions, a shocking and gratuitous nude scene which served no narrative purpose whatsoever. It was a disaster from start to finish.

But to me, the play's worst offence was it's mundanity. It addressed the well-worn topics of Facebook making us feel inadequate about our lives, the difficulties of wading through the bog that is online dating, and drowning our sorrows in vices, whether they be wine or cat pictures. I left the theatre just feeling bored.

Maybe it's a bit hypocritical of me to complain about someone reflecting on real life, since that's sort of my M.O. I write almost exclusively about my own life and how I understand the world I'm navigating. I read a lot of nonfiction books, and I especially love auto/biographies.

But lately I've felt inundated with "reality." I can't read any more think pieces about how hard it is to be millennial in our current economic climate. I don't want to see another book cover with a YouTuber's face staring back at me, the details of their life's (all 21 years of it) struggle to internet stardom. I am bored of talking about how terrible Tinder is. It's all a bit serious and, well, bland.

* * *

I've never loved a show like I love Doctor Who.

I love Doctor Who because it's ridiculous. It's ridiculous at every level. It gives the audience a few wisps of reality to cling to, and then demands the wholehearted suspension of disbelief: A alien who regenerates into a new body every few years and flies around in a time machine called the TARDIS (Time And Relative Dimension in Space - a name that could only have been conceived of in the 1960s) that's bigger on the inside, and, for someone who has access to all of time and space, inexplicably seems to spend a great deal of time in London. He always lands somewhere just as the drama is starting, and he doesn't carry a weapon, preferring instead to use cleverness and conversation to solve problems. I mean, its absurd.

Except, it's not.

One of my favourite running themes throughout the show is that the Doctor's companions think of themselves as lucky women (and sometimes men) to run with the Doctor. After all, they are just 19 year old girls who live in council estates with their mother, or they are "just a temp" who thinks that just finding a husband will help her find value. There is the doctor who feels unloveable and the little redhead who just waits for someone to come back.

But through the Doctor, these women realize that they are incredible, important, invaluable. My favourite companion, Donna Noble, frequently exclaims that she's "just a temp" and what on earth can she do to help anyone, but by simply being with the Doctor, she realizes her resourcefulness and her compassion. We learn that the Doctor didn't choose her randomly; instead, she found the Doctor, because she's "the most important person in the universe," and she alone saves humanity from compete destruction.

There are other elements, of course. There is an episode where the Doctor comes face to face with the devil and that is scary. He faces real racism and discrimination on the Planet of the Ood. He loses control of his mind to an alien and that's terrifying. He faces his own loneliness, the knowledge that he is the last of his own species, time and again. For more than 900 years he's had to watch the people he love die, or lose their minds, or worse - forget him. These are heavy themes that act as a reminder: living forever and traversing all of time and space doesn't save you from very human pain.

But ultimately what makes the show so wonderful is that it is truth wrapped up in whimsy. While these immense themes provide the foundation of the show, the Doctor himself is the most whimsical character since Willy Wonka. He's lighthearted, forgetful, messy. He makes mistakes. He jokes. He has a strange eye for fashion and obsesses over Fez hats and Converse sneakers and leather jackets. He believes in the impossible because, more often than not, the impossible happens. He faces fear with curiosity and an adventurous heart(s), and he always hopes for the best and expects the best, too. He believes goodness is inside everyone, and that we all ultimately want to choose good over evil.

* * *

On the way home from the disastrous play, all I could think was that I wanted more whimsy. I think our brutally self-aware society has forgotten about the everyday magic that makes the heaviness of life just a little bit lighter.

I think there can be balance. We can stay focused on and aware of our reality while believing in the impossible. Because of course the winged statues on Rideau aren't Weeping Angels, but there's a brief spark of joy, just a microsecond, in pretending they are. Of course a TARDIS won't drop down on my street and whisk me away to Planet Klom tomorrow, but what's the harm in sort of hoping it might?

There is value in the weight of reality, but there is so much joy in whimsy.

-Jillz

Post Script: This is my favourite quote about the essence of the Doctor from writer Steven Moffat:

It's hard to talk about the importance of an imaginary hero. But heroes ARE important: Heroes tell us something about ourselves.

History tells us who we used to be, documentaries tell us who we are now; but heroes tell us who we WANT to be.

And a lot of our heroes depress me.

But when they made this particular hero, they didn't give him a gun--they gave him a screwdriver to fix things. They didn't give him a tank or a warship or an x-wing fighter--they gave him a box from which you can call for help. And they didn't give him a superpower or pointy ears or a heat-ray--they gave him an extra HEART. They gave him two hearts! And that's an extraordinary thing.

There will never come a time when we don't need a hero like the Doctor.

The State of the Thing*

2016-06-03T00:33:00.000-02:30

Well hello there.

I haven't blogged in a long time. I mean, we all know this. Some (very kind) people have asked me to write something, and I promise you: I've thought about it. I've even tried! But I've been a bit preoccupied and also, if I'm being honest, a bit uninspired. But a very wise friend said to me once that creativity comes in seasons. There are times when we are in full bloom and can create and produce beautiful things at a remarkable pace. Then there are other seasons where our creativity lies dormant, and we can use this time to rest and nourish ourself, until we are able to start making things again.

So that's where I've been. Dormant.

There are a few reasons I've not been writing. The first is quite practical: my new apartment. The place I moved into last November ended up being an absolute nightmare. I don't have the time or the energy - or the bandwidth - to detail all the problems I had. A fresh hell arose every week with something in my apartment, or with the property management company, or with the building as a whole. A small sampling of what I had to deal with:

my apartment was over 35 degrees in early January;
the fire alarm went off for two days straight;
I nearly ended up in a legal battle over road salt; and
several building-mates had face-to-face encounters with bats.

The good news is that I've since moved to an apartment I love in a fantastic neighbourhood. But in order to get out of my first lease, I spent the past six months becoming an expert on Ottawa bylaws and landlord-tenant laws. I spent hours and days reading through legal text, talking to other tenants in the building, and looking up bat sounds on YouTube to verify if the noise I had been hearing in the walls all winter was, indeed, bats (still unsure about this one).

The second reason I haven't felt particularly inspired is that I think I've been in recuperation mode. If you read my last few blog posts, you know that 2015 was a really difficult year. I felt emotionally raw, and I spent most of last year in survival mode. And while the past six months have certainly done their best to challenge me, I also feel like I've had the time for self care. I've read a bit, and watched lots of documentaries. I purged a lot of my makeup and clothing. I went to the doctor and got a prescription for orthotics. I made a commitment to use up all the food in my fridge before it goes bad, so I've been spending a lot of time with recipe books. I adopted a cat named Benedict Cumbercat, and he brings me more joy than I could've predicted. I'm seeing a counsellor who makes me feel very calm. I've been listening to lots of podcasts - some on faith, some about storytelling, others about justice and truth.

I didn't really realise it until now, but I guess the past few months have been my pruning period. I needed some time to rub some balm on my soul, let it lie fallow.

But I've been feeling reinvigorated lately, and I'm inspired to start writing again. I've been working on a novel sporadically for a little while, but it's laid pretty much untouched for months; I'm getting excited about it again, and have begun working on it. I have a few blog posts that I've been tinkering with, and I'm writing another article or two for publication in online magazines. I've also decided to start bullet journalling, which I hope will help me organise my thoughts so I can actually build on little threads of ideas before they disappear from my mind.

I've also been thinking a lot about the future in a way I haven't really had the luxury of doing before. I am finally in a state of mind to be able to think about what my life might look like in the long term - the sort of work I want to be doing, and how I can achieve it. I've spent some time thinking and planning for the next three- to five years, and it's been exciting for me to actually be able to envision the things I want beyond the immediate future.

(I realise this all sounds very vague, but I'm hesitant to share details on my public blog. Not right now. These plans feel very intimate, in a way; I feel like I'm following direction from my very soul. Right now, I'm enjoying just ruminating on it and being hopeful.)

To conclude this very circa 2010 blog post, I'm just going to throw in a list of things I've been enjoying over the past few months, because why not?

I loved the book (and the documentary of the same name) Going Clear: Scientology, Hollywood, and the Prison of Belief by Lawrence Wright. Scientology is scary and fascinating and insanely complex, and Wright does a spectacular job exposing and explaining. It's one of the best books I've read in a very long time.
I've been watching YouTuber Casey Neistat a lot over the past two months. He's made a video every single day since March 25, 2015. At first I hated him because I thought he worked too much and never saw his family, but I've grown to really enjoy his daily vlogs.
Aloe juice. Delicious.
I've been trying to eat better the past month, so I've replaced chips with Goldfish crackers, and I almost can't tell the difference. (Almost.)
I've cut back on the amount of makeup I wear daily, and I often go out without any on at all. I'm loving the freedom of being able to rub my face without fear of Panda eyes.

See you all back here soon,

Jill

* The title is a reference to the emails I get monthly from the website Library Thing, which are called "The State of the Thing." I never read those emails.

Beautiful and True

2015-12-22T18:32:00.000-03:30

In Blue Like Jazz, Don Miller writes the phrase "beautiful and true" a lot. I've always loved that. I think the truth is always, in some form, beautiful, and I love the idea that there are life moments that teach us what those beautiful and true things are.

My friend and I sat on my couch in my Ottawa apartment as the clock struck midnight on 1 January 2015. My friend and I toasted, as I had every year before, to "hoping this is the best year yet!"

If you read my last blog post, you know that 2015 was not the Best Year Yet. We could, if we're speaking in superlatives anyway, say it was probably one of the worst. At 12:01am on 1 January, I received a really crappy email from a boy I wanted to be dating, and everything kind of went off the rails from there (I won't rehash it all here, but you can see my last post for the nitty gritty, where I laid out my woes in great detail).

About two months ago, everything in my life almost instantaneously reversed. I have a nice new apartment and a comfy grey couch, a job that actually lets me pay bills and use some of my skills, and I've been able to go on dates with actual straight men without wanting to cry and/or vomit.

In these past few weeks of upswing, I've been able to really process the past year. Some friends have noted, and I've felt it, too, that I am a different person than I was 12 months ago. I think you probably grow the most when things are difficult ("if you're not laughing, you're learning," as they say), and there are some lessons I've learned that I'd like to say are also beautiful and true.

Grief is not linear

I was listening to an episode of Rob Bell's podcast the other day where he featured an interview with David Kessler, a grief specialist. Kessler said that a common misunderstanding about the five stages of grief - Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression, Acceptance - is that we experience them in that order. Instead, we actually might rally back and forth between two or three of the stages; we may spend a lot of time being angry, we may skip over bargaining entirely, and we may never reach acceptance. He also said that when we mourn, we don't just grieve the loss of what was, but the loss of what could have been.

I spent a lot of time grieving this year. I grieved the end of a long, intense, and unhealthy friendship; I grieved a love that never had the chance to flourish; I grieved for the life I was supposed to have at 28. I spent a lot of time being angry at the beginning ("I can't pay my bills, and it's [insert anyone's name here] fault"), and then long stretches of being depressed ("I am repulsive and forever unlucky and everything I touch I ultimately destroy"), peppered with moments of bargaining ("What if he misses me as much as I miss him, and he's just waiting for me to send the first email?").

I remember talking with my best friend in June, and I had felt a resurgence of anger about something I thought I had forgotten months ago. "I just hope they are as miserable as I am!" I sobbed. "Why am I still so mad about this? I've already been through the bargaining stage! Why am I back here?" I felt so guilty about backtracking my feelings, and I felt weak and lonely and helpless that I hadn't been able to reach a stage of acceptance.

But I've since gotten there, and I've realised that you cannot make yourself feel something if you're not ready. Our self-help culture tells us that we have to rebound immediately, and not once we've actually processed and healed. I've learned that in order to feel better, we have to give ourselves time. And sometimes that means feeling awful for a really, really long time. But grief ends, or at least changes shape, if we let ourselves take the time to experience it in whatever way we need to.

You are not weak for wanting love

In 2015, I said something out loud that I had never dared say before: "I want to be in love with someone."

I have never felt so exposed and vulnerable in my life.

One of the things I like a lot about myself is my independence. I've always felt very determined to achieve goals on my own and be able to take care of myself. It makes me feel confident and brave that I can make big life decisions on my own.

When I was younger, I had a lot of friends who were constantly in and out of relationships. No sooner would one relationship end than another would be blossoming. And it often seemed like their happiness (and their sanity) rested on having a boyfriend.

I rejected this behaviour. In fact, I feared becoming That Girl so much that I slowly started viewing relationships as an impediment to life, rather than an enhancement.

For so long, I thought if I admitted that I wanted a real, meaningful relationship, I was admitting defeat. I was not the strong, independent, confident woman I had tried to hard to appear to be. I was so afraid of sounding like a girl. I would open myself up to ridicule and judgement: I'm too fat, too outspoken, too weird, too [whatever] to find love. I would just be another boring, weak-willed woman, swept up in the falseness of love that movies tell us is real.

In February, I read Don Miller's newest book, Scary Close. It's about intimacy in relationships, and about connecting to other people in profoundly meaningful ways. It's truly a fantastic book, and it made me think about how much bravery and independence it takes to be committed to someone else. I've realised that simply having a significant other doesn't bring you joy, but building a community with someone else is intensely fulfilling. It is good hard work.

This year, I realised that wanting to be in love does make me sound like a little girl playing dressup. But it also makes me sound like a 30 year old football player, and a 70 year old woman in a nursing home. Because wanting love and wanting connection with others is the most universal desire, and wanting to build community is the noblest of all goals. And wanting love does not make me weak; it makes me spectacularly human.

We are not alone

I was scared to write my last blog post. I don't know what I was more worried about - that no one would read it, or that everyone would. I felt vulnerable and I was afraid that people would think I was whiny and weak, or worse - they'd pity me. But I posted it anyway, because sometimes we have to do things that scare us.

I have been blogging for 5 years, and I've never had such a strong response to anything I've written. I received emails and Facebook comments and private messages from people I hadn't spoken to in a long while; I had texts and phone calls from friends and family; friends of friends tweeted links and shared my blog around the internet. And the overwhelming refrain from every single person was: Me too.

It occurred to me in November, after two dear friends gave up 10 hours of their day to help me move and in the following days as other friends stopped in to help me put together furniture and organize my new apartment, that I have never really felt alone. Throughout this entire year, I have been sad and sick and frustrated; I've been angry and downright miserable. But I never once felt like I was alone. For all the suffering I went through, my friends suffered right along with me - maybe not by choice, but always graciously. I made countless phone calls to moan and complain about the same things over and over, and people kept listening. I cancelled plans because I was sick for the 10th week in a row, and they still invited me the next time. Friends sat in coffee shops with me in total silence as they sipped their coffee and I brooded. I quit my job with no money and no plan, and my family just packed me up and brought me home, no questions asked.

I have struggled often this year to be able to adequately express my gratitude to the people who, sometimes inexplicably it seems, love me. It is humbling in the extreme and comforting in the deepest way to know that even at my worst, people still care. "Thank you" doesn't seem to cut it.

But I also felt so connected to and surrounded by support when I laid my dishevelled self out on the internet for all to see, and people just said "Yeah, I get it." People told me that they'd been there, too, and that it would get better. That sometimes they felt like they had their lives together, and other times it was a disaster. Some people thanked me for just being honest, because it made them feel like they could be honest too. Because we all think that we are the only ones who feel unsure of ourselves, and it's good to know that everyone else is right there alongside of us, just making it through the day, too.

And I think this is the most beautiful and the most true: we are not alone.

Here's to 2016. May it be the best year yet.

What You're Worth: Why Everything is the Absolute Worst Right Now, But I'm Still Trying

2015-09-21T18:52:00.003-02:30

I have been having violent and terrifying nightmares lately. These dreams cause me to wake up covered in tears and sweat, and look around my room to make sure men with knives and guns aren't standing over my bed, waiting for me. It's made me dread sleep, which has made me a daytime zombie.

I've talked to a few people about these terrifying dreams, including my doctor, and the general consensus is that I am unsettled in my waking life. And that's not surprising: to be honest, everything is the worst right now. I'm unemployed, and have been underemployed ever since 2012. In a few weeks I will be homeless in Ottawa. My beautiful pink couch has gone to a new home. I have no money and few job prospects. I've never had a successful relationship, and I've actively avoided speaking to single straight men for approximately 9 months. I've fallen so far behind on my training schedule for a 10k race in October that yesterday my running app asked me if I was still alive. The only successes I've had lately is making it to level 21 in Paradise Bay, and figuring out how to stream The Great British Bakeoff from the BBC website.

In the midst of this persistent and baseline of terror that my life is a complete and total waste at the age of 28, my sister called me. "I have a request," she said.

"...okay. You may proceed," I said.

"I want you to write a blog post about worth."

I stopped swatching eye shadows and stared at the phone. "Like, monetary worth? You know I don't understand the economy. I just hear the word 'taxes' and I start to hyperventilate."

"No, obviously not," she sighed. "I mean people's worth. What it is that makes people valuable."

What prompted this request was a post she had seen on Facebook. A friend had wished a happy birthday to their daughter, adding that she had a nice house, a good job, and a husband. What bothered my sister about this was that it seemed like such an obvious statement: what made her daughter worthy was a trio of surface successes.

Even though I want to believe I'm strong enough and smart enough to know that marriage and money isn't what makes a person valuable, hearing of another engagement or someone getting the very job I had also applied for causes me to crawl into bed and watch Community for the 13th time. It isn't that other people are experiencing cool and exciting things in their lives; it's that I feel like I'm reminded that I have nothing to show for myself, and therefore I do not matter; I am worthless.

Rationally, I know this isn't true. Of course I matter; all lives matter. But the doubt and fear and pressure of the media and Facebook and social circles remind me that some matter more than others. If you can tick the boxes of success - love, employment, purchasing power - then you have hit the jackpot! You win! Your life is more valuable because we can quantify it.

And I think it boils down to ease. It's easier to congratulate someone on a new job or gush over a cruise to Mexico, than it is to remark someone's ability to contemplate important social issues. It's easier to see a wedding as mark of success, rather than the ability to be vulnerable over and over again, risking heartbreak every time, as a mark of strength. It's easier to congratulate someone on buying a house than it is to congratulate them for waking up to another day of unknowns and simply trying.

I've been lucky, in that I have parents and a sister and friends who have reminded me consistently over the past few months why I matter to them - I'm funny; I'm smart; I have thoughtful insights to their problems; I can cook; I am passionate about stuff, which in turn makes them passionate too. These tidbits have shone like lanterns in the window while a blizzard rages all around me. And these people have also reminded me that they were once where I am, or their future is uncertain too, and that this isn't it, and there's so much to be excited about. That I am not alone.

I guess what I really want, with this entire rambling post full of feelings, is to be able to celebrate the little successes. To post on Facebook "I got out of bed today, and I applied for a job, and then I paid my internet bill on time" and have a surge of "likes" and comments: congratulations! well done! good luck!

Because I think what makes us worthy not our successes; it is simply that we are trying.

Fifteen of my Favourite Feelings

2015-08-10T16:47:00.002-02:30

A little while ago, Hank Green posted a video called 15 of My Favourite Feelings. In the description of the video, he says:

When we're confronted with negative experiences, we want to analyze them and think about them and remember them for future use. But with positive emotions, we often just feel them and enjoy them, which is wonderful, but also leads to us putting less weight on them and it seems like they take up less space in our minds. [...] Recognizing and harping on the positive experiences we have is a great way, I think, to both have a better outlook on life, and have more positive experiences.

I think he's right. I could use a little boost right now, so I decided to spend some time thinking about fifteen of my favourite feelings.

When someone I really respect tells me, unprompted, that they really respect me.
When someone tells me that something I said to them a long time ago, and I've long since forgotten having said it in the first place, has stuck with them, and has shaped their choices and decisions.
Reading a book I didn't expect to love, but quickly becoming so immersed in the story that I have to stay up reading until my eyes hurt from fighting to keep them open.
Meeting someone for the first time and instantly knowing you're going to really like them.
Having a vision of an exact shade of lipstick I want, and magically finding it.
Getting messages from people I haven't spoken to in a while, telling me that something I've written has resonated with them personally.
Remembering old jokes and stories with long-time friends and laughing as much as we did the first time.
Seeing people I deeply care about find a person or a place or a job that makes them happier than anything else.
Talking about makeup with other people who also really love talking about makeup.
The first moment of realizing that the wound left by people and situations that have hurt me is completely healed, and I don't have to ever think about it or them again.
The relief that comes with finally making a hard decision.
Spending a whole recovery day in bed, binging on a new season of TV.
Walking out of a hot yoga studio and being hit with a wave of air conditioning.
The easy and honest conversations that come at the end of a long, good day over a cup of tea.
A text from a friend of family out of the blue, just saying hi, and reminding me that good relationships are not conditional on constant contact.

This was really nice, and almost cathartic. It's good to remind ourselves of the things that make us feel good.

Supine Butterfly

2015-08-05T19:27:00.001-02:30

Sometime mid-June, my friend convinced me to sign up for a month of yoga. This was a huge deal. I had spent a very long time scoffing at women in yoga pants at the grocery store. I was pretty sure it was just a hipster fad, which meant it was 100% not for me.

But I had been running for six months, and I was becoming a bit disenchanted with it. I had pain in my hips and shins, and I started to feel like I needed something to supplement running, if for no other reason than to give my pedicures a fighting chance. I had some friends who were not hipsters but also really loved yoga, and invited me to come along for one Saturday morning class, just to see how I felt. With a promise of brunch to follow, I tagged along.

The class - hot yoga vinyasa flow - was a bit strange (who actually thinks that much about their breathing?!). The poses were foreign to my body and so much more difficult than I had anticipated. I spent a lot of time in child's pose, recuperating. Most significantly, I had never sweat so much in my life! But I left feeling challenged and energized.

I took the plunge and paid for a month of unlimited classes.

Just over a week later, I was I was five minutes in to a Yin class (Yin yoga is slow, deep stretching that lets you hold positions for much longer than you would in a flow class). My friend couldn't come with me, so I was going it alone for the first time.

I chose a spot in the corner of the room, and I was lying in supine butterfly. The room was almost entirely silent except for the unmistakeable sound of purposeful breathing you can only hear in a yoga class. The instructor swept in and asked that we remain in supine butterfly for a little while. "As you're breathing, let the floor take the entire weight of your body," he said. "Just completely release. Take stock of how your body is feeling. Take a minute to notice how this day has imprinted itself onto your legs and arms and feet. Let yourself be completely aware of your body."

It was that last sentence that triggered something in me. As my feet pressed gently together and my arms hung loosely by my sides, it occurred to me that this was the first time I had ever been completely aware of my body.

As a woman, and especially as a fat woman, I have spent my entire life trying to make myself smaller. I have crossed my legs and squeezed myself as close to the corners of sofas as possible. I have worn undergarments that pull and suck and reduce. I have turned my breathing to shallow gulps; I have pressed myself against walls and chairs, I have interlocked and interlaced my limbs. I have tried to reduce myself. I have tried to make my body as close to invisible as possible.

All of this adjusting and compacting has left me grossly unaware of what space my body actually occupies. I know how I've tried to make it fit, but I have denied myself the freedom of simply being.

And lying on a rented mat in a hot room full of strangers, I was being invited to be aware of my body. Not so that I could reduce the amount of space I took up, but so that I could truly occupy the space my body needed. Just so I knew. Just so I understood my body better. Just so I was comfortable.

I had never been invited to be comfortable before.

I felt my body unclench. It was a tightness I'd become so familiar with that its release felt unfamiliar. My stomach grew to it's full size and my legs relaxed and my arms touched a lot of floor. Because they needed to. And I had the thought that this tension I'd been wrapping my body in was my apology. "Sorry, World. Sorry I am fat and female. I'm sorry I need so much space to live in. I will do my best to eliminate my hugeness. I will be uncomfortable so you don't have to."

That class was extraordinary, and I felt different as I left. I felt a renewed connection with the fat body that I had been at war with for 20 years. I felt challenged to awareness. I felt excited to start occupying the physical space I needed and not feel guilty.

I felt comfortable.

What a Long Way You've Come

2015-06-23T18:23:00.001-02:30

I was 2.1k into my run this morning, and I was really struggling. I had more than half of my distance left to go, and I just couldn't do it. My legs hurt, it was humid, my face and hands felt bloated. I hadn't slept well, I didn't stretch properly, and I hadn't eaten anything before setting out.

Everything about this morning was hard, and I was discouraged. I was furious at myself for not having prepped better. I was discouraged that I wasn't able to run faster and for longer intervals. I considered unplugging my headphones, stopping my run app, and slowly dragging my feet home in time to shower and eat before going to work. As I was walking begrudgingly home, sluggish and stewing in my cloud of frustration, I could just feel it in my body that if I made it home in this mood, I would feel defeated for the rest of the day.

I sat down on a bench, turned off my music, and took long, deep breaths. I reminded myself that a year ago, I couldn't run for 100m, let alone 5k. Six months ago, I wouldn't have woken up at 5:50am to run before work. One month ago, I wouldn't have gone to yoga to learn the stretching and breathing techniques that make running easier.

I am a goal-oriented person. I thrive when I am working towards accomplishments, whether as trivial as wearing heels around my house for a full week, or as grandiose as working as a writer for the BBC in the next 5 years. But when you spend so much time looking ahead, it's easy to feel like you still have miles to go.

I have this picture as the lock screen on my phone to remind myself not to forget where I've been. My friend Karen used to say "Honour where you are today." I like that too, because it keeps you in the present. It reminds me to stop thinking about what came before and what will come after, and to just be conscious of where I am right now.

I needed that moment to reflect this morning - not just on my running, but on other parts of my life. To honour that things are hard right now, but I've come so far, even from a few months ago. In January, I didn't really believe I'd be able to do a 5k race. I could barely believe I'd get out of bed on some days. But I have a theory that if you do the things you hate often enough, eventually you won't hate them anymore. And so even though every half hour on the treadmill sucked, and every morning layering up for to face the winter morning made me want to cry, and knowing that I had to do it again the next day, I kept doing it. Because we need to take steps forward to put the distance behind us.

I still have a long way to go. There are goals yet to be accomplished. But it was good to remind myself of what a long way I've come.

Jill

Lead with Good

2015-06-15T00:01:00.001-02:30

I suspect most people reach a point in their lives where they need to step back and assess why they are attracted to certain types of people. I have long known that the sort of people I seek out and intentionally befriend are people who are very smart and very funny. As early as elementary school, I can remember strategically placing myself on choir risers next to girls who made me laugh so loud I got in trouble. In every class I took in my undergrad, I would sit back for the first few weeks while, in answering profs' questions, the critical thinkers separated themselves from the blowhards before deciding who I wanted to hang out with after class.

I have never taken a psychology course, but I don't think I'd be too off base in surmising that my attraction to funny, smart people stems from my desire to be like them. I think we're all copy cats, in that we reflect the qualities we most want from the people we most want to be like. And my whole life, I've desperately wanted to be smart and funny.

More importantly, I wanted people to think I was smart and funny.

And sure, I wanted to be kind and thoughtful and sensitive, too. But only as tertiary qualities to cleverness and humour.

Last year, I was venting at length to a colleague about how the "real world" doesn't appreciate the work it takes to get a Masters degree, and how I was smarter than a lot of people who are doing the work I want to be doing. And he looked at me without any hint of irony and asked, quite honestly, "But who cares if you're smart?"

We all have those moments where you finally get a glimpse of the image you've crafted of yourself, and you don't like what you see. Because I had spent all these years desperately cultivating an identity that had no greater purpose beyond itself. Because intelligence doesn't matter if no one understands you or cares enough to listen to what you have to say. And no one laughs at your jokes if they don't sense community, because half of the job of successful comedy is making the audience feel like they're in on the joke.

And I realized that my obsession with being funny and smart was actually an obsession with being liked and respected. And you don't earn either of those by being narcissistic.

I was listening to the Harmontown podcast a few weeks ago, and they were talking about their friend Spencer, who was in absentia that particular episode. They took his absence as a moment to talk about what it is that makes him such an attractive person:

Spencer is one of the most charming, genuine, moral people I think I've ever met and that's just part of the allure [...]

We all have our qualities, that are sort of our "lead qualities" - and also I think that we're all good people, but Spencer is one of the few that the first quality I'd say about him is good. Spencer is a good person. And not that we're not good people, but he leads with good.

[...] He wants to do the right thing and he thinks about that a lot. He doesn't want to do the popular thing [...] he thinks about being a good person.

I've long believed that it's easy to be nice, but it's hard to be good. And when these people - people with money and fame and dedicated fans, talked about their friend and his goodness, their tone was almost reverent. In that moment, the normally raunchy and chaotic podcast turned gentle and respectful. Because goodness is difficult. It is pure and it is noble and it is holy, and it is for and about other people.

I've noticed a change in the past 6 months or so of the sorts of people I gravitate towards. My old friends - the ones who've stuck around, and new people I've come to like and respect: they are all good.

They are also funny and smart, as well as thoughtful, creative, feisty, attentive, caring, encouraging. But they lead with good. And it's so easy to not be good. It's so easy to not think about others at all, and to just do and say what is easy and expected. It's easy to be polite.

But what I've noticed about good people is that, because goodness requires effort and hard work, that it is not only easy to like them, it is easy to love them, too. When you radiate goodness, you can't help but bring a little bit of love out, too. And that's the kind of person I want to be.

And even though I value my skills as a critical thinker, and I still think I'm the funniest person on the internet (just kidding, that title goes to Katie Heaney), I hope someday, when I'm not around and my friends are talking about me on a podcast, they'll say that I lead with good.

Love Stories

2015-05-31T00:24:00.003-02:30

In March, a YouTuber I follow announced on her blog that she and her husband were separated. I was devastated.

I’ll be honest: my reaction surprised even me.

I’ve followed Louise’s blog and YouTube channel for over 5 years. When I first found her videos, they were 10 minute unedited sprawling streams of consciousness. She was a new mom with a complicated past and a passion for both lipstick and stationary in equal measure. Compared to most of the beauty vloggers I had in my queue, each poised and posed and prepared, Louise was a mess. But she was real. She loved her little family, and she loved making videos, regardless of how blurry her closeups were. Her unapologetic rawness drew me in, and I knew that if I met her someday, we’d be good friends.

But what particularly warmed me was Louise and her husband’s love story. It was the sort of narrative I’ve dreamed for myself a thousand times - they met at university and were friends for a while, until one day, in the middle of writing an exam, she decided enough was enough. She left campus, her exam unfinished, and made a beeline to tell him that she wanted to be his girlfriend - stopping just long enough to buy herself a pair of earrings. Fast forward 5 years, and they’ve had a wedding, a house, and a baby: all the makings of the perfect love story.

Her post about their separation was beautiful. It was thoughtful and sad and kind. It was obvious that ending their marriage was the best decision for their family, and that she and her now ex-husband still cared about each other and their daughter very deeply. I admired her bravery and honesty.

But I was so sad. How can she be so calm about this?! I thought. It’s the end!! Finished! Her love story is over!!

I’ve posted before about how I’m not very good at endings. I wear a necklace that reads “we part to meet again,” because I can’t bear to believe that some people leave your life and never come back into it. I am in a perpetual state of To Be Continued. Because somehow along the way, even though it defies all logic and all my sensibilities, I believe you get one grand love story, that begins at “I do” and ends with a eulogy.

I was talking to a woman at work about a month ago, and she said she was in Canada visiting her children before returning home to England. She was a charming woman in a big hat and brightly painted lips, and we got to chatting. She told me she had moved to Canada several decades ago because the man she was in love with didn’t want to commit. So she packed her bags and moved across the Commonwealth, where she met the man who would become her husband and the father of her four children. After thirty years and resettling in several provinces, her marriage ended; she moved back home to England, where, wouldn’t you know it, she’d made a new life for herself with the same man she’d loved and left all those years before.

And maybe it was her gentle voice, or her generous openness, or maybe it was just the perfect timing, but that story touched me profoundly. It was hers that made me realise that we each get more than one love story.

I’ve often felt that I’ve spent most of my life waiting for my love story. I’m sitting in a parking lot, eating popcorn and waiting desperately for a redhead to stroll over in a jean jacket. He’ll be sporting a feminist sensibility, an iPhone in his pocket, a K1S postal code, and a strong moral compass. He’ll offer me a slice of McCain Deep ’n’ Delicious cake, and I’ll offer him some David’s Tea. We’ll be married and quoting from Harry Potter on our way to Happily Ever After within the week.

But when I thought about it, I realized that while nothing even resembling that scenario has (or probably ever will) happen, I’ve lived through a few love stories of my own. Some were relationships of great misunderstanding; some were grandiose dream worlds I’d tried to transplant from my imagination into reality; some were wonderful glimpses of human magic that were over before they even really began. But each were their own little worlds, people and relationships that mattered greatly then, that made me, at times, so simultaneously happy and nervous that I felt like throwing up. All ended: in explosions of violent words; in the quiet whisper of “okay, bye” on the phone; in waves of tears that left me immobile. All ended, and for good reason.

And it would be unfair to future me to say that a relationship that ends in a marriage is the only love story that I get to tell. Because marriages are not the periods that end a person’s narrative. They are maybe an exclamation point, or a question mark, or a series of semi-colons - never a full stop. And I take great comfort in this: that we are beings designed to love, over and over again.

So while some love stories may indeed begin in diapers and end with engravings on a headstone, may we also learn to call those romances that have shorter shelf lives “great.” And when grand love stories end - and oh how many of them do - may we be so brave to pick up our pens and create new adventures with someone else.

Write on.

The Year of Us

2014-12-17T18:26:00.002-03:30

I'm sitting in a coffee shop, three days in to a new year, drinking the same too-sweet, over-priced latte I've had three times a week since November. I am irritated in equal measure by my freshly painted yet chipped fingernails, and the patriarchy. Since 1 January, I've learned that Chanel lip gloss is capable of freezing in your purse, and I'm still allergic to avocado.

Nothing has changed since 2014.

A lot changed in 2014, though. It was a great year in so many ways. I walked across the stage to be hooded as a Master of Arts, my smile radiating with a force not seen since Chernobyl. I've never been so proud of myself, and I've never felt that so many people were proud of me. I did it. I finished my MA.

And there were times when I didn't think I'd make it out alive. It's hard to sit sobbing in a bathroom stall, your professor having asked you to leave class because the tears streaming silently down your face are a distraction to others, 90 first-year papers sitting on your desk at home to be graded in three days, your fridge fully stocked with ketchup and StoveTop, and having your heart shattered by an Instragram photo, and think that it's going to be alright.

But I was, and am, alright. And I feel like that's the crux of the past twelve months for me: that it will always be alright.

I was lying in bed a little while ago, my head pounding and ears ringing - the remnants of a "really good cry." Cursing myself for having cried so much into my phone that the earpiece was fuzzy (again), it occured to me that I wouldn't feel like this always. I had felt much worse in the past, and I had felt like a superhero just a few days previously. And those intense feelings were all encompassing at the time, but they didn't last forever.

I am comforted by the notion that "forever" is a construct. Because "forever" isn't real. In February, I felt like I would be in school forever. But I finished. In the summer I felt like I would be jobless forever. But I found employment. In the fall I felt like I'd be trapped in a complicated friendship forever. But we've parted ways. Nothing lasts forever, because forever doesn't exist.

And this awareness, I think, gave me the push I needed this year to do brave things. I have said words and worn lipsticks and read books and met people and done cool things I would not, and could not, have done had I believed in forever. I have cried more, panicked more, and stress-ate more this year than probably ever before, but I have also been surrounded by the more incredible people, been challenged more, and laughed the most (2014 was also the year I realised my life is a sitcom; stay tuned for further info).

And as I wave goodbye to a year that was full of joy and drama and struggle and excellent stories told over brunch without makeup, I can honestly say I'm not sad to see it go.

And, as always, at an end there is a beginning:

2014 was a year about Me. It was about my accomplishments, my failures, my heartbreaks and my stories. But I can honestly say I've had enough of that now. I am tired of thinking and talking about myself all the time. I'm bored. I cannot be all about myself forever.

I propose that 2015 is a year about We. I want build friendships with unlikely people, volunteer, listen to other's opinions first before offering my own. I want community and togetherness. I want to remember important things in others' lives and share in joy and loss. I want this year to be about the many instead of the one. I want us all to be alright.

Roll on, 2015. Here's to the Year of Us.

-Jillz.

In Other News

2014-11-10T18:33:00.001-03:30

Oh hey.

I've experienced a bit of a writing lull lately. I've taken over a month off, which was completely unintentional. I've had a lot of things I wanted to write about, but I just didn't. I'm approaching my 6 month anniversary of finishing my MA, and I think maybe it's taken me this long to recuperate. I've been enjoying the freedom of having an event or something I've read spark an idea, ruminate on that thought for a couple of days, and then not have to write about it because I don't have any deadlines or due dates!

Anyway, since life has been forging mightily on, I thought I'd do some pointed updates:

On the job front:
I start a new job as a receptionist/computer wizard on Wednesday. It's at a family medical clinic, where my coworkers are three doctors (two of whom also specialize in obstetrics and gynaecology), a nurse, and another receptionist. I've been doing training there twice a week for about five weeks, and I really love it. I will own up to the fact that I didn't think I would. But the staff are so lovely, and I've witnessed everyone there, on more than one occasion, go out of their way to help a patient. It's probably the first environment I've worked in that wasn't driven by competitiveness, and I think it's making me a more patient and kind person.

Starting this new job means I've left one of the Shoppers where I worked (at one point this summer, I was working at three locations). I'm staying on at one of the Beauty Boutiques to work a few shifts a month.

Makeup and such:
While we're talking about Shoppers: I'm going on a makeup-purchasing hiatus. The biggest perk of working in makeup (if you like makeup) is the freebies. Over the past few months, I've been inundated with free stuff from every company. Add that to my occasional purchase, and my makeup stores are overflowing. Thus my self-imposed spending ban until January 2015. I will miss buying makeup so. much.

On the nail front, I've started using Jamberry nail wraps. My sister sells them, and I am hooked. Don't worry: I still love nail polish, but it's nice to have some fancy nails that require no drying time every now and then. (And if you want to order some really cool designs for Christmas, you can order from Kayla's site.)

Culture, or something like it:
I've spent a lot of time at the NAC lately. I saw a staging of The Importance of Being Earnest, and it was absolutely fantastic. It's no secret how much I love Oscar Wilde (I have his words inked on my foot, lest we forget), but I had never seen the play performed before. I laughed and cried and enjoyed every single minute, which we know is true because I didn't check my phone once during the performance.

I also saw the musical Once, which was very well done, but definitely doesn't enter the ranks as one of my favourite musicals. The staging was cool, but the music, for a musical, was bland, and the storyline was too simple, and too easily resolved. It did make me want to go to Ireland immediately, though.

I've been reading some excellent books these past few months. Most notable are my friend Stacey Matson's book A Year in the Life of a Total and Complete Genius, which was recently likened to the work of David Sedaris, who is a god among comedy writers; and Bad Feminist by Roxane Gay, which is a collection of a essays that made me laugh and cry every chapter. I've also re-read Bill Bryson's Shakespeare: The World as Stage and remembered how incredible that book is. Please read all of these.

I'm really into One Direction lately, and I'm not ashamed in the slightest to admit that. While I like to think I've changed a great deal since I was 14, in many ways I am exactly the same; this is best shown through my insatiable love of boy bands. Also, The Piano Guys released a new album, where they cover a One Direction song, and that's been my other album of choice.

Other things:
I met Alan Doyle in October, which was great. He opened this fall's Ottawa Writer's Festival, and it was an excellent interview. He sang and told stories, and he met with everyone afterwards to sign books. I told him that I'd been waiting for 15 years to meet him, and he said that he wasn't worth that. And we laughed, and we talked about Great Big Sea's album Turn, and then we hugged and took a selfie. Naturally.

Starbucks has introduced a new Christmas drink: the chestnut praline latte. If you love yourself, you will try one of these immediately.

I dyed my hair blonde in September. I love it. Others tell me they love it. It feels like a resounding success all 'round. I suppose in this way, I'm still like 14 year old me, too, as that was the last time I was blonde. It hasn't worked out too poorly, though, I supposed, channelling a younger me...

I've been learning to make soup, which sounds like the easiest thing in the world. And it is! Except I didn't think so. But now I can make a few different soups and I am impressed with myself.

I've been to the Apple store every week for the past four weeks. They know me by name now. I suppose I'm lucky that everything is breaking before my year's warranty is up.

I've accomplished 7 of my 10 goals for 2014! I checked my list this morning, and I'm quite pleased with myself. I've failed miserably at two of them ("only eating McDonald's once a month" and "go camping") but we can add them all to next year's list.

That's all I can think of at the moment. It's felt good to get my fingers typing again. But now I have to stop because I've put Love Actually in the DVD player for it's inaugural seasonal viewing.

-Jillz
______________________________________
Current book: Where I Belong - Alan Doyle
Current TV show: The Good Wife season 6
Current nail colour: "Natural Pink" - Revlon Colorstay

Far Too Easily Pleased

2014-09-30T22:47:00.003-02:30

In the year that I returned home after studying in Vancouver, my friend Karen and I led a women's Bible study. The group of girls who gathered weekly was diverse in age, interests, background, and just about everything else that distinguishes difference. But it evolved into a place where we could each air our insecurities and uncertainties openly, where we didn't expect answers, and instead were offered empathy and encouragement. It was a Safe Space.

At one meeting, Karen shared a piece of wisdom from C.S. Lewis:

It would seem that Our Lord finds our desires not too strong, but too weak. We are half-hearted creatures, fooling about with drink and sex and ambition when infinite joy is offered us, like an ignorant child who wants to go on making mud pies in a slum because he cannot imagine what is meant by the offer of a holiday at the sea. We are far too easily pleased.

There are few writers who are able to both shame and encourage simultaneously; in two sentences, Lewis manages to chastise our behaviour while demanding that we recognize and live up to how incredible we can be.

This is a heavy idea, that we do not demand as much of ourselves as we are capable of. And the weight of this has stuck with me for years. It's something I think about almost constantly: am I settling for less than I am designed for?

The answer is most certainly yes - because I am imperfect, because I am Fallen, because I am human and broken, because I forget that "I" is not as powerful as "we." Because asking more of yourself means asking more of other people, and because settling is infinitely easier.

But I am uncomfortable with the idea of easy. It is everything I say I want, but when ease is presented to me, I recoil. Because I am made for so much more than easy.

We are made for so much more than easy.

We are far too easily pleased.

But here's the Catch-22: I hate mud, but I know how to build mud pies, and I don't know where to even look for a map to the ocean. And the only solution I can think of is to just do the opposite.

Say words that are too Big for your Safe Space. Disagree with people you respect in the name of Goodness. Demand that the people in your life never make you feel Less.

Let the heavy feelings - sadness, inadequacy, emptiness, loneliness, failure - ruminate. Be okay with not being Okay. And then let those sorrows grow into confidence and power. And be better than Okay. Be interesting, because you are. Do not settle for Nice; demand that you are Good.

Know that you are capable of doing Brave things, and then do them.

I have come to suspect that happiness and joy are perhaps kin, but not one in the same. That we can experience happiness without being joyful. And I wonder if joy is just infinitely Bigger than happiness, and can only be achieved if we move from half-hearted creatures to whole-hearted beings.

See you at the seaside.

On Generosity

2014-09-02T21:59:00.001-02:30

A few days ago, my friend Lauren and I were sitting on my bed, eating snacks and Googling how much it would cost to see Brody Jenner DJ at a local Hallowe'en party, when she noticed a framed picture from a Broadway musical on my bookshelf.

"Wait," she said, agog. "Did Daniel Radcliffe actually autograph that picture?"

"Yeah. My lifetime friend and her husband got it for me when they went to New York on their honeymoon. They ran across midtown to get to the theatre in time to meet him at the stage door, and they thrust this picture at him and he signed it! They didn't tell me until they came home from their trip and asked to come over right away. I was totally into seeing their pictures and hearing about their adventure, but as soon as they came over, they insisted on showing me this video on their phone; lo and behold, it was of Daniel Radcliffe signing this picture! And as I shrieked, she produced this framed picture. I, of course, wept."

Lauren, looking at me very seriously, sighed: "Wow. What an incredible gift!"

"I know. It's one of the most thoughtful gifts I've ever been given, and I'll obviously cherish it forever."

***

I've been thinking a lot about generosity lately. Because in the past few months, I have become acutely aware of how generous people have been to me, and it is a little bit overwhelming, because I feel like I really don't deserve it.

I used to associate generosity exclusively with money. I thought that "giving to the poor," as preached about from church pulpits, literally meant putting money directly into the hands of beggars. And I'm embarrassed to say my definition didn't change much until about a year ago. Last summer, I was telling my friend that I felt I often failed at loving people, because I wasn't very good at remembering important things about their lives and buying appropriate accompanying gifts.

She looked at me, surprised, and said, "But you're so generous of spirit!"

And that simple phrase, this new definition of generosity, changed the way I viewed my relationships.

At the beginning of May, I went to Toronto. I bolted out of Ottawa as soon as I had submitted the final draft of my Major Research Project, because I was emotionally exhausted and mentally drained, and I felt that my friends were demanding infinitely more from me than I could possibly give them. So I called up one of my oldest and most loyal friends who I hadn't seen in a few years, basically told her I was crashing on her and her boyfriend's couch for a week, and hopped on a train.

I called my mom when I got home, and when she asked me how the visit had been, I burst into tears. "Steph and Shane were just so generous," I told her. "It wasn't just that they paid for a few of my meals; they were generous in every possible way."

I had showed up on their doorstep, sporting a freshly bruised ego and having just emerged from the great hibernation that is the final semester of grad school. I looked terrible and felt even worse. And they welcomed me warmly. Steph let me paint her nails and listened to me talk forever about my miserable love life. Shane took me to his favourite pub in the city and engaged me in lively debates. They shared their favourite music and YouTube clips with me. They were warm and attentive and thoughtful. They made me feel safe, special, and cared for. I left there feeling restored.

And it was this trip that caused me to reflect on the unbelievable generosity I've been shown in so many ways by the incredible people in my life.

My mom and sister, who spent hours and hours conceiving and crafting me a personalized quilt for my graduation, to show me how proud they are of me. My bestie who, on the regular, gives me "three days" to moan and complain about my life before telling me to "snap out of it" because "you is kind, you is smart, you is important." Classmates who took time to help me finish my assignments, even though they had their own work to do and nobody has enough time to finish anything. A colleague who emphatically encourages my writing career, and who works harder on getting my stuff published than I do. A roommate who cleaned the entire apartment because she knew I'd been working 12 hour days. Friends who text me every day for a week when helping me make big life decisions. Countless thoughtful gifts from friends that show they really know me, and they really love me.

I had another one of those overwhelmed-by-generosity moments last night over dinner with some friends. I sat there listening as four of my friends, who I care about deeply but who don't know each other very well, shared in comfortable conversation. There were words of congratulations and encouragement, reminiscing on the past and speculating on the future, and lots of laughter. And it was almost magical, the generosity in that moment. The willingness to share of yourself with people you don't know.

Now that I know generosity can take on many forms, I am consistently humbled by and grateful for the people in my life. I frequently think about how undeserving I am of such kindness from so many, but I think maybe that is the very nature of generosity: it is because we are so undeserving that is has such power to repair and restore.

I very sincerely thank you.

-Jillz

In Gratitude

2014-08-12T21:19:00.000-02:30

The internet makes death strange. Or, rather, the internet makes the process of mourning complicated, especially when it's a celebrity who has died. I usually avoid the throngs of commentary after a famous death, reasoning that their death doesn't affect me much, anyway.

But I can't avoid talking about Robin Williams.

I called my mom last night, and the first thing she said was, "I can't believe Robin is dead."

Robin. Full stop.

Robin Williams was my first favourite actor, because he was the first actor I knew. When my sister and I were 5 years old, our parents took us to see Aladdin. We were introduced Genie, the best friend in cinematic history, and simultaneously experienced out first exposure to real comedy. I was hooked.

And with that, Robin Williams became a staple in our household. There weren't many movies or TV shows we could agree on, but my whole family rallied around Robin Williams. On family movie nights, no one ever argued against anything starring Robin Williams. My dad, sister, and I quoted Mrs. Doubtfire frequently and without prompting, because we knew it would make each other laugh ("No I don't need a hand, I need a face!"; "Oh, dear, I think they've outlawed whaling, really.") We laughed through Flubber, cried through Jack, watched Hook in awe, and suffered through Death to Smoochy together. When I announced that he was guest starring on Whose Line is it Anyway?, everyone rushed to the family room and we laughed until we cried at what can only be called the greatest game of "Scenes from a Hat" ever to appear on TV. My sister and I saw August Rush in theatres, and I remember her turning to me at the end credits, both of our faces covered in tears, and saying "it's true! Music really can bring people together."

It wasn't until my early teens that I realized Robin Williams wasn't just a comedian. I remember stumbling across Dead Poet's Society on the Family Channel at one late night hangout at my friend Jana's house, and being surprised to see Robin Williams speaking in his own voice. I was enraptured by Mr. Keating, and I, like the boys in his class, was challenged to view poetry as more than words on a page, but as the essence of the heart. I remember watching Patch Adams on repeat, and being challenged to believe that every great idea needs a bit of whimsy. I've watched Good Will Hunting probably more than any other movie. I remember presenting the "it's not your fault" scene in my theatre arts class as an example of excellent acting. I remember saying that the pacing of that scene is what makes it great; Robin Williams' character knows where the breaking point of his patient is, and he gently bumps up against it, until the wall is finally broken. It is perfection.

I haven't thought much about Robin Williams in recent years. But with the news of his death comes a rush of memories; so many more than I realized I had. I almost can't believe how much impact this person I have never met has had on my life. Robin Williams gave me my first example of what it looks like to fully commit to a joke. My formative understanding of humour came from his roles: his faces, his costumes, his voices. And, when I was ready, his roles taught me about sorrow, loss, rejection, and salvation. They taught me about the power of words, and how much power there is in connecting with another person's soul.

It seems ridiculous to say that an actor becomes a part of your family, except it's not. Because that is the point of being a storyteller: connecting with deeply with people you don't know, so that the stories resonate beyond the narrator. My family invited Robin Williams into our home repeatedly, and he infected us with feelings of triumph and frustration and loneliness and redemption. He exposed us to the experience of being fully human.

I am so sad that he is gone so soon. The world had not yet had its fill of his art. But I am so thankful that Robin Williams shared so much of himself with me.

To Mr. John Keating, Peter Banning, Genie, Mrs. Doubtfire, Jack Powell, Professor Philip Brainard, Sean McGuire, Patch Adams, Jakob, Dr. Know, Rainbow Randolph, Maxwell "Wizard" Wallace,

to Robin,

from every version of myself, from every corner of my heart, a most sincere thank you. May you rest in peace.

- Jill

Reconciliation

2014-07-31T16:45:00.001-02:30

Maple Bay, Vancouver Island

Last month, I took a relatively spontaneous trip to British Columbia. My friend Thea was getting married, and I had delayed confirming my attendance for a long as possible; I wanted to go, but I wasn't sure if I could afford the time and money. But when Westjet (bless them!) presented me with a seat sale I couldn't refuse, I pulled out my Visa and booked myself a ten-day trip to the West Coast.

I don't know if it was the promise of a wedding, or the excitement of eating at Burgoo - my favourite restaurant in the whole world - again, or even just the prospect of getting on a plane, but I was more excited about this trip than I have been about any other in recent memory. And it was for good reason - I had an incredible time.

This is the only picture Karen and I have together. #how

Because I have kind and generous friends all over and around the Vancouver area, I stayed in 9 different beds in 11 nights. I spent the first two days with my friend Karen in White Rock. We explored the beach and took care of her co-worker's dog Bindy, who became my immediate best friend. I spent time watching the World Cup with her dad and brother, experienced the most non-Newfoundland BBQ I've ever had (smoked salmon and risotto (which was delicious)). We went to her church where I had one of those moments when it feels like everything was said just for you. We drank a lot of Starbucks.

We crossed the border on foot without passports. #rebels

Karen tried to get me to paddle board. It's like she doesn't know me at all.

My mom and his dad are twins; can you tell?

I then stayed with my friend Maria in New Westminister. Karen drove me into the city, where we first explored Kitsilano beach, before I met my cousin for brunch. It had been so long since we'd seen each other that we couldn't actually remember the last time we had, but we both ordered the same breakfast separately, which served to show us that family ties run deep. After parting ways, I had a few errands to run "for old time's sake": taking the Seabus across to North Van and back immediately, eating cupcakes from the best cupcake shop in the world, and checking out the Roots store on Robson. When I finally met up with Maria, we ate sushi, talked about and bought makeup, and concluded the evening with a game of Catan.

It's been three years and I still haven't gotten over you.

We learned the hard way that the bear wasn't edible.

Kits beach, the beaut that she is.

I spent the next two days exploring my old haunts around the city. I met up with my friend Greg, who I wrote about a little while ago, and we drank coffee and he showed me the little artsy things hipsters build in cities when left to their own devices. My friend Jeanette and I combed the city's makeup stores and she replenished her collection, and finished the day with the much-anticipated soup and sandwich combo from Burgoo. I spent those nights in Langley with my previous Ottawa room mates, Steve and Phil, and we BBQ'd and played Cities and Knights, which changed the way I play board games.

The hipsters are real.

Actually couldn't be happier than I am at this moment.

I tried to take a picture of this clock, but I ended up taking a picture of this random man.

This breakfast cost me $8.99 at a little dive cafe. I watched the Italy-Uruguay World Cup game with the Italian owner (who wore purple pants and a tight blue jersey) and his friends, and had a long talk with my waitress. The service, food, and atmosphere was so good, I gave them a 100% tip.

After two nights in Langley, I was off to Vancouver Island for Thea's wedding. After a Bond-esque race to the terminal with stunt-driver Phil, I was greeted by Thea's uncle Wayne in Nanaimo. After a stunningly beautiful drive through the Island, we met Thea and her mother Doris at their house in Maple Bay. I hadn't seen Thea in almost three years, but it was like no time had passed at all. The four of us ate pizza on their patio overlooking the bay, laughing and talking. The next day was spent racing around the Island with wedding prep, and concluded with an evening out Thea's husband's family's boat. After a delicious rehearsal dinner with lovely speeches and wonderful people, Thea's family and I drove back to the hotel.

This is my god-dog, Phoebe. She missed me.

Diana, Anne, and Gilbert #throwbacktoavonlea

Things I learned this trip: I would like a husband who can drive a boat.

I love this picture, and I really don't know why.

A MACL selfie with a stunning bride.

I had thought that I would have regretted not going to Thea's wedding, and I now know that's definitely the case. I had such a great time meeting her family and friends, getting to know her husband Steve, and dancing. Oh there was so much dancing! It rained on her outdoor wedding, but the sun came out long enough for the couple to say their vows. It didn't dampen the mood, either; guests cheerily shared their umbrellas, and it was all very cute and special. Thea was the most stunning bride I've ever seen, and they cut their cake with a sword. A sword! #Navymen. My friend Stacey and I also went to the gift opening the next day, where we said our goodbyes and thank-yous to Thea and Steve's families for such a wonderful weekend on the island.

Just like Alanis says, it's like rain on your wedding day.

The most beautiful location for a few nuptials!

We strolled around the rose garden afterwards. Stacey is good at posing.

Stacey and I didn't plan to dress alike, but sometimes wonderful things happen when you least expect it.

My last night was spent at Stacey's back in the city. As fate would have it, she lives pretty much next door to a Burgoo restaurant; naturally, we dined in style that night. I spent my last day roaming her area, looking for cupcakes. When everything was closed because it was Monday (why is that a thing?!), I found a coffee shop and a Danish man who shared his table with me, and watched the Germany-Algeria World Cup game. Stacey and I spent the evening talking about writing and publishing (she has a new book coming out this fall and it is amazing!!) and I hopped on the Skytrain and back to the airport.

***

I've written a lot about my time living in Vancouver, so I won't go on at length here. In summary: it was really hard living there. I was lonely, sad, and directionless. I ate a lot of cupcakes, watched a lot of TV, and spent a lot of time on the bus. I was not in a very healthy head space four years ago when I arrived in Vancouver, and I was even less healthy when I left 9 months later. For the past two years, I've thought long and hard about returning to Vancouver. I've often said that I felt like I needed to go back to reconcile with the city, because I harboured such negative emotion about my time there.

I'm so glad I returned, and I'm especially glad I went back for Thea's wedding. I spent so much time with so many wonderful people that I can only describe my trip as "warm." That feeling of warmness you get internally when everyone around you is someone you like, and someone whose company you enjoy. I was welcomed into my friends' families with open arms, and there's nothing that makes you feel at home as your friends' parents and siblings and extended family smiling at you and making you feel as though they are glad you are there.

I was so glad to see my friend marry a wonderful, kind, generous man, and to feel strongly that they are probably going to make it for the long haul. It was comforting and empowering to talk to my friend about publishing, and to know that you have to work hard to be a writer, but it'll be worth it in the end. It was good to see old friends and reminisce, and also know that they are happy and are doing cool things and living great lives.

It was so good to make peace with a part of my history that had left me with an uncomfortable, unresolved feeling. It was good to learn that time heals.

And it was so good to eat at Burgoo.

Oh hello.

-Jillz
__________________________
Current book: Love in the Time of Cholera - Gabriel Garcia Marquez
Current TV show: The Good Wife (season 1)
Current nail colour: OPI's "Bubble Bath"

Standing Still is Hard

2014-06-09T15:08:00.001-02:30

I just finished watching season 2 of Orange is the New Black on Netflix (it's amazing and I will probably write something about it in the near future). I usually skip a show's intro when I am binge-watching, because, as every serious TV consumer knows, time is precious when you're trying to squeeze 13 hours of entertainment into as few days as possible. Skipping a one minute repetitive intro equals about 1/3 of an episode, and I am all about efficiency of viewing.

For the uninitiated, Orange is the New Black opens up with Regina Spektor singing about animals being trapped in a cage, and how they have all this free time without the freedom to do anything. It's an excellent metaphor for the show. But there's one line in particular that resonated even as I forwarded through the intro:

Think of all the roads
Think of all their crossings
Taking steps is easy
Standing still is hard

As I walked home from school on the afternoon I submitted the final assignment of my MA, I began to feel a little trapped. By the time I got back to my apartment, I was in full-on panic mode and immediately began searching for ways to get out of the city: trains across Canada, flights out of the country, visas for Singapore - anywhere that wasn't here.

A few days earlier, I had gone out with my brilliant and wise friend Renee to say goodbye before she moved back to her home in Saskatoon where her house and partner and cats were waiting for her. I told her I had always planned on staying in Ottawa after I finished my degree, at least for a while. "But now I feel like I should pack up and go somewhere. Explore other cities - other countries even! I have nothing tying me here. I'm young and free! I should get out of here before I get settled.

Think of all the roads
Think of all their crossings

Renee, a generous listener, waited until I had spewed all of this word vomit at her, and then graciously offered: "I think you should maybe stay, at least for the summer. You've just gone through a tremendous life experience, and now that you've finished you're MA, you're going to need some time to process and transition. Life immediately after grad school is a lot to deal with, and staying put will be one less Big Thing to deal with while you adjust."

And of course she's right. But this is the problem. Staying put is scary. My friend Zaren has a tattoo that says "Such permanence is terrifying." And that's exactly how I feel. While part of me wants things like a steady job and a car and regular coffee shop where the baristas know my order when I walk in, the fact that having all those things means staying in one place is too much. To me, settling down is a four-letter word.

My friend Emily and I were talking about this a few months ago, when the realization that we were almost finished school hadn't quite hit yet. Being a "traveller," constantly on the move and living in new places every few months, is scary in it's own right. New languages, no stability, always meeting new people: yeah, it's a lot. But in many ways, staying in one place is much more daunting. If you are constantly moving, you are in control, making choices, deciding what happens when. But staying means patience. It means committing. It means facing the everyday mundane. It means routine, it means dealing with the expected. It means facing certain boredom, and that is infinitely more terrifying.

Taking steps is easy
Standing still is hard

I have said many times that my biggest fear is both being bored AND being boring. If you are consistently moving, the new surroundings, people, and experiences are enough to keep boredom at bay. And I'm not really a "traveller" in the sense of someone who backpacks across the world, but I have lived my life in four-month semesters for 9 years, with the knowledge that everything would be different after 12 weeks. Because when your settings and characters are always the same, you are responsible for being interesting. And that is really, really difficult.

But I think I'm going to try. I suppose facing your fears is part of growing up, or just growing. So I will get a permanent job, and I will get a dog and houseplants. I will join a gym and find a doctor and make plans for the long run. I will face - and maybe, one day - embrace that life is sometimes really boring. I will try standing still.

-Jillz
______________________________
Current book: The Remains of the Day - Kazuo Ishiguro
Current TV show: Torchwood (series 3)
Current nail colour: Essie's "absolutely shore"

In Conclusion

2014-05-16T12:39:00.000-02:30

I'm not very good at endings.

I always leave writing conclusions for papers until the very last possible minute. I sometimes read the final pages of a book before I even get to the middle. I don't know how to cleanly and concisely cut off a conversation, a relationship, a specific moment in time.

I always expect endings to be dramatic. Of course she will get off the plane (Friends is always and forever relevant); of course the case will be solved in the nick of time and the patient will live; of course he will forgive his father right before he dies. And of course I'll be crying into my popcorn, swept up in the theatrics of it all.

I've all but finished my Master of Arts. Short of walking across the stage in a cute dress and a ridiculous hat, I'm officially finished my academic career. I'm excited and exhausted and proud and sad, but most of all, I think I'm underwhelmed. I expected the last moments of this degree to be big: lots of hugs, a torrential downfall of tears, and those special moments of telling people how grateful I am for their role in my life where everyone is simultaneously moved and unbearably awkward.

But nope. It's been completely anticlimactic.

In The Book Thief, one of my favourite books, author Markus Zusak commits the cardinal sin of storytelling: he spoils the ending of the story near the very beginning. The narrator says:

Of course, I’m being rude. I’m spoiling the ending, not only of the entire book, but of this particular piece of it. I have given you two events in advance, because I don’t have much interest in building mystery. Mystery bores me. It chores me. I know what happens and so do you. It’s the machinations that wheel us there that aggravate, perplex, interest, and astound me.

There are many things to think of.

There is much story.

This small part of the book is almost insignificant in the overall story, but it has stayed with me more than anything else on those pages. It's a profound realization, really - that every story ends the same, but it's what happens to get there that is interesting and unique. It's the middle that compels us to keep going, and that makes the story worthwhile.

And he's right. I knew at the end of my two years at Carleton, I would have earned an MA. What I didn't know was what the process of getting there would look like, who I would meet, the things I would learn about myself and other people, the insurmountable challenges and the confidence that comes with meeting and exceeding them.

What I didn't know was that I'd experience teamwork like I never had before. That for twelve weeks, eight classmates who, four months previously, were complete strangers, would bust their butts to support each other every single week. That everyone would pull their weight so no one would have drag everyone along with them. I didn't know that I would be with a cohort who wanted everyone else to succeed as much as they wanted success for themselves.

I didn't know that I would have a breakdown in a Tim Hortons five months in, feeling like I wasn't smart enough to be in the program, and that I would never be able to finish. I didn't know that I'd have two friends drag me back from the brink with humour and sincere encouragement.

I didn't know that one cancelled class in early March could feel like being released on parole.

I didn't know I'd be able to hold my own in debates and discussions with professors. I didn't know I could make an argument and academics who had years of experience on me would say "you know, that's a really excellent point."

I didn't know I would experience encouragement unlike any I'd had before. I knew I was a good writer, but I didn't know I'd finish this degree feeling like a great one. I didn't know there would be so many people to offer such encouragement, from a casual, throwaway "you're smart!" to the praises (and criticisms) of professors, offered in the spirit of reaching my potential.

I didn't know I'd meet some of the best people - and friends - at Carleton. I didn't know that the Iranian boy who terrified me for a month an a half would be one of the greatest men I've ever known; I didn't know the girl whose mom worked at a children's book store and I would experience the highest highs and lowest lows together, and still want to see each other every day; I didn't know the tall blonde with the angry resting face would make me laugh so much I'd get an ab workout, or that she'd offer me some of the best advice when I needed it; I didn't know the big funny man who was only a part time student would be one of the most loyal friends I've ever had; I didn't know the quiet Chinese girl would be the wittiest person in the room, and that her generous heart would always offer you kindness with a side of biting sarcasm; I didn't know the snobby girl in the blazer would have an incredible story of determination, and that she'd inspire me to always work harder; I didn't know the mom of three with wild hair would challenge me to think about others in ways I hadn't before.

Having tried and failed once before to earn an MA, I didn't know that, this second time around, I could do it.

When I was deciding to go back to grad school, I was very apprehensive about confirming my acceptance. I was talking to my friend Jill about it, and asked, "how do I know if this is a bad decision?" And she said, quite profoundly, "In terms of bad decisions, getting more education is the best one you can make."

I didn't know then how right she was. Because I didn't know how doing this program would permeate everything in my life. I didn't know that these two years would challenge me to think in ways and about things I hadn't before. I didn't know that I'd have the opportunity to work with some of the most incredible minds working in the field. I didn't know I'd meet fascinating, warm, friendly people in the program with whom I'd have some of the most intense, fun, and inspiring conversations of my life. I didn't know how much I hated teaching until I became a TA. I didn't know how hard I would work, and I didn't know how much fun I would have.

And, true to form, I'm not entirely sure how to end this, except to say thank you - to my cohort, to my profs, to the staff, to Carleton for accepting my application. The ending may have been underwhelming, but the middle was a dramatic, beautiful mess.

I am so glad it's done, but I'm very sad it's over.

Jillz
___________________
Current book: Signed, Sealed, Delivered - Nina Sankovitch
Current tv show: Band of Brothers (rewatch x5)
Current nail colour: Essie's "borrowed and blue"