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Resolution fulfilled

30 December 2022

I haven't shared on this platform for six months. And while it was not a conscious choice, it does make sense. This place is a safe haven to collect the lessons learned along the way, not simply vent. To decant all the lessons I've learned in the past few months, it requires time. Time and energy. Time, energy, and patience. And I can't wait to share them with you.

This year has been as brutal as it has been marvelous. We've all been tested during covid. Our skin got thicker while our emotions became skin-deep. We changed. And it did influence this new chapter of starting my life over [once again]. I knew challenges lay ahead, but I never expected social isolation, tiredness, inertia. Like an extended lockdown. I looked as much inward as I did outward. And discovered much more than expected.

I found out the amount of self-love that was required to embark on such a journey, only to realize that I didn't have enough. Or rather that I didn't love all of me. I was still rejecting the dark zones. My biggest challenge was to feel unconditional love toward myself.  Completely, wholeheartedly, sincerely. To love the ugly. I had no idea how brave I was until I embrace all shades of my character. I had no idea how strong I was until I had to pick myself up. And I'm a better, more complete human being for it.

I'm happy here even in gruesome times. I made good decisions in my life to end up in Lisbon. Hardship is part of life. It often is the token of courage, of strength.

Yes, I've been beaten down, frustrated, disillusioned. But for every hurdle, there has been hope. For every deception, there has been light. For every reality check, there has been humanity. Those are all blessings. I welcome them all for they taught me how to live a fuller life. And I wouldn't change them for all the gold in the world.

I had one resolution for 2022. To be proud of me for starting over. Resolution fulfilled.

A rainbow over Santos, proof that the calm comes after the storm.

The garden

28 August 2022

I am a garden. I am a gardener. I've tended to my garden for 7 years now.

At first, my lot was a mess. Rocks, roots, and even trunks were taking up all the space. Gradually, with patience, time, and dedication, I got rid of all of them. Sometimes by myself, sometimes with the help of friends, professionals, and passers-by.

Eventually, the space became clear enough, clean enough, to plant new trees, flowers, and herbs. To welcome sunshine, peace, and joy.

The garden will always need care. It is a daily task. To avoid weeds from invading the space once again, flowers from withering too soon, trees from overgrowing.

I am the garden. I am the gardener.

Dedicated. Patient.

Fruit flies

1 May 2022

Swipe right. A match. The game begins. Who will launch the conversation? With a killer opening line, for that matter.

I’ve received the emoji of a waving hand. I’ve sent those as well. Not the best move, but at least a sympathetic one. I’ve received the emoji of a smiley face with heart-shaped eyes. I never went as far as sending one of those. A guy sends you this, and he’s complimenting you on your physique. He’s basically saying, “You’re hot!” A woman sends this, and the guy reads a completely different story. She’s intense, possibly a psycho bitch who is looking to get married and make babies… right now. Emojis are touchy. I prefer words, they seem less ambiguous. “You have kind eyes, I like that” is sweet, direct, innocent, harmless. I received a “Have you ever been told that you have the most gorgeous eyes?” to which I replied “Not enough ;-)” I thought it was clever. It showed I know my value, I’m secure in who I am, and I have self-esteem. And it repulses guys who might be looking for insecure girls. I’ve received an “I’m glad we matched; you seem cool!” Now, this I like. A lot. I’ve also received dick pics. This I dislike. With a fury. As if a woman, upon seeing their unappealing genitalia, clutches her pearls and says to herself “Oh my, this is one fine gentleman. I must have him!”

Every match is a test, an anthropological study. Lately, I’ve had a flowy conversation with a man. Like a flirty ping-pong match. For a few days, interesting topics, a daily “good morning” and “good night,” something kind of promising. I suggested having coffee one weekend, to which he replied promptly, “Yes, I would like that very much.” Saturday comes and he postpones it to the next day. That Saturday evening, he asks me if I had a good day. “Good day, yes. How was yours?” Nothing since. Ghosted.

That’s one of the problems with dating sites. The instantaneity. The never-ending choices offered. The short attention span. Nothing lasts in time. One day you talk, the next they disappear. Like fruit flies. I shouldn’t be surprised. It’s due to the nature of the app: hookups. Nothing profound, apart from the eagerly awaited thrusting.

The “most-gorgeous-eyes” guy picked up on my clever repartee. He asked me if I live here, to which I replied, “Since only a few weeks, still discovering the city.” Didn’t ask me where I’m from. Oh, well. When he wrote, “I’m here to start a new business,” I saw an opportunity to ask a few questions to further the conversation, to get to know him a bit more. So, I asked him where he was from and what type of business he had. After taking forever to answer, he wrote “I’m opening a French restaurant.” A few minutes passed and he wrote, “You know, it’s incredibly rude to not answer.” To what? Your guess is as good as mine. All I know is he was triggered. I answered, “You’re absolutely right, you didn’t answer all my questions.” “Yes, I did!” Triggered, I tell you. “You give me your phone number and we get coffee.” The hell not! “Who do you think you are, talking to me like this? I will not be bullied into having a date with you, you insecure prick!” Which is what I should have answered, right? I took a few breaths and deleted the unsent message. Instead, I wrote, “You know what? I don’t feel it. You need to learn some manners.”

Why did I change the message? I thought there was a more constructive way to let him know he crossed a line. Without insulting him. I didn’t want my energy to go there. I guess it was for self-preservation, more than anything else.

This guy wanted, for our first date, to pick me up in his car and take me to his place outside the city. My gut screamed, “Red flag! Red flag!” I asked him if he would accept to have our first date in the city, over coffee or a drink. “Oh no, once I’m done with work, I flee from Lisbon. I don’t like all the commotion.” I thought, “Calm down, it’s not New York…” So, I told him, "I don’t get in cars with strangers, don’t take this the wrong way.” He took it the wrong way. He didn’t even offer an alternative, like the train’s timetable to get to his town, or simply accept a short meeting in a quiet venue. No. “I’m sorry you’ve had bad experiences but since I don’t associate myself with that kind of behavior, I find it insulting that you would judge me on your past.” So, I must shut down all my feelings because you tell me you're a good guy and I’m supposed to believe you? I think not. And you taking offense and not offering an alternative is proving to me that yeah, you’re one of those guys. “I’m sorry you decided to judge me instead of giving this a chance,” he wrote. “And I’m sorry you equate my insecurities with me judging you.”

One of the problems with dating apps is that a lot of guys feel threatened by strong, independent, driven women. Their ego bruises so easily. We don't need them, we want them.

Welcome to being a woman. Welcome to having to protect yourself from every angle. Welcome to our reality of not being understood. I dodged a few bullets. I could have seen those experiences as deceptive, but they allowed me to set boundaries and respect them. And for that, I’m happy and proud of myself.

Next.

Fuck that shit, I'm legit, I'm off

25 February 2022

I've landed in Lisbon less than two weeks ago. And I've just started to take a peek outside. For four reasons, really: the flat is cozy, jetlag was a bitch, the challenge of starting over is overwhelming since not knowing a soul is intimidating, and when you pack your bags, you also pack yourself. Depression follows you, y'all. Moving to another country is not the equivalent of a Nicotine patch for a mental disorder.

To tell you the truth, the last few months have been more stressful than I realized. Preparing the documentation for a visa is not the difficult part. Handling the eventuality of being denied the legal paper is. I underestimated that. Big time. After close to four months of gathering, filling, signing, scanning, mailing stuff (my application file was finally completed five days before Christmas and I started as soon as I landed in Montreal on 1 September), I prepared myself for the up-to-90-days-of-waiting-to-get-an-answer. Braced, I tell you!

The date inscribed on the form (and the starting point of both my insurance and my lease) was 8 January 2022. That goal was becoming exponentially unattainable. So when I received an email from the consulate on 28 January announcing to me that my request had been approved and I needed to bring them my passport, I cried. And laughed. And screamed. That Friday afternoon, I made my way to the consulate.

Ecstatic, I still didn't want to get my hopes too high. I mean, how long would they keep that precious document? So imagine my surprise when, from the hallway (I opened my passport at the identification page, gave it to the security guard who went inside to drop it off), I heard him say upon exiting the office: "It will be ready Monday after 2," I did a double-take. Mask on, I relied on my hands to communicate with the lady inside. "The visa will be inside my passport, right? Monday, right? After 2, right?" Two thumbs up from her.

On my way down in the elevator, I cried. And laughed. And screamed. For the second time that day. Next step: buy a one-way ticket to Lisbon. I decided on 12 February, a lucky date for me if any. I left Montreal on that exact same day in 2019 (to heal a broken heart in Barcelona) and in 2020 (on my way back to Barcelona following a short vacay with the fam). It became really real. And was almost taken away from me.

The day prior to my departure, I received an email from the airline company stating that "Portugal no longer accepts Canadians on its territories, with the exception - outside of EU citizens, obviously - of people coming to study, work, and be reunited with family." And I knew those people all needed visas. And I had mine. Basically, Portuguese authorities already said to me: "Go ahead, come to us, you are more than welcome, we want you to come!" So I decided, fuck that shit, I'm legit, I'm off. What a horrible night I had...

At the registration counter, I was reminded that Canadians were no longer allowed on Portuguese soil. "Yeah but I'm a resident. I have a residency visa. Look!" And the waltz of the passport had begun! It went through so many hands that I briefly considered dipping it in Purell! After countless phone calls, my passport made its way to my hands... with another set of thumbs up. Apnoea canceled!

I felt like I was breathing freely for the first time in months. So yeah, jetlag is a real thing, but so is stress release. I've had 12-hour nights for 9 days. And now, let the scary exciting part begin!

Only I

3 February 2022

Solitude, aloneness, withdrawal, reclusiveness. Whatever shape it takes, I've experienced it. The imposed one through the lockdown, the self-imposed one in times of depression, the default one being single to name a few.

I have lived alone in Montreal with friends and family around me. I’ve lived alone with flatmates and a few friends in London, I’ve lived with strangers in Barcelona surrounded by good friends who became my family. And recently, I’ve lived with my parents for the first time in more than 20 years. And this is where I learned my latest lesson in the “by myself” category.

Even surrounded by love, support, and laughter, I knew I was alone. But not strictly in a negative way. Yes, I went through a difficult bout of depression. I would cry for no reason; I would want to stay in bed. Not for a lack of sleep, but for a lack of motivation. All energy seemed to have left me. I know it was tough for my parents to see me like that. They remained close without imposing their presence, their ideas, their solutions. They were just there. And I’ll be forever grateful for their sensitivity, their patience, their love. I was on my own. Only I could find the answers to my questions, solutions to my problems, solace in the turmoil.

Only I am responsible for the reactions I may have to whatever happens to me. Only I am responsible for finding balance in my life. In my head. In my heart. And I don’t see anything sad in that conclusion. It doesn’t say I forfeit any relationship or partnership. Nor doesn’t say that I am lonely. For me, this agency is proof that I am whole. I don’t rely on anyone to solve my problems, to bring me solutions, to be the source of my joy.

And this lesson has a second not-so-hidden lesson: learn to be strong on my own. Because in less than two weeks, I’m moving to a country I know virtually nothing about, in a city where I know nobody, with a language I don’t master yet. I’ll discover a new layer of aloneness. And I need to be strong on my own for that new chapter.

I guess I learned my lesson just in time.

From Scratch

1 January 2022

Are you making resolutions? Will you follow through with them? In my family, we don't call them resolutions. But rather goals. And we classify them: as professional, personal, physical, spiritual, emotional, and financial. To be broken down infinitely, that's the beauty of it. It's up to each of us. And they are written down. If words fly away, writings remain.

Mom writes them in a journal. And she checks on us periodically to see if we follow through with them. "So how many books have you read so far? Do you still do yoga three times a week? Should we reevaluate your goal of having a first draft of your book by the end of the year? Tic toc, it's already September!"

Last year, we made a few as a positive force against the storm. I fixed myself only two goals on the personal growth, spiritual side of things: "I am enough" as a mantra - the current version of myself is ALWAYS the best version of myself so far - and "Think outside the box" as a reminder to let my heart take the lead and give my head a rest.

This year, I've decided to shake things up. Only one goal. The goal of being proud of myself throughout the year. Proud of my capabilities to adapt: a new country to discover, a new language to learn, a new life to build, new habits to develop, new friends to make. All to be accomplished from scratch. It's quite a tall order.

Still, I'll keep on repeating my "I am enough" mantra and reminding myself to "think outside the box" since both served me so well. Just that is plenty to make me proud. But just for the heck of it, I'll go further. Because I can. So I shall.

Happy New Year! Love, health, peace, and kindness all around!

The skin emancipation

12 October 2021

I’ve come a long way on my quest for self-confidence in my physique. My body has been objectified, groped, complimented, caressed, envied. I’ve mistaken attention for interest, compliments for feelings, sex for intimacy.

I’ve been chubby, svelte, muscular, curvaceous. And I’ve never been comfortable in my skin.

In 2016, I went to New York for the whole month of August. One day, since the heat was unbearable and the stench nauseating, I decided to go to the beach. At Rockaways. After a long ride in the subway (yes, it goes all the way to the Atlantic!) I welcome the salty breeze with a sigh. I chose a nice spot where to put down my stuff. A large beach towel, a big bag containing sunscreen, a book, sunglasses, a notebook, a bottle of water. I was wearing a one-piece à la Ester Williams inspired by the '50s: alter top, draped front, butt cheeks well covered. Over it, a black pencil skirt and a loose housecoat. And I never leave without my hat. I laid down my towel, sat on it, looked out at the ocean. Upon taking off the coat and the skirt, I froze. I couldn’t take them off. For the life of me. I looked around me: a sea of women in bikinis, whatever their size. Carefree, comfortable, happy. Everything I was not. I knew it. Still, I couldn’t take off anything. I stayed there, all dressed up, sitting on my towel. I didn’t move. I read a bit, took a few notes of what I was seeing around me, wrote a haiku. After a few hours there, I made my way back to the subway.

Fast-forward three years. Spain has a different relationship with the body. One that I’m not familiar with as a North American woman with lingering catholic guilt. Nudity IS sexuality. That’s how I was raised. But it isn’t. In Barcelona, women wear whatever they want. The body is objectified, yes, but not perceived as a piece of meat. The body is lusted after, admired, contemplated – and rather politely. But on the beach, it’s a different story. More of a fairy tale than a nightmare, let me reassure you. Women have the liberty to sunbathe topless. And nobody – I mean nobody – looks at them in a sexual way. It’s the emancipation of boobs! As soon as you step on the beach, the swimsuit is unisex: bottom only.

This year, the massive work I have done on myself – not so much on the exterior as on the interior – had a beneficial effect on my overall acceptance of all that I am. Including the muffin top, the slightly saggy boobs, and the cellulite. And so I went to the beach one gorgeous Sunday afternoon. I chose a nice spot where to put down my stuff. A large beach towel, a big bag containing sunscreen, a book, sunglasses, a notebook, a bottle of water. I was wearing the bottom half of my bikini and deliberately avoided wearing the top half. The “free boobs hoopla” was happening! I took a deep breath and took off my tank top. And it felt incredibly amazing. The blazing sun on this fragile skin, the warm breeze that gently danced on my breasts, the carelessness I so wanted to feel, I was happy. I was all there. And it was all good. It is one of the most freeing experiences of my entire life.

I've come a long way, yes. The boobs wanted out. And I let them. I didn’t know how much I needed that.

Delta

5 September 2021

It's been way too long since I shared anything on here. The last few weeks have been hectic to say the least. Barcelona wasn’t shielded from the Delta variant. And neither was I.

It started with flu-like symptoms. Fever, muscle pain, sensitive skin. Nothing to be alarmed with. Went to bed early that night, woke up feeling better. Of course, the possibility of Covid was in the back of my mind, as it should be. After all, the crisis is far from over. Still, started the day like any other: a big glass of water, a few stretches, a long walk. Little did I know that a few hours later, things would flip.

I reheated pasta from the night before. Sundried tomatoes pesto, veggies, cheese. Starving, I took the first bite. Couldn’t taste anything. Slight panic. Tried to smell the dish. Nothing. Even buried my nose in camphor, to no avail. Uh-oh.

There was little doubt in my mind that I had caught Covid. Again. The first time around was in February 2020. And since I have flatmates, I needed to confirm my prognostic. I had to endure the long Q-tip in each nostril tickling my brain (that’s how it felt!). Half an hour later, it was confirmed. Back at the flat, battle stations! I needed to have food, my own bathroom, cleaning gear, better masks, and gloves for the duration of my quarantine. A necessary evil. I was optimistic. No taste or smell, but a lot of work. Time would fly by!

Well, no. The virus came with intense tiredness. I slept a daily average of 18 hours. Extra-long nights and at least two naps a day. It came also with some form of depression. From being stuck inside, yes, and from a lack of natural light. I stopped being hungry. Completely. I had to avoid pasta, eggs, and bananas: those have a truly disgusting consistency once deprived of any flavor… So I ate lentils. With spices – not for tasty reasons, of course, but for their healing virtues. Turmeric, garlic, pepper, cinnamon, you name it.

What I didn’t expect was feeling depressed from being deprived of smelling and tasting. I never realized how those two senses are closely linked to my overall joy. Life was no longer in Technicolor. Only shades of grey. It was the first time a truly felt miserable. The relentless fatigue I was experiencing also help me understand something that until then I had never truly grasped. I had my first taste of depression. The physical dimension of depression. You can’t just snap out of it. It goes way deeper. And as a deeply optimistic person, I count that as a blessing. It made me more empathetic.

Another blessing: never had any trouble breathing, never had to rush to the hospital, never feared for my life. And my smell and taste came back after two short weeks. Yes, I do lose my hair at a slightly alarming rate and I still need to pace myself because the fatigue is never far, but I now know not to judge myself when bouts of depression come along. Because there might be. Patience and understanding. With myself and others.

I reached out to family and friends, I verbalized my feelings, my discomfort, my worries. I hope you can do the same to whatever extent. ;

Love to go

24 May 2021

Over a year ago, when the pandemic forced us all to be in lockdown and to reflect – perhaps begrudgingly – on our life, heart, mind, and head, a friend of mine gave me a tiny wooden box that contained a heart-shaped white stone decorated with a silver heart sticker. On the box, it was carved “Love to go”. She had received it a few months back from a friend of ours who felt compelled to give it to her as a good luck charm to find the love of her life. Upon receiving it, she felt blessed to be given such a kind gift, and vowed to pass it along once she’d found her forever love. And she already knew I would inherit it next.

Love came to her not long after having the lucky box in her possession. She and I would have the chance to share a bubble during the lockdown since we were both living alone. So one Sunday, sitting at each end of the terrace, we were drinking red wine and talking about the hurdles we were experiencing. Being under the obligation to stay inside was especially difficult, given that in Spain, life is mainly lived outside. And even though her love was living in the neighboring country and they had to make their relationship work from a distance, she felt he was the one, and the time had already come for her to pass along the magic box.

Sharing this box was also sharing good fortune. And she made me promise to perpetuate the tradition. Of course, I obliged. And so I took it home with me, placed it in a spot where I would see it on a daily basis. And it stayed there for months. Finding love in times of corona is no picnic. Since love wouldn’t come to me, I wondered if there was something wrong with me. After all, my friend found hers so quickly… It put pressure on me, somehow. I started to resent the gift. In my hands, the good luck charm turned into a curse. I kept it in my sight, but I gave it less and less attention. And I focused on the work that needed to be done. The personal work. The nitty-gritty.

Today, I saw the wooden box and felt compelled to pick it up. I opened it. And saw it for what seemed to be the first time. I knew it was time to pass it along.

I am still alone. Sometimes lonely, but happy to feel good by myself. Still, I have found my forever love. Myself. I am more at peace with everything that I am than ever before. And that is a gift in itself. Time to perpetuate the tradition.

Free agent

27 February 2021

I am strong and independent. It took me years to fight against the flow, but I can now say with confidence that I feel content, free, complete. And I realize how blessed, and lucky I am, to fully embrace my situation, as a woman. I owe nothing to anyone, I do as I please, I act upon my passions. Self-determination is a privilege when it should be a right. Some fifty years ago, it was still perceived as unhealthy for women to be single AND fulfilled. Heck, up to a few years ago, I still had people coming up to me to ask me when I was going to settle down, get married, have kids. As if it was the end game. For all women.

In this day and age, female Westerners have the freedom to be who they want, where they want, with whoever they want. And they have the freedom to change their minds. To take the time to grow, learn, educate themselves. Some people might see this way of life as selfish. I'm not here to change their minds, nor to convince them otherwise. It's not my place. I just know that the path I chose is the one that fits me. And I could have denied my inner voice. After all, society trains us to shut it down, to power through according to the plan. The mold. 

For three years now,  two suitcases - one big, one small - a large handbag and a ukulele have followed me. That's it. It takes me an hour to pack. All my life. I can, on a whim, decide to move around. I am alone. But rarely lonely. I have people around me. Close friends who now are like family. My actual family is never far away, thanks to technology. Out of sight, but never out of mind. My path was to be a free agent. And I had the guts to follow it.

The end game is to be happy. Whatever the path, whatever the initial cost. Because in the end, the rewards are tenfold. With International Women's Day around the corner, self-determination can be seen as a beacon of hope. There is still so much to be done.

Wear a mask, wash your hands, keep your distance. Let's stay vigilant.

Wishing list

21 December 2020

So winter is here. The winter of a never-ending year. And Christmas is on our doorstep. The weirdest of them all. And I don't know how to reflect on 2020... And I don't know if I want to. It has been so charged yet uneventful. So in an effort to remain positive, resilient, hopeful, here is my wising list for 2021 based on the lessons I learned in 2020.

More quality time, be it in the flesh or in the virtual world because it's the best investment. More I love you's, I miss you's, I care about you's, I need help's because words matter. More empathy because it's the antidote to judgment. More generosity, be it of heart or of time because giving is as fulfilling as receiving. More kindness because it's the ultimate proof of strength. More curiosity because it breaks isolation and loneliness. More poetry because it improves not only the thought but also the heart.

In the individualistic society we live in, the pandemic revealed our humanity in all its glory and its ugliness. Each individual act, every decision, has consequences beyond our own realm in a domino effect I do not, cannot, completely wrap my head around. All I know is we are all linked. We are also all the same. Whether we like it or not. There is only one fate.

So let's be better humans.

Wear a mask, wash your hands, keep your distance. It's still the best chance we have.

Second wave

10 November 2020

The second wave. Curfew. Restricted liberty of movement. Way less restrictive than the first one. Yet, tougher.

The work I'd done on myself during the first confinement was greatly beneficial. My return to the outside world was full of promises, but it was under a thick vail of caution. I found it somewhat difficult to adjust to the new normalcy. I was willing to put the efforts in to find my rhythm. The few months of liberty were... too few. I didn't have time to fully apply all the growth I had done. I was so eager to give it a good test run.

I have a hard time explaining why I find this second wave tougher. Maybe it's the anticipation of long winter months with less light. Maybe it's the lack of human contact. Maybe it's the state of alert that is in force until May. Maybe it's the psychological toll this sanitary crisis has on me. Maybe it's the looming possibility that this is what life will be like, from now on. Maybe it's the sad realisation that we didn't manage to crush the pandemic despite our many sacrifices and feeling that it was all in vain and that we'll possibly have to do it all over again. Maybe, just maybe, it's all this at once.

There are tough days when time stands still. Motivation is out the window. I let that day come, without judging it. Nor me. And I hope for a better tomorrow. And usually, by embracing the slow, depressive, gloomy day, it goes away naturally as I lay down my head to rest. I am a positive woman. I always believe in brighter days to come. And I tend to accept shitty, dark, sad days for what they teach me.

During this second (semi-)confinement lap, I've decided to work on my morning routine. To boost my motivation, energy, my overall wellness. Get up at 7. Drink (more) water. Stretch. Go into the sea. Shower. Write in a journal. Drink tea. Organize my work tasks. Have breakfast.

And then there's reading more (currently reading Sapiens, a Brief History of Humankind by Yuval Noah Harari). Learning more (I've decided to learn sign language). Creating more (in the process of writing a TV series). I need control to keep me sane. And through all this, breathe. Love. Care. Smile.

Stay safe, everyone. Wear a mask, wash your hands, keep your distance. It's still our best shot.

Leap of faith

18 September 2020

I first discovered I was afraid of the ocean at 21. I had been to the beach as a child, playing in the sand and crashing in the coming waves, but from the shore. Nothing to be afraid of. Broad daylight, parents nearby, not a care in the world. As it should be. Christmas 1998. Venice Beach. After a copious Christmas feast, it seemed appropriate to take a walk. It was a moonless night. The air was cool, with close to no wind. A beautiful night, I remember it well. My friends and I slowly made our way to the edge of the Venice pier. Sturdy construction, friends nearby, not a care in the world. Until I got to the railings and looked down at the jet-black waters. My heart sank. I held on to the railings but collapsed on the cold and damp wood lathes. I was terrified. I couldn't wrap my head around why. I mean, I had been on that pier in broad daylight almost every morning, barefoot, coffee in hand, to welcome each new day and say thank you to the sun. Why was I so afraid of something I knew well? At night, you may see things in a different light. And because there were none, the ocean looked like a void that was about to swallow me whole. My knuckles were white from firmly holding on to the railings for dear life. I was gasping for air. It took me everything to get back to the mainland. From that moment on, I didn't trust the ocean.

I now live by the Mediterranean sea. Every morning, I look at her from my balcony. I say hi, but I keep my distance. That is until yesterday. I summed up the courage to accept a proposition to swim out at the first buoy. Before stepping into the sea, I sat on the beach, closed my eyes, calmed my breath, and felt the gentle inner sway I have inside of me. The sea and I were communicating. I felt I was in safe hands. I wouldn't be able to see or touch the floor, and it worried me. But still, I pressed on and went anyway. The buoy was a quarter of a kilometer away. In a sea as calm as a lake. As the sun was rising. On my way back, there were a few bubbles, a few ripples, and a light current that was pushing me toward the shore. As I gently touched the floor of the sea and felt pebbles under my toes, I knew I'd made peace with her.

I might never know why I got so frightened by the black waters. All I know is it tainted my relationship with the big blue. The ocean at night is one of its many facets. It is NOT its entirety. Because of the remains of a gloomy night when the ocean did nothing else but be herself, I completely redefined my perception of her. This is where I went wrong. I make mistakes but I don't see myself as a bad person because of them. I am made of light and darkness, I am multifaceted, just like the ocean. I had been missing so many pleasures and good times because I was holding on to something that possibly didn't have a hold on me anymore. Or worst: never did. Ernest Hemingway once said: "The best way to find out if you can trust somebody is to trust them." It's that leap of faith. In everything. That morning, I decided to trust myself. And by doing so, I trusted her. Again.

Stay safe, everyone. Wear a mask, keep your distance, wash your hands. It's still our best chance.

This is who I am

27 July 2020

A balance has been restored. Confinement for liberty. A room for a mountain. Indoors for outdoors. Loneliness for gatherings. Reflexion for action. And I don't know exactly when it happened, and who needs to know, but I found an inner peace that I've never achieved before. It's most certainly linked to the enneagram personality test I took. I really enjoy its format: it presents strengths and weaknesses but in a very factual way. Upon reading my profile, I'm a type-1 personality, I found myself saying: "Yes, this is who I am." Without judgment. For the first time in my life. From that moment on, I grew in an effective way. As if the path was clearer, more straightforward. And today, there is a stillness, a calmness, a warmth inside me. I finally got a hang of who I am. The good and the bad. The pretty and the ugly. The qualities and the flaws. Light and darkness. Growth and failure.

I've also taken the time to reevaluate my definition of failure. Man, that was a tough conversation to have with me! But a crucial one. I've long been afraid of failure, as I believed it was a sign of weakness. I've held on to beliefs, people, and relationships because failure was not an option. I've never been lucky enough to grow at the same pace, or in the same direction, as the men I've been in a relationship with. Eventually, we'd reached a hurdle, and despite my many efforts (and by efforts, I mean trying to get the guy to wear the same rose-colored glasses I was wearing), we'd have to call it quits. Inevitably. And I despised it. With all my might. I'd still be making efforts to salvage the unsalvageable. I refused failure. I mainly refused to face the ugly image it sent me: I had shortcomings. (I still do, by the way. It's human nature.) But I refused to own them.  And so, I'd see myself as a failure. And by doing so, I would hate myself. That is until recently when, after much introspection (thanks, Covid!), I came to a realization: turns out failure is the negative denominator for growth. They are the two sides of the same coin.

We all grow. As it should. And it's good. And growth is first and foremost a personal, profoundly intimate task. Or quest. I could go on and on about relationships, but I prefer to focus on individual growth because my problems in relationships stem from the shortcomings I had on an individual level. Growth is not always perceived. It's not always measurable. It requires perspective. I would think I am at a standstill but it was rarely the case. It's just that life got in the way. And what appeared as a failure would be a wonderful lesson offered to me on a silver platter to grow. To catch up with my own growth. To update it. Growing partly means letting go. It's accepting loss. It's allowing us to mourn. And to move on. It took a lot of time for me to accept that. (That's why, for example, all my relationships were alike. You get the same lesson over and over again until you finally get it.) For the longest time, I wasn't honest with myself. I wouldn't allow myself to be honest... with myself. I would paint a pretty picture to mask the ugliness (the rose-colored glasses, remember?). I was plainly lying to myself. And consequently, I was lying to others. The first communication that needs to flow is the one I have to have with myself. It's the most important one.

And so, here is my second realization: it's also an equation.

Failure  = Growth - Communication.

Stay safe, everyone. Wear a mask, keep your distance, wash your hands. It's still our best chance.

The aftermath

30 June 2020

The country reopens tomorrow to the outside world. The new normality hasn't completely sunk in yet, but we open borders. As predicted, the economy is king. Who knows what lies ahead?

Still, life goes on. Life wants to thrive. After a grueling lockdown, my instinct is to counterbalance it with a road trip. Freedom at its best. So I hit the road Friday, now that restaurants and bars and hotels are back in operation. How will the new reality take shape elsewhere in the country? In Barcelona, a Metropol and the heart of the Catalan country, the pandemic was experienced with diligence, patience, resilience. What happened outside of the region? How did people cope? How did they find their peace in these tumultuous times? How did they learn? How did I learn? How does anyone learn from Mother Nature's cry for help? 

We might be between two waves. And I crave new adventures. I want to meet new people again, and be amazed by wonderful sceneries, feel the magic that surrounds us, and open up to new horizons. And connect. With my fellow humans as well as with myself. And learn some more. So I can do my part in avoiding repeating the same mistakes. Over. And over again.

Stay safe, stay well.

Phase 0

18 May 2020

"We decided to delay Phase 1." There. No explanation. Whatsoever. Nada. When I knew the whole country was going through this quarantine, it was bearable. I knew that we were all in this together. Unifying circumstances. You get on board with it. 

The authorities explained the four different phases of deconfinement. They even added a Phase 0 where we could go out during a specific period (6-10 / 20-23), for a specific duration (1 hour), within a specific perimeter (1 km from home). A phase of preparation, if you will. A phase of testing, that's more like it. It started on 4 May. It was supposed to be for a week. We are starting our third week, while the rest of the country is on schedule: a phase every 2 weeks, with parts of the country that started directly in Phase 1. Turns out that the whole country is getting back on the streets, adjusting to their new reality outside except Madrid and the metropolitan part of Barcelona. 

As the metropolitan part of Barcelona is more densely populated than its suburbs, I get that physical distancing is a bit more difficult to achieve. I get it, I really do. What I don't get is why the authorities decided to postpone Phase 1. It is frustrating, infuriating because they say nothing. Not a word as to why. Is it because the R factor is not reached yet? Our hospitals are still under too much stress? We don't have enough supply to treat people in the following weeks/months? What is it? No explanation. Whatsoever. Nada. 

I'm frustrated. And tired, and anxious, and stressed, and antsy. I feel like I'm being played, like a puppet. It all turned into a political game where parties try to earn political points. Right now, they seem to postpone officially the deconfinement for political gain only. Talk to us, explain to us the reasons why you judge best to impose this delay. Because people are starting to lose their minds. Some already lost their job. And their home. I think it's enough.

I know life won't ever be the same. The old normal was problematic, we can never go back to it. And I guess I can't wait to start this new life. Outside.

The pulse

10 April 2020

We are about to start our fifth week of a strict confinement. The fifth week in a city that lives outside. It's an intricate part of Barcelona's DNA to gather in bars, restaurants, on terraces, cafes, parks, the beaches, in the streets. Here, life is outside. There are virtually no backyards nor three-story houses where everybody can have their own quarter within them. We live in relatively small places with only the essentials BECAUSE we go outside. And now, we're stuck in small quarters. We're tested.

At first, I thought my Quebecois-ness would come in handy: we're used to staying in for long periods of time when the real cold kicks in. Well, all through winter, really. We are homebodies. So I figured: "It's going to be a piece of cake." The first two weeks felt like two months. I stayed in. Entertained me the best I could. Got used to boredom. Tried to embrace it, really. Focused on the light. But when the third week arrived, it got difficult to maintain a cheerful spirit. To fight the urge to go out and to hug people. Or simply to chat on the corner of a street.

Some days have been tough. I've felt sadness overcome me. A sadness I didn't know how to shake off. Maybe I didn't have the energy to fight it. Or maybe I didn't want to overcome it. Maybe it was one of those lessons life presents on a silver platter. If I reject it, it will continue to come back until I get it. So I figured: "Might as well deal with it now and then move on."

And so I pulled my chair a bit closer to the large windows and opened them widely. Not to read or browse on my tablet. No. To experience the neighborhood. My neighborhood. The oldest one. Barcino, it used to be called in Roman times. This place IS history. It is an old quarter always filled with tourists. There is always noise. Voices, shouts, cries, sirens, laughter. And odors. The sweet aroma of pastries, bread, churros, chocolate. The sweet perfume of old ladies, the intense aftershave of proud men. The lingering smell of piss and dog poo and vomit. The confinement cleared all that. Nowadays, you hear dogs barking, a few cars in the distance, the cathedral bells that ring every 15 minutes, the music a neighbor gently plays, a few couples making love, and the 8 PM clapping that fills my heart with joy and gratitude. I was experiencing my neighborhood in a way I would never have had it not been for this ordeal. Just that was a blessing. And that's when I started to feel it.

The pulse. I knew Barcelona was a vibrant city with its unique vibration. Everything shut down. Except for Barcelona's heart. And I realized that mine beats to the same rhythm. As I rested my chin on my folded arms resting on the window's guard rail, I smiled and sighed: I now have a deep love for this city. And profound respect. Our hearts are linked. Forever.

Stay safe, stay well. 

Don't panic

14 March 2020

Barcelona is a popular destination for tourists. In the height of the tourist season, going out for a walk is a perilous adventure. There is a sea of people, wherever you look. Summer is a busy season. Christmas too. And Easter. Pretty much all year long to tell you the truth. You have to get used to it. In the port, cruise ships transport thousands of people into the city. There can be up to 800 000 people in the Catalan capital in a single day. Can you imagine that? It's madness. But it's good for business.

Today, the streets of Barcelona are empty. The shops are closed, the restaurants too. Grocery stores are still open and food is getting scarce. As of Monday, schools, universities, libraries, museums and churches will be closed. Catalunya is getting ready for its lockdown.

I live in the Gotic quarter, a very popular neighborhood for tourist reasons. I live down the street from the Cathedral of Barcelona. Needless to say that it's always jam-packed. But this morning, when I got out of the house, it was strangely quiet. To walk in plain daylight in the Gotic and to hear your footsteps, it has an eerie feel to it. Nobody is panicking. Still, people walk calmly, with purpose, some with masks, gloves, or improvised filters. Everybody goes about their business but with a seriousness that took me aback. People keep to themselves, don't talk or chat. I think this is what troubles me the most. The silence.

In the news, we see and hear that people everywhere go mad about toilet paper and whatnot. What's up with that, people? I think I was expecting the same attitude here. But Catalans are resilient. They wait in line without tearing each other apart. For them, it's one crisis at a time. They'll get through it. They always do. And to be honest, I'm happy to be in lockdown. I wish it would have happened sooner. I don't think it reflects how bad a situation has become. It's the opposite. It's to prevent a situation from worsening and potentially becoming dire. It's putting people's safety first.

Wash your hands thoroughly. Don't touch your face. Use Purell. Avoid hugs and handshakes. And for Pete's sake, cough and sneeze in your elbow creases. Everything will be fine.

My happy place

1 March 2020

In 2013, I went to Ireland with my dad, aunts, and uncles. To discover the land of our ancestors. One of my fondest memories is my visit to the Trinity College Library in Dublin. I had seen pictures of the place, and I was ecstatic to see it with my own eyes. Being the bookworm I was - and still am - I could barely control myself. The time had finally come! You first go through the basement of the Library to learn how it was built, and by whom. The premises are low-lit and filled with fascinating information. You go back in time because let's face it: the Trinity College Library is out of our time. It belongs to the past.

I was walking up the narrow staircase when it hit me. I already knew what the library looked like, but I never expected my nose to be that involved in the journey. I will never forget that olfactory memory: paper, ink, leather, dust. A mixture so dense I could almost taste it. I hadn't seen the actual library yet, but I was already there. Once up the stairs, I looked up at the majesty of the place, and I noticed the dust dancing in the beams of light. I could hear the subtle clinking of the chains attached to the books. It looked nothing like the pictures I had seen. It was paler, dustier, heavier. It had life. And history. And I loved every bit of it. I felt reassured as if I had been there before. To this day, the Trinity College Library is my happy place.

I'm old school. I love books. The actual object. I enjoy the smell of paper and ink, the sound of the shuffling of the pages. I want my books to have a life, to go through hardships. I break their spine, I fold the pages, I take notes in them, I underline certain passages, I leave coffee stains in them. And crumbs, oily patches, and the occasional mosquito. Books live with me. And I can't do that with e-books. I have a few ones on my tablet, and I always feel a disconnect with them. I never really dive into them. To the point of never finishing them, actually. If only I was into them, right?

I travel a lot, I keep a minimum of physical things with me, I keep my belongings to a minimum. Three books follow me. Books that comfort me. Books that have meaning. Books that keep on making me grow, evolve, even after all these years of reading. Le petit prince, from Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, L'homme rapaillé, from Gaston Miron, and Histoires, from Jacques Prévert. I go back to them as old friends, as partners, as confidants. I breathe better when I confide in them. My mind clears up. I feel reassured as if this tiny collection was a physical embodiment of my happy place.

Crystal clear

20 January 2020

After close to 20 years of acting, I gave up. The career was going nowhere. I was going nowhere. Disillusioned, I moved on. So for 10 years, I didn't act. And for the longest time, I didn't miss it. And then I moved to London where my love for the theatre was renewed. And I found myself wanting to be on stage, in front of the cameras.

And yet, I prevented myself from going in that direction because of my age. "You don't go into that business at the turn of 40, are you crazy?!?" I told myself that, didn't need anybody to put me down, thank you very much. Still, the idea kept creeping in. Because let's face it: to act properly, you have to have a lot of personal experience, life baggage, whatever you want to call it. And I felt I had everything I needed to finally act well. I felt I was ready to put to good use all that I'd been through. And this audition came up.

I enjoy auditioning. I never take the outcome personally. If I'm not chosen, it’s not because I'm not talented. It's because they found somebody better suited for the role. It's not against me. I always believed that. So I went for the fun of it. From the get-go, a challenge presented itself: I had to cry. On cue. At the audition. Something I had never been able to do up to now. But an amazing thing happened: I believed I was ready to allow myself to dig deep enough to cry. And I did. And I had fun.

First audition in 10 years and I got the part! I knew what was requested of me, but I didn't expect to go through such an emotional roller coaster. I was playing a woman hurt, but strong. Fragile, but driven. Scarred, but determined. I had to cry a lot, to keep my emotions at the surface for long periods of time. At first, it scared me. The pressure was on, I didn't want to deceive the director, the crew, and myself. But I knew I had it in me to do this well. And as I did in the audition, I allowed myself to dig deep enough to fully embody that character. Beautiful Anna. It got to a point where by simply tilting my head a certain way, I could dive right back into the heartbreak, the pain, the tears.

Being part of a family, a cinematic family is such a blessing. I missed the camaraderie, the teamwork, the sharing. I feel so blessed to have been part of such a talented group of artists. Filming includes a lot of waiting on the acting part. And I had the privilege of watching all of them working so hard, like bees, in order for everything to look good on camera. Shooting a film really is a team project. Everybody plays a truly important part. So when it was my time to work, I kind of took all that with me - their efforts, their dedication, and their professionalism - as a way to respect their work and to make them proud. And I have to say that I might not have been as grateful and humble had it not been for the spiritual growth I went through the last few months (growth that is still going strong).

This part came to me at the perfect timing. I was ready for it. On more levels than I thought.

2020 truly is the year of the perfect vision. I've never been surer of what I have to do. Of what I need to do. It's crystal clear. 20/20. Happy New year to each and every one of you!

The meaning of life

1 December 2019

I turned 42. The great Douglas Adams in all his brilliance, wisdom and creativity determined that 42 IS the answer to life, the universe, and everything, but the real problem is knowing the right question. He went as far as suggesting that the definite question might be "How many roads must a man walk down...?" The first time I read "The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy", I found this postulate funny, poetic, and simple. Too simple, in fact. Yes, Bob Dylan is a philosopher. But still...

I sure took many roads up to now in my lifetime. I'm probably not done. A few years back, this realization would have freaked me out since the concept of "being lost" is unsettling, controversial, seen as counterproductive, even juvenile. Yes, I'm still lost at times. It happened quite recently, in fact. I couldn't stop crying, I could barely go out of the house, the simplest of decisions became a life-or-death matter. I was lost to the point of questioning my nature, my choices, my very existence. I couldn't see the end of this rough patch. I felt insignificant, boring, ugly, miserable. In my head, there was a web that I could not untangle for the life of me. Because I kept pulling on the threads. At one point, I just let them go. I let go.

And I got out of the house; even though darkness surrounded me, I still believed in magic. In light. In communion. I went to an immersive and interactive art exhibition with a friend. A compassionate friend who understood me, a friend who was there whilst giving me all the space I needed.

"How are you?"

Not good. Not good at all.

"You want to talk about it?"

I can't.

"Take your time." And she walked away, leaving me with Monet and his array of colors that DID NOT include black - he was adamant about avoiding black at all costs. It brought me back to my childhood when I studied his technique, it brought me back to my dad and our shared love of oil painting. I let Monet embrace me, comfort me, heal me.

I emerged from this place with light and magic in me. I had shut down my head. And had gone to my heart. And I had taken my eyes there. They are there ever since. I make sure they are. I imagine them taking an elevator down to my heart. And when the doors open, I can finally see clearly. Antoine de Saint-Exupéry was absolutely right: it is only with the heart that one can see rightly. It is that simple.

As simple as the postulate Adams presented. "How many roads must a man walk down...?" To walk down a road is to accept that there is still so much I don't know. It is to embrace the curiosity which is required to learn it all. But first and foremost, it is to thank life for showing me that I can still learn. To be lost is not to lose. It's simply a trick life has found to make sure I remember to look for the magic. The light. The communion.

I found my meaning of life. At 42.

We are tenants

21 September 2019

I live by the Mediterranean sea. Right on the beach. I am aware of the immense chance I have to enjoy on a daily basis a wonderful view, the crispy and salty sea breeze, and the enchanting yet everchanging mood of the mighty waters. On sunny days, I feel like I am on top of the world; the sun creates diamonds that dance on the surface of the sea. But on rainy days, I feel like I am no bigger than a grain of sand. The clouds and the waves become one grey and menacing entity.

A few days ago, a thunderstorm befell Barcelona. The wind was stronger than ever, the rain was falling horizontally. Lightning was streaking the cloudy skies and thunder was cracking not far away. I was sitting on my bed, my knees close to my chest - almost clutching at them -, hearing the wheezing of the wind that had found its way through the window panes, sounding like they were about to burst open. Nature has been unleashed; I was on the path of a mighty giant. I felt tiny, helpless, insignificant. I wondered if the sun was ever going to rise again. The night truly is at its darkest right before dawn.

The sea is humbling. She commands respect. She reminds everyone who is boss. Make no mistake: it's her. We need to know our place in order to survive. We are tiny yet destructive. But we are tenants. And when the landlord, Mother Nature, will have enough of us, she will get rid of us. We are tiny. So very tiny.

It's raining today. And as I am sitting in my kitchen looking at the sea through the patio doors, I realize that there are no ordinary rainy days, here, by the beach. They are always accompanied by gusty winds, strong waves, and a feeling of impending doom. I come from a land where the worst we have is very cold weather. But we have no "Act of God" disasters. So each rainy day by the sea - with all that it entails - reminds me of the power that nature has in store for the human race. I taste it firsthand. I fear the sea but it makes me respect her all the more.

Tight as a clam

6 September 2019

I'm angry. Just angry. Not about anything specific. I just know I've accumulated some anger. And I have yet to find out how to manage it. 

I'm talkative, but about light, mundane stuff. Meeting new people is the easiest thing in the world for me. I always have a topic in mind, a tale to share, questions to ask. And it flows oh so ever smoothly. No, the problem is elsewhere. Or should I say, it's when any confrontation comes into play that, for the life of me, I cannot keep my cool. I become a closed book. Tight as a clam.

I haven't got a clue how to express myself correctly when I disagree with someone, when I am hurt, when I am facing an injustice. Whenever I have to stand up for myself, really. The emotions that bubble up can intensify quickly, and I fear that I will say things I don't mean. I don't know how to choose the appropriate words, how to say what I feel without exploding. Am I sure I will explode? And what if I explode? Would it be the end of the world? Why am I that scared of exploding, better yet simply expressing myself? Am I not entitled to at least raise my concerns, to speak my mind?

I despise conflict, and I tend to avoid any confrontation, even the smallest ones, the insignificant ones, because in my head, it will lead to a full-blown crisis. And so I keep my mouth shut. And it's far from sane. I let people walk all over me without saying a word. Who in their right mind would accept that? I have to deal with that, it has to stop. Because what does it say about me? It says that I am a pushover. Of the worst kind.

What it also says, is that I don't value my own feelings. I don't see myself as a woman whose opinion counts. I shy away from the real stuff. Important stuff. I disappear. Speak up, woman! It's about time!

Receive. Breathe. Take a step back. Breathe. Speak. Breathe. And get the hell on with it.

Spiritual groundhog day

24 July 2019

If I reflected upon my life over the last few months, I didn't take the time to write down my progress. Why, exactly? There was no need, really, as it developed slowly. See, I had the immense chance to experience what I like to call a spiritual groundhog day in my hometown, in my childhood home: time stood still, a steady daily routine was in place, and each day was a fully new beginning. I took it that way. I could start anew on a daily basis and apply what I had learned so far. Some days were uneventful. To a point where I believed I was not getting anywhere. But unbeknownst to me, my growth was underway. I see that now. Because I had the luxury of time. Of perspective. Of trial and error.

Reunion, blessings, hardship, mourning, revival. I've been through it all. We've been through it, as a family. We're closer than ever because of all of this. I managed to find beauty and peacefulness, even in the most troubling times. By going through it one day at a time.

One. Day. At. A. Time.

Life is like an arrow

13 May 2019

Sometimes in life, a step back must be taken, even if it seems counterproductive. After all, even an arrow has to be pulled back in order to go further. I was meant to be stopped at customs in London and sent back to Montreal. I was meant to feel as if I was regressing. The arrow was in place. And it was about to be released. For a time, I thought the aim was still London. Time and circumstances were against me: I had to wait at least six months and the political and social situation in the UK was - and still is - sketchy, scary. "Barcelona will help you," a dear friend said. "You'll see, it will change you," she added. "Who knows, you might never come back..." I needed an in-between destination. Why not Barcelona? So be it.

Barcelona was not a destination led by my heart. I thought: "It's a rebound city, it won't last..." Barcelona knew that she needed to give me time and space. Time and space to let me love her, to let me come to her in my own time. Barcelona is chill. Barcelona knows best. Barcelona gave me room to grow, and Barcelona grew on me.

I tried to get back to London somewhat carefreely: maybe it was a Freudian slip. Maybe I did want to be stopped. Maybe I did know that I was not meant to end up there. Yet. Or ever. This time around, things will be different: I won't allow myself to ruin things between Barcelona and me. I want to go back, but the proper way. A visa is required. I chose the student one: I will learn the languages of the city that stole my heart.

Barcelona is waiting for me. And I long for her.

Navel-gazing

24 April 2019

Gratefulness. Grateful. To be grateful. Those are pretty strong words. Words to abide by. And of which I haven’t completely. I now realize that.

For too long now, I have taken people, things, and situations for granted. Things just happen for me, as if they had to. I come from a happy family, a protected space where I lacked nothing. Far from me the idea of criticizing my upbringing; love was always at the center of our family life. My upbringing had nothing to do with it, really: it was in me, in my nature, to take things for granted. Hardship? Hardly. I might have indulged too much in navel-gazing.

I would give thanks as I was raised properly. But I rarely felt like truly thanking what had been granted, offered, given to me. Because I felt entitled to all of that. It’s called selfishness. And it’s awful to realize to what extent I had been selfish. To be grateful is to be generous. It’s to appreciate everything to the point of giving back – or paying forward. It’s taking the time to sincerely interact with others, to nurture friendships, to smile from the heart.

Every person I meet, every opportunity I get, every situation I’m put in, every conversation I carry, every surprise life presents me, all of that is a gift. To cherish. And then to share.

Default setting

10 April 2019

Why do all my relationships fail? Don’t I deserve happiness? Why do men don’t give me what I want? What’s wrong with men? Why don’t they want to commit? Why do I only get crumbs of love and attention?

It hit me like a ton of bricks: it all starts with me. I don’t really believe I am worthy of love. I don’t really believe I am worthy of attention. I don’t really believe I am worth fighting for. So no man does. How can they feel compelled to do so if I don’t do it myself? It’s all a matter of self-love. Of self-worth. Of which I cruelly lack.

I used to be fully confident, proud of what I was, unapologetic. That was when I would be on my own. As a single woman. In her early twenties. And I would lose it all when I was in a relationship. I would just stop loving myself. I would become this ghost of my individual self. And it ruined everything. I was riddled with doubts, fears, and anxieties behind the mask that I wore. To a point where I didn't know that I was wearing one. I started to focus on the outside instead of the inside. With time, this craftily-concealed crippled persona became my default setting. I didn't know how to be me in a relationship.

People I meet are mirrors. They project something I need to see, something I need to fix in me. If men give me crumbs, it’s because I give myself crumbs. It is as simple as that. I have put the blame on others for far too long, now. It’s about time to own who I am. It’s no easy task to turn this around. But it all starts with me: I need to fight for myself. I need to respect myself. Above all, love.

On my way

31 March 2019

I've been wondering a lot since I arrived here. I wondered if I was at the right place, at the right time, in the right state of mind. So much had happened since the beginning of the year... Change of plan, change of pace. I was confused, scared to love another city as much as my precious London. Reluctant, to say the least.

A wise woman told me that some things are better understood by feeling them: it's the only way to see how life finds its way to make you understand that you are at the right place, at the right time. It's up to me to achieve the right state of mind. The key is to get out of my head and stop analyzing everything. Easier said than done, yet not impossible.

Getting my ego to shut up is no easy task. It's so much work. Exhausting work. The last few days have been overwhelming. Because I realized how little I know about myself. Well, yes and no... Let me rephrase that: I realized how much more there is to discover about myself. For now, I'm more of a version of what the world wants me to be than who I truly am. 

To tell you the truth, I'm still a long way from achieving my goal. But Barcelona is a gift, a blessing, and I know I make progress, one day at a time. 

I'm on my way.

Basking in my own light

11 March 2019

On my first day in Barcelona, I got a date. I was on a terrace with a friend, a glass of white wine in my hand, basking in the warmth of the February sun. And this guy kept telling me how beautiful he thought I was.

He bought me a flower, offered me a drink, and politely asked for my number. To which I obliged. In itself, the anecdote is quite trivial, mundane even a little dull. But in hindsight, it was such a big deal. Because of what happened. Inside of me.

That same evening, we went for drinks. I wore my favorite dress, put on a little makeup. I felt good, like a teenager going on her first date ever! As the evening went on, the compliments kept pouring in, and I found myself wanting to believe him. I've been complimented on my physique before, but for the first time, I wanted to believe it. I became more and more confident as if I allowed myself to glow, to bask in my own light. For the first time, I didn't deflect compliments. 

Up to now, my knee-jerk reaction to such compliments had always been to deny it, to make the guy feel like he was lying to my face as if I believed him to have poor judgment. Either I really didn't find myself beautiful or I was afraid to look full of myself by saying "thanks" (as if it meant "I know"...) Why, all of a sudden, was I accepting compliments? Was it because of him? Sure, it helped that he was cute, confident and charming but there was more to it than this.

My own confidence, the one I found in London, finally blossomed. The life I had the courage to build, the autonomy I gained, the freedom I granted myself, it all translated into confidence. The beauty I was now seeing in me was, in fact, coming from within.

There is a fine line between arrogance and humbleness. I can love myself - in its purest and simplest form - and still, welcome compliments without taking them for granted. I am a beautiful person. And if someone compliments me, it's because I shine as brightly as I possibly can. And that is an encouraging thought.

The nest plug-in

21 February 2019

I had a plan: live six months every year in the UK without a visa then come back to Canada to get one for the next six months. And since I had already spent the second half of 2018 in London with a visa, I was ready for another six months - no visa required. New year, reset. Clean slate.

After being with my family for almost a month, I was ready to get back to my chosen home. London. Oh, how I'd missed it! I filled my small luggage with items I had left behind the first time around: the grey jumper my mom gave me on my birthday last year; the polka-dots shirt I "won" fair and square at a clothes exchange party with girlfriends; the books on the creative writing process I found in a tiny library back in New York; the massive scarf I bought in Vaasa, Finland, where I discovered that Winter is still in full swing in late April so up North. The 10th of January 2019 couldn't arrive soon enough.

10:29 AM | The customs officer at Gatwick airport gives me a suspicious look. This is not going as planned: this was supposed to be a shoo-in. She decides to take my passport to the immigration office. They confine me to a small glassed detention area next to the waiting line where all travelers can (secretly) judge me. Still, nothing could dampen my spirit. If they want to double-check a few things, fine by me: I am legit.

7:30 PM | Two immigration officers take me to this too-brightly-lighted-with-fuckin-neons interrogation room designed to make you believe that the night is a concept lost within these walls and that the security of the country doesn't suffer rest and neither should you. I am crying softly: I am not allowed back in the country. "Rules are rules. A new calendar year doesn't automatically mean a brand new six-month-with-or-without-visa period stay. We're sending you back to where you came from." I am not legit.

They granted me a bittersweet gift: 5 days to pack my things, to say goodbye to my friends, to wrap up this life. How can I say farewell to a city I don't want to leave? How can I visit, one last time, places dear to my heart without crying my eyes out? How can I hold tight to the people that became my family as if never wanting to let go? I could barely leave my room. London broke my heart. I didn't feel welcome anymore. 

* * * * * * *

I spent a month, mending a broken heart, in the loving embrace of my family. Within this protective cocoon, I started to reassess who I was, what I wanted, where I wished to be. And I realized that the lesson I need to learn from this setback is to build my nest within myself. See, I have to, somehow, turn the all-around well-being I felt in London into a plug-in. The nest plug-in: to feel at home wherever I am. It was already time to hit the road to test this theory. I decided to start with Barcelona.

The blessings of failure

3 January 2019

Sometimes, life takes a turn you never expected or you never wanted to believe could occur. The biggest project in my professional career abruptly ended just before Christmas. No more Ph.D., no more research, no more affiliation to my University. A period of mourning had yet to start. And strangely, it would never really happen. The perspective of putting an end to this adventure had always troubled me. But when I was finally faced with this reality, I felt light. Almost relieved. I didn't quite understand why.

See, I had a plan that I thought bulletproofed. I truly believed that the academic route was the only stepping stone to the career I wanted. Was my life plan over? Was I lost? Far from it. There are no diversions, no digressions in life. Nor shortcuts. As in a video game, there are side quests that help you figure out things, learn lessons, and build your character.

When you do your absolute best and it turns out it is not enough, you have to know that you haven't found your niche. You have to have the honesty to take a look at yourself, the courage to shatter the image you had created of yourself, and the humility to seek the main path you must follow to be your best self.

I shall write. Novels, short stories, essays, poems, scripts, plays. I thought that those projects were secondary but they turned out to be the main one, a unified one. That realization brings me more joy than a fancy title. I will never be a doctor. But now, I know that I am a true Master. Of my destiny. Blessing in disguise.

Happy new year, everyone! May you discover your inner Master. 

You do you

19 November 2018

Every year, on my birthday, I drink champagne. Veuve Cliquot, nothing less. A gift from me to me. It's a tradition I started a few years back. To grow older is a privilege not given to everyone, and I celebrate my longevity. I celebrate the fact that I am alive and kicking.

A few weeks back, I saw an ad for an acting school. I reckoned it was time to revisit my old life, my first love. Acting is the one thing that brings me more joy, peace, clarity, more confidence than anything else. Another personal gift was required: I signed up for a workshop+audition... that was set on my birthday. For weeks on end, I read monologues to find the perfect one, I analyzed what the words were doing to me as well as what I was doing to the words, I let the emotions fill me, I listened to what my body, my soul, my gut was telling me. In truth, theatre is the only true homework I don't mind doing.

Yesterday, as I was walking to the studio, I came to a realization: out of everything I have ever done in my life, the only thing I have never doubted is my ability to act. Even after a 9-year dry spell, I wasn't looking for validation. I can do this. I know my worth. I was going in there to enjoy myself the best way I can.

And that's when it hit me: there is no better way to celebrate the day I came to life than by doing what brings me to life. I had given myself the perfect birthday gift. After weeks of preparation, I was ready to come to life.

I'm alive and kicking. And I kicked ass. 

Be still

28 October 2018

Last year, almost to the day, I was suffering from severe stomach aches. From the get-go, I thought it was a diet issue. An allergy, an intolerance, a deficiency. I set about to eliminate certain foods I suspected to be problematic, like gluten and dairy products, but without any conclusive results. A few days later, I was set to fly to London for my 40th birthday. Little did I know that the pressurized cabin would aggravate the situation. When I landed, the pain was unbearable: my heartbeat was pulsating below my solar plexus. Tears started to roll from pain and despair. I had no choice: I was in need of a doctor.

It never occurred to me that it could be stress: I thrive under pressure. But the doctor was adamant: stress was, indeed, involved. Stress from an imponderable factor: I was expecting the results from my doctoral exam. A "problem" over which I had no control, whatsoever. Furthermore, it was a "problem" that could affect the very trajectory of my career. So I desperately wanted to feel in control. It is a scary thing to have no idea how to. But there is no regaining it. The key is to let go of it. Because the real problem is holding on to something you have no power over.

When my mind is not at ease, be it restless or empty... Breathe in, breathe out.

When I feel overwhelmed or underwhelmed... Breathe in, breathe out.

When my plate is full or I have nothing on the agenda... Breathe in, breathe out. 

When I lack purpose or direction... Breathe in, breathe out. 

When ideas pile up or flee in an instant... Breathe in, breathe out. 

Meditation to the rescue.

The decades

20 October 2018

In my early twenties, I was fearless. Careless. I would act, then think. My guess is I mustn’t have been different than any other young adult. Every opportunity was unique and had to be grabbed. After all, the 20s are the decade of all the possibilities. Oh, what a glorious time it was! The frivolity of childhood, the audacity of adolescence, and the liberty of the twenties, all at work at once. Logically, once the thirties kick in, another layer is added. Let's call it the sense of duty.

Turns out the thirties were, for me at least, the cut-the-crap decade. The idea was to focus primarily on the essential but unknowingly, I got rid of the frivolity, the audacity, and the liberty I had acquired. As if I perceived them as useless, as... well, crap. I was a proper adult. With responsibilities. I became less and less spontaneous, less and less daring. I became more and more cautious, more and more boring. Adulthood was in full swing. No turning back. Or so I thought.

My forties offered me clarity and a chance to revisit my twenties. It was time to bring back the frivolity, the audacity, and the liberty without sacrificing the sense of duty I got from my thirties. See, I put myself in danger... metaphorically speaking. I dared to start a new life on the other side of the Atlantic and I had to leave behind my worries. I had to be open to new adventures, new people, new realities, new challenges. And for that to happen, I needed all the tools available.

Now or never

13 October 2018

A few months ago, I came across an article where Sir Ian McKellen revealed that his latest visit to the Shakespeare universe might be his last. True, the man is almost 80, but the legend seemed immortal. It was a chance not to be missed... But my budget didn't allow it. My head was at war with my heart: what was I to do?

Yesterday was the big night. King Lear. Sir Ian in all his splendor. A truly magnificent performance. The talent and generosity and craftsmanship of this man are revering, humbling. Upon seeing the legendary thespian approach the edge of the stage to bow, the audience, as one entity eager to show their profound gratitude, stood up. And that's when it happened.

My eyes filled with tears: I had witnessed greatness. I hadn't missed my chance. And tears started to roll: I was in front of an old man whose younger years were long behind him, but whose eyes still had a youthful and mischievous sparkle. I was expecting to meet the legend, and I met the human. And I cried as if I was not prepared for it. Thank you, Sir. 

Home... Where my heart belongs

5 October 2018

It is said that travel shapes youth. I believe it also shapes the mind. It is only through traveling that you might discover that the place you are supposed to be in is not where you were born. At 39, I discovered mine. London. The first time I set foot here, I knew that I was home. This was MY city. And from that point on, every decision I made was towards making that life-changing project come true. Don't get me wrong: it was scary. Yet liberating.

I had a comfortable life in Montreal. My family is there, so are my friends. I lived in a cozy little flat in the heart of the metropolis. I could fully enjoy all four seasons and the great outdoors. Still, I knew I had to leave. Not for lack of love. But because I needed to become who I was supposed to be. I had to be ME.

Cities vibrate. You don't realize that until you vibrate in perfect harmony with one. I have never felt more myself than here.

Five months in, I am still scared. But that fear doesn't act as a hurdle but rather as a springboard. See, fear doesn't have to be a bad thing. It can be an opportunity to better yourself.