Picture this, kweens: me, walking my dog in my kid’s hand-me-down boots, crunching through the snow. It’s not just a stroll—it’s therapy, no co-pay required. Reminiscing about a lovers quarrel along the Bow river that started just like every other road trip up and down the QE2, fueled by tears, rage, and climate change fumes.
Rewind to a volleyball nationals trip, grad for my twins, and their nationals, where I was scraping cash like I was on Extreme Couponing: Desperate Tradwife Edition. Every expense felt like a gut punch, and debt was suffocating me while my marriage started feeling more like a bad business deal. Thankfully, some Saintly team parents who didn't know our sitch, covered meals for my kids while I juggled three of them and felt crushed by the weight of it all.
Divorce? Yeah, it crossed my mind—more than once. But there I was, walking, breathing, staring at trees like they’d spill the secrets of life. And somehow, I decided to stay. Not because it was easy, but because something told me there was still a way forward. The birds are my guide.
Cue the plot twist: instead of crumbling, I bet on myself. I started creating content—sharing my chaos with strangers on the internet. It’s messy, it’s imperfect, but it’s mine. I’ve learned to find joy in the little things: a wagging tail, a sunrise along the river, my eagles, and a few likes on a post.
And you know what? I’m hopeful, because what’s the worst that can happen? Oh, and BTW, I just launched a Substack—it’s paid, and it's exclusive because your girl is done living that life. 💅
Eat Pray Slay Kweens!
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Eat Pray Slay Kweens!
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