YouAreEnough

Today is one of those days that sits heavy on my heart.

It marks three months since my mom’s passing.
And it also marks twelve years since my mental health journey began.

Both truths living side by side.

This morning, I felt called to attend Shabbat services at the synagogue where I work—to mark both of these moments in a way that felt grounding and sacred. I surrounded myself with community, said a prayer for my mom, and was honoured with opening the Ark.

It felt meaningful.
It felt necessary.
It felt like showing up—for her, and for me.

Twelve years ago today—on April 4, 2014—my life changed forever.

It was a Friday afternoon.
5:00 p.m., to be exact.

A moment so clearly etched in my memory, it still replays as though it were yesterday.

For those who have never read about that day, I once shared the full story here:
https://youareenough712.wordpress.com/2019/04/04/april-4-2014-its-been-five-long-years/

Today, the echoes of that time feel especially loud. Old wounds. Childhood trauma. Triggers that don’t ask for permission before they arrive.

Twelve years.

A dozen years of battling depression, anxiety, and suicidal ideation.

That’s a long time.

Twelve years ago, I said the words “I want to die” for the very first time. Words that, over the years, I acted on more times than I can count.

Back then, it truly felt like the world would be better off without me in it.
And if I’m being honest, that feeling still lives somewhere deep in my wiring.

But there is something else that lives there now too.

Because somehow—through all of it—I am still here.

Still fighting.
Still choosing, again and again, to stay.

I couldn’t have imagined, twelve years ago, the version of me that exists today.

Not because the pain is gone—but because I’ve learned how to live alongside it.

I no longer fight to get my life back to what it once was. That version of me is gone. In her place, someone new emerged that day.

And while she still carries many of the same feelings, she has also grown in ways I never thought possible.

She has learned to ask for help.
To understand her trauma and recognize her triggers.
To set healthy boundaries.
To practice self-care—not as a luxury, but as a necessity.

She has found her voice.

Through writing.
Through sharing.
Through telling her story—in a blog, and in a published children’s book.

She has found purpose in places that once only held pain.
And she continues to advocate—not just for herself, but for others who aren’t yet able to.

She is stronger than she gives herself credit for.
More resilient than she ever imagined.

And so today, I hold both grief and growth.

I miss my mom in ways that words will never fully capture.
And I honour the version of me who, twelve years ago, didn’t think she would survive—but somehow did.

I am not grateful for the pain.
But I am deeply grateful for what I’ve learned, for who I’ve become, and for the people who have carried me when I couldn’t carry myself.

To those who have walked beside me—whether from the very beginning or somewhere along the way—thank you.

For your kindness.
For your compassion.
For not letting go of me.

Twelve years later… I’m still here.

And that matters.

#youareenough #twelveyearslater #grief #mentalhealth #depression #anxiety #suicidalideations #purpose #resilience #advocacy #writer #author #blogger

There are dates that live quietly in the background.

Dates that arrive each year carrying more than memory. Carrying weight. Questions. Trauma. A kind of knowing you can feel in your body.

April 2, 2022 is one of those dates for me.

I remember that morning so clearly.

I woke up after a restless night’s sleep, filled with a kind of cautious hope I hadn’t felt in a long time. I was finally on my way to begin a psilocybin clinical trial. I was beyond grateful for the opportunity to be part of this important research—the first of its kind in Canada. It felt like a doorway. Like maybe, finally, I would find relief from the weight of treatment-resistant depression and the darkness I had been carrying for so long.

But there was one thing still standing in my way.

When I arrived at the clinic, I knew there would be a mandatory rapid COVID test before treatment could begin. It was standard at the time.

Earlier that week, though, I had been exposed to COVID—twice. Jacob being one, and a psychiatrist I had spent hours with in close quarters just days before being the other. I had managed to avoid COVID until then, but that morning, everything felt uncertain.

It was the longest fifteen minutes of my life. Everything depended on it. If the test came back positive, I would be sent home. I might have to wait months for another chance.

When the nurse finally returned and gave me the green light to proceed—and told Rich he could go home and they’d call him when I was done—I felt overwhelming relief.

I didn’t know then what that “yes” would come to mean.

Because here is the truth I live with now:

I have spent every day since wishing that test had been positive.

Wishing I had been turned away.
Wishing I had been told, “Not today.”
Wishing, somehow, that things might have unfolded differently.

Wishing I hadn’t spent the next six hours lying on an uncomfortable couch, eye mask on, headphones blaring a dark and disturbing playlist created for the trial—my body convulsing and spasming, while two doctors sat nearby, observing, pen and paper in hand, without once stepping in to ground or calm me.

For four years now, since that day, my body has been in constant turmoil.

What was meant to be hope—a clinical trial, a chance at relief—became something else entirely. A rare, unrelenting neurological disorder that has reshaped every part of my daily life.

The constant tics.
The constant spasms and PGAD.
The numbness and tingling in my hands and feet day and night.
The sensitivity to touch and sound.

A body that no longer feels like a safe place to exist.

Four years. Countless specialists. No answers. No resolution.

Just learning, day by day, how to live inside something that doesn’t let up.

And last night, as we gathered around the Seder table with family and loved ones, I felt the weight of it all pressing in at once.

Passover—the holiday of memory, of telling, of carrying the past into the present.

And there I was, carrying more than I could hold.

The absence of my mom was there, too.

Even though she had stepped away from holidays for many years, something about this one felt different. More final. More real. She isn’t just somewhere else, choosing not to come because she wasn’t feeling well.

She is not here.
Not present.
Not alive.

And my body felt it.

What began as discomfort quickly escalated into one of the worst neurological flare-ups I have experienced in these four years. I couldn’t sit still. I couldn’t hide it. My body moved in ways I couldn’t control—tics, spasms, waves of sensation overtaking me completely.

I felt exposed. Embarrassed. Ashamed. Vulnerable. Uncomfortable.

While everyone else sat around the table retelling the story of Passover, I was fighting my own body, trying to will it into stillness.

Rich gently encouraged me to get up, to walk, to try and shake it off.

But nothing helped.

Last night felt like everything colliding at once.

Grief.
Memory.
Regret.
The endless “what ifs.”

What if that test had been positive?
What if I had come back another day?
What if…?

But Passover reminds us of something deeper, too.

Maybe freedom, for me right now, isn’t about being released from this.

Maybe it’s about loosening the hold of the “what ifs.”
Making space, however small, between me and the pain.
To keep showing up inside a body that feels unbearable.
To sit at the table anyway.
To tell my story, even when it trembles on the way out.
And remembering that even here, even in this, I am still more than what has happened to me.

Maybe being imperfectly perfect is its own kind of exodus.

#psilocybin #clinicaltrial #fouryearslater #mentalhealth #treatmentresistantdepression #grief #memory #neurological #imperfectlyperfect

As Passover begins this evening, I can feel my grief and mental health sitting close beside me.

Several friends have reached out this week, asking if this first holiday without my mom feels especially hard. And they’re right—“firsts” after loss carry a particular weight. But the truth is more complicated. For many years now, my mom wasn’t at our holiday table. She would often decline at the last minute, usually saying she wasn’t feeling well.

At her funeral, I spoke about how much I loved Passover and Rosh Hashanah as a child—because of her. She created something beautiful in those early years, something warm and full of meaning. And so, as I enter this holiday now, I find myself holding two truths at once: sadness for all that she missed, and deep gratitude for the memories she gave us.

In the days ahead, as we gather around the Seder table with family and friends by my side, I know there will be moments that feel heavy. This time of year already comes with its own set of emotional triggers, and this weekend carries additional layers—marking three months since my mom’s passing, four years since a clinical research trial destroyed my neurological health, and twelve years since the beginning of my mental health journey.

It’s a lot to hold.

But Passover is, at its heart, a story of moving through pain toward something new. It reminds us that even in our most constricted moments, there is the possibility of release, of breath, of small steps forward.

So this year, I am choosing to show up as I am—carrying grief, honoring memory, and making space for joy where it finds me. I am choosing to continue to create the kind of holiday for my children that I once experienced, hoping they will carry those same warm memories with them forever.

Maybe that’s what this season asks of us—not to leave our pain behind, but to bring it with us to the table, alongside love, resilience, and hope.

Because even in the presence of grief, we are still allowed to gather, to remember, and to create meaning. And sometimes, simply showing up—with an open heart—is its own quiet kind of freedom.

#chagpesachsameach #happypassover #grief #mentalhealth #triggers #together #friendsandfamily

Today Rich and I took Maggie for a walk.

A brisk end-of-March kind of day—the kind where winter still lingers in the air, but spring quietly promises it’s on its way. The kind of slow, quiet Sunday afternoon that invites you to take your time.

This winter took a toll on all of us. Maggie included. She’s never been a fan of the cold (just like her mommy)—the snow, the wind, the endless chill. But this winter felt different. Harder.

Maggie will be 15 years young in a couple of weeks, and until now, she’s never really shown her age. But after this brutal winter, it’s been hard to ignore that it’s catching up with her. Some medical issues have surfaced, including significant weight loss—and when you’re only 7 pounds to begin with, that’s scary. The endless snowstorms and mounds of snow were simply too deep for her little legs. We pivoted—clearing a small pathway in the backyard so she could quickly run out and do her business. Walks became a thing of the past.

But today… we tried again.

No expectations. Just fresh air and a gentle nudge out the door.

We took her through the park—open air, lots of room to roam.

And then something shifted.

Maggie wanted to walk.

She took her time, sniffing every tree, frolicking through the dry leaves, letting them crunch beneath her paws. She paused often—not because she had to, but because she wanted to. She lifted her nose to the breeze, taking it all in. There was no rush. No pulling to go home.

Just being.

It might seem like a small thing. But for us, it meant everything.

And somewhere in all of it, my heart tries to convince me she’s going to live forever… right?

A reminder, on a slow Sunday afternoon, to notice. To feel the breeze, soak in the quiet, and take the walk when you can. 💛

#sundays #quiet #walk #maggie #gentlebreeze #mentalhealth #being #wellness

It’s been a long week.

The kind that lingers in your body and mind. I’m mentally drained, physically run down, overwhelmed, anxious as f@ck, and not sleeping. A neurological flare-up has stretched on for days, leaving me feeling nauseous and unable to focus. And underneath it all, grief is still there—something I’m carrying as I try to move forward.

I’ve been incredibly hard on myself this week.

Really hard.

I’ve expected more than I could give. I’ve pushed when I should have paused. Somewhere along the way, I forgot what self-compassion actually means.

Today, I tried to find my way back.

After work, I got my haircut. Nothing big or dramatic, but it felt like a reset—a quiet reminder that I deserve care too.

Sometimes self-care isn’t big or dramatic. It lives in the quiet choices, the small moments where we choose ourselves.

Tonight, I’m leaning into another kind of reset—welcoming Shabbat, taking a breath, and letting its rhythm slow me down. And maybe, just maybe, finding a bit of joy watching the boys of summer back in action for their home opener.

A pause. A reset. A softening.

Heading into the weekend, I’m trying to be a little gentler with myself.

Because maybe self-compassion isn’t something we master—maybe it’s something we return to, again and again, in small, meaningful ways.

Tonight, that feels like enough.

Shabbat Shalom

#selfcare #selfcompassion #mentalhealth #depression #anxiety #shabbatshalom #gojaysgo #haircut #homeopener #boysofsummer #grief #youareenough

Every Sunday afternoon, Jacob walks through the door with groceries in one hand—ready to prep meals for his busy week ahead—and a hamper full of dirty laundry in the other… which his dad happily accepts.

In no time at all, the kitchen turns into a full-blown whirlwind—counters covered, dishes everywhere, people bumping into each other, Maggie underfoot hoping something (anything) drops to the floor, and at least three conversations happening at once.

It’s messy. It’s loud. It’s chaotic.

But in the middle of it all, I see something pretty incredible. I see all three of my kids showing up for one another—working together, chopping veggies, laughing (and yes, sometimes arguing too), sharing stories, and building a bond that will outlast these moments.

And by the end of it all, we sit down together for a family dinner—slowing things down, sharing a meal, and soaking in that after-dinner quality time that somehow balances out the chaos of the day.

It’s these moments—the loud, messy, beautiful ones—that fill me up in a way nothing else can. 💛

#mythreereasonswhy #chaos #family #siblingbonds #qualitytime #moments #mentalhealth

This afternoon we walked along the water at Queen’s Quay, quietly longing for summer. We wandered into a few of the free exhibits and museums nearby, paused to watch a glassblowing class, and took the long way home—reminiscing at every corner of Yonge Street. I especially loved our walk down memory lane at the Harbourfront Centre’s “Mr. DressUp to Degrassi: 42 Years of Legendary Toronto Kids TV” reimagined, hands-on exhibit.

Oh, the memories it stirred. The nostalgia.

Nostalgia feels like a powerful companion in grief.

When you’re grieving someone who was deeply woven into your life, nostalgia gently fills parts of the space they’ve left behind. It reconnects you to what was—to moments when love was still active and alive. It lets you feel, even briefly, the warmth of having had.

It deepens your sense of connection, reminding you that your past is not gone—it still lives within you. And today, it brought me a quiet kind of comfort through familiarity.

So many of my childhood memories feel bittersweet—some even painful. But today didn’t feel triggering. Just soft, steady reminders of love.

Some people say nostalgia keeps us stuck. But in grief, I’m beginning to understand it differently. It’s in the little things—the ordinary moments that once felt insignificant but now feel like everything.

Sometimes a memory hits and it breaks me. Other times, it softens something in me.

Maybe that’s what nostalgia is in grief.
Not looking backward…
but reaching for something that still belongs to you.

#mrdressup #caseyandfinnegan #nostalgia #memories #grief #harbourfront #queensquay #mentalhealth

Adios Winter ❄️
Don’t let the door hit you on the way out.

Hello Spring 🌼
Welcome back.

There’s no denying this has been a brutal winter. It’s felt never-ending in so many ways. And for me, losing my mom in the middle of it all made the cold feel even heavier… deeper than the season itself.

The past few weeks, especially, this week, have been hard. Physically. Mentally. Emotionally.
My anxiety has been louder than ever,  refusing to loosen its grip no matter what. The kind you can’t simply distract away. Even the things that usually help or bring me comfort (like writing) haven’t come easily. Total writer’s block.

I know what I need. I need the trails. I need the return of the #summerofrich. The air. The movement. Nature. The quiet that somehow makes space for everything I’m carrying. And I haven’t been able to get there in months.

But today is the first day of spring.

And somehow, that feels like a small turning point.

After such a long stretch of winter, there’s something especially comforting about those first hints of change and the quiet promise of renewal all around us. 

The reminder that even after the coldest, darkest seasons, the ones that feel like they might never end, that things can soften. Not all at once. Not perfectly. But slowly.

Mental health doesn’t shift overnight with the seasons. It doesn’t magically reset just because the calendar tells us it’s spring. Healing isn’t linear like that. But spring does give way to the idea of possibility for lighter days ahead. Even during the heavy days and in the moments that feel too hard to breathe through.

That maybe, slowly, gently… things can begin to thaw.

So I’m holding onto that today with a quiet hope.

Wishing everyone a gentle, healing, and joyful start to the season 🐦‍⬛🦜

Shabbat Shalom

#spring #shabbatshalom #renewal #hope #summerofrich #hiking #happytrails #thaw #goodbyewinter #transformation #seasons #change #mentalhealth #youareenough

**I wrote this piece for the synagogue bulletin where I work and wanted to share it with you.

For many people, Friday the 13th carries a sense of unease. Popular culture has long labeled it an unlucky day, filled with superstition and misfortune. But in Jewish tradition, the number 13 tells a very different story—one filled with meaning, faith, and blessing.

In Judaism, 13 is not something to fear. It is instead associated with some of the most beautiful ideas in our tradition. In the Torah, we learn about the Thirteen Attributes of Mercy—the ways we understand God’s compassion and forgiveness.
In Jewish life, a child becomes a Bar or Bat Mitzvah at 13, marking the beginning of their responsibility and connection to Jewish community and tradition.

And then there is Friday itself.

For Jews, Friday is the day we prepare for Shabbat, the weekly pause that invites us to slow down, gather with loved ones, and welcome peace into our homes. As the sun sets and we light the candles, whatever the calendar date may be, the day transforms. Worries of the week give way to rest, gratitude, and connection.

So when Friday the 13th appears on the calendar, we might smile at the contrast as we prepare for one of the most cherished rhythms of Jewish life. Instead of bad luck, we welcome blessing. Instead of superstition, we embrace sacred time.

Perhaps Friday the 13th is actually a perfect reminder of what Judaism teaches us: that meaning is not found in superstition, but in how we choose to bless our time and gather as community.  Friday is the day we prepare to welcome Shabbat, the weekly gift of rest, community, and holiness.

So rather than unlucky, 13 in Jewish life points to all meaningful reminders of what truly brings blessing into our lives.

Shabbat Shalom,

#fridaythethirteenth #luckythirteen #judaism #shabbatshalom

I’ve been riddled with an abundance of anxiety and panic. Some of it is the familiar kind I carry with me day to day, but lately there’s been a whole added layer. The constant stream of news about escalating violence and incidents targeting Jewish institutions sits heavily on my heart.

I work in a Jewish institution — a place that has brought meaning, purpose, and connection to my life over the past year. It is a space filled with prayer, learning, laughter, comfort, and community. And yet in recent days, those feelings have been overshadowed by fear and uncertainty.

It’s a strange and difficult thing when the place that nourishes your soul also becomes the place where your worries gather. When security measures that once faded into the background suddenly feel more visible and necessary. When the world outside our doors feels unpredictable and heavy.

There are moments when the anxiety creeps in quietly, and other moments when it arrives all at once. Moments when my thoughts race faster than I can slow them down. Moments when I feel panic rise in my chest and I struggle to take a full breath.

And yet, even in the midst of all of this, I am reminded why Jewish community matters so deeply.

Simply by coming together — to pray, to learn, to sing, to support one another — we quietly affirm something powerful: that Jewish life continues.

Our history teaches us that resilience is woven into the fabric of who we are. Generation after generation, Jews have faced moments in time that tested our sense of safety and belonging. And yet, we continue to build community. We continue to show up for one another. We continue to choose connection, tradition, and hope.

In times like these, unity becomes more than a value — it becomes a source of strength. When we stand together, support one another, and hold our community close, fear does not get to have the final word.

Working in Jewish communal life reminds me every day that strength does not mean the absence of fear. It means standing together despite it. It means leaning on one another and continuing to show up, even when our hearts feel heavy.

As Jews, resilience is woven into our story. And just as generations before us did, we will continue to support one another and move forward — together, with courage, faith, and hope, even through the anxiety and the panic, and in those moments when the weight of it all settles in my chest and it feels hard to breathe.

#jewishunity #strength #resilience #anxiety #panic #generations #standtogether #community #mentalhealth