It’s been almost five years since I last posted here. Half a decade went by, and somehow it still feels like I only blinked.
From the outside, my life looks completely different now — and honestly, it should. I’m not married anymore. I don’t live in the same house. I’m not playing beer‑league hockey or riding my bike to the corner store for groceries. I don’t cook as much. You won’t find me on the driveway drawing chalk with my daughter, or doing Mad Libs together, or playing Patchwork for hours. Most of the people who used to fill my days aren’t part of my life in the same way anymore. A lot of the routines that once defined me have faded, and I’ve become more reclusive than I ever expected. Some of this was intentional; some of it just… happened.
But not everything disappeared. Some things stayed steady. I’m still someone who notices small details, who likes making things, who reaches for a notepad when an idea pops into my head, and who wants the people around me to feel important. Leah is still the brightest part of my world, and the moments we do share mean more to me now than ever. Even in the quiet stretches of a long afternoon by myself, I’ve learned I’m more resilient than I give myself credit for. I still wrestle with anxiety and sadness from time to time, and I still have moments where I feel like I’ve let myself or others down — but I’m trying to be better. Life is always a work in progress, and it’s always changing.
But I’m here. I’m writing again. And maybe that’s the first step toward whatever comes next. Something purposeful, something creative, something that feels more like… me.
