mom

Person in Black Pants and Black Shoes Sitting on Brown Wooden Chair talking to female therapist opposite him

Opening Up to Therapy While There’s Still Time

In Roz Weston’s raw and intimate memoir, A Little Bit Broken, he writes about his first experience with therapy. (I don’t know whether he had more experiences. I’m still reading the book.) Tiny spoiler alert: Roz clearly needed therapy but didn’t return after one session. I get it. I didn’t go back after my first session either. My mom wouldn’t let me.

red background with happy face and white lettering reads: I'm a nice person until you piss me off!

Nice Girls Finish Last

Women of my vintage put up with a lot of crap. Passed over for a promotion because of our gender. Looked through when it came to gathering opinions around the boardroom table. (I was the only female on a management team, for a time.) It was part of the deal. Early on, I was confused about relationships. I never knew whether I had “the right” to be firm with men who were treating me like a thing. Being a “nice girl” didn’t help.

white-tailed deer in the snow

The Hunted

From when I was 12 until my Dad died in 2017, our family home was on a 53-acre patch of land outside Smithville, Ontario. It had three large ponds, fields for crops and, by my estimate, about 10% of it was woods. My parents built a house there and Dad moved his business there, too.

Home

When I went to my Mom’s condo in early August for a visit from far-away relatives, I didn’t know how long I would be there. I had packed a bag a few times before, believing I would “know” when it was time to stay, and I did. It was clear. But I didn’t try to imagine when I would return home, because going home meant my Mom would be gone, and I wanted to put that off for as long as possible.