💭 Pages catching the thoughts I was too scared to say out loud.

🤫 A home for secrets too shy to share.

💜 A place to capture memories of my beautiful life lived.

That girl never really stopped writing—she just grew into different notebooks.

I currently have four active journals. A single journal just can’t contain me. One catches memories, one plans the future, one holds the art of life, and one holds gratitude for it all.

Free Write Journal – The unfiltered one.

These are the pages where my hopes, dreams, and anxieties spill out. If I’m being honest, this is mostly where anger and frustration live, which is why I’ve been neglecting it—and why I’m trying to change that. I love that it’s a place where I can vent, but I also want it to hold my best memories and the most beautiful parts of my life.

I hope one day my children—maybe even my grandchildren—can lose themselves in these pages and feel proud of who I was and the life I lived.

The 5-Minute Journal – The steadying one.

Here lives my five minutes of peace at the start and end of each day. It’s a simple book you can pick up at Chapters (here in Canada), and each day begins with a quote and the same gentle prompts.

Morning ☀️

• I am grateful for…

• What would make today great?

• Daily Affirmation

Evening 🌙

• Highlights of the Day

• What did I learn today?

This simple formula creates space for positivity first thing in the morning and a memory catch at the end of the day—always bringing it back to something good. That’s why I enjoy this daily practice so much.

Quaintrelle Journal – The romantic one.

This one is different. It holds words not as they happen, but after they’ve been reflected on, steeped in time, and edited with a healed heart. It’s soft. Often broken. Spontaneous.

It holds my prose poems—little bites of self-reflection that I hope to one day publish under the title Midnights in Apartment #3. This journal doesn’t exist to fix anything; it merely witnesses the broken parts and lets them breathe.

Bullet Journal – The anchoring one.

This book holds all of my to-dos—my daily bible, if you will. Lists. Events. Calendars. Reminders.

If you’re looking for a flexible and/or more creative way to plan your life, I recommend looking into bullet journalling. A Bullet Journal is a paper-based personal organization method developed by Ryder Carroll. If you’re more disciplined than I am, you could likely fit all the journal types I’ve mentioned here into one.

Mine holds the logistics so my creativity can overflow between other covers.

I don’t have one journal because I am not one thing. That’s evident here on this blog. I’m my roots, my creativity, my mental health, my travels.

I am a planner, but I am also chaos.

I am grateful, but I am also grieving.

I am helpless, but I am also a healer.

I am a writer, but I am also the muse.

I am all of these things between different covers. Each journal holds a version of me. None of them are performance—because the only one I have to show up for is me.

It’s a ritual that I’ve continued annually, even through the pandemic—probably even more needed then.

For the most part, I do share them on my Instagram with friends, but since I’ve found this space, I thought I would try to share them here this year.

One gentle alteration I made this year was to switch the term “goals” to “intentions.” Intentions is inherently gentler and, I think, serves the purpose better.

Before I get into reviewing 2025 and then sharing for 2026, I just wanted to pause.

The world we’re living in currently is frightening. Whether you’re on the ground in a war zone in Ukraine or Gaza—and yes, I’m including Minneapolis—or facing the looming threat of domination by a tiny orange man, or you’re struggling to make ends meet, the world is a scary place. It’s exhausting, the news is relentless, and the hatred is everywhere you turn.

I felt I couldn’t move forward without acknowledging that first, especially on the heels of the broad-daylight execution of Alex Pretti yesterday, only weeks after Renee Good. I live in Winnipeg, Manitoba, which is only about eight hours from Minneapolis, so it’s hitting very close to home.

We do have to remember to take a step back to take care of ourselves, though, because we can’t fight if we’re broken.

2025 Reflection

Work on my overall self care.

Having tackled my biggest personal health hurdle this year by exploring sobriety, I feel like I accomplished this in a BIG way (see next).

Explore sobriety.

As I write this post, I am 11 months sober. Before actually sticking with my sober journey for about two years, I kept asking myself if I had a drinking problem. Now I know that if you’re asking that question, you already know the answer.

Two resources I will share are This Naked Mind: Control Alcohol by Annie Grace and the I Am Sober app.

This Naked Mind allowed me to better understand addiction and the “why.” I was worried it wouldn’t hold my attention, but I was very wrong. I read about a chapter each night before bed; the research was incredibly enlightening and shared in a very interesting and digestible way.

I Am Sober has triggered that dopamine reward part of my brain. Even now, at almost a year sober, seeing those numbers climb feels really good. There are bigger milestones along the way that you receive badges for, and there is also a great spot for you to reflect on and remind yourself why you are on this journey.

Buy a house with my love.

My partner and I really only started looking in the spring, and the week before Winnipeg Folk Festival (the organization I work for), we looked at a home that we both fell in love with. I then went into 12+ hour days for the weekend, Thursday to Sunday, and on Monday offers were due. In post-festival delirium, we put in an offer and the rest was history.

I sold my condo in August, and we moved into our forever home mid-September. We have lots of friends close by and can’t wait for the first signs of spring to start enjoying our outdoor space again.

Have a more regular fitness routine.

With some big life changes happening in 2025, I feel like I haven’t got back to where I want to be with my movement.

Since I got an Apple Watch in 2020 to encourage movement during the pandemic, I’ve subscribed yearly to Fitness+. I love Fitness+ because not only do they have a coaching team that is diverse in background and body type, but they also offer modified movement for all of their workouts. When I’m trying to get back into it, the modified movement is where I live.

Get an ADHD assessment.

This is something that a dear friend of mine brought to my attention, and my therapist (who can’t diagnose me) said I should look into.

It’s definitely something I’m still exploring, but as of right now it’s not interfering with my day to day, which makes me think I’m likely lower on the spectrum. It’s totally something I’m keen to keep learning about, just in general but also how it may apply to me.

Write 10,000 words for my book.

Not quite in 2025, but my 2026 intentions are already helping to move the needle here.

Keep up with therapy.

I truly think that everyone can benefit from regular therapy, but it’s something that is so inaccessible, even here in Canada. I think it should be built into our healthcare systems because when our minds aren’t right, our bodies suffer too.

I’m always afraid to use up my benefits early in case I need them in the future for something that actually needs fixing. So, I save them and haven’t gone to therapy once this year—but the good news is that I haven’t felt a great need for it.

Read 25 books for 2025.

Accomplished. This is probably the only truly measurable goal I create for myself because reading has always been an escape for me—a way to reset a bad day or unwind from a good day. Something I did do differently this year was listen to two audiobooks to complete the goal, and both of those were Indigenous stories that, to me, feel more natural as a verbal format anyway.

Some standouts for me were This Naked Mind: Control Alcohol by Annie Grace, Mindful of Murder by Susan Juby, and Five Little Indians by Michelle Good.

Plan “me” days.

I’ve been working at this one for a couple years now, and I think I’m dropping it from the list because a whole day just doesn’t work for me, I don’t think—but finding pockets of “me time” does.

Stay in the moment.

This has been greatly benefited by my sobriety; it’s allowed me to better listen to myself and connect with the people I love. I think a large part of why I was disconnecting from friends mostly was because I was either hungover or exhausted from being hungover and in a constant cycle of mood swings and exhaustion. Not drinking has allowed me to show up more.

2026 Intentions

Live more analog.

I want to be much more intentional with my time this year. My mind gets very excited about digital organization, and I did my best to be a digital planner with Notion and the Cyberry Planner by K Digital Studio, but I think I’ve come to terms with the fact that it doesn’t completely work for me. I continue to use Notion as my catch-all task database for the year, but when it comes to day to day, I’m sticking with real paper and a real pen.

Back to my four notebook system: a free-write journal, The Five Minute Journal, my Leuchtturm1917 Bullet Journal, with a small Moleskine notebook for finance tracking.

I’ve also moved all social media from my phone to my iPad, cutting my screen time nearly in half each week since I started at the beginning of January. This feels huge for me.

Write on Substack at least once a month.

Here I am writing for the fourth time this month. This place feels like the best of social media and blogging combined. Plus, it’s just a bunch of us nerds sharing our thoughts and feelings while leaning on one another. It’s truly beautiful.

Meditate more regularly.

I want this for myself, even if it’s just five minutes a day. That mental rest and reset is so important, especially for the times we’re in right now.

Set better work boundaries.

I don’t want to take that shit home, no matter how much I care about it. My time is my time.

Lay foundations for starting our family.

I’ve always wanted to be a mom, and now that we have our little slice of paradise, I want to fill it with all kinds of love.

Continue my sober journey.

Binge-drinking dreams be damned, I will continue to work at this every day. I barely think about it anymore, which is the best part. This time last year, drinking seemed to be the only thing I thought about, and I’m so glad that’s changed.

Make art because I want to.

I think sharing my art on Instagram made it feel like more of a hustle, and because I’ve found this space and I’m starting fresh, I can do this on my terms—no schedule, no due dates. And if I do set them, knowing I’m allowed to change them is important.

Move my body with kindness.

Just showing up for myself is going to be the most important part as I journey back into fitness again. Just show up. That’s the goal.

Deepen my connections.

Grateful that I came back to my people last year, but this year making sure I show up even more is going to be important.

Rest when my body tells me to.

As someone who is constantly creating, rest is hard. New ideas spark everywhere for me (just the other day in the shower), so allowing myself to just focus on a show or just read a book is how I’m going to show up for myself in 2026.

I hope we can all be gentle with ourselves and show up for one another.

For so long I’ve looked for a place to hold my broken words, a journal where I can express myself to strangers who can relate.

I’ve settled for Instagram but it’s a space that’s feeling less and less authentic and more out of touch with what I actually care about, so I find myself here, speaking to a void hoping something rings true for someone.

I’ve experienced an abusive relationship, fought generalized and major health anxiety, and recently began my sober journey. The things that have kept me steady through it all have been my mind, my hands, my feet, and my heart.

Mind: anxious but logical.

Though my mind can be riddled with anxiety at times, it is quite logical. I’ve been lucky with this quality because my brain has always known what was best for my body, even in my darkest hours. I have always been able to pinpoint what I need to do to feel better, but had to wait for the rest of my body to catch up.

Hands: busy but creative.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve been a creator, from macaroni art on my parents’ fridge to thousands of beads hand-stitched into a vest for my uncle to celebrate our Métis roots. Creating balances me, it humbles me, and it’s often the medicine I need.

Feet: moving but grounded.

I’ve solo-travelled and I’ve hibernated like a bear, I try to enjoy being where I am. Sometimes that’s outside my comfort zone taking off halfway around the world with nothing but a passport and a couple bags and other times it’s home with my person.

Heart: broken but whole.

I wouldn’t be where I am today without every single human who has held my heart with love and care and even those who didn’t. Folks will come and go in our lives, the key is to recognize the ones that stay and love them back.

This is what keeps me steady, what I return to when life gets too loud.

This is largely what I write about, healing, mental health, ramblings, stories, I’m trying to be okay with revealing the unpolished and this feels like a safe space for that.

So, feel free to like, share, repost, or don’t, I’ll still be here writing.

We were out at one of your friends’ places again, like most Saturdays. The stale air was clouded the room as drunk young adults played mindless drinking games and pretended the world outside didn’t exist. Like most Saturdays, you drank a little too much.

The party started with you all over another woman and ended with you crying on the pool table about missed opportunities and how you wished you were better. I got you to your car and into the passenger seat, your head resting on the window.

I did my job as your sober girlfriend and drove you home safely while you sat silently, watching the streetlights blur past as you drifted in and out of consciousness. You never once thanked me for being there, for cleaning up after you, for listening to all your insecurities, and for constantly supporting you.

We got to your house and I called your name to wake you. Nothing. I nudged you. Nothing. I shook your arm and was met with a venomous, “fuck off.” The words landed like a punch to the gut. I took a deep breath willing back the tears, afraid of making things worse.

I finally got you out of the car and you stumbled to the front door. I punched in the passcode and guided you to the couch. Once you were settled, I escaped to the kitchen to get you a glass of water. When I returned I covered you with the blanket your grandmother had knit.

I sat beside you as you mumbled on about nothing. I brushed the hair from your forehead and kissed your cheek. I was too scared to leave. I wanted you safe. I wanted to be there if you needed me. In those days, I was desperate for you to need me.

After you had some water, you kept insisting we have sex. I wasn’t in the mood. You hadn’t paid attention to me all night, and I’d tried everything to be noticed. I wore makeup even though I hated it. I wore the “girly” outfit you liked even though girly isn’t really my thing. I even acted unbothered when I noticed that someone else had caught your eye.

But now your hands were on me, whispering, “I want you so bad.” I made excuse after excuse. No, your parents are upstairs. No, you’re too drunk. No, I’m too tired. You kept pushing, telling me you needed me, telling me you loved me, using those words like bargaining chips.

I don’t know why, but I said I was sorry and told you I was going home. Your face clouded over. I could see it in the waning moonlight. “Fuck off then,” you spat, tongue lashing like a whip. I kissed your forehead anyway as I choked back the lump in my throat.

As my fingers grasped the doorknob your hands appeared on either side of my head, encircling me, trapping me. You pressed your body against mine, forcing my face into the door, and stripped my legs bare. You whispered, “I need you right now,” as if that would make me want you more. My heart raced, but it was different. This time I was scared.

I froze, I did nothing. I was your girlfriend. I loved you. I thought I owed you something.

Your hand moved between my legs, relentless, trying to make me like it, to make me want it, to make me beg for it. Your touch was rough and you kept asking, “do you like that?” I didn’t. My eyes glazed over as my mind drifted somewhere else.

You hadn’t paid me this much attention in so long. I longed for you to touch me so this must be what I wanted. I’d been the girlfriend you wanted tonight, and you were showing me that you were still attracted to me. Right?

So why were there tears welling in my eyes? Why did I feel hollow? Why did I feel dirty? Why did I want to crawl out of my own skin? Why did I hate you at that moment? And why did I still love you?

Eventually, you got bored and retreated to the couch without a word. I pulled my pants up from my ankles, hands shaking, attempting to cover my shame. I stumbled to my car, fumbling with my keys, my mind already searching for excuses.

That was the first time I felt less than human.

Author’s note: The incidents here took place but I have taken creative liberties in stringing them together into one single night for impact.

I had never been to blatantly sexually assaulted until my 27th birthday and I didn’t know how to talk about it, so I’ll write about it.

The following story happened on July 1st, 2017. I wrote and posted it on my Facebook about 2 weeks after the incident. This was before the world erupted in #MeToo stories. I was inspired by the women in my life who had been sharing their stories of sexual assault. I’m incredibly fortunate to be surrounded by women who are supportive, caring and make me feel comfortable enough to share these stories.   

I was at a street festival on my birthday which also happens to be the birthday of our Canada. I was out with some friends and at about 11:30 PM we were headed to the last bar for the night. We stopped in the crowd to wait for another friend to catch up. As we were standing there I felt a quick hand between my legs from behind skimming over my crotch and then an ass grab. It was clearly in passing so I quickly looked over my left shoulder started angrily yelling and swearing in his direction but all I saw was the back of his head disappearing into the crowd, he was too fast. My initial flood of anger was short lived and I began sobbing in the middle of the street.

I was sexually assaulted by a complete stranger and I felt disgusting. I felt violated. I felt so FUCKING ANGRY! But mostly I felt scared. Scared that it would happen again. Scared that it could have been worse if it hadn't happened during a crowded street party. Scared that he did it to other women that night. How does someone just violate your body like it's no big deal, like it's nothing?

THIS, plain and simple, is why I fight for women. We deserve to exist in a world where we're actually treated like human beings. With one swift gesture, he ruined the one day a year that's supposed to be mine. This disgusting sexual predator got to go about the rest of his Canada Day not giving a shit about what he'd done with zero repercussions. It's still fucking infuriating that I can't do a goddamned thing about it.

I'm not looking for sympathy (it's so stupid that I feel I need to say that) I just want to share this as a reminder that things like this happen every day and they happen to EVERY WOMAN. When you make a cavalier comment about something like this or laugh at a rape joke you NORMALIZE this behaviour, it’s NOT funny and you ARE contributing to rape culture.

I have always had an incredible example of love to look up to my entire life. My parents seem as if they fell in love yesterday. I always act disgusted when they’re kissing or saying cute things to each other, but I’m smiling my biggest smile on the inside.

I’m a very curious person, and as I’ve grown older and started having relationships of my own, I began to observe my dad and how he treats my mom. After 30 years together, he still calls her his bride, holds her hand while they watch movies, and writes “I love you, ‘B’” on our front street in chalk.

One example that has made a big impact on me happened a few months after a bad breakup. My dad and I were at the supermarket on our way to the checkout when we walked past the floral department. My dad stopped, picked out the most beautiful bouquet of flowers, and set them on top of the cart. He then turned to me and said, “Your mom was having a bad day.”

That—right there—is what I deserve. No, it doesn’t have to be flowers, or chocolates, or wine. It could be a loaf of bread or a handwritten note. I deserve someone who thinks about me and considers my feelings.

This is where I’ve set my bar. I’m so thankful to be a creation of such beautiful love and, as a woman, to have a father who shows me every day how a husband should treat his wife.

I love you, Mom and Dad, and will always be so grateful for you both.