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.

🌸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.

🌱 Steady Growth

🌱 Steady Growth

I didn’t think this week was steady.

After effort, I expected steadiness to feel clearer. More structured. More predictable—something I could recognize right away. I had a plan for this month: one class per week, a 5-minute minimum movement rule, protein after classes, prep day consistency, and a weekly reflection entry. Small inputs, visible progress.

And in many ways, those pieces were there. I showed up. Not perfectly, not in a straight line, but often enough to count. The 5-minute rule held, even on the harder days. I made it to class. I moved regularly. I followed through in small ways that don’t look like much on their own, but add up when repeated.

What steady looked like, it turns out, was not dramatic.

It looked like writing things down so my thoughts didn’t loop endlessly in my head, and paying attention to what I was thinking so I could understand it, and then returning to the plan after a rough patch instead of letting everything fall apart.

It looked like showing up to movement in small ways. A walk through my building. A bit of housework. Not much, but done consistently—even on the days when I didn’t feel well. It looked like getting to the YMCA regularly, even while the home portion of my routine is still in flux.

It looked like feeding myself, even if it isn’t structured yet. A vegetable platter. A protein drink. Simple, but intentional.

It also looked like things I might have overlooked before. Continuing to read. Learning French for a trip later this year. Staying curious in small ways, even after thinking I had lost that part of myself.

And maybe most importantly, it looked like protecting recovery—something that doesn’t always feel like progress, but without it, there would be none.

Even with all of that, this week didn’t feel steady.

It felt like one mishap after another. Starts and stops. Things not quite lining up the way I expected them to. At times it was frustrating, especially when something simple became more complicated than it should have been.

Tai chi was one of those moments. What looked like a single movement turned into several, and I couldn’t quite follow it. I could have kept trying, but this week didn’t feel like the right place to push through that kind of friction.

There are also areas that still aren’t settled. Eating is consistent in quality, but not in routine. The home side of my movement plan is still shifting as I try to find something that works.

And underlying all of it is the awareness that this isn’t optional. Protecting recovery isn’t a preference—it’s necessary. Without it, there’s a real risk of losing ground in a way that would be much harder to rebuild.

So no, it didn’t feel steady.

And yet, the evidence points in a different direction.

I did go to Aquafit this week. I ate well. I moved regularly. I kept up with my French lessons each day. The 5-minute minimum held, even on the harder days. Not dramatic wins, but consistent ones.

There were smaller moments too. Getting up and going to babysit, even with a sore arm. Choosing to do something rather than nothing. Showing up in ways that would have felt out of reach a few months ago.

Some things are also getting easier. Not effortless, but easier. Getting up and moving instead of staying still all day, which is where I was in December. That shift alone is not small.

So while this week didn’t feel steady, it followed a pattern that is.

And that may be the point.

 I’m not sure I would have called this week steady.

But looking at it now, I’m not sure I would call it anything else.

Maybe steady isn’t about how a week feels while I’m in it, but something that shows up in the patterns that hold—even when everything else feels uneven.

Show up. Adjust. Continue.

Not perfectly. Not all at once. Just often enough, and long enough, for something to begin taking shape.

Maybe that’s what steady growth looks like.

🚶‍♀️GENTLE Endurance

Living with Fibromyalgia changes how endurance has to be understood. It isn’t about pushing harder or going farther. It is about learning how to move through everyday life in a way that respects the limits of the body while still allowing room for growth.

Gentle endurance is built slowly. It shows up in small choices: pacing a walk by time instead of distance, leaving an activity before fatigue turns into a flare, and returning to things again and again until the body gradually adapts. The progress can be quiet and sometimes almost invisible, but it is still progress.

This post looks at what endurance means in day-to-day life when energy is limited. Not heroic effort, but steady resilience. The goal is not to prove strength in a single moment, but to build a rhythm of activity and recovery that allows life to keep expanding, even if the pace has to stay slow.

Training With Limited Energy

To understand how this works in real life, it helps to start with the question of what my current baseline actually looks like.

Living with limited energy means the first step is understanding what a sustainable baseline actually looks like. My current baseline is fairly simple. Monday is Aquafit. Tuesday I am usually waiting for deliveries, so I walk through the building a few times during the day. Wednesday tends to be mental effort rather than physical because it is posting day for the blog. Thursday is supposed to be Chair Fit, although sometimes the effort from Wednesday leaves me too foggy to attend. Friday is a rest day. Saturday is a catch-up day which usually means more mental work than physical activity. Sunday was originally meant for longer walks such as charity walks, though so far that has not worked out and it has become another rest day.

That schedule may not look like much from the outside, but it represents something important: it is sustainable. Living with chronic illness means learning that endurance does not begin with ambitious goals. It begins with a routine that the body can repeat week after week without triggering a flare. Once a baseline exists, small adjustments can be made, but the foundation always remains the same — working with the body rather than against it.

Endurance as Pacing, Not Pushing

One of the hardest lessons to learn is that endurance does not come from pushing harder. Often it has the opposite effect. When I exceed my limits the signs are fairly clear. Sometimes it begins with fibro fog. Other times the first signal is pain in my upper back and shoulders, which is where the worst of the damage from the original injury occurred. If I ignore those signals, the flare can spread into my arms, lower back, and legs and can leave me unable to do much of anything for a day or sometimes several days.

Because of that, my rule is simple: no heroic sessions. Even if I feel good on a particular day, I try not to push beyond what I have already scheduled. The temptation is always there to do more when the energy is present, but experience has taught me that borrowing energy from tomorrow usually results in paying for it later. Pacing is what allows endurance to grow. Staying within the limits of what my body can handle today makes it possible to show up again tomorrow.

Measuring Movement by Time, Not Distance

One of the practical changes I have made is measuring movement by time rather than distance. Distance can be misleading because it does not take into account weather, icy sidewalks, fatigue, or how the body is feeling on a particular day. Time, on the other hand, is easier to manage.

For example, my current cap is twenty minutes out and twenty minutes back. That amount of time is manageable and gives me a clear boundary. Recently I tested that by walking from my daughter’s place to Lansdowne Place, which is roughly a twenty-minute walk. The goal was not to see how far I could go, but simply to stay within the time limit and see how my body responded. I was able to complete the walk there and spend some time inside the mall, but I chose to get a ride home rather than push the return walk.

That decision might not look impressive, but it represents a different way of thinking about endurance. The goal is not to prove how much I can do. The goal is to build consistency and avoid the setbacks that come from exceeding my limits.

 Learning the Difference Between Growth and Flare Warnings

Another important part of building endurance is learning the difference between growth discomfort and the warning signs of a flare. The two can feel similar at first, but they are not the same.

Growth discomfort tends to feel like general fatigue. It is often an all-body tiredness that makes me want to sit down and rest for a while, but it usually fades within a few hours. A flare, on the other hand, has a very specific pattern. It usually begins in my upper back where the original injury occurred. From there it spreads into my shoulders and arms, making them feel heavy and sore. In more severe cases it moves into my lower back and legs and can leave me unable to do much until it settles down.

The fatigue that comes with growth is mild compared to the fibro fog that develops during a flare. Growth discomfort passes relatively quickly, while a flare tends to build and last much longer. Learning to recognize the difference has been essential because it allows me to continue expanding my activity without accidentally triggering setbacks.

Expanding Slowly Without Spiking

The best example of gradual expansion for me has been my Aquafit class. When I first started, I tried to do the entire class and paid for it with a flare that lasted the rest of the week. After that I began paying closer attention to the signals my body was giving me. If the class started to feel like too much, I would leave early rather than pushing through.

Over time something interesting happened: week by week I was able to stay in the class a little longer without triggering a flare. Eventually I could complete the full class. Once the basic exercises became easier, I started focusing on the combination movements that had originally been difficult. Recently I managed to complete one of those combinations and it felt fluid — not easy, but much more doable than it was at the beginning.

That experience has shown me that endurance really can grow if it is given the right conditions. Progress may be slow, but it is real. Expanding gradually instead of spiking activity allows the body to adapt, and that steady adaptation is what makes long-term endurance possible.

Endurance Beyond Exercise

Endurance in my life is not limited to exercise. It shows up in many other parts of daily living. Socially, for example, I have been working on something that has never come easily to me. I have been shy most of my life and rarely spoke to people I didn’t know. A few years ago I started making a small effort to change that by simply saying hello to people I passed on the street. It was a small step, but over time it became easier. I can now have short conversations with people I meet, even if they only last five or ten minutes. It may not seem like much, but it represents progress.

Mental endurance has also been part of this journey. Living with several chronic conditions has required learning a certain amount of mental toughness. Over the years I have had to face breast cancer, fibromyalgia, and now the ongoing work of managing blood sugar and blood pressure. Each of those required adapting to new realities and finding ways to keep moving forward.

Emotionally, endurance has meant learning how to set boundaries and not allow other people’s words or opinions to take up too much space inside my head. That lesson took time and practice, but it has helped me become stronger and more confident in my beliefs.

Looking back, I realize I have come a long way from the shy twenty-one-year-old single mother I once was. The progress may have been slow, but slow progress is still progress. Endurance, whether physical, mental, or emotional, grows in the same way: one small step at a time, repeated often enough to become a life.

If this reflection resonated with you, you’re welcome to follow the blog.
New posts in the Protect Recovery series appear each week in March.
If there are topics you would find useful, feel free to leave a comment and I will try to explore them in future posts.

🌿Protecting Recovery

March has a theme for me: Recovery is not a reward. It is part of the program.

 

That idea sounds simple when written on a page, but living it is something else entirely. For a long time I treated recovery like a break you earned after doing the real work. Push hard, finish the task, then rest afterward if you had to. That approach worked well enough before fibromyalgia entered the picture. With fibromyalgia, it doesn’t.

What I’m learning slowly is that recovery isn’t something that happens after the work. Recovery is part of the work. Protecting it is what makes everything else possible.

Since January I’ve been experimenting with what recovery actually looks like in my real life. Not the textbook version, but the daily version. The one that shows up when I’m deciding whether to go to class, whether to walk to the YMCA, or whether today needs to be a heating-pad and stretching kind of day.

Some patterns are beginning to appear.

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Learning to Read Pain Instead of Fighting It

For most of my life pain meant one thing: something to push through.

If something hurt, the answer was simple. Work harder. Ignore it. Finish what you started. That mindset worked for many years, but it doesn’t work very well with fibromyalgia.

One of the biggest shifts I’m trying to make now is learning to treat pain differently. Instead of treating it like an obstacle, I’m learning to treat it like information.

That doesn’t mean it feels helpful. Most days it still feels like an interruption. But when I look honestly at the pattern of my flare-ups, I can see that ignoring the signals is usually what leads to the crash cycle. The harder I push through, the more my body pushes back later.

I often find myself overriding those signals anyway. Fighting my own mind gets quite exhausting sometimes. One day it tells me “You can do more. You did once. You can do it again.” The next day it says “Are you nuts? This is too much.” Both voices sound convincing when they show up.

But the lesson keeps repeating itself.

Pain is not an obstacle, even though it often feels like one. Pain is information. It’s my body’s way of saying that something needs attention. Learning to listen to that message is becoming part of protecting my recovery.

 

I’m also discovering that listening requires a level of body awareness I haven’t always had. Sometimes the signals are obvious, like pain in my shoulders or back. Other times they show up as fogginess, headaches, or just the sense that my energy is draining faster than usual.

There has been a disconnect between my body’s reactions and my mind’s ability to notice them. Rebuilding that connection is part of the process. Recently I came across something called somatic tracking, which encourages paying calm, curious attention to body sensations instead of reacting to them with fear or frustration. The idea is not to force the sensation away but simply to observe it and remind yourself that you are safe.

It’s a small practice, but it fits with what I’m learning. If recovery is going to be protected, I need to become better at noticing what my body is trying to tell me.

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Discovering the Pattern

Since January I’ve been actively experimenting with what works for me.

Right now the pattern that seems to work best is one day of activity followed by one or two recovery days. It’s not the rhythm I would have chosen, but it’s the rhythm my body seems willing to cooperate with.

February was a good reminder of why this matters. External busyness can easily disrupt the balance. When I try to do more because things look manageable in the moment, the effects usually show up later as fatigue or increased pain.

What I’m learning is that consistency matters more than ambition.

 

In February I attended about two YMCA classes per week. It wasn’t the increase I had hoped for, but it was steady. And steady counts.

For March I’m hoping to attempt three classes per week and include the walk to and from the YMCA, while continuing to monitor how my body responds. I also plan to participate in two walking events: a small march for International Women’s Day and a longer walk I’ve been using as a 5K test.

Even as I write that, I can see that the plan itself is part of the experiment. Will I manage the whole distance or do I need more practice? I suspect it will be the latter, and that’s fine. Recovery for me right now means continuing trial and error.

It means treating pain and fatigue as information and keeping track of what I’ve done so I can see the patterns more clearly. It means resting when things get too bad instead of pushing until total collapse like I did in February.

Recovery is not about doing nothing. It’s about maintaining a rhythm that allows progress to happen without triggering a crash cycle.

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Protecting Capacity Before Expanding It

Of course, the goal isn’t to stay exactly where I am.

I would like to expand my capacity over time. Ideally I would move toward needing only one recovery day between activity days. Not because I want to push through pain, but because I want to gradually build endurance.

But growth only works if recovery is protected first.

 

The 5K walk I’ve been thinking about is a good example. When I first imagined it, I didn’t factor in the distance to and from home. What looked like a 5K quickly turned into six or eight kilometres.

That realization forced me to pause. Not because the goal itself is unreasonable, but because the timing might be.

If I push ahead anyway, I will probably spend the last week of March exactly the way I spent the last week of February — tired, sore, and paying for it afterward.

So the adjustment becomes part of the process. Maybe the walk gets shortened. Maybe it becomes a test of progress rather than a finish line. Adjusting the plan isn’t failure. It’s simply responding to the information my body is giving me.

I’m also experimenting with the idea of making days ten percent gentler. Sometimes that means catching the bus home instead of walking both directions. Sometimes it means using a prepped meal instead of cooking from scratch. Sometimes it simply means lowering my expectations and accepting that I don’t have to do everything on my list.

Small adjustments like that reduce friction. And reducing friction protects capacity.

My goal is not to eliminate pain or fatigue completely. Right now that isn’t realistic. My goal is to build a version of normal that feels steady and sustainable.

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Closing Thoughts

Protecting recovery is turning out to be less about dramatic changes and more about quiet adjustments.

Listening when my body signals that it needs a pause.
Choosing consistency instead of bursts of ambition.
Allowing progress to happen slowly rather than forcing it to happen quickly.

Recovery used to feel like something that interrupted my plans. Now I’m beginning to see it differently. Recovery is what allows the plans to exist in the first place.

If I want to expand what I can do, I have to protect the foundation that supports it. That foundation is recovery.

Slow and steady might not look impressive from the outside, but for me it’s becoming the path toward something much more valuable: a life that feels steady, sustainable, and possible.

 

What I’m Learning About Stabilizing My Days

 

I have begun to notice that if I create a plan sometimes it works and sometimes it doesn't. When it works it includes space to breathe and rest. When it doesn’t, it’s because there is absolutely no structure — or very little.

For a long time, I thought the problem was over-planning
. I assumed that needing structure meant I was trying to control too much. But what I’m starting to see is the opposite. The plans that fail aren’t the structured ones. They’re the vague ones. The hopeful ones. The ones built on the assumption that I’ll “just manage.”

When I leave my days too open, I drift. I underestimate fatigue. I say yes without checking tomorrow’s cost. I end up reacting instead of choosing.

But when I build in shape — not rigidity, just shape — my days feel steadier.

 

Shape looks like this:

A recovery hour placed on purpose.
A walk measured in time instead of distance.
Meal components stored in a way that protects future energy.
Evenings that are intentionally simple.

I realized that if recovery is important, it can’t live in my head — it has to live in my phone. Good intentions aren’t enough. Reminders, alarms, and anchors turn intention into something visible. If it isn’t scheduled, I tend to negotiate it away.

This week, that structure showed up in small ways. I went to class on a day I wasn’t sure I could manage it — and instead of collapsing afterward, I had a protein shake ready and a quiet evening planned. I set up medication reminders so I’m not relying on memory. I placed posture resets into my day instead of hoping I’d remember. None of it is impressive. But all of it reduces friction.

None of these are dramatic changes. They’re small design decisions. But I’m noticing something important: when I include space to rest inside the structure, the structure holds. When I leave everything loose, I end up more tired, not less.

That has surprised me.

I used to think freedom meant fewer plans. Now I’m beginning to think freedom might mean thoughtful ones — the kind that assume my energy is limited and fluctuating, not endless and dependable.

I’m also noticing that the plans that work don’t push me to expand. They protect me from collapse. They stabilize.

And stabilization, at this stage of life, may be more valuable than expansion.

I’m not trying to build bigger days. I’m trying to build days that don’t undo me.

As we move toward March, I find myself thinking more about recovery, about endurance that is gentle, about growth that is steady instead of dramatic. I don’t have it fully figured out. I’m simply watching what works and what doesn’t — and adjusting.

As of today, what works includes structure with breathing room.

That feels like something worth continuing.

I don’t know that this is a formula. It’s simply what I’m noticing right now.

When there is no structure, I feel scattered. When there is too much pressure, I feel trapped. But when there is gentle structure — with breathing room built in — my days feel steadier. Not exciting. Not dramatic. Just steadier.

And steady, I’m learning, is not a small thing.

At this stage of life, with chronic illness as a constant companion, I’m less interested in proving what I can still do and more interested in protecting what allows me to keep doing it. That shift feels quiet, but significant.

So as February closes, I’m not setting big goals. I’m paying attention. I’m noticing what holds and what unravels. I’m keeping the pieces that support me and letting the others fall away.

If you’re in a similar season, you may be seeing your own patterns emerging. Not grand resolutions. Just small adjustments that make tomorrow a little more manageable than yesterday.

For now, that feels like enough.

 

Living Well After 60 With Chronic Illness: Why Energy Is My Real Currency

1. The Currency I Didn’t Know I Was Spending

I used to think time was my most limited resource. Lately I’ve realized it’s energy.

The shift didn’t happen in a doctor’s office or during some dramatic health scare. It happened in the middle of making lunch wraps. I had everything laid out on the counter — tuna mixed with Greek yogurt, sliced turkey, steak, spinach, tortillas. I was assembling them automatically, thinking I was being efficient, when I stopped mid-roll and wondered: Will this still be good in three days? Should I freeze it? Should I store everything separately?

It wasn’t really about food safety.

It was about tomorrow.

If I assemble everything now and it goes soggy, I’ll have wasted both food and effort. If I freeze something that doesn’t thaw well, I’ll feel frustrated and start over. If I store the components separately, I give myself options. I reduce friction for a future day when my energy may be lower than it is right now.

Standing there with a tortilla in my hand, I realized I wasn’t just prepping lunch. I was deciding how much of tomorrow’s energy I was willing to spend today.

That same realization followed me into travel planning. We’re heading to Old Montréal in September. Years ago I would have looked at a map and counted attractions. How many churches? How many museums? How much could we cover in a day?

This time I measured by hours.

One hour of walking. Two fifteen-minute rest stops. Time to sit with coffee without feeling behind. Time to eat lunch without pushing through fatigue. I even built in weather adjustments so a rainy day wouldn’t become a lost day — just a different one.

Planning rest stops on purpose felt almost rebellious. Not rest because I collapsed. Rest because I decided.

That’s when the word intention started to feel less like a slogan and more like a survival skill.

After sixty, and especially with chronic illness, energy is not predictable. It fluctuates. It vanishes without warning. It does not respond well to pressure. And yet most of the advice we’re given still sounds like it’s written for someone with a full tank.

What I’m beginning to understand is this: quality of life isn’t built on how much we can squeeze into a good day. It’s built on how carefully we design our days so the hard ones don’t undo us.

Energy, not time, is the real currency now.

And intention is how I decide where to spend it.

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2. The Old Question: “Can I Still Do This?”

For a long time, my measuring stick was the past.

Can I still walk as far as I used to?
Can I still manage a full sightseeing day?
Can I still prep a week’s worth of meals in one afternoon?

It’s a quiet comparison, but it’s constant.

For women managing chronic illness after sixty, that comparison can become exhausting. We remember what a “normal” day felt like. We remember moving through a grocery store without scanning for benches. We remember planning travel without calculating recovery time.

When we ask, Can I still do this? what we’re really asking is, Am I shrinking?

That question carries more weight than we admit. It brushes up against independence. Capability. Identity.

And sometimes the answer is uncomfortable.

No, I can’t walk six hours straight anymore.
No, I can’t stack three big commitments in one day and expect to feel fine tomorrow.
No, I can’t ignore the cost of overextending.

But that question — Can I still do this? — is built on a flawed premise.

It assumes the goal is to replicate the past.

---

3. The Better Question: “How Do I Design This Differently?”

When I shifted the question, everything softened.

Instead of asking whether I could still manage Old Montréal the way I might have twenty years ago, I asked: How can I design this trip so it works for me now?

That’s how the one-hour walking blocks appeared.
That’s how the scheduled rest stops became intentional instead of accidental.
That’s how café time became part of the plan instead of a guilty delay.

The same thing happened in my kitchen.

Instead of pushing through meal prep in one burst of efficiency, I started thinking in systems. What keeps the ingredients fresh longer? What reduces decision-making on a low-energy day? What protects me from having to start over?

Storing the components separately may not feel impressive. Planning fewer sights per day may not look ambitious. A no-spend evening at home may not look exciting.

But each of those decisions says the same thing:

I am designing around my energy, not pretending it doesn’t matter.

That shift changes everything.

Designing differently doesn’t mean doing less in a defeated way. It means doing things in a structured way that supports tomorrow’s version of me. It means acknowledging that recovery time is real. That inflammation is real. That fatigue is not laziness.

It means building margin on purpose.

---

4. Intention as a Filter

This is where my word of the year — intention — stopped being abstract.

Intention has become a filter I run things through before I commit.

Does this respect my energy?
Is this worth the cost tomorrow?
Can I structure this so I’m not borrowing from next week?

That filter applies to travel.
It applies to food.
It applies to spending.
It applies to creativity.

It’s not about shrinking life.

It’s about stabilizing it.

For many of us, chronic illness makes energy unpredictable. We can’t always increase it. But we can reduce unnecessary drains. We can build systems that make good days steadier and hard days softer.

That, I’m discovering, is where quality of life quietly improves.

Not in dramatic reinvention.

But in thoughtful design.

---

5. Quality of Life Isn’t Built on Big Days

I’m not trying to build a bigger life than I had before illness.

I’m trying to build a steadier one.

There’s a difference.

A bigger life chases full calendars, ambitious itineraries, impressive productivity. A steadier life asks quieter questions. It leaves room. It assumes fatigue will visit. It prepares for that reality instead of resenting it.

Planning rest stops in Montréal doesn’t make the trip smaller. It makes it possible.

Storing meal components separately doesn’t make me inefficient. It makes future meals manageable.

Choosing a no-spend evening at home isn’t about restriction. It’s about protecting both my nervous system and my bank account from decisions I’ll regret tomorrow.

None of these choices look dramatic from the outside. But together they form something solid.

They form a life that doesn’t collapse after a good day.

For women over sixty managing chronic illness, quality of life isn’t built on how much we can endure. It’s built on how carefully we allocate what we have. Energy is limited. That’s not pessimism — it’s information.

And information lets us design wisely.

Intention, for me, has become less about goals and more about guardrails. It helps me decide where my energy goes before it leaks away unnoticed. It keeps me from borrowing from tomorrow without consent.

I don’t control my diagnoses.
I don’t control every flare or fatigue wave.
But I can control how I structure my days.

That is not a small thing.

If energy is the currency now, then intention is how I choose to spend it.

And that, more than anything, is how I’m improving my quality of life.

Steady not Spectacular

 

At 4:50 a.m. on Sunday, I learned something new about my blood pressure

This week was not about transformation.

It was about steadiness.

Which, when you’re managing chronic illness, fluctuating blood pressure, blood sugar, and a nervous system that apparently believes in dramatic entrances, is no small thing.

Clearing Space (and Not Just on My Screen)

It started innocently enough: deleting old chats and managing digital memory.

But while I was clearing out old threads, I found myself wondering how much emotional clutter I carry around the same way. Archived. Saved. Revisited.

Not everything needs to be stored for future reflection. Some thoughts can be acknowledged and gently released. Some seasons don’t need replaying.

There’s a quiet relief in deleting something and realizing the world does not collapse.

Maybe the same is true internally.

Energy Is the Real Currency

I used to think I needed better time management. Now I know I need better energy management.

I can have an entirely free afternoon and still feel like my internal battery is blinking red.

With fibromyalgia, diabetes, and high blood pressure, energy isn’t unlimited. It’s rationed. Carefully. Sometimes grudgingly.

So instead of asking, “How do I fill my time?” I’m asking, “What protects my energy?”

That shift has led to simple rhythms:

• No-spend evenings instead of wandering online and spending money out of boredom.

• A small, steady writing ritual instead of waiting for inspiration to strike like lightning.

• YMCA classes — Aquafit and Chairfit — because moving gently in water or from a chair is movement I can actually sustain.

Not impressive. Not dramatic.

But repeatable.

And repeatable matters more than ambitious.

The One-Page Growth Map (Because Overwhelm Is Not a Strategy)

I created a personal growth map this week. Not a vision board. Not a five-year overhaul.

Just one page.

• Stabilize blood sugar and blood pressure

• Increase gentle movement

• Practice emotional self-kindness

• Rebuild curiosity and writing

• Re-enter social spaces slowly

Seeing it all in one place didn’t make me feel pressured. It made me feel oriented.

It’s a compass, not a performance review.

At this stage of life, clarity feels far more useful than grand ambition.

Blood Pressure, Blood Sugar, and the 4:50 a.m. Reality

This week my blood pressure crept into hypertensive territory several times. Before this it had been merely elevated.

Naturally, my first thought was, “What did I do wrong?”

Too much tea? Not enough movement? A snack I shouldn’t have had?

Then I remembered how the day had actually started.

At 4:50 a.m. I was jolted awake by loud pounding on my door. Firefighters. Someone had smelled smoke and called it in. I went from deep sleep to upright and disoriented in seconds.

Adrenaline doesn’t ease you into the day.

And it hasn’t just been that one morning. This week has included early wake-ups from loud arguing outside, sometimes inside. Nothing catastrophic. Just enough to keep my nervous system on alert before sunrise.

It’s easy to look at a number — blood pressure or blood sugar — and assume failure.

But maybe my body is simply responding to stress and sleep disruption.

Instead of spiralling, I’m trying (not always perfectly) to look for patterns.

Poor sleep.
Stress spikes.
Caffeine layered on top.

Data over self-blame.

The same goes for blood sugar. One high morning number isn’t proof that I’ve ruined everything. It might be stress hormones. It might be broken sleep. It might just be biology doing what biology does.

I’m learning to ask, “What happened around this number?” instead of “What’s wrong with me?”

That question changes everything.

Intentions That Don’t Require Perfection

I’ve been working with daily intentions. Not dramatic declarations. Just small reminders:

• Gentle movement still counts.

• Small progress is real progress.

• Showing up imperfectly is still showing up.

Between YMCA classes, rebuilding my writing practice, and managing chronic illness one day at a time, I’m not chasing reinvention.

I’m building steadiness.

Steadiness may not look impressive. It does feel sustainable.

And right now, sustainable wins

The Thread Through It All

This week wasn’t about fixing my life.

It was about:

Clearing space.
Protecting energy.
Creating gentle structure.
Managing blood pressure and blood sugar with curiosity instead of panic.
Practicing self-compassion even when I’d rather criticize myself into improvement.

Small shifts. Repeated.

That’s the work for me right now.

If you’re managing your own version of chronic illness, stress, or simply life after 60, what patterns are you noticing? What’s helping? What isn’t?

Sometimes comparing notes is more useful than comparing outcomes.

One month Check-in

---

Why I Keep Showing Up at the YMCA Even When It Feels Hard

I want to start this honestly
I have already gone

In January I attended one Aquafit class one meditation class and one Chairfit class That matters because trying something once when you live with disabilities takes effort courage and a fair bit of mental negotiation

The YMCA is slowly becoming a place I am willing to return to and that says more than any fitness goal ever could

For about 30 dollars every two weeks the membership feels manageable and realistic especially on a fixed income Pricing can vary by location but the value for choice and accessibility feels solid

---

Aquafit My First Yes

Aquafit was my first class and it felt like the safest place to begin The water supported my body in ways the floor never does My joints complained less my balance felt steadier and I did not feel rushed

What surprised me most was how normal it felt Nobody was watching Nobody cared if I paused or modified I just moved and that was enough

That alone made it worth showing up

---

Chair fit Where Effort Meets Reality

Chair fit confirmed something important
I do not need to stand to get stronger

Being able to stay seated while still working on strength flexibility and stability removed a huge barrier Chair fit respected the fact that some days standing is not the win

Leaving that class I felt worked but not wiped out which is the balance I am always chasing

---

Meditation The Unexpected Bonus

The meditation class was quieter slower and exactly what my nervous system needed Movement is not always physical Sometimes it is learning how to breathe again without rushing yourself

Having this included in the same membership made the YMCA feel less like a gym and more like a wellness space

---

The Balance Program The One I Am Still Considering

The balance program is the only one I have not attended yet Not because it is not important but because balance is personal When it starts to feel shaky it touches confidence independence and fear

I am watching this one closely Balance training feels less like exercise and more like future proofing I am not there yet but I am closer than I was

---

Why I Will Likely Keep Going

What keeps me coming back is not motivation
It is permission

Permission to move slowly
Permission to adapt
Permission to show up imperfectly

The YMCA feels like a place where seniors with disabilities are expected not accommodated as an afterthought

That matters

---

Final Thoughts

This is not a transformation story It is a continuation story

I went
I tried
I survived
I might go again

For now that is enough

---

I had a good time in the classes. As usual there were more women than men and the chair fit group actually let me sit with them before class.This was enough to encourage me to come back!

I hit a small snag in the third week of January due to some mismanagement of THC, the cartridge I was using was like 65% THC and that sent me into the worst depression I've had in months. A talk with E help me understand that the amount of THC I was using was too much for the sleepy time effect and was triggering me. I switched to one called Nighty Night which only contains CBD & CBN no THC and I am much improved.

My main goal for February is to attend 3 days a week. I am not sure I'm ready for that but I will go at least once a week that is the absolutely the least I will allow myself.

 My second goal is to attend a Social Seniors program at the library More than one if I can manage it. The Thursday one is at the Miskin Centre which also has an indoor walking track so if I can't do the social thing for long I can still get some exercise in

My third goal is the reorg of my 5x5 Yeah I know I've tried before but not knowing what I have or where stuff is is driving me a bit batty 

I'll see you again on March 1st at least that is the plan. 

had a little help from chatgpt with this. It just writes me better than I write myself :) 

 

Looking Ahead: Goals for 2026 and Choosing Intention

 Looking toward 2026, I know one thing for sure. I do not want another year to drift by without intention. I am tired of feeling lost and disconnected from my own life. This is not about dramatic reinvention or chasing some ideal version of myself. It is about choosing steadier ground and building something livable, one small decision at a time.

Age has been echoing loudly in my head lately. Sixty five feels heavy, not because it is old, but because it comes with awareness. There is time left, real time, and what I do with it matters. That realization is uncomfortable, but it is also clarifying. I do not want to spend the coming years frozen in place by fear, exhaustion, or habit. If I am going to move forward, I need to do it deliberately.

Health is an unavoidable part of that picture. Not in a perfectionist or punishing way, but in a practical one. I want to walk regularly, in all kinds of weather. I want to use my weights to build strength and practice yoga or gentle stretching to improve flexibility. These are not lofty goals. They are basic acts of care. I do not need to love them. I just need to do them often enough that my body remembers how to move again.

Getting outside matters more than I have been allowing myself to admit. I want more walks in parks, more time in green spaces, and more participation in community events. Things like library classes, park activities, and walks that bring people together. My knees and hips complain, but avoiding movement has not helped them either. Strength might come slowly, but it will not come at all if I stay still.

My home also needs attention, because the way I live inside my space affects how I live inside my head. I want a simpler, more minimal environment. Less clutter. Fewer unused items. A bedroom that feels calm instead of chaotic. That means cleaning out my closet, clearing the floor, and creating room to move. I want dishes done regularly, not sitting in the sink for weeks. I want the top of my stove clear so cooking feels possible instead of overwhelming.

Cooking is something I want to return to gently. Not elaborate meals, just real food prepared ahead of time. Meal prep feels like a form of self respect when done realistically. If I can lower my blood pressure and blood sugar through consistent habits, everything else becomes a little easier. I am not chasing fast results. I am looking for steadiness.

Daily care matters too. Small things that seem insignificant but add up over time. Brushing my teeth every day. Wearing my teeth all day. Showering more than once a month. These are not moral failings. They are signals that structure has slipped away, and structure is something I need to rebuild with kindness rather than shame.

Creativity is another thread I do not want to lose. I want to publish my poetry book. That goal has stayed with me because it matters. Woulf’s story has changed over time, shifting from fantasy into something more educational and grounded, especially around caring for forests. I need to decide what that project truly wants to be now, instead of holding it frozen in an earlier version of myself.

Helping others continues to pull at me, but I need to be honest about what I can give. I have thought about volunteering at places like Trinity and Tiny Village, though I am not sure yet how much time or energy I can commit. At the very least, I want to keep water on my sill and stay connected to the idea that small acts still matter. I want helping to feel meaningful, not draining or obligatory.

Learning is another area where I feel uncertain. I thought I wanted to dive deeper into AI, especially art tools, but I am not sure what I actually want to create right now. That uncertainty is okay. Maybe 2026 is about exploration rather than mastery. Allowing curiosity to lead instead of forcing a plan where one does not yet exist.

Above all, I want to learn how to focus again. Focus feels like a lost skill, but it can be practiced. Slowly. Imperfectly. One habit at a time. If I can build even a small amount of consistency into my days, the rest has a chance to follow.

I am not aiming for a perfect year. I am aiming for a year that belongs to me. One where intention replaces drifting, and care replaces avoidance. That feels like a reasonable place to start.

A Quiet Year in Review: Finding My Way Back

I was going through my blog recently and realized something important: December 2024 came and went without any kind of year in review. At the time, I did not think much of it, but looking back now I can see how much that missing pause mattered. I do not function well without some kind of plan or reflection, and this past year really shows that. Skipping that moment of looking back may be one reason I have felt so lost moving through 2025.

When I reread my posts from early 2025, I noticed something else too. Things are better in some ways, yet emotionally I am still close to where I was in January. Winter has always pulled me inward, and December and January seem to amplify everything. I know this is common and that many people struggle more in the colder, darker months, but it always feels heavier when it is happening to you personally. Awareness does not stop the feeling, but it does help me name it.

This past year carried a lot of emotional weight, especially around family milestones. When the first grandchildren gets married, it stirs something deep, and when it happens within a short span, the emotions can feel overwhelming. Add in significant birthdays and major life markers, and it all stacks up quickly. These are good events, meaningful ones, but even joyful change can be exhausting when there is already a lot sitting under the surface.

Despite how foggy much of the year feels, there were bright moments that stand out clearly now. One of the highlights was visiting Casa Loma in Toronto while they were preparing for their Halloween gala. Seeing that historic place in transition was fascinating and memorable. I also experienced a Christkindl market and a Krampus Nacht event for the first time, which felt both strange and wonderful. Those moments mattered, even if I did not fully appreciate them at the time. They remind me that wonder still shows up, even when I am distracted by my own thoughts.

The truth is, I do not remember large parts of the year very well. I was too lost inside my own head. There was a lot of emotional spinning and not much structure. Looking back, I can see how easily self pity crept in and how little it helped. Laughing at myself helped more than sinking deeper, because tears alone do not create change unless they lead somewhere useful.

This year became less about what happened and more about what it revealed. Reading my own words showed me patterns that have been repeating for decades. Grief, stress, and responsibility have layered themselves one on top of another, and each time I regain my footing, something new seems to knock me sideways. Recognizing that pattern is uncomfortable but necessary. It helps explain why drifting has become my default and why focus feels so difficult to maintain.

What this year really taught me is that reflection is not indulgent, and it is not weakness. When done honestly, it becomes a tool. Without it, I drift. Without some kind of structure, I lose momentum and direction. That realization alone feels like progress, even if it does not come with instant solutions.

This has been more of a review of my inner landscape than a neat list of accomplishments or failures, and that is okay. Maybe this is exactly the kind of review I needed after all. 2025 was good in some ways and hard in others. Helping people in small ways brought meaning. Frustrations also took up more mental space than they deserved. Learning to let go of that mental clutter feels like part of the work ahead.

Looking back now, I can see that this year was not empty or wasted. It was quiet, messy, emotional, and unfinished. It showed me where I get stuck and what I need more of going forward: structure, intention, and gentleness, especially during the winter months. Naming all of this feels like the first solid step toward steadier ground and a more intentional year ahead.

Closing note:
In my next post, I look forward instead of back. I start turning these reflections into simple, practical goals for 2026, focusing on health, creativity, home, and showing up for life with more intention.

Happy Holidays

 The last one read like the manifesto of a suicide I know but I am not one of those. I've just been going through a rough patch.

Something  else is on my mind today and has been for awhile. Winter gives you nothing but time to think and December especially seems like a month for introspection what with the season of good will towards men turning into the lead up for a brand new year. For years I started this process right after my birthday in October but with all the shit I'm dealing with to get myself set up for the next 20-40 years,(turning 65 is no fun), I have just barely started the process.

A long time ago a doctor told me that obesity is a long slow death so that it what I chose but these days I am actually unhappy with my weight because it has begun to interfere with the thing I like best like travelling to new places and exploring them.

I have become more and more unhappy with myself over the last couple of months.  It has got to the point that I order in my groceries rather than go fetch them myself unless I have a ride. I hope that makes sense. Change is so hard though! 

I had a program I think it was near the beginning of the year where I did a couple of stretches in bed then got up and did some marching in place before I even got dressed. I had a whole routine for the morning: movement, making my bed, getting dressed, eating breakfast, cleaning up afterwards before I even turned my computer on. That routine and many others are very missing in my life and I miss it/them.

I kept that one up for 6 months I think before something came along and derailed me. That is the longest I've ever stuck to a routine. Now that I think on it it may have been a couple of years.

Since COVID so much has changed and this new political situation has caused prices to soar once again. Its been a long time since you could get a loaf of bread for a buck and even longer since you could get a can a pop and a small bag of chips for a quarter at the Five and Dime these days everything is a buck or two and they are called Dollar Stores.

Yeah I am old enough to remember the five and dime but that is not what I am talking about today. I miss my rut at least then I was doing something. These days all I do is play games, read and watch TV. Most of that on my computer.

I am all over the place today, memories are coming thick and fast but memories is not where I want to go. I want to get myself into a routine one that won't be derailed if I'm sharing my bed or sleeping in a hotel room and that is going to take some thinking and a lot of practice.

Microsoft To-Do is my planner of choice because it can be anywhere there is internet and you have a Microsoft ID which most people these day people do and it can contain a lot of lists that can be time-tabled and shown in one window with check boxes and everything. 

I have set up a lot of lists on it but I really need organize them better so that I don't have duplicates. It is easy and though it may not be as complex as one of the pricey ones I like it just fine. That is what I've been working on for the last couple of weeks with a little help from ChatGPT. While it is useful it definitely needs some refining which I'll be working on between now and the new year.

There is a book I have in my collection called Atomic Habits  which I highly recommend if you are struggling with keeping a regular routine, it will be one of the books I'll be referring to over the next couple of weeks to help me get organized again. This time I hope more than a couple of things will stick.

Another book I recommend is CHAOS to Clean which is the only book since the Sidetracked Sisters that I have found helpful for getting the house clean and organized. It is also on my reference list for the next couple of weeks because I really love her program 31 Easy Baby Steps. 

There are others but these two have helped me the most over the years and they will be the building blocks I will use to create a daily routine I can follow that works for me.

The other thing I need to find is a plan of some sort that will help me with my diabetes and hypertension. I really don't want a heart attack! This part of the planning will not be easy. As of right this minute I have enough to pay my rent and buy a few groceries. If I forgo food I can pay for my internet too but that leaves me no money for anything else. That makes me sad I have become used to living a life where I can afford almost anything I wanted but since my birthday I have found myself going to E for help far more than I am comfortable with.

Diet and Finances those are the two areas that I am having great difficulty with with all the changes that have happened since 2025 began. I will be glad to see the end of it. I hope 2026 is better. Happy holidays and wish me luck changing my life for the better.

Another Day, Another Tangle of Feelings

 Some days I get in my own head so deeply that I lose track of where the pain ends and where my words begin. When that happens, people sometimes get hurt — even the ones I care about. I don’t mean to. I don’t even fully understand why. If someone asks how I feel, I tell them… but the truth is, sometimes I don’t think they’re prepared to hear it. And if I’m being honest, sometimes neither am I.

Talking has never been easy for me, especially when emotions run high. The words vanish when I try to speak them, but when I write, they come out — raw, messy, and real. Writing is how I manage the pain. It’s also how I avoid interacting with people when I’m struggling, because I’m not great at it. The words feel safer on paper than in conversation.

Today they come slowly. I’m sitting with a lot of sadness and regret for the things I said yesterday. I was angry — more than I realized — and I let it spill onto someone who didn’t deserve it quite that way. He asked how I was feeling (or did he? I’m not sure anymore), and I unloaded more than either of us was ready for. I don’t regret being honest, but I regret the way it landed.

Right now, I’m tired of hiding how fragmented I feel inside. I’m tired of pretending everything is fine just to make others more comfortable. I’ve spent so much time accommodating everyone else that somewhere along the way, I started losing pieces of myself.

In Other News: E and I are Struggling

We’re fighting — not about anything important in the bigger picture, but small things that carry heavier meaning. He has a habit of reclaiming items he’s given away if the person later throws them out or passes them on. I threw away an air fryer he gave me over five years ago because it was beyond saving, and he wouldn’t let it go. I asked him twice to stop, but he wouldn’t. So I snapped.

I told him to stop, and when he signed off with “I love you, bye,” all I could manage was “bye.” Because in that moment, I didn’t feel loved. I felt distrusted — like I’d done something wrong by choosing cleanliness over clutter.

So I’ve decided if he wants to cook here, he can bring what he needs and take it back with him. If I’m not “responsible enough” to keep his things, then I won’t keep them. Truthfully, I don’t want anything material from him. What I wanted — what I still want — is care. Time. To be seen.

I wanted his undivided attention once in a while, to matter more than work, more than obligation. But instead, I’ve spent years in the background, supporting him quietly while feeling invisible. It hurts to admit that. It hurts more to wonder if I ever really mattered to him the way I hoped I did.

The Hard Part

The complicated truth is this: I still love him. I can’t imagine life without him. I just wish I felt loved back — or even cherished, occasionally prioritized. Instead, I feel like a convenience. A safe place to visit. Someone he comes to for comfort, not someone he chooses for connection.

Yesterday, I felt treated not as a partner but as untrustworthy. As a child. And I am tired. I survived before him, and I can survive again if I have to. I don’t want to… but I will if nothing changes.

For now, I’m sitting with what’s real. Not rushing it. Not burying it. Just writing it down so it stops echoing so loudly inside. Because I’ve learned something, even through the mess:

Being honest may hurt, but hiding yourself hurts more.

Tears

I am lost in my head today and my heart hurts. I've had to close my window to the out-siders and I have told them why. If I don't I risk losing my apartment and I will not allow myself to become homeless but then I'm accused of lying. I care I care too much but I can't afford to lose my apartment I just can't going out in the cold it makes my knee go haywire and I can barely walk.

Yeah E I know I should have told you that but I still want to do the week-end we planned I will just have to wear my brace

The tears won't stop but at least they are silent, when I first was ordered to stop I burst into loud noisy tears as soon as I closed my window.

The outsiders are so used to being homeless that someone withdrawing support to keep the roof over their head seems to them like I was faking the whole time my window was available to them because now it isn't. I understand them being upset at me I'm upset too. I will not give up my home for them I can't. 

With the cold comes all sorts of aches and pains that only come when its cold. Those aches and pains limit my activity enough without being forced to sleep outside. Oh I could couch surf for a little while but what kind of life is that for a 65 year old woman. 

The tears won't stop , the lonliness and depression are already making themselves known. If I were not so fearful I wouldn't care I'd do it anyway but 60 days from the end of November puts us smack into the end of January I would not survive.

I know I have people who will take me in for a few weeks maybe but it is not the same as having my own place. 

Two days later the water is back on my sill because I had about 35 bottles that I know I won't drink all of. The sign in my window says only water and juice crystals knock. Some will see it and it will eventually all be taken it's just going to take a little bit. After two day of the sign telling everyone I was ordered to close my window they are going to be reluctant and since they know why it happened they will avoid the area for a week or so. Still better out there than in here going to waste.

The food I sent to the tiny homes, the first aid stuff I sent to 186. 

I am still not sure if I'm going to be able to pay my rent but at least I am safer now than I was. I will get to keep the apartment for a little while at least. 

65 finally?

Turning 64 hits differently. It isn’t old and it isn’t young — it’s more like standing in a doorway with one hand on the past and one hand feeling around for the light switch of whatever comes next. And honestly the year between 64 and 65 comes with way more practical nonsense than anyone tells you about. It’s not just emotions. It’s paperwork and timelines and figuring out how to land on your feet when the government decides you’re now “officially” a senior.

One of the biggest lessons I’ve learned this year is this: as soon as you turn 64, start your applications. If you are on Ontario Works or ODSP like I was, they cut off your benefits the moment you hit 65. You’ll get one final month after your birthday and then that’s it — no money coming in unless all your applications are already in process. And trust me, government drones move slower than winter molasses, so the sooner the better.

That means filling out forms for Old Age Security (OAS), Canada Pension Plan (CPP) and the Guaranteed Income Supplement (GIS). They send you the forms to whatever address is on your Income Tax file but if they don't you can get them at Service Canada. They will help you fill them out and they will handle the mailing if you go to the office.

CPP starts in your birth month, but if your work history is mostly temp jobs like mine, it won’t be much. Mine is less than $100. 

OAS shows up on its own strange timeline — your birthday month, the month after, and then it finally kicks in the next month. Even then the maximum is only $740.09 per month, which wouldn’t cover rent for a broom closet in Ontario these days.

GIS is still the mystery amount. I haven’t been told yet what mine will be, but if I get the maximum it could be close to $1100 extra. And if everything lines up and I end up around that ~$1800 mark, then honestly, I’ll have achieved my dream of being financially comfortable, enough to breathe without the constant panic of “what if.”

Now that I’m actually 65, I can say the emotional part is real and no one warns you about it. You cross the line on your birthday and suddenly the world treats you like you’ve stepped into a new category, even though inside you feel mostly the same. So I’m learning to look at my life as it is now and decide what I want this next stretch to look like — what I’m carrying forward, what I’m letting go of, and what I’m finally making space for.

I’m also working on gentler habits — moving more, eating better, and carving out tiny pockets of joy so I don’t march into this new chapter feeling like a squeezed-out sponge. And the biggest reminder I keep giving myself is that I still get to change. Sixty-five isn’t the finish line. It’s just another milestone on a road that’s still unfolding.

So that’s been my life over the last year. Paperwork, planning, a lot of deep breaths, and the stubborn belief that I can still build something good for myself. And if sharing this helps someone else walking the same path, then it’s worth putting into words — even on the days when the words don’t come easy.

Back on track...kinda

 The last couple of weeks have been a blur of creativity and caffeine as I bounce between Woulf’s Quest and the poetry anthology that keeps stealing my attention.

On the Quest side we’ve been deep in world-building again tightening the canon polishing appendices and slowly shaping Act III so it breathes the way Air should. I swear every time I think we’re done another little detail taps my shoulder and says fix me next.

And then there’s the poetry book which has taken on a life of its own. Some days it feels like excavation brushing dust off old feelings until a clear line appears. Other days it’s more like wrestling fog but in a good way. A handful of poems finally clicked into place including Heavy in the Soul and I’m starting to see how the whole collection might hold together.

Heavy in the Soul

I keep hearing that time waits for no one
and I guess that includes me
because nothing slows down
not even when I’m falling behind

If I want my life to mean something
I have to push harder
and God I’m tired
but I’m still here
sitting in this moment
trying to make sense of what’s left

I look forward and everything feels thin
hollow somewhere
like I lost the map
or dropped the thread
and now I’m standing at the edge
looking for a reason to take the next step

I’m angry
and I’m afraid
and I hate admitting either one
but both sit in my chest
and they’re not leaving on their own

I know I can change
I know it’s possible
but today it feels far
like reaching for something
through water
slow and distorted

Most days I feel heavy
heavy like a stone in the mind
and heavier still in the soul
tired of fighting the same fog
tired of carrying the same ache

And still
I have to learn how to stand again
how to fight for myself
because no one else can do that part for me

Every day I open a door
and the light hits me hard
too bright
too soon
but this is the world I have
and I can’t go back
even if I wanted to

Everything feels unfamiliar
and sometimes I feel unfamiliar too
like I lost pieces of myself
somewhere along the way

I need something to hold on to
a goal
a direction
a spark
anything that reminds me
my soul is still mine
and worth protecting

So that’s where I’ve been lately wandering between worlds writing editing rewriting and occasionally remembering to eat. It feels messy and productive and very very me. 

ChatGPT which is a AI app for writing has been a great help. Taking my direction my words we have managed to create something momentus including 3 Acts, and the Prolog for my book. 

I haven't decided on how I want to present it yet and there are still 5 chapters, an interlude and the Epilog to get polished. Claude (another AI) has been helping me by reviewing all of the acts to make sure they follow the worldbuilding requirements (worldbuilding is exactly what it sounds like, you build your whole world from literally the ground up) it has also turned the Acts into books using html. I copy the code down then insert the images and turn each into a pdf for collection and binding. Instant manuscript for sending to a publisher.

It has been a busy 2-3 weeks but it means that I am a step closer to getting that book out in the public. Though honestly I am not sure I will ever get it published unless I do it myself but that is an issue for the New Year

 

 

New Post

 I am so tired of people. I have had more run in's with people against what I do. It is beginning to wear on me.

 Its almost virulent the way it has been increasing, that attitude that I am a bad person because I try to help the homeless & drug addicts. That I am what is that word ah yes enabling them as if If I stopped giving out water and food the issue would disappear. I suppose it would for a few days maybe a week before they would be back causing damage like they did all last winter. 

Without reason to protect this building the helpful ones will disappear which would leave room for other undesirables, the ones that hate everyone and everything. The ones who will cause damage in and around the building because they have no reason not to. 

"Providing sustenance is a compassionate act that allows individuals to focus on other challenges and is a prerequisite for getting back on their feet" 

How food and water are helpful, not enabling 

• Meets basic human needs: Food and water are essential for survival, and providing them directly addresses immediate, life-threatening needs. 
•   Helps prevent harm: Offering food can prevent individuals from having to steal or engage in other desperate measures to get their next meal. 
•  Focuses on the immediate: These actions allow a person experiencing homelessness to have the energy to think about other issues, like finding shelter or a job 
•  Is a prerequisite for long-term solutions:  Having basic needs like food and water met is often a prerequisite for addressing other issues, such as mental health or substance use challenges 
•  Provides hope: For many, receiving food and water is a reminder that people in the community care, which can provide a sense of hope and dignity  

 
 That is from the Google AI and I went and read the responses to the question in  QUORA. There are a lot of opinions out there but they all say the same thing giving water to the homeless is an act of compassion and does not promote harm  only survival so they can get better if they want to. The same with providing food, it is a basic necessity of life.

 

If I could afford to rent one of the empty store fronts around here I could do it out of the public eye but that would defeat the purpose of making people aware that they are humans too. Or even a house with basement access or a porch would work. The problem with that is the same as it is with everything else if it is a shared house then I would run into the same problems as I run into here.

 

Something for future research once I have an idea of what my income will be. I am certain it won't be enough to rent Jerry's but I can dream.