As we approach the final days of 2024, I find myself glancing back and peering forward.

My word for the year was “adventure” and because I am an all-in kinda girl, it started with an event I swore I’d never do—the Polar Bear Plunge. The action I initiated on Day One of 2024 continued in ebbs and flows throughout the next twelve months. I joined a soccer team, enrolled in a dance class, travelled with friends and family, spoke on podcasts and out of town conferences, and applied for a new job to name a few ways I stretched outside my comfort zone. What a year it’s been!

As we creep towards the dawn of a new calendar year, I find myself pondering the theme of 2025. One of the words I am considering is “dream”.

                                                       ____________________________

Years ago, when I was teaching grade three in an inner-city school, one precious little monkey asked, “Ms. Cleeve, did you always want to be a teacher?”

 “No. When I was your age, I wanted to sing and act on Broadway.”

A look of shock and what can only be described as disappointment rolled across her face as she responded, “What the hell happened to you?”

How old was I when I gave up that dream, deciding to pursue something less risky, more practical? (Maybe it was around the same time I realized that I couldn’t dance. Or act. Or sing really well.)
 
As young children, our minds are so full of dreams that we struggle to limit the possibilities. The options bubble over like potion brewing in a cauldron. We want to grow up quickly, so we can become artists, and engineers, and ballerinas all at the same time. Our brains scream with places we want to travel—Africa, India, Asia... We envision the house we will live in, the gaggle of pets we will have, and the glorious freedoms we will enjoy as adults.
​
At what age do our brains become so overwhelmed with the daily grind that we cease to imagine daring possibilities for ourselves? No adult I know still talks like this.

When did we stop dreaming?

                                                          ____________________________
 
My eighteen year old son and his girlfriend have found full time jobs. For the first time in their lives, they are subjecting themselves to the mundane routine of adulthood—wake up, commute, work, eat dinner, go to the gym.

The lack of excitement has them questioning the purpose of life. “Is this all there is?”

Has society’s demand to be productive extinguished their inclination to dream already?
 
As I attempt to help them clarify their visions within the current murkiness, the conversations we’re having serve me as well. I'm encouraging them both  to step away from the practical and think audaciously, to reach for goals which seem almost unattainable, to let fire and desire drive them forward. The questions I am posing are ones that I’m mulling over too.

Where do you want to live?

What adventures do you want to seek?

What work feels exciting and fulfilling?

Which people bring you joy?

My children are growing older, quicker by the day it seems. It’s time for me to begin imagining the next phase of my life—one where I am the star of the show, no longer a supporting character. It’s time for me to start dreaming again.

Where do I want to live?

What adventures do I want to seek?

What work feels exciting and fulfilling to me?

Which people bring me joy?

So, as Dec. 31st fades into the start of a new year, I will be figuratively dreaming about what is to come.

​And, literally dreaming… because who has the gumption to stay up until midnight these days?!
 
 

Every year since my boys were toddlers, I have written each of them a letter on their birthdays and at Christmas. Generally, my words paint a snapshot of their lives at that particular moment in time—their likes, hobbies, struggles, and successes. I also add a little nugget of advice—something I hope resonates when they finally read these letters in their young adulthood. Occasionally, an additional letter feels necessary when an extraordinary moment calls to be documented—Covid, for example, their first heartbreak, or high school graduation.

In truth, I’m not sure when I will give the boys their collection of letters. If I had daughters, I might have bound them in a book and gifted it to them on their twentieth birthday. However, having raised boys for the last eighteen years, I know without a doubt that if gifted too soon, my words of wisdom will get tossed in the backseat of their dirty trucks—amongst empty Gatorade bottles, soccer balls, and food wrappers—to be unread and lost forever. I trust that I’ll know then the time is right.

My goal was to continue writing until each child turned eighteen. My oldest crossed that milestone a few months ago and I am about to write the last letter to him this holiday season.

Since his high school graduation, my son has been immersed in the trials and tribulations of exploring how he wants to live his adult life. Navigating the ups and downs with as much grace as he can muster, he is learning to juggle the demands of working full time with his desire to have a social life and squeeze in hobbies. Needless to say, he is rarely home.

Lying in bed one night, his absence swept over me like a tidal wave and I was overcome with a myriad of emotions. Pride, sorrow, love, and mourning. Parenting a young adult is a joyful experience but a bitter sweet one. You become a passenger on the journey, giving up the driver’s seat for the rest of your child’s life. With complete honesty, I can say that I adored every minute of raising my son. With his ADHD, zest for life, and adventurous nature, he most definitely gave me a run for my money. There were moments when it was hard to be his mama, to grant him the freedom he so desperately desired. However, that kid brought me so much joy, so much laughter, and so much awe. I miss him crawling into my bed in the mornings. I miss making forts in the living room. I miss baking together in the kitchen. Those days are gone.

As he walked through our front door the next day, I stood back to take in the man I had raised. His presence was strong and gentle, silly and kind. He plopped down on the couch beside me and we spent the next fifteen minutes catching up. The joy, the laughter, the awe came rushing back. What a privilege it is to witness him living his own life--loving a young woman, discovering his own grit, establishing priorities, and laying the foundation for his future.

As I sit down to write the final letter to my son, I have so much to say—words of affirmation, life advice, nostalgic sentiments. But not one word will carry the weight of sorrow. Only words of love and excitement will spill onto the page. For, after one good cry and one good laugh, I’ve remembered what it all truly boils down to. He will always be my baby—all six feet of him. And, no matter where he goes or what he does, he will forever own a piece of my heart.
 

I caught a case of the hormones today.

A disastrous night of fitful sleep was the first symptom. Normally early to bed, early to rise, my body and brain refused to settle down until well past midnight. The sleep which followed was wrought with terrible dreams of personal and professional failure. I woke at 4:30am, drenched in sweat, dreading my alarm which was set to ring in thirty short minutes. Hell no! Not today, sister! Putting my phone on silent, I drifted in and out of stressful dreams for another hour or two.

When my body finally woke and reluctantly peeled itself from damp bedsheets, it carried me down the stairs, feeling like a ninety-eight year old woman who opens her eyes and cries in disappointment, “Why am I still alive?” The extra hour of sleep did nothing to energize my lethargy. My brick legs clomped and my shoulders slumped in protest of every movement.

I’m pretty sure my face didn’t get the memo that we were awake in the world. It felt like clay which had sat overnight on the countertop—dry and brittle, as if any little motion would leave a devastating crack in the structure.

And, the brain fog! Holy hell! If my body creaked, “No thank you” and my face was frozen in a permanent state of, “Fuck off”, my brain absolutely refused to acknowledge that life was happening around us.

I sat, sipping my coffee in a black cloud of misery. My son, galloped down the stairs, skidding into the kitchen, all six feet two inches of him wrapping his arms around me in morning greeting. The grunt I offered in return signaled for him to retreat slowly and not make eye contact. Smart boy.

My husband, however, loves to poke the bear.

“Chase,” he said to my son in a mock whisper. “I think her attitude is the only part which has woken up this morning. Look out, buddy!”

I could barely lift my head to muster a look of dark and threatening distain.

He laughed, “See! Told ya!”

He kissed my forehead and cooed, “Mi amor, you can do this today. You’ve got this!”

Because my mouth felt too exhausted to move, I replied moodily in my head. Nope, today I don’t ‘got this.’

And you know what, sistas? That’s okay. Some days, our hormones make us feel insane. Others, our bodies bleed, leaving us pale and iron deficient. Some days, we walk the earth like insomnia riddled zombies. Others, our bloated stomachs make it impossible to put on pants. Wandering through the maze of perimenopause is like a carnival from hell—unpredictable jump scares around every corner.

When my son was small, he used to say that women had “horror-mones” and truer words have never been spoken. Today, I succumb to the rollercoaster of estrogen and progesterone wreaking havoc on my body. I will be gentle with the expectations I place upon myself. Wrapped in coziness, I will gift myself a little grace.

Tomorrow, I will rise again and conquer the world.
​
Maybe.
 

October has arrived! Tis the season of Thanksgiving turkey, spicy pumpkin pie, tiny chocolate bars, sticky cobwebs, and spooky ghost stories.

October also officially marks the last ninety days of the year. A total kick in the pants if you have not yet achieved your New Years resolution. But don’t panic! There’s still time to right this sinking ship before 2025 arrives.

You might remember that my words for this year were: abundance and adventure. My intention was to free myself of the fear mindset which surrounded my financial stability and allow myself the opportunity to have a little fun.

In full transparency, my enthusiasm swung me to the opposite end of the spectrum, as I booked a number of vacations and enrolled in various courses and hobbies during the first six months of the year. I discovered that fun is really fun! (And can be expensive at times.) My financial advisor (who is also conveniently my husband) urged me to pump the brakes.

Right. Find the balance, Kel.

Not surprisingly, impulsive spending is just as detrimental as a white-knuckled grip on my wallet. Learning to plan ahead has readjusted the scales and encouraged me to spend like a grown up.

Was I consistent in pursuing my vision for this year? Mostly. Was I perfect? Definitely not. There is an ebb and flow to personal evolution—weeks when I wholeheartedly embraced abundance and adventure mindsets and others when I fell into a pit of scarcity and routine.  However, even when making two steps forward and one step back, we still advance slowly towards positive change.

As we enter the last ninety days of the year, I want to finish strong. I’ll remember to celebrate festivities with friends and family, engage in some shenanigans, but maintain a reasonable budget for both.

I encourage you to revisit the vision you imagined for 2024. How close or far are you from that goal? What actions can you take in the next ninety days to move closer to achieving what you set out to?

It is not time to give up and call the year a wash. It is the perfect time to double down, remember why you set the goal in the first place and move towards 2025 with intention and power.

​We’ve got this!
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Dear Kel, on the eve of your forty-fifth birthday…
 
I want you to know it’s okay if you pee a little when you run. That was surprising, I know, but your body is changing.

The grey in your hair looks sophisticated. You can rebrand those strands and call them your “big girl sparkles”. They’re fancy and add class.

The wrinkles on your face are the result of laughter and smiling. You’re very lucky to have joy etched around your eyes and mouth.

The ten extra pounds you’ve gained around your stomach is where you store your wisdom. You’re not getting fatter; you are becoming smarter, more grounded.

The insomnia you experience offers sacred time in the middle of the night to ponder life and reconsider your path forward. Sleep will come when life is in alignment and emotions settle.

The sudden moments of heat and sweat are a sign of how hot and sexy you are. You’ve still got it, girl!

The fact that your attention deficit has been turned up to full volume offers a reminder to seek peace and quiet. It’s important to sink into calm amidst the chaos of family life.

As you go to sleep tonight and wake up having orbited another trip around the sun, embrace everything the upcoming year has to offer—adventure, surprise, adversity, and triumph. While your body may feel foreign at times, it is a small price to pay for the chance to live and love vibrantly for another 365 days.
​
Love,
Kel
 

The leaves are tinted in crimson. Fog rolls in on the cool morning air. School began a month ago. And already there is drama.

As a boy-mom, my household has always been relatively drama-free. The occasional disruption of the calm usually stems from yours truly—the one with crippling anxiety and an overactive imagination. Yet sometimes, the drama takes root on a community level and seeps into our home through our cellphones. Last week, that was the case.

The high school where my fifteen year old son attends sent an email informing parents and caregivers that an “incident” had occurred. Online messages had been circulating through the student body of a planned attack at the school. Details of a shooting were being masterminded—Snapchat messages copied and shared amongst the teenagers, spreading like wildfire. The email explained that the threats were deemed benign and the school was handling the issue accordingly. Not to worry, they said.

I tried not to worry. I really did.

As Chase bounded through the front door after school, he jokingly exclaimed, “Well, I didn’t get shot today!”

A statement I never thought I’d hear.

“How do you feel about what’s happening, Kid?” I inquired.

“It’s fine, Mom. It’s just some kid being stupid.”

His flippancy was comforting. His tone was absent of fear and I felt gratitude that his sense of safety remained intact. However, as he revealed more about his day, I began to suspect that beneath the calm surface waters, turmoil bubbled within the deep.

Chase went on to share that several classmates left school that day, feeling unsafe to remain in the building. There was a police presence on the premises, which was reassuring (but perhaps jarring on a subconscious level). He and his friends made plans to run into the forest if shooting broke out.

Chase spoke so non-chalantly, it sounded as if he was describing his Subway sandwich order. In the disconnect between his demeanor and his words, I knew not a single one of his brain cells consciously registered this as a probable threat. What teenager could accept this reality?

Logically, I understood the chance of a Canadian child having access to a firearm is very, very slim. Having worked in schools for the past twenty-three years, I also know the process of investigation, due diligence, caution, and communication with families. Teenagers say stupid shit and that nonsense is circulated over social media at alarming speeds with regularity. I get it. I have also participated in more lockdown drills than I can count, trusting that this precaution will never become truly necessary in my (or my children’s) academic career.

Still, incidents like this hurt my heart.

When I can override my emotions and lean into logic, I feel immensely grateful to live in a country which feels safe. I can’t help but think of American parents who send their children to school each day with the very real possibility of tragedy occurring. While I can confidently say my child is secure at school, not everyone in North America has that privilege. The thought boggles my mind.

Perhaps my confidence is wildly naïve, but please let me hold onto it for every last second of my existence. It is a wild concept—letting our children walk in this world with freedom to explore and experience life without us following two steps behind forever protecting them. The vulnerability, when one pauses to acknowledge it, is paralyzing.
​
So, while we have the opportunity to exist in a bubble of bliss, let’s soak in every moment of safety and security, and remember to kiss our kids as often as we can. 

I’m here to deliver a public service announcement that is going to piss some of you off. Trust me when I say that I share this opinion without judgement because it is something I am working on too. It's not a complaint, but an encouragement shared with love.

Mommas, when people ask how you are, or wonder what’s new in your life, stop telling them about your children.

I know it sounds harsh. But girl, you are more than just a momma. Though your babies are pieces of your soul walking free within this world, you are an entirely separate being. You are a gorgeous, intelligent woman. When people ask, they want to know about you and you are worthy of having your own answer.

I can’t tell you how many times I have called to connect with a girlfriend who proceeds to tell me about her children’s busy schedule, triumphs, and struggles. And I get it. I really do. As mommas, we bleed with our children, laugh with them, absorb their pain, and relish in their joy. I remember a time when I felt my life was not my own. From morning until bedtime, my schedule revolved around meals, naptimes, and playdates. It’s a difficult season.

Our children are of us, but they are not wholly us. We deserve to have our own feelings and experiences to share. 

Thank you for filling me in on your family happenings, but sweetheart, how are you? Does the constant chauffeuring stress you out? Are you exhausted and unshowered and overwhelmed? Are you joyfully cherishing each milestone? Are you unsure of how to fill newfound freedom? Are you dreaming of days when you can get back to being you?

Sometimes the demands of motherhood make us feel invisible. It’s thankless work--the millions of small tasks we perform daily to keep our families afloat. Much of our dedication goes unnoticed. When we arrive at family functions, the faces of grandparents, aunts and uncles light up upon seeing our kids, arms open and love flowing, while the mommas receive a quick peck on the cheek and perfunctory greeting. I am here too, you know.

So when someone takes a moment to check in, stop making yourself invisible! Stop hiding behind your children and step into your own individuality. Tell them how you are really feeling. Tell them about your day. Your struggles. Your successes.

And, while I am clearly on a roll with this ranting PSA, let’s revolutionize the way we greet people. “How are you?” is such a thoughtless question, one which really doesn’t invite an honest answer.

What percentage of humans who respond with “I’m fine” are actually fine? Fine is synonymous with “I don’t want to tell you the truth” or “I’m afraid you’d judge me if I told you how I was really feeling” or “You don’t truly want to know”.

This social interaction is so performative that it has lost its ability to foster meaningful human connection. There’s got to be a better way!

I challenge all women to remove the word “fine” from your vocabulary. Get creative. Get honest. Get brave in your answer.

And, can we go even further by asking a more well intentioned question?
“What brought you joy today?”
“How’s your stress level today?”
“Tell me about your morning.”
“What goals do you have right now?”
“What’s challenging you?”
 
Momma, I already know that you are dedicating your heart to raising amazing human beings. I already know that your days are selfless, that you doubt yourself, and that you lose sleep worrying about your family. I see you. I know you. I am you.
​
Instead, tell me what excites you and lights your inner fire.
I really, truly want to know. 

I think about death a lot.

I can picture myself as a little girl tucked in bed at night, speaking aloud to the Universe—not knowing exactly what was out there, but needing to believe in a higher power. “Please protect my mommy and my daddy and my sister and my brother.” I still make these nightly prayers, but the blanket of protection has grown larger. “Please protect my parents, my spouse, my children…”

Funnily enough, I am completely at peace with the idea of my own death. If I were to die tomorrow, I know for sure that people have felt my love and my loyalty. I have been fortunate enough to experience passionate love, traveled a bit, done my best to raise excellent humans, and made an impact professionally. I can go at any time and feel nothing but gratitude for the time I was given here on Earth.

What terrifies me is the thought of someone I love passing away and leaving me in the dark wake of loss and despair.

I’m sharing this with you to set the scene for the drama that played out in my home last night.

I was jarred awake by the sound of my doorbell and an aggressive pounding on the front door. As my eyeballs adjusted and read 11:49 on the clock, I noticed a white light flashing through my bedroom window. Jumping out of bed, I peeked through the blinds to see two police cars parked in front of my house.

What the fuck?

Immediately, my mind took inventory of my family. Husband? Still in bed, totally oblivious to the chaos. (Men could sleep through an apocalypse! The sky could be falling and the ground caving in around us and they would remain blissfully in Dreamland. My husband would wake up to the end of the world and be like, “Dude, what did I miss?) I digress.

My youngest son? Asleep in bed. Stepson? Asleep on the bottom bunk. Oldest son? Not home.

Fuck.

With my heart pounding in my chest, I threw a blanket around my shoulders (because nobody wants to have the door opened by a panicky middle-aged woman in her nighttime panties.) and sprinted down the stairs.

I paused for a moment before opening the door. Breathe, Kel. Brace yourself.

Two very large police men were standing on my porch. I turned to look at my husband as he lazily made his way down the stairs, hair askew and brain not fully turned on yet. Why didn’t he feel the weight of the moment, oppressed by the stillness of the air as our lives were about to change?

“Sorry to bother you so late,” Policeman #1 apologized.

Policeman #2 explained, “An electric scooter has been stolen and the app is tracking it directly to your house.”

My constriction in my chest relaxed as I exhaled audibly. Thank all the Gods! And also, seriously??!!!

“Do you have children?” #1 inquired. “We’d like to talk to them.”

Knowing full well that the boys weren’t involved, but not wanting to be the mom who immediately went on the defense with, “Well, my child would never…” I asked the police to wait as I rousted my teenage children out of bed.

(If I’m being fully truthful, a wicked little part of me was entertained by the boys’ stunned faces as I announced, “The police are here. They want to talk to you.” Cruel, I know.)

Long story short, the scooter was not hidden in my garage, nor in my backyard. Thankfully my children did not turn out to be thieves. This time.

As I closed the door to my bedroom following this midnight drama, relief flooded my body like a tidal wave and I sobbed. The nocturnal knock on my door was not the news I was dreading—that my child had died in the night while I slept comfortably in my home. He was safe. We were all safe.

The stress-tears which leaked from my eyeballs were soon replaced by tears of deep sorrow. Death was not part of my story that night, but for many people, that midnight doorbell ushers in a heart stopping new reality. Their lives are forever divided by the moments before and after they open the door.

Earlier in the week, news of a car accident which occurred on the highway near my home spread within our community. A mother and child killed upon impact. The second child airlifted to hospital in critical condition. That father would have opened the door to utter despair. My heart ached for him as I cried.

Bless the police who have to share the news of death and tragedy. Bless them for sitting with families and witnessing the worse moment of their lives. Bless them for honouring the families with grace, and holding space for grief and shock.
​
It took me a long time to fall asleep last night. I added to my prayers. “Please protect my parents, my spouse, my children and care for those who did not get as lucky as I did tonight.”

Sometimes I cannot believe the words that fall out of my mouth. They are random, strange, and provide a telling glimpse into the changes I am experiencing as I age. I have to laugh and roll my eyes, finding humour in the brain fog, idiocrasy, and "old lady-ness". 

Things I've said recently:

I bought a pill box today.
Maybe I should consider a nightly skin care routine that actually involves washing my face.
I need to pick up more Metamucil.
I think this is hormonal.
How many supplements do I need to take?
I need to blow-dry my hair standing naked in front of an open window, otherwise I might die of a hot flash.
Are two naps in one day too many?
I can’t read that. Bring it closer.
Is it 9pm yet? I’d like to go to bed.
My B12 is low.
It’s too hot to wear a bra.
When did the part of my brain that could properly park the car stop functioning?
How are my iron levels?
I don’t want to snuggle in bed. I’m so sweaty.
Maybe we should ingest a teaspoon of coconut oil in the mornings. Or apple cider vinegar. Or both.
My brain is not communicating with my body today.
The nurse who was doing my ECG looked like she was trying to untangle Christmas lights.
When should I stop taking birth control?
My hips are tight. I need a massage.
It’s very people-y there…
How late does the concert start? That’s past my bedtime.
 
You know you are getting older when…
​How would you finish the sentence?

A farmer’s market makes me feel like a seagull with a French fry. A childish grin rooted in pure joy and excitement spreads across my face as I revel in my good fortune. It really doesn’t get much better than leisurely strolling through aisles of quirky artisans, organic vegetables, home baked pastries, and eccentric characters strumming the guitar. My ADHD is in its full glory taking in the sights, sounds, and smells which envelop my senses.

For the most part, a farmer’s market is fairly predictable. While the creativity vendors showcase is admirable and occasionally surprising, I generally know what to expect upon arrival—local wineries offering small samples, a granola-y woman showcasing crocheted potholders, wooden carvings that look as gnarly as the man who whittled them, luscious bouquets of jewel-coloured flowers, and a booth with handmade soaps and candles which rivals Bed, Bath and Beyond. As a veteran farmer’s market attendee, I thought I had seen it all. Until last weekend.

After enjoying a scrumptious farm to table breakfast, my girlfriends and I decided to wander over to the market, mere blocks from the restaurant. We sipped our iced coffees, sampled the offerings, and laughed as we reminisced about the previous night’s shenanigans. Then, we came upon a tent which seemed to display no goods at all. Instead, three elderly men sat in lawn chairs underneath a sign which read, “Old Coots Giving Advice: It’s probably bad advice, but it’s free.”

The men looked like aging hippies, throwbacks from an expressive and experimental time. Tie-died shirts, scruffy beards, and delicate blue flowers painted daintily on their cheeks and foreheads. They had a tip jar which was labelled Legal Defense Fund, and I was immediately drawn in by their laid-back nature and obvious good humour.

“Do you have a question for us?” they wondered.

One of my girlfriends stepped forward. “We’re all in a moment of transition because our children have graduated from high school. What should we do with all our free time now?”

After conferring for a minute, one of the Three Wise Men offered this advice:
“We suggest you go immediately to the bar and find the youngest boy you can. Take him home with you. He can either become your boyfriend or you can parent him.”

Hilarious!

Needless to say, we spent a long time chatting with these gentlemen, inquiring as to how and why they chose to spend their weekends giving bad advice to strangers. They were interesting, joyful, and had perspective which comes only from having lived a little.

As we walked away, my girlfriends and I marveled at the genius of their idea. How awesome would it be to spend a Saturday morning sitting at the market, laughing with old friends, and having conversations with random people? Maybe we should set up our own booth--Moms with Mimosas Giving Bad Advice!

The conversation then extended to ways we would like to enjoy our free time now that our children were on the preface of carving their own paths in the world. We could take dance lessons (only if we wear tongue-in-cheek hip hop attire), start a book club (raunchy romance porn only), schedule monthly get togethers (to paint canvases Bob Ross style)…

It seems, despite the silliness and humour of the answer given by The Old Coots, they had wisely laid breadcrumbs for us to solve our own question. The world is now our oyster and we have the glorious opportunity to create our own fun.