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Diana

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Chronic colds. A “general feeling of unwell.” TBI. SIBO. Adrenal Fatigue. Maybe they are the answer. Maybe they’ll finally explain the brain fog, the fatigue, the reason why my sparkle is slipping between my fingers. Or maybe that doesn’t matter. Maybe, the diagnosis is not the problem or even the answer. But maybe it’s a sign. Actually, let’s call it a not-so-divine warning. When was the last time you tweaked your back, and you went directly to the couch to lay down? Or you got a headache from, oh, I don’t know, too much screen time. Did you immediately shut down your laptop or did you pop an Advil and go back to work? We are not listening to our bodies. We are not heeding the very clear warning signs. At least not before it is too late. And why?! All in the name of the goddamn hustle? How have…

After years of remaining tightly wound, yet perfectly safe on the clearest path towards the future (or at least, A future), I knew I had to do it. I had to pull the pin and toss the grenade into the centre of my life; the safety, the security, the knowing. Oh gosh, that knowing. However, want to know what lives outside of that knowing? Outside of your comfort zone? Absolutely everything. All of your hopes, your dreams and all of the amazing things you once believed were beyond your reach, “are meant for someone else/someone braver/someone more deserving” or the things that you have always been told, “that isn’t real life.” I am living proof that it is. It can be real life. But, sometimes you have to pull the damn pin. Now, please don’t get me wrong: I don’t mean that if you are in a wonderful career/relationship/[fill in…

All my life, I waited to plan the trip. All my life, I waited for the perfect time to go.  For the perfect season.  For the perfect conditions.  For the perfect amount of money. All my life, I waited for permission. Where would he like to go? Oh no, he won’t like that. What about this place? No? Okay…this one? No.  Well, maybe some other time.  Maybe next year.  Maybe when the stars align, and he actually wants to do something.  Anything.  Yes, then for sure. And so the cycle continued.  Me, pushing my soul’s deepest desires away.  Down.  So far down.

The Sunday afternoons of my childhood were spent puking into plastic bags in backseat of a station wagon. Picture something quite similar to a scene right out one of the Family Vacation movies. But with puking. Lots and lots of puke. So. Much. … Okay, I think you get the picture. Did I mention how much fun it was? Sing-a-longs, bags of cheese curds, pulling over every 30 kilometres to take in the sights, sounds and smells. Hiking up Whiteface Mountain, crossing the border to watch large ocean liners trudge through the nearby locks at sunset or searching for frogs and snakes at good old Loch Garry. No adventure was ever too big or small for my parents. For they knew (or it just struck me that perhaps they absolutely never even considered it) they were igniting this insatiable desire for adventure in all of their three children. The same…