So, here we are. I’m turning 46. Forty. Six. How did that happen?
One minute I’m dancing in a bar in Toronto with no curfew and no real plans, and the next I’m trying to figure out why my shoulder clicks every time I lift a backpack (okay, I know the answer to that, and the first cause is rugby). Life has changed, sure—but the woman I’ve become? She’s stronger, louder, softer in the right ways, and a lot more unapologetic.
So in honour of my 46th trip around the sun, I wanted to sit down and reflect on what I actually know now. Not the polished Instagram version. Not the fluffy, self-help jargon. The real stuff. The messy, hilarious, sometimes painful, always honest lessons I’ve earned.
Here goes:
1. I’ve survived love, loss, labour pains—and editing deadlines
I have been cracked open and duct-taped back together emotionally, physically, and professionally. And here I still stand. The girl who once cried in a bathroom stall over a boy now laughs in the face of broken Zoom links, cancelled plans, and a delayed flight with kids in tow. There’s not much that shakes me anymore. I’ve been broken open and rebuilt more times than I can count, sometimes with duct tape and sometimes with grace. I know the difference now between a red flag and a challenge worth fighting for.
And I know that a bird killing itself by flying into your Jeep is a bad omen (get out of that situation immediately) and that a cockroach is a sign of good luck or prosperity (in some cultures… In North America, it’s a sign of a bad infestation).
For me, resilience isn’t just a word—it’s a lifestyle.
2. My body talks to me—and I finally listen
She whispers before she screams. She tells me when to slow down, when to move, when to stretch, when to rest, when to pack Advil in my daypack, and when to book the massage. I’ve pushed, punished, and ignored her, but at 46, I’ve made peace with her.
Every ache, twinge, itch and shoulder dislocation has taught me something. I listen now—not just to the creaks and cracks but to what I need: rest, movement, nature, boundaries. And yes, maybe a sauna and a cheeky skinny dip.
3. Watching my kids grow is like watching a mirror I can’t control
Watching them become people is wild. They’re mirrors, teachers, and reminders that I can be strong and soft at the same time. And while I’m guiding them, I’m still guiding myself, too—just with a little more humour and a lot less people-pleasing.
They’re wildly different, full of fire and curiosity. Parenting teens and tweens is not for the faint of heart—but it’s also the most grounding experience of my life. They’re little humans with big opinions, and they remind me every day to stay accountable, honest, and soft in all the right places.
And yes, they sometimes still think I’m cool. For now.
4. Travel is my therapy, my rebellion, and my reset button
Whether it’s paddling through Ontario or sipping whisky in a new town, I don’t just escape—I expand. Every trip is a reminder that I’m not meant to shrink to fit anywhere. I’m meant to show up, fully. From camping trips and girls’ getaways to beer tastings and beach days, I go to remember who I am when the noise of life gets loud. Some people meditate. I paddle. I hike. The trail gives me clarity. The lake gives me peace.
The local beer at the end of the adventure? That gives me perspective.
5. I know who I am—and she’s awesome
I’m not here to make myself smaller, quieter, or more palatable. I’m here to take up space, with a camera in one hand and maybe a local beer in the other. I’ve earned my stories, my voice, and my place at the table.
I am not here to dim my voice, shrink my goals, or tolerate nonsense. I’ve earned every laugh line, every story, every scar, gray hair and every ounce of confidence. I take up space now. And if you can’t handle that? Step aside. I’ve got a full itinerary and no time for small talk.
6. Reinvention is my personal love language
New roles, new projects, new goals. I’m not stuck in one version of myself. I am a constant work-in-progress, and I love that about myself.
Career shifts? Done them. Personal evolution? Ongoing. I am not one version of myself, and I refuse to be boxed in. I’m allowed to change. In fact, I insist on it. There’s no expiration date on becoming who you were always meant to be.
Even if it means walking away from something-or someone—you thought you’d always want.
7. I’ve stopped waiting for permission
To rest. To say no. To wear what I want. To laugh too loud. To speak up. To want more. To wear the bikini. To say no without guilt. To say yes without over-explaining. If 30-year-old me thought she had to ask for a seat, 46-year-old me builds the damn picnic table in the woods and invites the wild ones.
There’s a power in not needing validation, and a peace in realizing your own voice is the one that matters most.
8. Reading is my rebellion, and knowledge is still power
I’ve learned that the truth is rarely in the loudest voice in the room—or the biggest font on a flashy website. If it looks like nonsense in neon, it probably is. I trust books, experts, educators, Indigenous voices, and long-form journalism over random reels with dramatic background music.
I don’t need a conspiracy to feel in control—I need facts, history, and real context. Critical thinking is sexy. Being informed is empowering. And misinformation? That stuff should come with a warning label and a glittery “unsubscribe” button.
9. Coming home is where I find my heart again
Sometimes, the adventure isn’t out there—it’s here. In my own backyard. In the Bay of Quinte breeze. In a hug from my kids. In the smell of my favourite coffee brewing on a slow morning.
Coming home isn’t giving up—it’s a grounding. It’s a reminder that I don’t have to chase joy to feel it. I can be wrapped in it, right where I am. Whether it’s a return to my roots or just an evening in my own skin, I’ve learned that home is where I recalibrate, where I remember what matters, where I hear my own heartbeat again.
So here’s to 46.
To the version of me that makes a damn good campfire, knows where to find the best microbrew, can flip a canoe and a bad day around, and still believes in falling wildly in love—with people, with places, with possibility.
I’m not slowing down. I’m not toning it down. I’m turning it up.
Cheers to the mess, the magic, the mayhem—and the next adventure.
