So guess whose essay has been chosen for publication in BIG: Stories about Life in Plus-Sized Bodies, an anthology by Caitlin Press coming out in early 2020?
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At first I was hesitant about even submitting, as I didn't know if there was a strict guide about what's considered "plus-sized." Floating somewhere between a size 12 and a size 14 on any given day, I wasn't sure where that put me exactly, but psychologically, I feel that I don't fit what society deems "ideal," and I am not always comfortable in my body.
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I'm so grateful and excited for yet another milestone on the road to writing success. This essay forced me to confront all my raw feelings about my body and how much my critical inner voice affects me. Exploring the messy intersection between a woman's weight and her sense of self-worth is not easy, but I learned a lot about myself by writing my way through it.
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I can't wait to work with my fabulous editor Christina Myers, and see all these much-needed stories out in the world. Stay tuned for pre-sales/orders information!
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http://caitlin-press.com/our-books/big/​

When I became a parent, I began a life-changing journey into uncharted territory. Caring for a newborn was like walking into a strange house blindfolded. There were no blueprints to consult, no floor plan to get my bearings. Everywhere I turned, there were missing stairs and secret spaces that led to unexpected emotions and tears. With my history of psychological and physical health issues, the foundation of the structure felt shaky, the ground uneven.

I'm honoured to share my latest essay, "The Strange House of Motherhood," which is part of an amazing new anthology called "A Mother Knows.” Please check it out if you have a moment, and let me know if you can relate. I hope it helps someone know they're not alone.

LOVE is your husband working at your make-up table in the master bedroom, instead of at a much larger desk in the den, because he wants you to have as much access to natural daylight as possible. To get whatever glimpses of the sun's rays you can when you're feeling the gloomy effects of Seasonal Affective Disorder/Bipolar Depression.

LOVE is your husband not even moving your boxes of jewelry and other scattered paraphernalia around on that tiny desk, because it would disrupt your stuff, and he's considerate like that. Instead, he simply works around it and gamely folds his body into a feminine-looking chair. Just like he works around your fibromyalgia, anxiety attacks, PMDD, up-and-down moods, and your constant requests to hear that everything will eventually be okay in the end.

LOVE is your husband always loading and unloading the dishwasher, making most meals and taking on the majority of parenting when you're having pain-filled days or feeling extra low due to your bipolar 2 disorder. Chronic illness doesn't equate to easy times or interludes in any marriage, but despite both of your bone-deep frustration with your sometimes-sucky situation, you always make up and just get on with it.

LOVE is thirty loads of laundry, an unmade bed, and lost heads. It often involves raised voices, defeated tears and slammed doors. But it is also cuddling after your kid finally goes to bed, just resting your head on your husband's shoulder, feeling his heart beat out a steady rhythm, and letting your worries float away into the ether.

LOVE is your partner in life listening to your catastrophic thoughts and bringing you back down to earth, coming up with reasonable-sounding plans and not minding when you feel like sleeping with the stuffed animal you had since you were two, just for some extra comfort.

LOVE is mysterious pelvic pain after surgery, driving to endless doctor's appointments and prescription pick-ups. It's dealing daily with your wife's concurrent health afflictions. Often it feels more one-sided. It can be heavy and imbalanced at times, and one partner may wilt under the weight of so much caring and responsibility. It is a lot to constantly carry around your wife's chronic illnesses - physical or mental - and nobody is a saint with endless patience and goodwill. But your husband comes close.

LOVE is couple's therapy and talking it out and making the first move to speak about uncomfortable, awkward things you'd rather bury under the dirty carpet. It's owning your vibes and your words, and all the things you say with your looks and sighs and silence.
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LOVE is being the bigger person in your marriage, being the first person to reach out, trudging down the stairs late at night to hash it out, so you both won't go to bed mad, full of resentment and hurt in your hearts.

LOVE is appreciating when you have the best damn husband in the whole wide world, and wanting to be a better wife, just to reach his level of goodness, even if he's nowhere near perfect and only human, just like you, with flaws and weaknesses and maddening habits like leaving crumbs all over the counter.
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LOVE is looking past those crumbs on the counter. The hairs in the sink. The compost and recycling boxes still at the end of the driveway after two days. It's pushing all that pointless shit to one side and saying THANK GOD for this Mediterranean dish who walked into your life in 2008, pursued you with a stubbornness you still treasure to this day, and has STAYED with you and supported you in this weird and unwanted world of chronic illness. Every time you see a freshly made hot water bottle or an uplifting post-it  note stuck on your computer, it is then that you realize that you have, in fact, been infinitely blessed.

Have you ever wandered through the world
and wondered why you're here?
 
I wish I knew. But this little girl is my tether today.
A teacher wrapped up in a four-year-old's body.
And she's pulling me through.
 
As for our troubles, let's just let them float away,
like party balloons set free,
​no longer weighted down by sadness.
 
We don't need to anchor our fear anymore.
Let the sky claim all our anxieties.
Let the sun's rays calm our souls.
 
Because you and me,
we don't always have to be waiting
for the next axe to fall.
 
Hurt will happen, but we can still find pockets
of beauty and whimsy in this treasure hunt of life,
if we look closely.
 
We need to shed our shells and masks
and stop fighting ourselves.
 
We come from star-stuff, my supernova,
and we are good enough to be here and take up space,
just as we are.
 
So let's forget about our power struggles over breakfast,
and eat more rainbow ice cream instead.
Let's stop worrying about everything we cannot control
inside and out there, and just take solace
in colouring a beautiful picture together.
 
We can navigate the blues
with pinks and yellows and purples,
I promise.
 
The strands of our hearts have been braided together
and intertwined with unconditional love since
well before you took residence in my womb.
 
Butting heads on a daily basis won't break our bond.
Either will me taking to my bed.
 
The pain is not permanent, little one, for either of us.
Soon I will let mine go, just like those colourful birthday balloons
that slip out of our fingers when we're not looking,
and move quickly and quietly into the sky.

So I did it. Last night I gathered my courage, and the words I'd written about my mental health journey, and I set them free at the Beam On exhibit in a room inside the Old Town Hall in Newmarket. Surrounded by beautiful artwork, I added my voice to the visual manifestations of mental illness. And I was heard.
 
It's one thing to share your story on the screen, to send it out into the internet ether and let your words speak for themselves. It's a whole other world when you get up in front of a microphone and let people peek at your heart for six minutes straight. But I did it, and I couldn’t be more proud of my role as a mental health advocate. I met so many lovely, encouraging souls last evening, and it meant the world to have my favourite people on the planet in the audience. Thank you to my mum, dad and sister for showing up for me, like they always do.
 
When my husband first suggested we bring our four-year-old daughter, Eve, to the event, I wasn't sure. Would she be bored? Would there be any other kids there? Would it run past her bedtime? But Michael didn't care about any of that. He simply wanted Eve to see her mama being brave and giving a talk that might help some other people.
 
There are so many days when I feel like a parent on the sidelines, not participating in things because of fluctuating moods or chronic pain, so it felt wonderful for me to show her what I CAN do, for a change. How I can contribute to an important conversation, raise awareness and show people what it looks like to survive a collision with mental illness. How it's possible come out of the darkness to the other side and tell your story as part of the healing process.
 
My favourite part of the night was when I finished my speech. As soon as the audience started applauding, my darling girl excitedly ran up to me and presented me with a single flower. Later on, Michael told me she what she whispered to him afterward: "Mama did a good job of not being shy in front of all those people." As compliments go, I'll take it.

Give these lip balms to my daughter
whose mouth she got from her father
Let her take these everyday treasures
she coveted from her mother's dresser
for there will come a day soon when
she will no longer want my possessions

Loan her the statue of Tara, the mother of all Buddhas
that I crossed paths with in Union Square
Let my namesake's compassion and feminine wisdom
seep into the deepest part of her childish heart 
as she sleeps tucked up in dreams
with her blanket half-on, half-off

Hand over the sketch of a forever family
to the little being who stretched two into three
Let her be reminded of love's eternal hold
and how it never lets go, no matter 
how many times we bump heads and bruise hearts
before breakfast

Bestow the patterned box of tissues
for all those blue tears and excruciating moments 
she won't feel good enough in her bones 
despite her parents' assurances that she is
everything beauty could aspire to and 
both the cosmos and universe to us

​I can get by with a sparse nightstand
an Ikea lamp, a perfume bottle and wedding bands for my hand
but I will hang on to the good mother sticker
and remember to pack it up when we move on
keeping it safe for when my daughter has a daughter
and she needs a daily reminder of her own

We moved to Yonge & Finch when I got pregnant. It was the only area in Toronto where we could afford a three-bedroom apartment, and we needed more space for the baby.

We weren't really familiar with the neighbourhood before renting there. I was lucky to have a good friend living across the road to show me the local gems. Most of our neighbours were Korean or Chinese, or Persian. It was a different world from trendy Yonge & Eglinton, but it woke us up and made us appreciate the United Nations of people we were living amongst. It felt odd to be the minority, but important to experience it at the same time.

Things stick out: Everybody smoked. On the streets. Hanging over balconies. There were lots of false fire alarms in our building. And loads of karaoke bars and great places to eat. They're all still there, of course, but now they're somehow tainted. Marred by what looks to be the hand of terrorism, whether it's a lone wolf or someone tied to a bigger organization.

A place doesn't stay the same once it's been on the news for the wrong reasons.

We lived right behind Yonge Street, a minute or two walk from where the first victim was found. I can't count the number of times I waited at that intersection to cross the street and grab the subway and go to work. The Starbucks at the bottom of the Xerox building was my caffeine home. It was also my haven, especially when I took mat leave way too early.

It's surreal to see your old hood on TV, on stations like CNN and BBC. We lived there for two years and eventually moved on, but Eve spent the first 18 months of her life there. It's where I went into labour at 3:00 am. It's where we took her home from the hospital.

It was our first real home as a family, even if we didn't own the walls or appliances. We loved the little park beside our place. The community centre. The stroll down to Mel Lastman Square on a Friday night in summer. The farmer's market. The relaxed vibe in the air.

I remember vividly the first time I took my newborn daughter out for a walk on my own in the middle of winter. She was dressed in a blue monkey snowsuit and I was terrified to be solely responsible for the little being cradled in my arms. They were shaking so badly. My heart was determined but terrified of bringing her out into the world with me as her only protection. What if something happened?

It was snowing heavily, and I suddenly felt guilty that her little angel face might get wet and cold, so I waited at the intersection and then crossed quickly to the building across the road. The warmth calmed me down immediately, and my breaths came a little slower. After 10 or 15 minutes, I worked up the nerve to leave. I recrossed the road and returned home, having somehow kept my baby alive. It was like a motherhood badge for my soul.

I'll always have fond memories of all our firsts at Yonge & Finch, and my heart goes out to everyone affected by today's tragedy. The horror of it all is keeping my eyes open tonight. As someone who doesn't drive and is a lifelong pedestrian, this type of incident is all the more scary.

I don't often consciously pray or get down on my knees, but right now I think our city and country (and world) need all the positive words and vibes and help we can get. I have to trust that justice will take care of the rest.

Something has to get better, soon. Doesn't it? How can it not? We can no longer live in a world that heaves with this type of everyday carnage and mess. We breathe it in in one city and exhale it out in another. It's an illness. How can we send our babies and children out into it, without their mother's arms, or snowsuits, or anything else to protect them?

When it the next thing happens, will it be to them?

Tonight it feels as if all I have are my anxieties and secret prayers. For the victims, their families, the first responders, the witnesses. The cop who didn't shoot. The mother of the murderer. For someone has to spare a thought for her.

​But mainly I'm praying and sending light and love to Toronto the Good. Because an incident like this can't take our name or our inherent goodness away from us. Something this awful only makes it rise up.