It’s January 3. Saturday afternoon. The first Saturday of 2026. It’s freezing and dark outside, and it feels good to be under a warm blanket on my sofa, wearing my lucky old woollen Justin Trudeau socks (thanks, Jill!) and my favourite muumuu.
I’ve been putting off starting this blog for over three years. And now, all of a sudden, I feel propelled to begin. Not because everything is lined up neatly, but because somewhere deep in my soul, I need it.
There’s a strange thing that happens when you’re a woman in your forties. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, you start to fade into the background. People hear you, but they don’t quite see you anymore. I’ve become a silent observer sitting with a cup of ginger tea in the dark at 3 am (yes, insomnia), watching the world on reels and short videos and feeling like it’s all coming undone. Wondering where kindness and decency went. Where community disappeared, when fear crept in, and things started to feel so sharp around the edges.
There’s a lot going on in my head most of the time. A constant inner dialogue. Words that get stuck somewhere between my chest and my throat. This feels like a somewhat safe place to let them out. To be seen. To be heard. To step out of the shadows a little and maybe, just maybe, build a community I want to be part of.
On December 31, I assumed I’d be having the same bland, ordinary Wednesday I usually do. I woke up at 6:15 am, took the TTC to the gym, had a good workout with friends, and walked to Farm Boy to pick up a few things for New Year’s Eve.
As I approached my building, I noticed the roads were blocked. That felt strange, since I live on one of the busier streets in my neighbourhood. I turned to my left, and there she was. Someone’s mother. Someone’s grandmother. She was wrapped in an orange tarp on the street. Her feet were visible, and groceries were scattered around them. She had been struck by two vehicles travelling in opposite directions. Both drivers fled. I went upstairs, but I couldn’t stop thinking about her. I couldn’t quite describe the feeling. Anger mixed with grief. This poor woman, doing the same thing that I had just done, grabbing some groceries, didn’t make it home. The culprits didn’t have the decency to stop and call 911.
On New Year’s Eve. Fourteen floors below me. On a cold Wednesday afternoon. She was surrounded by strangers. Police, investigators, and onlookers, all trying to figure out what happened. Her body was left there for hours, right in the middle of the street.
I lit a candle for her. I prayed for her. I thought about her family and hoped they were being held with care.
What an awful way to close out 2025.
Every time I walk into my building now, I think of that woman. I think about how fragile life is. How quickly everything can shift. And strangely, I feel grateful. Not for what happened, but for the clarity it brought. For the reminder that nothing is guaranteed, and that maybe waiting isn’t always the answer.
That’s why I’m here on Day One.
To begin something I’ve wanted to do for a long time, but kept telling myself wasn’t worth it. That my words didn’t really matter. That no one would care enough to read them.
These pages are for me. And for you.
Little love letters to both of us.
I hope I can take us on a strange, sometimes heavy, sometimes joyful journey through the life of an elder millennial living in a city of nearly three million people. Someone who loves music, cute pens, notebooks, journals, dark humour, action movies, bears, muffins, deadlifting, and random quotes.
Wherever you are, I hope you join me.
I hope you find your own Day One, too.
And I hope you do the thing you’ve been putting off.
I picked this paint-by-numbers back up after a year. I stopped somewhere along the way because of life, fatigue, and distraction, and today felt like a good day to return. I’m learning that beginnings don’t always have to be loud. Some of them are quiet, patient, and a little imperfect.
Day One, again.
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