Eight Years! What's New? Kids to University and I'm writing a book!

Eight years.

Eight.

Years.

I honestly don’t know how that happened. The last time I posted here, my kids were still small enough that I could pick them up without immediately needing a chiropractor, and apparently, I still believed I’d be a “regular blogger.” Precious.

A lot has happened since then, and because no one needs a 47-chapter memoir of the missing years, here’s the condensed, coffee-fueled version.

For a while, I attempted a grand return to the workforce — full-time, actual outfits, commuting into the city, the whole “Look at me pretending to be a

functioning adult!” setup. Here’s what I learned: my old superpower, the “I’ll take your shit with a smile” executive-assistant magic, has officially expired. Gone. Replaced with a new internal setting that says, very plainly, “I am not here to be walked on. I am here to be respected.”

Shockingly, there are executives out there who seem to have taken The Devil Wears Prada as an actual playbook for how to treat their EA. I worked for one woman who never even learned my name and — I swear to God — did not know who I was when I spoke to her in the hallway. Until that job, I had never worked for an executive who didn’t treat me like a trusted, confidential member of the team. It was, hands down, the oddest person I have ever worked for in my entire career.

She didn’t use me as an assistant at all. Honestly, I think she hired me simply because the position existed and it would’ve looked “weird” if she didn’t have one. I quit that job fast. She didn’t last long at that company either, and I can’t say I was surprised.

There was, however, one work experience I should never have walked away from — helping the woman I used to support at Discovery. She is still one of the kindest, smartest, genuinely decent humans on the planet, and supporting her again felt like sliding back into a version of work that actually made sense. Leaving that role to pursue full-time corporate life elsewhere… yes, I regret that. Turns out not everyone is as wonderful to work with as she is. Hard lesson learned.

After all this, I shifted gears and turned back to something I’d been quietly building for years: my art. I’m now working full-time as a graphic designer and pen-and-ink illustrator. And here’s the part that feels both exciting and completely terrifying to say out loud: I’m working on a book.

It’s still early, but the whole project started with my drawings — these little ink worlds I’ve been building for years. A girl in a polka-dot dress, wandering through forests of oversized mushrooms, setting sail on quiet seas, peering through binoculars at strange, impossible landscapes. Somewhere along the way, the images started connecting. They felt like pieces of a story meant for older kids or young teens — something a little whimsical, a little eerie, and hopefully meaningful. So I’m doing it backwards, as usual: the illustrations came first, and now I’m shaping the story that threads them together. I have no idea where it will lead, but it feels right to follow it.

On the home front, the kids have somehow become actual full-sized humans. My oldest is in university now, studying International Relations at one of the top schools in Canada. I still cannot say that without blinking like I’m trying to reset myself. We’re ridiculously proud of him. Our youngest is in 11th grade and cycling through future career interests like he’s trying on hats: Surgeon, Pilot, F1 Mechanic. That last one may or may not be my influence. I’m not subtle.

Mark is still working, still traveling, and still showing no signs of embracing retirement. Every so often I badger him into taking a real break, but mostly he rotates between working, traveling for work, and sneaking off to a lake on weekends like a Victorian man with wilderness-related ennui.

So that’s the short version of the Eight Missing Years. I’ve missed writing here. I’ve missed this little space where life doesn’t have to be filtered into productivity metrics or polished bullet points. I’ve missed the honesty and the strange and the imperfect.

I’m back. Not promising consistency — let’s not get crazy — but I’m here. And I’m happy to be.