i believe in answers

October is Breast Cancer Awareness month.

This is for Mom, who battled breast cancer at the young age of 38. Mom, who endured aggressive radiation and underwent a tough surgery that scarred and removed half of her right breast, while keeping everything a secret so as not to worry us.

This is for Donna, a woman I work with. Donna battled breast cancer two years ago, underwent a double masectomy and advanced chemo treatments, wearing a wig so her two daughters never saw her lose her hair. And her biggest fear, to this day, is that one day her daughters might get it. Donna doesn't wear a padded bra, instead defies peoples' perceptions of struggle and wears her battles proudly and also with the humility that only a survivor can have.

This is for Lindsay, whose aunt and cousin died of the disease after a long and painful battle. Lindsay tattooed the pink ribbon on her arm to never forget.

This is for my two best friends and I, because statistics show that in the coming years, one of us will have it.

This is for the women that lost their hair, and the women that shaved their heads before the chemo could ravage it. This is for the women that have one breast or no breasts, and the women that bear the scars of their battle. This is for the women who won, whether in this life or in a life beyond our understanding. For the women in pain, and for the women who no longer feel the pain.

This is for the survivors, for the departed, for the warriors, the moms, the grandmas, the aunts, the sisters.

This is for women.

Let's find a cure.

nothing good comes easily

"Sometimes the only way to move forward is to stop moving. To stand still and to decide that no matter what happens, no matter how much it hurts, you are exactly where you want to be."

Just breathe.

Nothing tastes more bitter in your mouth than the harsh sting of mortality. It's a reminder that mankind, in all of it's glory, is infallible. It's the realization that your parents are not super heroes--and even more upsetting--that your parents are just like you. Human.

I came back from Nova Scotia to a dad that had to be rushed in for emergency surgery for a pretty serious condition. He had no idea and didn't really pay much attention to the symptoms. He's okay now, but it'll be a long road to recovery.

My dad and I have always been close. I have a lot of his spirit and his fire in me, it's something we both realize and are proud of. But seeing him high on morphine for weeks, totally out of it with scary bandages and gauze encompassing his leg, I wanted nothing more than to crawl back onto his lap and have him read Curious George to me, in that funny voice that he does just to make me laugh.

Seeing a loved one in pain is one thing. But seeing dad like that was enough to make me scream. My dad's infallible. My dad's the cooolest person ever--the man who taught me how to ride a bike, the man who taught me how to put oil in my car, and the man that chased a boyfriend around two blocks with a steel pipe, just to give him a good scare.

"That boy won't ever hurt you now," he said. I stared wide eyed between my crazy dad and my boyfriend, who was still out on our lawn, wide eyed, chest heaving.

He's doing better now. But seeing a man so strong, so proud, hobbling around still in so much pain is devastating. I've been taking him to his daily doctor's appointment. It's probably a moment of shame for him, to have to be driven around and puttered over, but it gives me a sense of pride to be able to do a few small things to take care of him. He's spent his life taking care of me.

It just makes everything seem so fleeting. Things have been tough since I came back from Nova Scotia. I can't change the situation, but I can change my outlook, so I've been working on it.

I chose to come back. I chose to take a great opportunity with CBC. I choose to be happy wherever I am, because I may not always control why I'm in a particular situation, but I can control how I react to it.

It just seems a little trivial. When I was in Halifax, there was a boy from the past that popped up. He said all the right things (again), we talked, and he made a good pitch. Told me he realized how I was, understood why I keep running away, said that we could go real slow. He really poured it out and it sounded genuine. I told him we'd talk when I got back to Montreal. Here I am, and he disappeared. Just completely vanished, and it's as if the entire thing never happened.

I can't control the present. I certainly can't control the future. But maybe, just maybe, I can close my eyes and trust that while it may not feel right, while it may not be where I want to be, while it may feel so completely unnatural and wrong--that I am exactly where I am supposed to be right now.

Maybe, if I close my eyes.

And just remember to breathe.

when I was in your heart

Saturday is my 24th birthday. On that day at 10:33AM, I will be one year older.

I will also be leaving Nova Scotia to return to Montreal.

I don't want to leave. This place not only feels like home, but it reminded of what it's like to be happy. To feel comfortable.

To be by my beloved ocean.

Leaving. After four months, the crisp autumn wind rolled in and whispered in my ear that it's time to go.

So, on my 24th birthday, I'm going to be leaving a part of myself behind, here. And she'll stay here until next summer, when I can feel alive again.

wasting away again in margaritaville...

It amazes me that four months has passed by without me even realizing it. Somehow, the months of December-March never seem to pass by so quickly.

I'm driving back to Montreal--which I've stopped calling home, if you've noticed--on Saturday. I've been so consumed with thoughts of returning that I completely forgot that this Saturday is my 24th birthday. I had wanted to drive back on that day because I thought there was no better way to end a four month journey of self reflection than to drive back on the day where I get to turn the page and start a new year. One year older and lightyears wiser, but still with a reckless abandon that I think, and hope, I will always possess. The happiest people in the world have mastered that balance between wisdom and complete blissful stupidity.


If you had asked me in June, I would have said that I was coming to Halifax to change. To learn something, to be different. I did learn, I learned a whole lot. But the magnitude of this trip will hit me in pieces, later on. When I react to a situation in a way that I never would have before, that's when I will realize exactly how important this experience was for me. how essential it was, just to be able to grow as a person.

Because that's what it's all about, really. People never really change. I learned that. They just morph into different shades of the same colour. You grow, you shed skin, you sprout new leaves, you just keep growing while remaining the same foundation of yourself. I came here looking for change, and I'm leaving here knowing that it doesn't exist. Thankful that it doesn't exist.

It's funny that nothing typically monumental hppened in Halifax--things that other people would see as a big deal and would justify what I did. My life has never been typical, so I'm not overly concerned about another person's input. I didn't fall in love with a boy this summer. Instead, I chose to believe that there is a boy out there that I can fall in love with. That realization and acknowledgement was a big step for me.

Moving to Halifax for four months was essential to my well being. Getting out of Montreal was essential for my well being. It figures that I've only ever wanted to work in the NHL, and Halifax is one Canadian city that lacks an NHL team. The irony is not lost on me.

But maybe as the months go on, my shades will change and it will make sense. Maybe it won't ever mak sense. Life is about choices, and if we never had to choose between two very difficult things, then we'd never appreciate what we chose as important.

Life is about the constant decisions you make everyday, about what is important to you. Because everyday, you let something go.

This summer was as much about letting go as it was about choices. Letting go of negative assumptions. Letting go of what I think should happen, and choosing to just believe. Believe in anything.

Believe in everything.

People can be compared to stained-glass windows. Although they glitter and shine when the sun is out, when night falls and darkness prevails the true beauty is revealed only if there is a light from within.

i thought i lost you somewhere

Sometimes I still pinch myself. I can't believe I have lived in Nova Scotia for four months. Four months. I can't believe I actually did it.

When I sit at the harbour, I just try to take it all in because I know how much i'll miss it. I can feel the dread already. Last year, I came here for maybe 10 days total, all broken up, and it tormented me all year. I missed it so much, that I started a monthly countdown until I could go back. Everyday I thought of it--and that was just barely ten days.

Now I've lived here. And I am going to miss it so bad. The little things. the smell of the sea. The neon Murphy's Restaurant sign on the boardwalk. The Purdy's Wharf buildings always in the background. Spring Garden road.

I don't know how I'm going to do it.

I learned a lot about myself this summer. Monumental things--like I actually do want to get married. Since I was 15, I've abhorred the idea of marriage and never wanted to get married. But that was because I believed one type of guy existed--the lying, cheating, sleazy type. But this is about choices, and I choose to believe that the polar opposite is out there. I choose to believe that a good, decent, respectful guy exists too.

It's the theory of duality. If you believe in the evil, by default you also have to believe in the good. You cannot believe in a god without believing in a devil.

And the good? I could marry the good. It's not that I've always hated commitment--I've hated lack of commitment. Being committed to a guy that cheats on me while I remain blindsided is what terrifies me.

But, this is about choices.

Just like I choose to believe that I don't have to put on the short dress, the high heels, the drunk act and throw myself messily in a club to attract a boy. Yes, sometimes I do that. Sometimes I enjoy it. Sometimes, that kind of attention is exactly what I'm looking for.

But I choose to believe that there is more out there.

I also choose to believe that people don't fit into the perfectly labelled, defined boxes that I try to stuff them into. That even by calling someone an "exception," I am classifying them. I am identifying the box they should go into, and recognizing that they do not fit into it.

I choose to believe people are more complex creatures and far too messy to be fit into boxes. I choose to wipe the slate clean. You are a hockey player--you are a blank canvas capable of everything. You are a physics nerd with a wicked passion for jazz music--you are a blank canvas. I am a curly haired girl with a boisterous laugh and a growing renewal of love for life itself--I am a blank canvas.

I choose to be surprised by every single person I meet.

I choose to take it easy on myself. Stop the hate. I am never too fat nor too skinny, too loud nor too quiet, too brave nor too cowardly. I am what I am and I choose to owe not apologies for it--especially not for myself. I choose to hold my chin high. I can never be perfect but I can always be me.

I choose to take a chance. I choose to believe. I choose to believe that a boy can have a good heart. I choose to believe that I can succeed. I choose to believe that love will find me, that fate will always find a way. It might not be right now, I might not see it, but I choose to believe that it's out there, that it knows what it's doing. Because I sure don't know what I'm doing.

This summer was about me. It was like reaching into the mirror and shaking hands with the girl that is in there. Because for awhile, I wasn't sure who she was. I'm still not sure who she'll grow to be, or what choices she'll make.

I just know that I took care of her, by taking her away to a place where she knew no one for four months so that she could grow.

And now, she'll take care of me.

the now or never kind

Life is not logical. It never was.

Life is life. It is not logical. Life does not care if you think something is not possible or not rational. It will smack you in the face with that irrational and illogical thing until you get it: life does not make sense. Stop trying to figure it out.

Sometimes you need to let go of rationality, punch normalcy right in the face, let go, and just trust a feeling.

Because feelings are as illogical, as irrational, as so-completely-not-caring-about-what-makes-sense as life is.

Here's to the night.

feet to the ground

Balance, balance, balance.

The concept mocks me almost as much as fate does. Balance. It is my zodiac sign. It is a phrase I try and keep in my head at all times.

It is also an idea that completely evades me most of the time. Balance. Libra. A scale. What people don't seem to understand that a balance is calm, peaceful--when it's in equilibrium. Knock a balance just so slightly to one side and you're in havoc. When the scale tips, it crashes.

I always succumb to its' clutches, too. I allow myself to get too high, knowing that I'll come crashing down but just not caring. I'll also dig myself so deep into a hole that it's difficult to see the ray of sun that is shooting down for me.

I was elated yesterday when CBC/Hockey Night in Canada called me and asked me to be the permanent runner in Montreal. Running around like a madwoman(much to the amusement of the players) paid off and they offered me the position. It's nowhere near full time--it's just every Saturday--but it's a great start and a great next step toward my goal.

But then today I find out that the job I left in June--the one that was guarateed to still be there when I got back--is actually not so certain at all. When I e-mailed the director to tell her when I'd be returning, she said she'd do her best and keep me posted.

So a guarantee turned into a maybe. Which when you have bills to pay and a loan to pay off, a maybe can literally keep you up all night. Inducing panic attacks.

I've never been okay when my environment is thrown upside down. I can't handle it. In the span of a few days, one roommate is moving out, one is moving in, and I have to give up the room I've been subletting because the other roommate is back.

But roommate moving in already has allllll of her stuff all over the living room. I'm not good with messes. I can't handle them. They literally give me fits.

So I have to give up my room before anybody moves out. Then roommate moves out. Then a few days later, roommate moves in. I will be living on a couch for a month. And for the first few weeks of that month, I will have somebody else's stuff piled all around me.

I want to stay in Halifax. I do. I'm just not looking forward to not having a room, especially since I find refuge in my room. Sometimes I need to shut myself off from everything and everyone and have my own space. I won't have that for a month.

Stress.

i'm losing you and it's effortless

Leaving here is going to be the toughest thing I have ever done. Thinking about it gets me so, so upset. I'm mad that this isn't my "real" life. I'm mad that I'm growing up and have to deal with things like starting my career, and only getting 2 weeks of vacation a year. I'm mad that I only made this summer move this year, instead of doing this every summer since I was 18. I'm mad that I wasn't born here, that I didn't grow up here. I'm mad--distraught--that at the end of September, I have to move back to Montreal, back to my parents basement, back to working as a receptionist at a clinic. Back to a life that I realize I hate.

I don't know how I'm going to do it.

I made a promise to myself. I'm going to go back to Montreal and work my buns off and save my money, pay off my car loan. I'm going to apply to a few universities across Ontario in February, for my Master's degree. If I don't get in, then in April, I am moving here. Moving. Starting new. Getting away from Montreal. I hate my life there. I can't do it anymore. I can't work a menial 9-5 job and live with my parents. I feel like I'm going nowhere with my life. I can't even express how frustrating that is. I have my degree. I am passionate and good at what I do. And yet, when it came time to call on all the contacts I've made over the years through busting my ass off--not a single one of them can help me. Not one.


I can't find a job in the NHL. I have applied for everything. And returning to Montreal is stifling. It's a reminder that time is going by, I'm growing up, and I'm still as scared as I was when I was 16.

I really don't know what to do. I am applying for every open position in the NHL, but I'm pretty sure none of the teams even read the online applications. Haven't gotten a single call back. And if I don't get into my Master's, then I don't have a plan. I DON'T HAVE A PLAN. I will coast through life in a mediocre state, working a lame ass 9-5 job that doesn't even require a degree, never achieving anything that I set out to do. Because nobody would give me the chance.

I think I'm going to get back on anti-depressants when I move back. The anxiety and dread is that bad

i must be one of the wonders

I spent my weekend at my friend's house in Enfield, Nova Scotia. Her dad owns a fitness company and she is literally a millionaire. Enfield is the countryside about 40 minutes out of Halifax, the type of country-living where your house is in the middle of the woods yet smack on a lake.

She's right on the cusp of the Shubenacadie Grand Lake, and she's got all the cool toys. Seadoos, kayaks, canoes, jet boats, a zodiac, everything. She even has this giant two-person tube that you lie down on your tummy on, and hang on for dear life while the boat you're attached to guns'er down the lake. And let me tell you, if you hit a swell, you're flying six feet in the air. Trust me.


I was up at the crack of dawn every morning, sitting on her dock drinking coffee. I love water. I need to be around it. It helps me think.

I beat myself up a lot over not being one of those girls. Always glamorous and perfectly put together. Smokin' hot in a pair of heels and almost always in a short skirt. I know girls with perfect hair, perfect lines. Smooth talkers. Always perfectly dressed and know all the right things to say. And, they love to party and drink. They go out every single night and just live it up, the way 23 year olds probably should. Crawl in at 4AM everyday, go to work at 8, and do it all over again. Party girls.

I've never been that girl and I beat myself up a lot, because that girl is way cooler and dates more and all that jazz. I've forced myself to be that girl a few times, and it never worked for me.

But on the lake this weekend, I realized that I'm another kind of girl. I didn't change out of my bathing suit for two straight days. Being on the water relaxes me. I wake up early just to sit by it. Water does strange things to me. I'm totally comfortable leaving the house without make up on, completely natural. I'm a very strong swimmer because my dad raised my sister and I to be respectful but never afraid of the water. I was never allowed to block my nose as a kid.

I'm a real girl. I wear a bikini and not a push up bra, I know how to sail a boat, and I can yell my head off while careening down a lake at top speed on a tube. I didn't care what my hair looked like or how maniacal I sounded. I can jump off the boat in the middle of a lake and splash around because I'm not afraid of lake water and I love to swim. And when I dry off, I can do it again because I don't care how crazy my hair looks. I know how to fish and I know how to steer a canoe. I can surf and I wear twine bracelets and I'm tanned because I'm always outside. I'm the outdoors girl that doesn't always say the right thing but that knows how to have a good time and knows how to make you laugh--whether on purpose or due to one of her crazy, habitual antics. I would take being outside in a canoe on a lake all day rather than fake interest in a lame, alcohol-fueled club. That's not fun for me. Fun is not trying to dance to music that is being played way too loudly. Fun is not sticky and sweaty in a club. Fun is not trying to fend off a drunk guys' hands all over you. Fun is not trying to attract the attention of the boy across the floor. Fun is shrieking while hanging on for dear life on a Zodiac boat that's flying over the swells. Fun is killing the motor on the Zodiac in the middle of the lake, no shore in sight, and diving right off to splash in the water. Fun is kayaking and feeling just how powerful the water is. Fun is laying down on the dock in a bikini, soaking wet, hair spread out all around you, and falling asleep. Fun is sitting on the dock at 6AM with a cup of coffee, feet dangling in the water. Fun is being totally in your element.

I am a different kind of girl compared to the perfect, put-together ones. I am the outdoors girl. The one with the beach hair and olive skin and easy going smile. The girl with a towel, a bikini, and an extra pair of flip flops in her car trunk at all times, just in case. I'm the girl that you can't drag inside when it's a nice day out, especially when there's a body of water somewhere nearby. I'm the one that you can hear laughing at the top of her lungs from across the lake, when the canoe was purposely tipped over. I'm the type of girl that you can't throw into the water fully clothed, because I'll have already jumped in.

I've found the type of girl that I am. And you know what? I love her. She's a whole helluva lot more fun than the girl I pretended to be.

so that's where you've been

What an amazing song:



The street is loud tonight. For a smallish town, Halifax has a hell of a nightlife. People here just live to party. It makes me wish I enjoyed partying more, but I just don't. I'd so much rather sit by a beach until midnight or read a book. The clubs just get to me on a level that kind of makes me hate all human interaction because it all seems so phony and fake. But when I hear the loud shrieks and the laughter amongst a group of friends smashed out of their minds, it makes me wish I didn't have such a heavy heart. I wish I could find fun in it, I'd probably get out a lot more and meet more people. My mind never stops. I wish it did. I wish I didn't think about everything so deeply. I wish I got turned on instead of rolling my eyes in repulse when a drunk frat boy gropes at me in a club. Maybe if I giggled, more things would go my way. Maybe if I just didn't care about my training program, I'd go out a lot more too. But I run everyday. Happy hour is not going to replace the interval session that I usually do at that time. I care too much about running to push it to the side in favour of drinks. And I'm not going to go out partying all night if I know that I have a hill run at 6AM the next day. Maybe that makes me anti-social, who knows.

I'm not homesick. In fact, it took me leaving Montreal to realize just how much I hate it there. It will drain your soul. And every time I think about how I have to go back there, I want to be sick. I want this summer to last forever. I want it to be infinite. Time should freeze right where it is. I'm 23, it's the heat of the summer, and I'm in a place that I should never have to leave. I don't want the grown up job, the responsibilities, the adult life. I want this moment. I want this place.

Speaking of grown up jobs. Of course it's cruel irony that after 4 years of trying to get officially hired by the Habs, the moment I move to Halifax, I actually get a call back on a position that I applied for. For four years when I was in Montreal, I busted my ass to get my foot in the door. I interned. I did bitch work. I did anything and everything I could, I never got paid, and I just hoped it would turn into something. Whenever job openings popped up, I'd jump on them and hope they'd remember me as a keener, willing to do anything for that team. I always got passed up. I needed to get away so I move, and now, I have an interview for a full time position with them.

It's a great opportunity, but all I can think about is how much I don't want to go back. Maybe it'll be okay. Maybe it'll work out. Maybe one day I can own a chalet in Halifax that I'd run away to every summer.

God, I'd love that.

It's not time to go yet. My gut is telling me it's not time yet.

love was just a dream

Halifax is better and more beautiful than I remebered. There's something about this city that feels so strangely like home. It's the most eerie thing in the world to walk around and feel like you've done this before. I get wicked deja vu here.

Moving here was the best thing I could have done, just for my own well being. Water has always relaxed me but being by the ocean everyday is putting a whole new spin on my life. Everywhere you go here, you can see the Atlantic. It's bordering downtown, it's beisde me on my way to work, and if I listen closely enough I can hear the waves crashing through my window. The air has the distinct scent of sea--salty, muggy and uplifting. Everday on my walk to work I just breathe in deep and close my eyes. I'm so happy to be here. The scenery, the people, the ocean--this is what I had to do.

And Halifax isn't done with me, either. The chills I get that rattle my spine every once in awhile let me know that I'm here for more reasons other than my sheer desire to flee Montreal. There's a plan and rather than bust my brain trying to figure out when and where and how, I'm sitting back and watching it unfold. I've always had issues with the looming idea of fate and destiny, I've always wanted things to happen my way under my terms. But I'm learning to let go and enjoy the ride, learning to let the world and the scheme open up in front of me. Forgetting why and how and why not. Who cares, really? The whole point of fate is that it really doesn't care who you are. You're gonna get rocked anyway.

I love it here. I do. Nova Scotia owns a large part of my soul, and I'm excited for the journey. I'll figure these feelings out eventually--the shivers, the deja vu, the awareness. But I'll figure them out when they're good and ready to be discovered.

can we pretend

"Don't ever tell anybody anything. If you do, you start missing everybody."

In a lot of ways, maybe I'm getting out of Montreal for the summer as a form of self punishment and self preservation at the same time.

I'm the flight type. I always believe that sooner or later, people leave. The people that you care about and keep close to you are going to leave. I live my life so that I'm always the one walking away first, to save myself the pain of being the one left behind.

When I get too comfortable and start to settle in too much, I force myself to leave everything behind and walk away from it, before somebody can do it to me.

I'm supposed to be this self sufficient, independent girl who can walk away from anything, anyone, any time. But in the past year I've developed these attachments and roots--the kind that I swore I'd never have. They caught me by surprise. Crept up on me, attaching themselves fiber by fiber and by the time I realized it, it was too late. They had a hold on me.

Everything that I have in my life I've had to fight for. Really fight for. Things were getting too settled, too calm here. I was content living in the basement section of my parents' house, with my own little routine and way of life. Go to work an easy job, get a big pay check, buy lots of cool things. Rinse, repeat. It was time to burst the bubble.

6 years ago I was in a bad place. A place bad enough that sometimes the clutches still reach up and grab me for days at a time, trying to pull me back in. The girl inside of me pulled me through that. She was strong, fearless, independent. She relied on nobody. That girl was strong.

I need to find her again.

I leave on Saturday, at 4AM. Half of me is so incredibly excited. The other half is wondering if that girl is still in there, or if she left, too.

words fall through me

So as I'm staring around my room wondering where to even start packing for that upcoming, 9-days-away move to Nova Scotia, a horrible realization came into my mind.

I think I've created roots. Unknowingly, but a small part of me is still dug into Montreal.

That's terrible. I've always enjoyed never having roots. It's my mantra. My claim to fame. My persona. Never rooted.

But as I'm wondering how the hell to pack up my life for 3 months, I can't help but feel worried. I wouldn't call it dread, it's not that serious, but maybe apprehension is a better word.

What if I don't make friends? What if I get lonely? What if I can't find a job? What if I miss my friends here?

The whole point of moving away this summer was to get away from everything and everyone in Montreal. And I'm still game for that, but I'm also just realizing that I'm about to move away for three months, to a province where I don't know anyone. My roommates are probably not going to be home when I get in, so I'll have to find my room in the empty apartment and haul all my stuff into it at night. Alone.

I may be 23 years old, but I'm still just a lame little kid when it comes to things like that. It's really terrible.

It's the little things that are haunting me. My friends are my rock. I'm not sure how I'm going to react if I have a bad day and I can't call one of them up last minute and squeal/flail about it over coffee. Skype just isn't the same for shit like that.

I'm just a little...perturbed at the idea of being launched into the unknown, when my support system is 14 hours away. And I'm doing it completely voluntarily. Am I allowed being scared of something I wanted to do?

letting go ain't easy

I am so very tired.

Never in a million years would I ever complain about working for Hockey Night in Canada. It is a dream come true and I enjoy the hell out of every day that I get to work for them.

But it is tiring work, running around all day like that. When you wake up the next day feeling as if you're hungover and you didn't even drink, that's usually a sign that you're hauling ass.

So tired.

17 days until I blow this town and leave all the drama and heartache behind. 17 days until it's my summer.

taking it day by day

I never really considered myself naive. I'm a lot of things, but naive definitely isn't one of them.

And for all of my distrust in men, most of my best friends are guys. And I've known them since I was 3. Sometimes, my level of comfort around the male gender can lead to things that were not at all on my agenda, but were carefully plotted out by the crafty opposite sex.

At one of the games last week, the strength and conditioning coach for one of the teams askedme for a copy of the notes I was running to the CBC journalist. The notes were readily available on a table in the next room, but I figured this guy probably has a lot to do, so I gave him a copy.

I am naturally a very smiley person. I can't pull the sour puss face without it looking ridiculous. In general, I find girls who scowl constantly to look ridiculous anyway. Everyone looks so much better when they smile. So, being me, I flashed him a big grin and puttered on my way.

Next time I breezed by, he jokingly tossed a football at me. I caught it, ;put my things down, and tossed it back. Thus ensued a 20-minute game of catch. We talked about a lot of stuff--school, where we were from, what I was doing working for CBC, summer plans, etc. At one point, he said to take down his number in case I was ever in ____. When I couldn't plug it into my phone (because I am technilogically inept), he asked me for mine.

Everything about the interaction, to me, was platonic. I grew up with boys. Tossing a football around is nothing out of the ordinary for me--it is not flirtatious, it's not seductive. It's "I really don't have anything pressing to do right now, and OOO! A FOOTBALL!" That's how I viewed it. I interpreted it for what it was. Two people playing a game of catch in the boring time between pre-game warm ups and the actual game.

Even when he asked me for my number, nothing in my mind sent up a red flag. In this industry, your phone number is one of the firs things people ask for when they meet you. It's a form of communication, and more so, it's a way of reaching you when there's an emergency. Because in journalism, there's always some form of emergency. When I met the two hosts last Monday, the first thing we did was swap phone numbers. It's just common practice, it's NETWORKING. So I thought nothing of it.

And I was naive.

It wasn't until I got a rather suggestive text message from him later on that night, that it clicked.

I'm mad at myself.

My reputation is everything to me. As a 23 year old girl in a brutal, chauvinistic guy's world--your reputation is all you've got. It's what earns you their respect. I have worked so hard on my reputation, to keep it pristine. And that says a LOT. I have travelled with a varsity men's team, across Canada, for 3 years. I have gotten propositioned crudely and genuinely asked out more times than I can remember. I have worked in the NHL for 3 years. If a person can go digging for dirt on me and come up with nothing--NOTHING--then I know I've kept my rep in tact. And I'm proud of that. I'm proud of not having a spec of dirt in my past with anybody related to this world. It earns me respect and it puts me on a level that other people aren't on.

And it's not like I never wanted to. I have had genuine connections with guys in the past--I have truly liked some of them. And I would never let myself give in, not even a millimetre, because I knew somewhere down the line it would bite me in the ass. I made it a point to never become involved with anybody in the hockey world.

Now I feel as if I've tarnished my reputation by sheer accident. This guy seemed nice enough, but who knows what was said on the team bus. He could have claimed I was a puck bunny and he scored my number just by asking. I know the truth, but that doesn't mean much when I'm not even there to defend my honour.

And that's not fair. When I gave him my number, it was innocent on my behalf. There was nothing in my mind except a platonic interaction. But to him, he probably zeroed in on me and scored big time when I so easily handed out my number.

It could all just reflect very, very badly on me if the word gets around. I know people on that team. And I can only hope that they know me well enough to know that whatever he's spreading around isn't true. That I'd never give out my number under that pretense.

I shouldn't be so naive.

what you see is what you are

Have you ever had somebody look at you--just look at you--and it was strong enough to electrify you? I'm talking hair-raising, balled-fist type of shivers down your spine that made you close your eyes and shudder?

I am in some kind of trouble.

just let go

I've always loved airports. There is something about the vibe of a airport that entrances me every single time. I can never pinpoint it, but I love it. I could spend days on end in an airport, watching the people at the gates, the people waving to loved ones boarding planes, the anxious women biting their nails and checking their watches at the arrival gates.

I love planes. I love flying. I don't think I'll ever get tired of it, which is a good thing considering the career I'm aiming for.

Cuba was fantastic, it was so great to be by the ocean again. Words cannot express the joy that is sitting outside with a warm carribbean breeze blowing your hair, listening to the palm trees rustle as you sip your fourth mojito. It's just soul food.

But when it came time to leave, the old haunts of leaving started to creep up again. I'm not sure why I don't like the concept of "home." Courtney was anxious to get back into the swing of real life, to see her kitten again. Was I anxious to sleep in my own bed? Sure. But could I have gone another month without it? Absolutely. Could I have taken my suitcase, chosen a random terminal in the airport, and taken off again? Without hesitation.

I have no ties. These binds and pulls that other people have towards home--going back to familiarity, the comforts of routine--I don't have those. I have friends that are my life support, but I keep them with me wherever I go. Friendship is as fluid and malleable as the concept of home, friendship can follow you.

Sometimes I wonder if it's a bad thing. Eveyone thinks I'm crazy to hate going home from wherever 've been. I can't remember a time where I was ever anxious to get back once I had been away--which probably means that wherever I feel my home is, it's not Montreal.

Because when I left Halifax last summer, my heart broke into pieces.

On Thursday night, the weather in Cuba was stifling even at midnight. It's the kind of heat that just envelops you all over and makes you think there is a God. The beach was dark and desolate. The sound of the wavs crashing the shore is one of my greatest pleasures in life. The ocean is my muse, my temptress, and it's a sound I could listen to forever.

I asked my friend to hang back near the passageway. I kicked off my flip flops and walked down the sand to the shoreline. I waded a foot deep into the water and just stayed there for a few minutes, taking it all in. The stars were out, neatly dotting the dark sky in constellations that I didn't recognize. Standing on that beach, alone, is something I will never forget. A few thoughts that crept into my head were powerful enough to give me shivers, but the sense of fate and the unknown was the most powerful force that overtook me.

Last summer, sitting on the Halifax Harbourfront at 2AM, three words kept repeating themselves in my head. On that beach, the three words came back, but they were different this time.

Everything is going to be okay.

I'm as atheist as they come, but there's something really comforting about knowing that I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be.

I don't believe in accidents.

leaving on a jet plane

When I said I needed out of this town for awhile, I really wasn't kidding. The urge to leave was so bad last week that, on a whim, my best friend and I booked a trip to Cuba and we leave tomorrow. It still hasn't really clicked that in 24 hours, I'll be digging my toes into the white Caribbean sand. It'll be so nice to just get away for awhile.

I should probably pack. That might be a good idea.

There are a million things going through my mind and not nearly enough time to try and process or deal with all of them. But it's time to get away.

trading in who i've been for shiny celebrity skin

Yesterday was the big athletic banquet at Concordia. 300 Stingers athletes, all gathered in suits and ties and dresses, the girls bobbling awkwardly on heels that we all weren't accustomed to.

I was hesitant on going. I didn't want to see the men's hockey team.

I had a great 3 years travelling with those guys. I was the only girl around them, and the only reporter to travel with them to all of the road games. I learned so much from being around them--lessons related to journalism but also lessons about life, things I learned about myself, and I learned to just let things slide. I learned how to earn respect from a pack of wolves that never have respect for a girl. A girl, to them, wasn't something to respect. It was something to lie to, toy with, sleep with, then laugh about it the next day.

If I hadn't travelled with that team, if I hadn't learned the rules of the game(and I'm not talking about hockey)--then I never in a million years would have one-upped an NHL player like I did last month. In the locker room in North Carolina, he went on a good 2 minute schpiel in french about how hot he thought I was, since he figured nobody around him spoke french.

I went over, called him out on it, and we all thought it was hysterical. But you know what? He'll never forget me. I would never have that kind of courage, that kind of guts, if it wasn't for what that team has taught me.

But at the end of the day, they're all hockey players. And that's saying enough. At the end of the season, I was propositioned so many times that I lost count. All of these guys have steady, long-term girlfriends. At the clubs, I'd get groped and lost in the gang of them.

I'm so tired of these boys. Of this scene. Of these guys who think that it's their right to have any girl they want, without even asking. And not just have any girl--but have them all. These douchebags that have a steady girlfriend and who still sleep with any girl that so much as glances at them.

I skipped the after-party at the club. I want to get away from this world. Clubs are fake. People put on a facade and bump and grind against each other, all after somehting so fleeting and superficial that it's not worth half the effort or time it took to get ready for the night. I'm tired of the fake interaction.

I want someone real. Someone who probably would have skipped out on a night of clubbing with horndog athletes too, because of how ridiculous and shallow it all is.

I need a break from hockey players. I need a break from boys who think it's okay to put their hands on a girl without asking. Boys who have a girlfriend but still think it's okay to sleep with other women. Boys who think the world should worship the ground they walk on, boys who are full of themselves and cocky as shit, boys who swagger when they walk, boys who are dumb and can't pronounce a word that has more than 3 syllables.

Please, god, tell me there are men out there who don't play hockey.

I need believe there are still some decent boys left.

The next man I date, the very first question I'll ask him is "Do you play hockey?"

the in between is mine

Sometimes, not even I understand myself.

I don't know where I got this vagabond nature. I don't know when it started. I don't know why I'm this way.

I haven't met anybody else inflicted with this...instinct, I guess you could call it, either.

But every few months, sometimes weeks, I need to leave. I need to pack up and go somewhere, and I have to fight and drag myself back to the place I left. And it's strong. God, is it strong.

I can't even explain it. When it first started, I used to really think it was the ocean calling to me. The ocean was, and still is, all I think about. The smell, the spray, the taste, the sound. It consumes me. But the more it continued, the more I realized that it wasn't just the ocean.

I just needed to leave.

It's not triggered by anything. It doesn't have a pattern. It strikes suddenly and is powerful enough to knock me off my feet. Powerful enough to drive me to insanity, if I don't heed its call. I'll become obssessive about it. I will give myself panic attacks thinking of how monotonous, blinding, how stifling Montreal is.

And when I leave, it all gets better. Until I have to will myself to go back.

My dad calls me a wandering soul. I'm not so sure that's it. Wanderers flitter about on their own will.

When this feeling hits, I feel like I'm caught up in a tidal wave. I'm not wandering so much as being pulled somewhere, usually wherever gut instinct takes me.

I don't know why.

But it's here again. And it's time to go.

i've known it all my life

The mental impact of a physical injury is 100X more daunting, debilitating, and destructive than the injury itself.

I think I need a break from running.

This time last year, I was cranking out swift and refreshing 10km runs everyday. Now, I look at my training shoes with a form of disdain. I look at the minutes to click off in my training log--40 min tempo, 60 min easy, 90 min steady, 60 min in 10/1 tempos.

Now, I dread running. And after 7 years, I never thought I'd say that. Yes, there were some days where I just didn't feel like running, so I'd take a break for a day or two. But running was always my release. It always calmed me down. I always hit that runner's high, that euphoria--my mind just left. It soared when I ran.

But a double-fractured pelvis and 6 months later, still in constant, aching pain--I can't do it anymore. Running has become a chore. My demon. I beat myself up if I don't do it, but when I do get out there, each step is hard and painful and I constantly feel winded. I tell myself I'm no good. I'm not a runner anymore.

My own brain is defeating me again.

I've taken a week and a half off of running. I just plain didn't want to do it. And I don't miss it.

But I do miss it.

But I don't.

I'm just tired of being in so much pain. Running has given knee surgeries, leg surgeries where two muscles had to be completely cut in half, and a pelvis that was fractured in two places, that will probably never heal the way it should.

But it also gave me euphoria. It used to.

I want that back.

you can't hurry love

I don't want to believe in the hype anymore. I'm tired of pretending.

I don't want to believe that I have to meet a future significant other in a bar. Sometimes I dig the atmosphere, but for reasons other than trying to meet people. I love sick beats and cold beer. When I go to a club, it's not to pick up.

I'm tired of that scene. And I'm tired of everyone telling me that in order to meet people, I need to get out more. I don't want to get out more. Most guys I meet in clubs are sleazebags anyway--so why am I going out of my way to meet them? They're no damn good.

I want to believe that I can meet someone doing something that seems natural to me. Running. Grocery shopping. Just going about life.

I'm a simple girl. I can't do the heels, the little black dress, the gold-digging. I can't do elegance. And I want to believe that sometimes, a girl like me--a flip-flop wearing, clumsy, easy going goofball--can win out over these flawless girls that I see in the clubs.

The bar scene isn't for me anymore. I just don't understand the obssession with it. Everyone puts on a persona and lures one another in, and for what? It's all fake.

I want to believe that I don't have to pretend, in order to meet a guy that I really like. I can't pretend. I don't have the long legs, the confidence or the attitude to pull off the persona that those girls take on.

I'm too real for that. I am short but feisty, my legs aren't long and sleek but short ad sturdy from years of running. I don't like doing dinner on a first date--too much pressure to perform. Ditch the fancy restaurant and take me on a walk, a picnic. Take me to a ball game. Take me rock climbing.

I like jewelry as much as the next girl, but the most sentimental piece I own is a puka shell necklace that my dad brought me back from Hawaii when I was 8 years old. I still wear it. It means more to me than any diamond ever could. I wear twine and beaded bracelets that my friends made for me. I could listen to the ocean all day. In fact, there's not a day that goes by that I don't miss it. I don't care if the wind messes my hair up. It's all over the place anyway. I'm a girl but I'm not really girlie. I love flowers and chocolate and random acts of affection, but I could probably carve a wave sharper than you, and out-run you for miles.

I'm that kind of simple. I don't like wearing make up. I'd rather dig my toes into the sand than shove them into uncomfortable stilettos. I wear flip flops because, frankly, I don't know how to walk in heels. I dive into pools fully clothed because I think it's funny, and I'm barefoot because I genuinely hate the feel of shoes. Sometimes, I sleep with my surfboard under the covers with me. I'll take it to bed, because it's all I've got. The ocean calls to me, and it's my way of answering. I laugh a lot. My laugh is loud and boisterous and sometimes, if you really get me going, I snort. Which makes me laugh harder. I'll laugh at anything, myself included. I'm a sloppy eater--only half the food on my plate actually makes it to my mouth. The rest ends up on me, somehow. And I eat a lot. A lot. My appetite is insatiable most of the time, and my eyes are never bigger than my stomach.

I don't think a girl like me is going to meet my match--my equal--in a club.

Because he'll probably hate that scene too.

But hey, boy--where are you? I'm a pretty complete person, but you'd be a nice addition. Hurry up. And make sure I know that you think I'm worth the effort you'll have to put forth.

you could turn and stay

Getting to Halifax this summer will be the best thing for me. Montreal can be such poison sometimes. Don't get me wrong, I love the culture of Montreal--the food, the history, the majestic nightlife. But I just can't take the atmosphere here, anymore. I can't take the people, the pretention, the same routine day in and day out. Montreal can zap you of your ability to see beauty in everything. It can be hell sometimes.

I'm tired of the scene here. I feel like I've met everybody, that I've been everywhere, done everything. I guess it's weird. My sister thinks I'm crazy to want to move to a place where I don't know anybody. I have no friends in Halifax. Well, I have one, but she's spending the summer in Newfoundland.

But I need that escape, right now. I need to be by myself for 3 months in a foreign place (that so strangely feels like home) just to get my head right. And I'm not even sure what all in my head is that messed up, but for the past year I have felt like a shell of the person that I want to be. I became really negative this year. Heartbreak never used to jade me so much, but in the past 12 months, there have been certain things that I just never got over.

It's time to cleanse. Get rid of all that...that stuff. That chip on my shoulder. I need a new scene, new places, new people. I need to get away and be alone for awhile.

I've always been a fan of self-reflection. More so, I've always been a fan of just being by yourself. You learn things. You buil your character. You work on yourself.

You're all you've got, anyway.

I don't know why Halifax. I know I fell in love with the city last summer, but I also fell in love with Rome and Switzerland when I visited there. Chicago captivated me, too. But there's something pulling me to Nova Scotia.

I'm a big fan of gut instincts. It doesn't matter if it makes no sense, I'll almost always follow my gut. Even whenit tells me to do insane things.

My gut must know something I don't, and it had better be good, because I'm working two jobs--7 days a week--just to get the money to go there.

But I have a feeling that when I prop my feet up on my outdoor deck above a busy street in downtown Halifax, with a glass of wine and in my PJs at 2AM, it'll all make sense.

Everyone has to do a little soul-searching.

there's gotta be somebody

For the most part, I really enjoy being single. I do. I'm single by choice right now, because I like the solitude and independence and emotionally, I'm not ready to give someone that part of me again.

...but sometimes, I just think it'd be damn nice to have a boy around. A boy that smells nice, that will run his fingers through your hair or hold your hand on the couch during those moments when solitude seems a bit too lonely, even for a wandering heart.

you could turn and stay

Why not?

That's my new motto in life. It's coming after a tough 2 months spent teetering in heartbreak, rehabbing an injury, and just...generally in a bad place. Emotionally and physically. 2010 started off by kicking my ass.

But, so many times I'm my own worst enemy. I become the self-fulfilling prophecy because I always think so negatively, and always assume that things are going to happen to somebody else instead of me. Admittedly, I do chase the impossible. Often. Too often. And sometimes I get it, sometimes I don't.

But hell, somebody has to be the exception, the surprise. Somebody has to obtan the impossible.

So why not me?

I spent the month of January chasing after a boy that would keep giving me just enough to keep me holding on. I hate that. I keep promising myself I'd never do it again, but when it comes down to it...frankly, liking somebody is thrilling. It makes life exciting.

Boys can be real jerks and toy with you. I'm not sure he did it intentionally--he seemed a little too dense to be malicious--but hockey players were never any good anyway. He was fun to like. Unpredictable. It didn't work in the end--it usually doesn't. And it ended the way my past two serious interests have ended--things sort of fizzled out on his end and there wasn't much I could do. But he was fun. I really enjoyed getting excited when I knew I'd see him, or just relishing in the loveliness that is really, really liking someone.

And hey, the boy's gotta fall for somebody sooner or later. Why not me? I'm an amazing catch. Gave it a shot. Didn't work. No hard feelings.

In retrospect, I think he would have bored me after awhile.


There's a lot going on right now that I'm trying to sift through. Maintaining a positive outlook on it all is hard (especially since it's not natural for me). Somebody should have warned me--like really hammered it home--that growing up doesn't suck, but the decisions you have to make do. Because a decision means that ultimately, you are going to miss out on something that you want, because you decided you wanted something else more.

You're still missing out.

I'm moving to Halifax this summer. By all means, I shouldn't. But I need to leave Montreal. I love the culture and history of this city, but it seems so poisonous after awhile. It's time to go, just for the summer.

I get that a lot. Sometimes, I just need to leave. I left last week--went to North Carolina. It helped me get my head right, step back, take a breath, and figure shit out. Every few weeks, I need to pack up and just go.

I'm working two jobs just to be able to cover rent while I'm there, so I can only work one job to cover food and expenses while I'm there. If I get accepted into grad school, I will either have to take out a student loan or defer for a year, just to get the money to pay for it.

But my gut is telling me to be in Halifax this summer. There is something or someone there, waiting to happen to me. And gut instincts never make sense, and often times they put you in a predicament in the present moment.

But they are almost always worth it.

So I'm going for it. Because my gut is telling me that I need to be there. And it doesn't make sense, and it will put me in debt if I get accepted into grad school...but something is telling me it'll be worth it.