After work today, I met an “old” friend of my mom’s.
Their friendship spans more than five decades. This June it will be 55 years, to be exact.
I know this because they met in the hospital the week her youngest daughter and I were both born. Her daughter is a few days older than me.
It was June of 1971.
Our lives were connected from the very beginning, first in Montreal and later in Toronto after our families both relocated. When we were kids, our families spent a lot of time together. I have many warm memories from those years.
Seeing her today was beautiful — tender, comforting, and carrying a quiet ache that felt strangely healing.
The warmth of her embrace when we first saw each other felt like comfort. The kind of hug where neither of you rushes to let go.
I held back tears as she told me stories about my mom. She also shared conversations they had in more recent years about me. She assured me my mom always spoke with only love in her heart for me, and how deeply she truly loved me.
Those words land differently now. In a good way. In a healing way.
Grief has a strange way of opening small windows like that — moments where someone else holds a piece of the person you lost and gently hands it back to you.
Today I received a few more pieces of my mom. Pieces I didn’t know I still needed.
Even writing that feels strange. Heavy. Final in a way I still don’t fully understand.
Grief doesn’t move in a straight line. It never does. Mine has felt complicated — which makes sense, because our relationship was complicated.
There was love. There were things said and not said. There were wounds. There were real moments. And there was distance, too.
I’ve spent these weeks since her passing going over so many memories in my mind.
Some I hold close. The ones that still make me smile.
Others come back that I would rather forget. The hard ones. The unfinished ones.
It’s all there. Missing her. Love. Hurt. Anger. Resentment. Sadness. And, if I’m being totally honest, even moments of relief — which bring their own layer of guilt.
And then there are the small, almost silly things grief brings up. Like remembering my childhood phone number without hesitation. It lives somewhere deep in me, untouched by time.
Why that? Of all things.
Grief mixes everything together. It pulls up moments you haven’t thought about in decades. It makes you ten years old again, sitting on the living room floor, holding your new puppy, Bamboo. It asks you to look at the whole story, and not just the easy parts.
Two months in, I don’t have all the answers, I just know that complicated love doesn’t disappear because someone passes.
It changes shape. It settles in new places. It lives on in memories — the beautiful ones, the painful ones, and yes… even in old phone numbers we still remember.
Do you still remember your childhood phone number?
At the end of 2025, I wrote about a commitment I was making for the year ahead.
Not a resolution. Just a practice.
Write down one good thing that happens each day.
I said it out loud in my end-of-year blog, which made me feel accountable. And now, at the start of month three, I’m proud to say, I’ve kept that promise.
Some days the good thing is obvious.
Other days, I have to search deep.
There are days my anxiety is loud. Days when my world and the world around me feels heavy. On those days, the “good thing” might be small:
I got out of bed. I breathed. I made it through.
And sometimes, it’s bigger.
Yesterday, after a long day at work, I came home and immediately sat down to write my one good thing in my journal (even before scrubbing the green makeup off my face!). I wrote about the Purim party I had just returned home from, the one I helped plan and execute with my colleagues for our congregation. It was a great success. I dressed up. I got into character for our thrillifyingly Wicked-themed evening. For a few hours, there was laughter, connection, tradition, and a lot of silliness woven together.
It reminded me that even in uncertain times, showing up together matters. Joy matters. Community matters.
This practice isn’t about pretending everything is fine.
It’s about remembering that even on the hard days, something good can still exist.
Two months so far of small, handwritten proof that even when I feel fragile, I refuse to let the hard be my whole story.
It’s been a heavy weekend. The kind that seeps into you even if you try to look away. And honestly, it’s been really hard to look away.
When the world feels like this, my mental health takes a hit. My thoughts get darker. Harder to manage. I overthink. I spiral.
Hiking usually helps. Nature is my therapy. The steady rhythm of one foot in front of the other quiets my brain and reminds me that forward is forward — even if it’s slow.
But winter isn’t my jam. The snow. The cold. The lack of greenery. When I can’t reach for my usual coping tool, I feel untethered.
So instead, I found other ways to distract myself this weekend. Getting into character for tomorrow evening’s Wicked-themed Purim spiel and Megillah reading at the synagogue where I work was one such way. Green nails and all. A little dramatic. A little bold. A little “thrillifying.”
And maybe that’s the point.
Because if there was ever a time when the world feels uncertain and heavy… it’s now. And Purim meets us there.
The story of Purim, told in the Book of Esther, is about hidden strength. Esther doesn’t begin fearless. She becomes brave in uncertainty. There are no guarantees. The risks are real. And still, she steps forward.
Purim reminds us that in moments of crisis, we can tap into deeper courage — even when the outcome is unclear.
Tomorrow evening, I’ll be in costume. Laughing. Eating hamantashen. Leaning into the drama.
Because resilience doesn’t always look serious. Sometimes it looks theatrical. Sometimes it looks like painting your nails green when your mind feels heavy. Sometimes it looks like choosing to show up anyway.
Managing mental health isn’t about fixing the world.
It’s about disrupting the darkness long enough to breathe.
I’ve been feeling really overwhelmed lately and struggling a lot this week. It’s a heaviness I can’t quite name.
This week there were two high-profile suicides in the media. And I won’t lie — every time I hear about a suicide, something in me shifts. It lingers. It settles in my chest. It’s hard to shake, especially when I’m feeling so vulnerable.
When someone well-known dies this way, the news spreads quickly. There are headlines, tributes, speculation, shock. But underneath all of that is something quieter and more important: a reminder again that mental health struggles do not discriminate. Fame doesn’t shield you. Success doesn’t make you immune or quiet your inner pain.
Every time a public figure dies by suicide, we are given an opportunity — painful as it is — to talk.
To talk about depression without whispering. To talk about anxiety without minimizing it. To talk about hopelessness without shame.
I’ve struggled with suicidal thoughts and ideations for the better part of twelve years.
There have also been several times I didn’t just think about it — I acted on those thoughts. That’s not easy to admit. It still feels vulnerable to put into words. But I’ve learned that silence feeds shame, and shame feeds isolation.
So I chose openness.
Not because it’s comfortable. Not because I have it all figured out now. But because the more we speak honestly about suicidal thoughts, the less power they have in the dark.
When I hear about a celebrity suicide, it doesn’t feel distant to me. It feels personal. It reminds me of the last 12 years I’ve spent battling my own mind. It reminds me how convincing hopelessness can sound. It reminds me how someone can look functional, successful, even joyful — and still be fighting.
Living with suicidal ideation isn’t always dramatic. Sometimes it’s quiet. Sometimes it’s a background hum. Sometimes it flares up when life feels heavy — like it has for the past week or so— and I have to consciously steady myself again.
But here’s what I know now that I didn’t know twelve years ago:
Thoughts are not commands and asking for help is not weakness.
Every time we talk about suicide openly — responsibly, compassionately — we loosen the grip of stigma. We make it safer for someone to say, “Me too.” We make it safer for someone to reach out before their thoughts turn into plans.
This week has felt heavy. The headlines stirred things I work hard to keep steady. They reminded me that the line between coping and unraveling can feel thinner than we admit. But they also reminded me of something else: I have lived through twelve years of thoughts that told me not to. I have survived moments that feel unsurvivable.
And I am still here even though it’s not always easy.
If my honesty makes it even slightly easier for someone else to ask for help, then the vulnerability is worth it. Stigma can only be erased by conversations like this. In truth-telling. In refusing to stay silent.
Sometimes the bravest thing we can do is to keep talking. Keep reaching. Keep choosing you.
If you’re struggling, please don’t stay alone with it. Support is available. Text or call 9-8-8 in Canada or US.
And if you’re not struggling right now, be the person who makes it easier for others to speak. Listen without fixing. Stay without judging. Check in again.
Pink Shirt Day began as a movement against bullying — when students chose to wear pink in support of a classmate who was bullied for wearing a pink shirt. What started as one simple act of solidarity has become a powerful symbol of inclusion, courage, and standing up for one another.
This year’s theme, “Sprinkle Kindness,” feels especially meaningful. Kindness doesn’t have to be grand or loud. Sometimes it’s a smile. An inclusive gesture. A message to check in.
A sprinkle may seem small — but enough sprinkles can change everything.
Let’s choose words that lift. Let’s notice the quiet ones. Let’s stand up gently but firmly. Let’s create spaces where everyone feels safe, seen, and valued.
I’m wearing pink today as a reminder that kindness is powerful — and that we all have the ability to spread it.
Grief can feel heavy, but sometimes the memories and music we hold onto light the way forward.
Grieving isn’t only about sorrow—it’s also about remembering the moments that made life bright. Lately, I’ve been reflecting on the good memories with my mom, and how revisiting them can feel both comforting and tender all at once.
Over the weekend, Rich and I watched the movie “Song Sung Blue”, the story of a couple who started a Neil Diamond cover band in the 1980s til the early 2000s and found themselves performing to sold-out crowds. It was released in theatres on Christmas Day, but with my mom palliative over the holidays, I just wasn’t in the headspace to see it then. Watching it at home gave me the space to sit quietly with my thoughts and let the music wash over me.
The film was heavier than I expected—way heavier—especially knowing it was based on a true story. It agitated a three day long flare up of my nervous system but it was worth it!! I had a good cry. I was moved by its portrayal of resilient love, joy, hardship, and sorrow. And beneath my tears, I felt gratitude for the memories it stirred in me.
One memory in particular surfaced: the first concert I ever attended. I was ten years old when my mom took me to see Neil Diamond. I remember feeling so grown-up sitting beside her. I remember the music swelling through the arena. And I vividly remember leaning over to ask her about the “funky smell” in the air—my very first (unknowing) introduction to marijuana. I’ve been a fan of Neil Diamond ever since. That night planted a love for music that has stayed with me all these years. His music brings me joy. It steadies me. Sometimes it even helps me access the tears I’m holding back. Truthfully, I often have a hard time listening to music since my illness began almost twelve years ago—it can feel too raw, too close to the surface. But when I need a good cry or a gentle release, music often becomes a doorway. A way to feel what needs to be felt.
Grief, I’m learning, isn’t only about what we lose—it’s also about what we carry forward. The songs, the laughter, the shared experiences—they live on in us. They shape who we are and how we move through the world.
When I look back at those moments with my mom, I see us laughing, learning, loving. And I’m reminded that grieving isn’t just about letting go; it’s about holding on—to the music, to the memories, to the love and light that never truly leave us.
Over the past couple of weeks, Rich and I have attended Saturday morning services and the congregational luncheon afterwards at the synagogue where I’ve been working now for close to a year (yup, time really does fly!). My purpose was simple: to say the mourner’s Kaddish (prayer) for my mom and find some grounding in my grief.
I’ve never been particularly religious and for much of my life, I have kept walls up from God— uncertain if a higher power even existed. And yet, in stepping into this community, I’ve discovered something unexpected. As Trent Shelton writes in his book, Protect Your Peace, “Boundaries aren’t walls to keep things out, they are bridges to let the right things in.”
Letting myself be present, allowing the warmth of others to reach me, has been quietly transformative. Hugs, smiles, small acts of kindness—they’ve welcomed me not as a visitor, but as someone who belongs. In that openness, I’ve found not only connection to my mom, but also a sense of peace, belonging, and shared humanity I didn’t know I was missing.
Grief has taught me that growth often comes through opening doors we thought should stay closed—and that the bridges we build can be stronger than the walls we once relied on. I may still wrestle with belief, but I do know that something spiritual has been unfolding in me, for some time now.
Maybe faith, for me, isn’t about having all the answers or certainty about God. Maybe it’s about showing up anyway. About standing in community, whispering an ancient prayer, and allowing myself to be held—by memory, by love, and by something greater than my doubts.
Today is Galentine’s Day; which takes place on the day before Valentine’s Day.
Galentine’s Day is a day for women to come together and celebrate friendship. This pseudo made up holiday was first invented back in 2010 by the creative team of writers on the hit TV series Parks and Recreation and has since gained international attention and popularity and been embraced by women everywhere.
Friendship should never feel complicated.
Filters should never be needed.
Scores should never be kept.
Our past grievances should never be held against us.
Friends should let you walk in the front door just as you are.
Friends should always make room at the table for one more.
Friends should want to see you happy.
Friends don’t need to have the perfect words or try and fix you.
Friends should want to listen, not silence you.
Friends should want to see you thrive.
Friends should make you laugh even through the tears.
Friends should FIGHT for you, RESPECT you, INCLUDE you, ENCOURAGE you, NEED you, DESERVE you and STAND by you (acronym for F.R.I.E.N.D.S) even when life gets messy sometimes; and God knows it does.
As someone who battles with depression and anxiety, I know that sometimes even the simplest connections can feel so out of reach. When struggling with your mental health, it can easily convince you that you are a burden to others, or not worthy of love, but my journey has opened my eyes to what true friendship and connection look like and has quietly given me the courage to “break up” with friendships that were no longer serving me. Breaking up with a friend is hard and there is a grieving process that comes along with it; a very painful one at that but a necessary part of my healing. I’ve since learned that sometimes some people are just not good for me no matter how much I love or care about them. I’ve also come to the realization that the only people I deserve in my life are the ones that need me in theirs even when I have nothing else to offer them but myself.
And from speaking to so many other women over the past many years, I know that I am not alone. Friendship breakups have sadly become all too commonplace for many people, especially since the Pandemic. The Pandemic really made so many of us super vigilant as to the kind of people we want in our lives. It shined a light on the true colours of so many and trust me, when people show you who they really are you not only believe them but you begin to quickly re-evaluate many of your priorities and values too.
I will no longer squeeze myself into places I don’t fit or force myself to sit at a table with people and pretend I am someone who they prefer I be or want me to be. I will no longer share a cup of coffee (not that I even drink coffee but you get the idea) with people who I know that as soon as I walk away the gossip and judgement begins.
I deserve people in my life who are in it for the long haul. We all do.
No judgement, nor hurtful words. No endless gossip behind your back. Friendships should be as real to your face as they are loyal behind your back.
Cherish those who lift you up not those who bring you down and be the one who always makes room at the table for one more.
Happy Galentine’s Day to all the “Gals” out there who are blessed to be able to celebrate the meaning of true, authentic, everlasting friendships today, tomorrow and every day in between.
**Tag (in comments) a special “Gal” or “Gals” in your life who you know that no matter what, they will always have a seat at their table for you.🥰❤💚💛
YouAreEnough 
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