The Blog

September was the beginning of something mysterious. I had wrapped up my cardiac rehab at Women’s College Hospital in August, and I was conflicted about leaving that place. I had been there for so long. Those ladies were there for me while my mind, body, and soul transformed right before their eyes. I was afraid to lose them—or lose that structure in my life.

I remember sitting with Mireille on the last day, going over the progress I’d made since day one, and her telling me how healthy I was—aside from my “sub-optimal valve.” I’m looking forward to spending three months (and only three, haha) with those ladies after open-heart surgery part two. Such a comfort just knowing they’re there for me.

I left this behind as that is exactly how I felt in that room.

Anishnawbe had moved to a new location on Cherry Street. I went for one of my regular visits with Melanie, and on my way home, I looked to the right and thought, “What the fuck is that?”—a huge-ass YMCA, the Pan-Am Games one. It was massive, and I was like, “Oh ya, that’s what’s up!” The next time I went to Anishnawbe, I walked over to the Y and signed up. I wanted my transition from the cardiac rehab program at the hospital to flow smoothly into the Y—and it did. I continued with the cardiac program I had become accustomed to without any interruption—or catching a case of the blues.

Life was good. I was physically healthier and happier than I had been in decades. My heart felt normal-ish—I couldn’t feel it’s erratic beat anymore. I was calm inside. Life was very peaceful. I was burning sage twice a day—at least once in the morning, giving thanks for many things and once at night before bed. That was my program: cardiac rehab, Melanie, mindfulness, and burn. I was content. Focused on keeping my head right for the next surgery that was gonna happen, whenever.

Umbriel was born on the 7th. I made it to my favorite beach, Cayo Coco, and had that unusual, unexpected but lovely experience with Monty. I was in a happy place. Not too long after I got home, I started writing one day, just on my phone. It started with a sentence—but ended up turning into close to, or quite possibly over, a thousand words.

I shared it with two people specifically—and both for a reason—neither one of them caught the play. I sent it to Chet because he was that parent who never took accountability for his actions. I wanted him to digest my words and maybe make a change. I knew his kids. I also knew how I felt growing up without any accountability from my own parents. I wanted him to give his children something I never had, what they deserved—an apology, accountability. But he didn’t see it that way.

I sent it to my cousin Jen because I wanted her to understand what it was like for my generation growing up—especially me, having ADHD. She didn’t see it that way either.

Chet said, “Congratulations, you just wrote your first chapter.”

Jen said, “You need to blog.”

A seed was planted. I asked Jen for help getting established and sorted out, since she’s quick and pretty knowledgeable in that department. But after having a baby and becoming a stay-at-home mom, she had no time or interest in helping me with this project. She declined. So I moved on to Chet. And, well, there he was with both hands out—”Sureeee, I can help with that—no problem!”

After going through all that shit with him and ending up with no blog, no website, no domain—I really didn’t know what to do. It was the first time I could remember not having a connection or a link to anyone who could help me build this thing. I was stumped.

Inside, internally, I was vibrating. I couldn't stop writing. I had crazy content built up on my phone before I even knew what I was going to do with it. I just kept writing—and stressing—about how I was going to get this blog off the ground.

I reached out to my friend Monika, and she put me onto the idea of outsourcing the job. I thought, great, perfect. I hired someone in the Philippines. He jerked me around for almost two weeks. Whatever he charged me didn’t matter—I got the money back. Then I hired someone else in India—she also piddled around—did fuck all! That didn’t work out for me at all. It just contributed to my anxiety.

The whole time I kept thinking, I know this is meant to be. The words are written and they’re still coming. All this stuff was spilling out of me. I was vibrating inside—I could feel what this was going to be, that I’d been given a task, and that something—a force—was working through me. But why wasn’t this website coming together? It just didn’t make any sense. I was perplexed.

I met this girl years ago who came to Toronto from Cambridge during my early years of doing lashes. She was new to the city and ended up finding a roommate—on Craigslist—one of my clients. That client introduced us, as I was always on the hunt for someone to do my lashes professionally, as well as I knew how to do them.

That’s how I met Christina. She did my lashes, and I did hers, for years. At the time, she was in school for holistic wellness. After a few years in Toronto, she finished her course and moved back to Cambridge, but she and I always stayed somewhat in touch through social media.

Before my surgery, she reached out to me. She had moved back to Toronto and was living just up the street from me. She asked me to do her lashes. We had a little arrangement for a short while—then I had my surgery.

When she reached out that day, she also mentioned that if I ever needed help with my—Butterfly Kissed by Jaye website—she had gotten pretty savvy with web stuff and would love to help me out. I didn’t think much of it at the time because I had no idea what was going to happen with my small business.

Then sometime in October—bingo!—that light came on. I remembered what she said, and I was like—Oh-my-God!

I messaged her:
“Christina, girl, so much has been going on. I remember you told me that if I ever needed help with my website, you’d help me. Well, the lashes are no more—but I want to start a blog.”

I explained all the issues I’d had getting it going. She recommended a platform called Squarespace, said it was super easy to use, and offered to come over and show me how to get it going.

She came over—it had been well over a year since I'd seen her—and so much had happened with me during that time. I was sitting there, full of excitement, anxiety, and this intense mix of energy and frustration, trying to get everything off my chest. I told her everything. I sat there—hyped, frustrated, anxious—talking about my healing journey and how far I’d come, but at the that time, I was a fucking basket of rabbits. I could feel her picking up on my energy. It pissed me off even further because, despite how much I had grown since she last saw me, I wasn’t able to show it—not at all.

She sat with me, calmly listening, like understanding and she showed me how to use Squarespace. She ended up sharing a part of herself I hadn’t known—she’d been through some stuff, herself. Some deep healing. I didn’t ask her to go into detail, but she opened up. She showed me her own website; www.christinajbarry.com, her blog—focused on homeopathy. I had no idea she even had a website.

I figured out pretty quickly that Chet had my domain on park when I went into GoDaddy to poke around. I looked for another domain, I wanted .com. I wanted it to be basic, simple. What I had originally chosen was what I wanted it to be, so I just took the “with” out of it, and it became: www.hearttoheartjaye.com

I had purchased something with WordPress, along with another product from GoDaddy, because the guy in the Philippines told me I needed them. Christina was like, “Well, let’s see if we can get your money back.” Huh! She started Googling and figured out that I was eligible for a refund. It was literally one or two days before the cutoff—I hadn’t even thought of that. I had already chalked it up as a loss. A learning tax.

In that moment, sitting beside her, a feeling came over me—this is how it was supposed to go. Exactly. Christina was meant to be a part of my journey. She’s the witness.

Christina didn’t do it for me. She sat beside me and showed me how to navigate. I’ve got goosebumps right now just writing this. The format, the style, the black-and-white—it all came together like iron oxide particles to a magnet. Effortlessly.

I don’t even think Christina knew how much that meant to me, how much I appreciated her. I offered to pay her, barter—she wanted nothing. Her exact words were “I’m just happy to have been able to help you.” This was 2024—who the fuck says that anymore?! I was blessed—it was meant to be.

I was so happy, a weight was lifted. I went from a 180 tempo to 60. I had spent four to six weeks writing like a mad dog, trying every which way, hitting a dead end at every turn trying to get this blog up and running. And now here it was. And it was easy—easier than I imagined it would be.

My first entry, The Beginning of the Chaos, had been ready to go since September. By then—I already had fifteen more written. Once I started writing, I couldn’t stop.

I didn’t make the original launch date, but at the end of October, we picked a day. Christina came over. We popped a bottle of champagne. My daughter was also there. We launched, and the blog was born. We all cheered and celebrated. What were we celebrating? Something new, something big.

I have an old ass computer from 2008 in the living room—a PC—and that’s what I was using. I’d take the words from my notes app on my phone, copy and paste them into an email, and then move them to an open Notepad window on the computer where I could see everything big. That’s where I’d play with the words, edit, rearrange, and then upload the final version to the blog.

One day, Trent walked by and said, “Why don’t you use Google Docs?” I was like, “What the fuck is Google Docs?”

He showed me how to navigate it, and I was like, "Oh shit, this is so much easier." I’ve always been comfortable with Microsoft Word, and while Google Docs is a bit different, it still felt easy for me to use. So, that became my routine: I’d send words from my notes to my email, open Google Docs, create a document, clean it up there, and then copy/paste everything into the blog.

I would sit there for hours—days on end—writing, editing—loving it. It was all flowing so effortlessly. It was up and running because of Christina. I’d never done anything like that before. I’d never written more than a one-page letter and once—an essay I did for this freelance writing course I took at U of T, maybe eight or nine years ago, back when I was still doing lashes. 

Funny enough, Clara was the only person I ever shared little snippets of my past with—during our late nights partying. The only person who ever took me seriously.

I tried opening up about my past with one or two other friends during that era of my life, and looking back now, I understand why—I needed to be seen. I needed to open up, let it out. I felt like I was hiding my past, and I guess, to a degree, I was. I certainly wasn’t bragging about my wretched fucking life, that’s for sure! But it never landed. I was mocked, dismissed, and unbelieved.

“Let me guess, you were in jail again?” That one cut deep. I remember thinking, fuck these bitches. I just shut down. Zipped it. Never spoke of it again. Not to her. Not to anyone. Only Clara. I was surrounded by privileged fucks who weren’t even capable of comprehending my past—let alone holding it. 

One night I said to Clara, “I’m going to write a book.” Or maybe it was her who said to me, “Jaye, you need to write a book.” Either way, that’s how the U of T freelance writing course came about. I knew my life was book worthy, even back then.

I was 100% intimidated by that course. I paid $1500 for a six-week course and legit chickened out—didn’t even go the first day. I thought I was way in over my head and had already accepted that $1500 as a loss. But the professor emailed me the next day with “what I had missed” and offered to meet me early before the next class to catch me up. I made it to that next class.

That course was tough, but I saw it through.

I had no clue what was next for me—but before I could even figure that out, my next move was made for me. Kayla was diagnosed with breast cancer. That took over everything. I ached inside. Again. And just like with her Crohn’s, she was brave. She was strong. Stronger than I was.

That diagnosis—actually, ever since she did the biopsy—consumed the next couple of years of our lives. After that, it was just me—doing lashes, drinking like a fucking fish, and snorting the occasional line here and there. I never even thought about writing again.

Sometime in October, I was trying to come up with a logo. I stumbled across this site called Canva and started playing around, trying to design one—but the logo I envisioned never actually came together. Oddly enough, it didn’t need to. The logo ended up being just my name, Jaye Sherry, in the Italia font I had already selected for my site. Simple. Clean. Perfect.

I went back into Canva, still messing around—and ended up creating a business card. A very cool business card, if I do say so myself. Clear, plastic, sleek, with a QR code on it. I did that shit by myself and I was quite proud, I won’t lie.

Whala!

All of that happened within three weeks of the blog being born. It all came about—effortlessly.

I used the printing service my old graphics girl, Blair, (a different Blair) always used—Morning Print. She was my girl for everything back in the day. Business cards, logos, my website, marketing material. A true, elegant, pro. We bartered back then. She was always super sweet. And even though I knew she probably would’ve helped me out, I didn’t have the audacity to ask. Not after she moved to California. I knew the scales had tipped—we didn’t end even.

Still, I did end up asking her for one small tiny thing—or at least I hoped it was small and it was. The font I used on my blog wasn’t available on Canva. She sent me a link where I could purchase it, but I didn’t have to. I went Pro for the free 30-day trial, downloaded the font, made the card, placed the order—boom, 400 business cards were on their way.

Next thing I knew, I purchased a ticket to the Women’s Show. Why was I going to the Women’s Show—alone—I don’t know.

I hadn’t been out anywhere alone in a big crowd in a long time. I’d take cabs or Ubers to get where I needed to go, and even then, I had a system. I’d leave the house on a Tuesday, Wednesday, or Thursday, early—before 3PM. I’d do what I needed to, and get my ass right back home.

Being in a rush of people made me nervous. Anxious. That touch of enochlophobia was there. I was afraid of getting bumped—even though, after 18 months, I knew my cracked-open chest was technically healed. But emotionally, somatically—I was not. From April to November and beyond, I felt everything I probably should’ve felt right after surgery. I avoided crowds. 

A website and business cards were created, and I had a ticket to go to the women’s show and was ready to go. I wasn’t even nervous. I was excited, and went on a Saturday to boot! I got up early, got dressed with my business cards in my pockets, and went to the Toronto Convention Centre.

Leggo!

As I walked through the place, people were looking at me. I don’t know if it was the way I was dressed—my hat or what the fuck it was—but I definitely stood out in the crowd. As people walked by, I’d hand them a business card. "Check it out. Check it out…"

My cards were unique, they stood out alone.

There was a point at that show when I just stood there, and people walked up to me, their hands out, asking for my card like I was giving out 50% off coupons or something. It was so fucking weird. Just like that, 250 cards were gone—effortlessly.

I stuck around for a bit. Nobu’s birthday was coming up, and I bought him a personalized item. It took me forever to find the spot, an hour after I placed the order—it started getting packed, and I started freaking out—walking back and forth, trying to find that stupid ass booth. I eventually found it and got the fuck out of there, hopped in an Uber, and went home.

I was vibing. I didn’t know what was going on with me during that time, but I had this feeling inside—like a constant uprising. Spiritual energy was flowing all through me.

I know now I was in a state of becoming. Everything I had been through had built up this pressure, and suddenly it was rising—not in chaos, but in clarity. Maybe even power. The vibing wasn’t random—it was my spirit moving, rebelling against old pain, old narratives, and people who never saw the real me.