The Journey

Chapter 2: Bright Lights, Big City, Raisins & 9-1-1

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The first time I set foot in Canada was at YVR: Vancouver Airport.

We had a layover en route to Winnipeg, Manitoba.

I was 8-years-old.

I remember getting off the plane and I was barely tall enough to see the giant posters on the wall, covered with advertisements about the Rockies.

I remember being so upset that there were no windows at the terminal (other than the ones overlooking the tarmac) because I wanted to see the mountains. (I realize now that you can’t actually see the Rockies from Vancouver, but hey, I was 8.) Continue reading “Chapter 2: Bright Lights, Big City, Raisins & 9-1-1”

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Being A Mom · Mental Health · The Journey

Chapter 1: The Beginning

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These are my cousins. Although I don’t mention them in this post, most of my good memories growing up were with these three beautiful people.

Disclaimer: I’ve forgiven my dad. We talk now. I don’t write out of spite or resent. I write because I want to share my experiences with people. If you are going through any kind of trauma, you are not alone. It may seem like you are in the moment, but there are people who love you, and care for you, and are wiling to help you when you are ready.

I don’t have a lot of memories of my childhood. I remember the gist of things that happened but there are a handful of “vines” in my head: Six-second clips that constantly loop in my mind.

Trauma is funny that way.

I never intentionally suppressed my memories and yet, I have a hard time recalling a lot of things that happened.

My earliest memory is of me as a toddler.

I woke up in the middle of the afternoon and I couldn’t find my mom. Continue reading “Chapter 1: The Beginning”

#BringJasonHome · Love & Marriage

The Story of PB&J

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Few people know that my husband, Jason, and I, have actually known each other since we were teenagers.

Growing up, we were both part of the same Judeo-Christian faith, part of an international organization with initiatives around the world.

One of those initiatives was bible camp.

I always laugh when I tell people that we actually met at a church camp in Pennsylvania one fateful August. I think I was 13 and he was 15, although we argue about the exact year.

Girls (pink) and boys (blue) were split into separate dorms. We weren’t allowed to make any purple, they told us. And at dances and events, there always had to be a bible’s width between us.

Continue reading “The Story of PB&J”