Mother’s Day was a bust. It was a true test of the work I had put in since January, and as much as it hurt, the tools I had acquired from Anishnawbe to deflect the incoming pain from my kin made it easier to push it all aside—keeping it over there, away from me. I felt, I acknowledged, I moved on. I recovered faster than expected from that incident.

I look at what went down now, and I see two things—one person desperate for attention and another desperate to be acknowledged—both at my expense.

June, July, August, and September were all eventful and exceptional months for me. Everything had changed—inside me and all around me. By June, I was feeling healthy, both physically and mentally. Being in the gym “cardiac rehab” consistently was doing its thing; my body was coming back—I was even feeling confident. Yup confident. People always thought I was so confident, but I was not—I wasn’t at all! I was angry. I was mean-mugging angry—I didn’t give a fuck. Big difference.

I had always been insecure—always. Always second-guessing myself, my looks, my abilities, and especially my body. If you really knew me, you’d know I have a shy side. If I never showed you that side—or you never saw it—I was either drunk and brazen or too guarded to allow anyone to see me as vulnerable.

I had finally found peace—something I’d never known before. I felt clean. I felt new.

I was on my way to see my lash girl one day. I live right by the beach, and the Uber took a wrong turn, leading me all along the lakeside just as the sun was starting to go down.

I had smoked a joint with Trent before I left, so I’d be chill while getting my lashes done. And as I rode along that stretch of beach, window down, breeze on my face, taking it all in, a feeling came over me—one I had never felt before.

It started when I looked over at the rocks, then the Olympic pool, and onward. Everything felt different. It was unexpectedly refreshing; I had a peaceful, easy feeling. I thought, Damn, that’s some good weed!

Not too long after that, I went to the bank on Queen one day and dropped by Captain Jack just to say hi to Ness. Might’ve had me a Baileys on the rocks, and bounced. I decided to walk home down through Kew Gardens, past the bleachers and along the beach.

I’ve worked and lived within close proximity to the beach for over 20 years—ever since I came back from Vancouver. But that day, as I walked along the beach, I saw it through different eyes. I had a feeling of innocence. I felt the same joy I had when I was a kid.

It was sunny—an absolutely beautiful day—and I just walked slowly, enjoying every little bit of it. I walked. I sat. I watched. I reminisced.

I grew up going to Kew Beach. As a kid, it was a big thing for me—happy days. I loved the beach even way back then. I have so many childhood memories there—good ones from my teens too. You could swim at that beach until I was 14, and I did, before it became dangerous. The water became heavily polluted—so toxic that people weren’t allowed to swim in it anymore. It had a glowing green rim, with dead fish washed up on the shore. It was bad, and it was sad.

As I walked, it was so peaceful—it felt like I had butterflies in my stomach and all around me. All those good, happy memories from my childhood—of that beach—came rushing back. I saw it exactly as I had when I was a kid.

I lived and worked just blocks away from that beach, yet I never wanted to walk down there. I never wanted to walk the beach. I never cared to go. It was a big deal for everyone else—anyone who came to visit me—but not for me. I didn’t care about it, didn’t even care to see it. And I lived literally just off Lakeshore at Ashbridge's Bay and worked at Lee and Queen, just above Kew Beach.

When I rode my bike to work, I simply followed the path, parked, and rode back. In all that time, I hadn’t seen it, or even looked at it, the way I did that day.

Meanwhile, this is the beach I grew up on—so many carefree, happy days. And on that day, I was able to feel all of that again. An overwhelming sense of gratitude washed over me.

My head was finally starting to wrap around this "one day at a time" business. Making it past a full year after finding out—just six weeks post-surgery—that I needed another surgery was a big deal for me, it fucked with my head, my healing.

I knew I had made it to the edge of being strong enough to handle another open-heart surgery if it had to happen at that time. I also knew that I was going to be OK. I had been given a second chance, and I was damn happy to be alive.

That was the beginning of seeing people—and things—through different eyes.

Kew Beach

International Women’s Day

Cayo Coco 11

Heart To Heart