Good Neighbours

There are moments in our lives that don't seem especially important at the time. They happen, we move on, and years later we suddenly realize they helped shape the adults we became.

One of those moments happened to me when I was sixteen.

It began with something my dad said. At the time I didn't understand what he meant, but his words sank deep into my unconscious and quietly became part of the person I am today.

My mother had recently become confined to a wheelchair for the rest of her life. Overnight everything changed for our family. There were extra expenses, uncertainty, and no clear idea of what the future would look like. Our little village decided to hold a benefit dance to help Mom and Dad get through those first difficult months while they figured things out.

I don't remember much about the dance itself. I couldn't tell you what music was playing or even who was there. What I do remember is something my dad said. He looked around the hall and quietly said, "These are good neighbours."

At the time I didn't understand what he meant. I knew people had come to help us, but I didn't really see anything beyond that. They were just people from our village.

I've thought about those words off and on over the years, and it took me a long time to understand what Dad was trying to tell me.

I think he meant that being a good neighbour has very little to do with living next door to someone. It's about seeing that someone needs help and doing what you can. You don't stop to ask what's in it for you. You don't keep score. You don't expect to be paid back. You simply do what you can because someone needs a hand.

The only thing you hope is that if life ever turns against you, someone else will help you the same way. Not because they owe you anything, but because that's what good neighbours do.

Looking back now, I think that's why those words became tied to the Golden Rule in my mind: Do unto others as you would have them do unto you. Not because you expect them to do it, but because if you ever find yourself in need, you hope someone else has learned the same lesson.

That simple idea has stayed with me all my life. The two thoughts became almost inseparable in my mind, and together they became one of the guiding principles of my life.

I haven't always been able to help in big ways. Sometimes my health gets in the way. Sometimes all I can offer is a listening ear, a kind word, or something as simple as a drink of water on a hot day. I don't think the size of the kindness matters nearly as much as the willingness to give it without expecting anything in return.

Maybe the world has changed since then, or maybe I've simply noticed it more as I've gotten older, but sometimes it feels like we've forgotten what it means to be neighbours. We seem quicker to judge than to help, quicker to argue than to understand, and quicker to persecute than to offer a helping hand. I hope I'm wrong.

I hope there are still far more good neighbours than we hear about. After all, kindness has never been very good at making headlines. It usually happens quietly, when no one is watching. That's the point of kindness, isn't it? You do what's right because it's the right thing to do, not because anyone is watching or because you expect something in return.

Looking back now, I realize Dad wasn't just talking about the people who came to that dance. Without knowing it, he was showing me the kind of person he hoped I would become, and I've carried that lesson with me ever since.

I still believe being a good neighbour is one of the best things a person can be.

A good neighbour helps because someone needs help. If that kindness comes back one day, that's a blessing. If it doesn't, it was still the right thing to do. 

 

The Principle I Learned

A good neighbour helps because someone needs help.

• Be kind.

• Be honest.

• Listen before judging.

• Help when you can.

• Expect nothing in return.

• Appreciate the people around you.

• Forgive whenever possible.

• Respect our differences.

• Share what you have.

• Leave the world a little better than you found it.

 

A Month of Memories

June has been such a strange month, full of routines and surprises. Strangely enough, until I sat down to look through everything that happened and everything I accomplished, I hadn't realized just how busy it had been. June felt almost ordinary. Looking back, though, I can see that it was anything but.

Some months announce themselves with big milestones. June didn't do that. Instead, it quietly filled itself with moments that mattered. Looking over my notes, these are the things that stand out most.

One of the happiest moments was having my daughter and son-in-law join GD#1 and me at Aquafit. I've been going since January, and it has become an important part of my routine. The fact that they wanted to be there with me made it even more special.

Not every memorable moment was a pleasant one. I had two adrenaline-filled experiences this month. The first was when someone started a fire outside my apartment window that could easily have become much worse. The second was witnessing someone suffer a full-body seizure in the parking lot. I realized just how long it had been since I had seen a seizure that close, and I didn't handle it as well as I would have liked.

Physically, June was a month of highs and lows. The high came during my appointment with my doctor when my A1C results and the rest of my blood work came back normal. I also managed to stay under 200 pounds, reaching 196 pounds and holding there for two weeks. The low came after a fall following Aquafit that sent me to the hospital. Fortunately, I escaped with bruises and no damage to my spine, which had been my greatest concern. Before heading home, my family suggested we stop at Crumbl to celebrate the fact that things could have been so much worse. It was my first visit there, and somehow sharing cookies together became a quiet reminder that even difficult days can still end with gratitude.

Mentally, June has given me plenty to think about. I've spent time reflecting on both my past and my present while also dealing with periods of fatigue and some unsettling memory lapses. Dementia runs through the women in my family, so those moments naturally catch my attention. For now, I am choosing to notice them without jumping to conclusions, while continuing to pay attention to how I'm doing.

Creatively, June may have been one of my most productive months. I began reconstructing memories from my past, piecing together photographs and documents to preserve stories before they fade. I also started building something entirely new: my Creative Reference Library. As a visual learner, I wanted a place to collect colour palettes, design notes, templates, reminders, and creative tools that I can return to whenever I need them. It already feels like something that will grow alongside everything else I create.

June also marked a change in direction for my writing. I renamed my blog and began shaping the larger idea that has been quietly growing for months: Everyday Threads. More and more, I find myself drawn to the ordinary moments that are easy to overlook but deserve to be remembered. Watching my autistic grandson graduate from high school, seeing my daughter, son-in-law, and GS#2 receiving awards
for what they contribute to special needs hockey in Peterborough, quiet moments with family over cookies, small personal victories—these are the threads I want to keep.

Looking back, I realize June became a month of collecting. Collecting memories. Collecting ordinary moments. Collecting evidence that life is often richer than it feels while we're living it.

That feels like the perfect place to begin July.

This month's theme is Freedom and Play. I've created another set of personal challenges built around four ideas: Capture, Savour, Wander, and Create. I've also added a fifth challenge called Feel Free, celebrating freedom, joy, curiosity, and independence.

Since today is Canada Day, it seems like the perfect beginning. Not because every day will be exciting, but because I want to spend this month looking for small adventures, making room for play, and reminding myself that freedom isn't always found in big events. Sometimes it's found in simply saying yes to an ordinary day.

May — Things I Don't Want to Forget

When I sat down to think about May, I wasn't trying to write a review. I was trying to make a list of things I didn't want to forget. I expected to find two or three standout moments. Instead, I found page after page of memories. There were a few rough days, as there always are, but what surprised me most was how many good days were hiding in the month when I looked back.

 

Physically, I am doing very well. My blood sugar and blood pressure both moved into the normal range, at least according to my doctor. Aquafit has become part of my life rather than something I'm trying to establish. This week I completed almost an entire class without using the wall for balance support. I have established a 5,000-step baseline and reached almost double that on several occasions. My weight has remained steady at 196 pounds all month. Perhaps the most visible reminder came when I tried on a medium dress that I was sure wouldn't fit. It did, and comfortably.

The numbers only tell part of the story, though. More than once this month I caught myself noticing something that hasn't come easily in a long time: I was happy. Not every day and not all day, but often enough to notice. There is a bounce in my step that has been missing for years. Music has started finding its way back into my days. I laugh more. I sing more. One of the things that made me happiest was watching Nessa ( my daughter) decide to try Aquafit herself. Part of me is proud that my example may have helped, but mostly I am proud that she wants to take steps toward better health too.

Creativity found its way back into my life as well. I continued writing this blog, creating Pinterest content, working in my daybook, and began retraining some long-neglected visual design skills. The skills were rusty, but not nearly as rusty as I feared. It felt less like learning something new and more like returning to something familiar. There were moments of frustration, but there were also moments when I remembered that I knew more than I thought I did.

Not everything was easy. There were worries about people I care about, difficult conversations, and reminders that compassion and responsibility are not the same thing. I spent time looking at old patterns and old stories. At times I slipped back into habits I thought I had left behind. The difference this time was that I didn't stay there. When I look back at May, I don't see a happy month or a difficult month. I see a month where movement returned. A month where life felt a little bigger than recovery. And that's something I don't want to forget.

So I am stepping into June with gratitude for what May gave me. Not because everything was perfect, but because it reminded me that life can be bigger than recovery. June's theme is Summer Threads, and over the coming weeks I hope to collect small pieces of summer the same way I collected small victories in May—one ordinary day at a time.

Looking Back, Not Staying

"I looked back, but I didn't move backward."

 
There are times I look back at my life and go what the hell? We are what we were raised to be even when we fight against the things we went through ourselves. We either emulate what we knew growing up or we do everything in our power to go in the opposite direction. Either way we are shaped by it. We carry pieces of it with us whether we want to or not.

For myself there are memories I keep and others I avoid as much as possible, but lately some things from my younger years have been making their way back into my thoughts. Certain decisions I made in my twenties have come back around and I have found myself responding to them differently than I did then. Some of that is simply lessons learned. Some of it is pain given and received without closure. Either way I have been looking back more than usual.

Part of that happened because my family and I have started looking seriously at leaving Peterborough and moving somewhere healthier for us mentally and physically. We have been looking toward the Niagara region and trying to think about what that might actually look like. Funny thing though, before we could really think about where we were going, I ended up looking at where I had been.

When my kids were little we lived in Housing for about a year and a half. There was damage to the kitchen after a pipe burst one winter and after that I seemed to get turned down every time I applied for housing. I never really knew why. I always assumed I owed money and I thought I had taken care of it years ago when I paid off old debts after my dad passed away. Still, I never checked. The denial simply became a fact in my head. It became one of those things I just accepted as true.

Now that I am sixty-five and considering another move I thought I would ask. It turns out I had paid the arrears and Housing had no record of me owing anything. There was a note saying money had once been owed but nothing outstanding. I was encouraged to apply again and I cannot even explain how much relief I felt hearing that.

What struck me afterwards was realizing that I had carried that around for years. I had accepted it without questioning it because I thought I already knew the answer. Looking back did not change the past, but it did change the story I had been telling myself.

I think I have been doing that in other areas too. I switched Pinterest to a business account because I was curious if anything I was doing was connecting with people and I discovered the Things I'm Learning series has been getting a lot more attention than I expected. I was surprised by that because while I enjoy creating pins, the truth is they are part of how I cope with things and work through them.

The poetry has been harder. Those poems came out of one of the most difficult periods of my life and sometimes working through them means revisiting things I would rather leave alone. Still, each time I finish a set of pins for one of the poems I feel a little lighter. I am dealing with difficult things, but they are reminders of what was, not what is.

I also found myself explaining some things to my granddaughter that I had never really explained before. Not because I wanted to excuse anyone, but because understanding where someone came from sometimes explains why I protect them so fiercely.

Even my weekend away ended up teaching me something. I realized how much I dislike feeling managed or directed around as though I cannot make my own choices. What surprised me wasn't that I felt irritated. It was realizing how strongly I felt it. Maybe that says something too. 

On the brighter side I spent time wandering through stationery stores and walking around a historical part of Toronto. I walked much more easily than I expected. My feet got tired and sore but nothing else did. I knew the YMCA classes were helping, but I had not realized just how much they were helping. I also got to share that time with family this week and it turned out to be unexpectedly fun.

So much happened this week that I kept trying to figure out how to put it into some kind of order, but maybe it is simpler than I thought. I looked back at routines that drifted, old doubts, family pain and old emotions. I kept the parts that helped and carried them forward.

I looked back, but I didn't stay there.

I continued moving.

I continued creating.

I continued showing up.

What Stayed -What I Chose to Keep

 

The theme of May is nostalgia and memory. I chose it because Mother’s Day is this month, and while working through my poetry, my mother appeared once again, bringing with her something I had not fully realized before. A part of me that is also her.

We shared a history that women of neither generation openly acknowledged or talked about. I wish that silence had passed with time, but it hasn’t. There is a statistic I have remembered for years, one that still makes me terribly sad. One in three women will experience sexual violence in their lifetime. It is called many things, but when it happens to a child, it is still violence. It is still a violation.

 I have five granddaughters. Statistically, two or three of them may experience or has experienced some form of that harm in their lives. That thought weighs heavily on me sometimes.

I am not entirely sure why this is where my mind went tonight. This week was supposed to be about “what stayed,” and at first all I could think about was mental pain. Maybe it is because this is Mental Health Month. Maybe it is because memory does not separate itself neatly into pleasant and unpleasant things. Our memories are often built from the moments that shaped us most deeply, and for many women those are not always happy memories.

What happened changes you. I know that now. It changed my mother. It changed me. It changed my daughter. Trauma leaves behind fear, anger, shame, and mistrust that can touch nearly every part of life if we let it.

For a long time I believed that was the only thing that stayed.

But as I kept writing, I realized something else stayed too.

Compassion stayed.

I often say that I do not know how to love properly, but people tell me I have a big heart. What I understand best is compassion — recognizing the pain in others because I know what pain feels like myself.

 I try to listen more than I speak. I try not to judge people too quickly because I know how much hidden suffering people carry. I give hugs instead of harsh words whenever I can. Sometimes my words still come out wrong, and when they do I think about it for hours afterward because I genuinely do not want to hurt anyone.

 My father used to call helping others because you can “being a good neighbour.” That stayed too.

So did determination.

People have called me stubborn all my life, but I think much of that stubbornness is really resilience. I decided long ago that I would never live only as a victim of what happened to me. Life has given me many setbacks, including cancer, but somehow I have continued moving forward through all of them.

And maybe that is part of what stayed as well — the refusal to let suffering make me cruel.

I remember when I told CAS about what had happened to my daughter. My mother was scandalized by it, but my daughter protected her own daughter fiercely from experiencing the same thing. That matters to me. The silence did not continue unchanged. Something shifted between generations, even if imperfectly.

That realization may be the most important thing I have learned.

We are not our history.

Our experiences shape us, yes. They leave marks. They influence how we move through the world. But history does not have to repeat itself forever, and pain does not have to consume every corner of our lives.

We still have choices.

 I may not always be able to prevent painful things from happening, but I can choose what I do afterward. I can seek counseling. I can learn coping strategies. I can remind myself that what happened was not my fault. I can remember that I am not alone in suffering and that I do not have to spend the rest of my life trapped inside old pain.

What stayed was not only hurt.

Compassion stayed.
Resilience stayed.
Choice stayed.

And after everything, I still want to be kind.

A Bit of a Shift This Week

Bit of a shift this week. I’m experiencing SAD symptoms even though it’s no longer winter, which is making today’s writing difficult.

I did manage quite a bit after hearing from the radiologist that there is no recurrence of the cancer. Even so, it took me about a week to return to most of my usual routines. During that time, I spent a lot of it working with ChatGPT on pins for my Pinterest boards. I uploaded Awakening and Becoming Visible from Currents of Becoming a poetry book I’ve been planning and added a couple more lists to “Things I’m Learning.”

 

I also started a new board that I still can’t name in any coherent way. It began as Grandmacore (Grammacore), inspired by a set of pins that felt connected to the values I grew up with. An article called Grandma’s Rules really sparked things, and I spent time turning those ideas into pins and building the board around them.

When I stepped back, though, I could see it had drifted off brand. I tend to prefer soft watercolor and pastel tones, but these pins leaned heavily into sepia. It works for a vintage feel, just not the one I was aiming for.

I tried again using my May palette—cream, blush, and moss green. I liked the look, but I still couldn’t find a clear direction. The board seemed to want to be too many things at once. In the end, I hid it and stepped away. If I can’t find cohesion, I’ll likely take it apart and reuse what I can elsewhere.

One thing that did come out of it was experimenting with images. I tried recreating my living room setup and ran into trouble describing a wall hanging my daughter gave me. Uploading a photo instead made a big difference. The first result stayed very true to the space and surprised me. The ones after that were decent, just not as strong.

 

Yesterday I tried using photos from my trip to the Y. Those didn’t work as well, mostly because the photos themselves weren’t great. I’m planning to try again and be more intentional about what I take. I’m not even sure where I’d use them yet, but I’m curious to see what happens.

I walked to the Y yesterday morning for my swim class. I ran out of energy about halfway through but kept going. It was my own doing—I forgot to eat before I left. Even having a grilled cheese after class didn't help. I still needed a ride home and ended up taking a nap. A reminder that with diabetes, regular meals really aren’t optional.

I’ve also been thinking about the people I see around me. Living where I do, most of what I see is Caucasian, with some Indigenous presence. Being French Canadian, I’ve always thought of myself as mixed, though it’s a bit more layered than that. My mother was English with Black ancestry, and my father was White and Indigenous.

It’s an unusual mix, but it has its advantages. I’m 65 and don’t look much over 50—aside from the hair, which shifts between silver and white depending on the day. Slight side step there but matches the way my mind is working today.

It also leads into May, which brings Mother’s Day and a pull toward memory and nostalgia. I’ll likely write more about nostalgia. Memory tends to live in my poetry. Nostalgia, for me, is about continuity—the things I learned and valued growing up, especially the parts that lead back to my mother.

 

If this kind of reflection resonates with you, you’re welcome to follow along. I’ll be leaning into nostalgia and continuity as we move into May. For now, I’m taking this as a week of small returns—to routine, to energy, and maybe to a few things I thought I’d left behind.

Learning Not to Fix Everything

This week didn’t go the way I expected. Not in any dramatic way—just small things. A thread stalled, a tool didn’t behave the way it used to, and I found myself sitting with a question I couldn’t quite answer about friendship. Nothing big, just enough friction to notice.

 

And that’s where this week seemed to settle. Not in fixing anything, but in paying attention to how I respond when things don’t go the way I expect. It turned out to be less about solving problems and more about noticing my habits around them.

I noticed how quickly I want things to work properly. The system should behave, the routine should hold, and the plan should still fit. When that didn’t happen, my first instinct was the same as always: figure it out, adjust it, fix it.

But this week offered something quieter. Sometimes the answer was to refresh, restart, or simply let it go. Not everything needs a workaround, and not everything needs my full attention.

At one point, I caught myself thinking I had lost momentum. It felt like I had somehow undone the progress I made earlier this year, like the routines I built in January and February had slipped out of my hands. But looking at it now, that’s not what actually happened.

My system didn’t fail—it shifted. My energy dropped, my focus narrowed, and the things that usually matter stopped feeling important. Not because I’m weak, but because something in me didn’t feel safe.

 

Fear has a way of settling in quietly. It doesn’t always show up as panic; sometimes it’s just a steady “what if” sitting in the background. Once that thought is there, everything else slows down whether I want it to or not.

There were different kinds of days this week, and they didn’t all feel the same. There were flare days, where the pain came back louder than I expected, and foggy days, where I couldn’t focus long enough to stay with anything. There were also what I’ve started thinking of as waiting days—where the best thing I could do was keep things gentle and let time pass.

None of those days looked productive in the usual sense. But they weren’t useless either, even if they didn’t give me anything I could point to at the end of the day.

I saw the same pattern showing up in other places too. I started looking at travel—what it might take to go somewhere a little farther from home. For a moment, it turned into something big, complicated, and expensive, something that didn’t fit my life at all.

So I stepped back and changed the shape of the idea. What I’m working toward now isn’t one big trip, but something smaller and more manageable. One simple trip, something close, something I can actually follow through on without it becoming overwhelming.

The same thing came up in how I help people. I’ve been offering water and a snack at my window, nothing formal, just something I can do. At first, I found myself thinking about how to make it better—what else I could add, what would make it more helpful.

But what I’m learning is that keeping it simple matters more than trying to improve it. Something to drink, something to eat, something steady. That’s enough, especially if it means I can keep doing it without wearing myself out.

Even in quieter moments, the same idea kept showing up. I found myself thinking about what a “friend” really is, not in a heavy way, just as a quiet check-in with myself. What I realized is that I might not be missing people as much as I’m missing a certain kind of connection.

Something steady, easy, and known. That’s different from having nothing at all—it just means what I have doesn’t quite match what I expected it to feel like.

There’s a pattern here I’m starting to recognize. When something doesn’t work, when something doesn’t fit, or when something feels off, my instinct is to fix it right away. I want to make it better, smoother, or more complete.

But this week offered a different option. Let the broken thread stay broken, let the unused thing stay unused, and let the question sit without a full answer. Not everything needs to be resolved to be okay.

 

By the end of the week, something small shifted. I don’t need everything to work perfectly to keep moving forward. Sometimes it’s enough to notice what’s happening, choose the simplest response, and leave the rest alone.

That might not feel like progress, but it is a kind of steadiness.

And right now, that’s enough.

Going Anyway

 Not what I planned. But I didn’t turn back.

I’ve been thinking about this whole “small adventures” idea, and I don’t think it looks the way people expect it to. It’s not big outings or full days planned out. Most of the time, it’s me standing in my kitchen trying to decide if I’m actually going to leave the house or not.

This week, I did.

The plan was to go to the Wednesday Farmers Market. Easy enough. Fifteen-minute walk, nothing complicated. I talked myself into it, got out the door, walked all the way down there… and it turns out there is no Wednesday market anymore. I just stood there for a minute thinking, well… now what.

 

That would have been a perfectly good excuse to turn around and go home, and I was tempted. But I’d already done the hard part—the getting out the door part—so I kept going. I crossed the bridge into East City, stopped at Tim’s for a few minutes to rest, and then carried on to the spa where GD#1 works to check out those shower steamers she mentioned.

From there I went into Foodland to pick up the groceries I’d meant to get at the market. Not what I planned, but it worked. After that I wandered a bit along Hunter Street, half-looking for a bus stop and half just seeing what was around me. I didn’t find the bus stop, but I did find a Vinnies, so I went in to warm up for a few minutes.

By then I could feel I was done. Not the good tired—the kind where you know you’re pushing it. So I listened to that and called a Y-Drive to get home. And honestly, I was pretty proud of that whole thing. Not because it was big, but because I didn’t quit when the first plan fell apart.

The only picture I took was from the bridge by Quaker Oats. I’d hoped to find a path along the water on our side, but it’s all fenced off now. Still, standing there for a minute, looking out over the river, it felt like I’d actually gone somewhere.

Good Friday was a quieter version of the same idea. I took a longer loop instead of going straight to Jeff Purvey’s—Park to Dalhousie, onto the bike path, around through Townsend and Rubidge. I got there, stood in line for a bit, and nothing was moving. I could feel my energy dropping, so I left and ordered fish and chips instead.

On the way back, though, I ran into Larry and stood there talking with him for a few minutes. Nothing big, just a bit of conversation, but it broke up the walk in a good way. He’s been moved somewhere better, which I’m glad about. He’s getting older now—not as old as me, but getting close.

 

Then Monday came around and I went to Aquafit. Before we even got into the pool, I ended up in a conversation in the change room while we were getting ready. Just a few minutes, nothing important, but those small bits of talking seem to matter more than you think they will.

After class, I went home, rested for a bit, and later in the afternoon I walked down to Brookside Plaza to check out the new Salvation Army. I didn’t need anything—I just wanted to see it. That’s kind of what all of this is, I think. Not big plans, not big energy, just a bit of curiosity and a willingness to go anyway.

When I look at the week, it doesn’t look like much. A couple of walks, a class, a few short conversations. But it doesn’t feel small. It feels like I’m not stuck in the same way.

And if you’re dealing with the same kind of stuff I am—low energy, pain that comes and goes, days where everything feels heavier than it should—you don’t need big adventures. You just need something. Something that gets you out the door and gives you a moment where you’re not just sitting in it. That’s enough.

This week, I’m thinking about trying the bus. I’ve got the pass, and I keep looking at it like I’m waiting for the “right” plan. I might just go to the terminal and get on whatever bus comes first. That idea makes me a little uncomfortable, which probably means it’s a good one.

🌸Spring Emerging

This is the last post for March, and spring has started to show up in small ways.

I saw a robin at the beginning of the month. This week, the geese came back. Now I’m waiting for the buds and the dandelions.

 

It doesn’t happen all at once.

And I think that’s what this month has been like for me too.

When I started this series, I didn’t expect it to be this hard—or this revealing. I thought I would see progress clearly, something I could point to and name.

But what I’m noticing instead is quieter than that.

The days don’t feel quite as heavy. There are moments where my energy lifts just enough for me to notice it.

Not a big change.
Just something beginning.

This month didn’t go the way I planned.

I thought I could handle more—two Aquafit classes, a couple of studio classes—but it didn’t take long to realize I wasn’t there yet. One week of that was enough to put me out of commission for the next.

So I adjusted.

By the end of February and into March, I was down to one class a week.

Not what I wanted—but something I could actually sustain.

And it worked.

I kept going. I learned the routines. I started to feel a little stronger. It got easier to move around the house.

More importantly, I showed up.

Every week. Even on the days I didn’t feel like it. Even on the days where I spent more time arguing with myself than getting ready.

I still went.

And somewhere along the way, that started to matter more than how much I was doing.

It’s only been three months, but something has shifted.

 

Not in a big, obvious way. But enough that I can feel it.

I’m a little stronger. I have more energy around the house. Things that felt impossible a few months ago don’t feel quite as heavy now.

My blood sugar and blood pressure are slowly coming down. The pain days and low days are still there—but not as often.

And I’m learning.

I’m getting better at reading my body. Knowing when to keep going and when to stop. Accepting that just because my mind wants to push doesn’t mean my body can.

That alone has made a difference.

But the biggest change hasn’t been physical.

It’s been the arguing.

For months, every class meant hours of back and forth in my head. By the time I got there, I was already worn out.

I still showed up. But it was hard.

Somewhere around the equinox, that started to shift.

I decided I was done with the fight.

I’m going to that class. Once a week. That’s it.

And without that constant argument, everything feels a little lighter.

Not easy. Just easier.

March always carries a certain weight for me.

My mother’s birthday falls near the end of the month, and even now, years later, I find myself remembering. The sadness has softened, but the reflection is still there.

We were just beginning to repair our relationship when she passed. I didn’t understand then what my father meant when he said we were too much alike.

I understand it now.

When I think about endurance, I don’t think about pushing harder anymore. I think about staying. About continuing, even when things aren’t ideal, even when the pace is slow.

That kind of steadiness matters more to me now than effort for the sake of effort.

The equinox felt like a turning point—not because anything suddenly changed, but because I made a decision.

I’m done fighting with myself.

I will show up. Once a week. That’s enough.

And for the first time in a long time, I’m actually proud of that.

As March comes to a close, I’m not starting over.

I’m choosing what comes with me.

I’m carrying forward what I’ve learned about my limits—how to work within them instead of against them.

I’m keeping the consistency. One class a week. Movement where I can.

I’m continuing to learn—about my body, how I think, and even small things like French and the programs I use every day.

What I’m not carrying forward is the constant self-doubt.

I’m not arguing with myself every time I need to leave the house. I’m not expecting perfection. And I’m not measuring progress by how much I can do in a day.

That hasn’t worked.

What does work is steadiness.

Right now, I feel more stable than I have in a long time. Not perfect—but steady enough to build on.

And that’s what I want to protect.

With the ice and snow receding, I find myself wanting to be outside more.

I may not be ready for more than one class a week, but walking is different. It’s something I can do at my own pace.

So for April, I’m keeping things simple.

I’ll continue with my weekly class, and maybe add a second—Chairfit, Tai Chi, or yoga. Nothing fixed yet, just options.

Alongside that, I want to move outward a little more.

I’ve been collecting ideas for small adventures—things I can do close to home, at my own pace. Not all at once. Just something to look forward to.

Walking. Exploring. Taking photos again.

Those are things I used to enjoy.

And they feel like a good place to begin again.

Not with pressure.
Just with curiosity.

 

This month didn’t give me a clear result.

What it gave me was something quieter.

A better understanding of what I can sustain. A little more strength. A little less resistance.

Spring doesn’t arrive all at once.

It shows up in small ways.

And right now, that’s where I am too.

Not starting over.
Just beginning to unfold.