In 2023, I decided to grow up, by never, ever growing up.

For so long of my adult life, I tried – unsuccessfully – to fit into the proverbial box. The one that came with a marriage, and a home, and kids, and cars, and careers, and education, and scarves that matched boots in the fall, and toques that were for aesthetics and not for comfort.

Then, when that didn’t work out, I went the opposite direction. I went with blue hair, and green hair, and mohawks, and tattoos, and piercings, and clothes that didn’t match, or didn’t fit, and I tried that box on for size, and it didn’t work either.

And while I lived these half-lies, and sort of truths about myself, I did something else. I started realizing that I could be okay with both these lives living in tandem inside of me. I could grow up, without actually growing up at all.

So I turned 40, and life started to become clear.

And 2023 ushered in a bright, shiny new perspective. And everyday, I wrote about it.

The New Year’s Eve adage goes a little something like this: Tomorrow is the first page of a 365 page book. Make it a good one.

The Handle With Care 2023 365 Project began.

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Now, mind you, while New Year’s Eve was a fucking kick-start to a fucking killer year, it didn’t come without its pitfalls. I wrapped up spinning NYE at the Gan Inn and Spa, started to feel run-down, so packed up quick and came home. By the time I arrived back in Kingston, I was in the throes of the worst case of strep throat I’ve had in ages. And I was sick for days. Antibiotics sick. Probiotics to counter the antibiotics sick. But once I’d turned those pages, it was time to look ahead. And smash the year to come.

In 2022, I finally took my first really-real trip. I’d been whisked away to Mexico sometime during college, but it was a fully funded, Grandparents escorted us trip to Puerto Vallarta.

However, in 2022, we booked, planned, prepped and headed to Cuba. And I was bit viciously and ferociously by the travel bug. And while I’ve always been the girl with a wanderlust to behold, I knew in that moment, on that plane, in that new country, that traveling was all I ever wanted to do with my life – for actual, for serious, for real – and I found myself bee-bopping solo in Los Angeles a mere three months later. A stowaway on a trip, lost in the mayhem of Hollywood – hailing Ubers, and calling for cabs, and wandering down the streets of the Boulevard, getting tatted on Sunset, and touring the studios, and scouring for celebrities. Winding through Beverly Hills, eating solo at the Hard Rock, networking, meeting friends, sitting in on a live taping. In Los Angeles, I felt more alive than I ever knew possible.

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While my heart belongs to the great big world around us, I had to find footing in the little town we all call home. And I had to take that Bariatric Shake Diet to the next level. I loved to run, I loved the treadmill, I loved the cardio. But I couldn’t bring myself to just run a standard day on a treadmill.

So, I laced up, couraged-up, and found myself on the rink, and on the pole, and on the court. From the girl who’d never entertained this type of physical activity, I had unleashed something I’d hidden behind the guise of disinterested misfits – I fell in love with sports.

And the year rolled on. It had been made mention that your 40s are the highlight of your entire life. You fuck up in your 20s, and you pay for it in your 30s, and by the time you reach your 40s, you get a chance to say – some of this, I’ve got figured out. Some of this, I know. Some of this, I can sit back and really appreciate.

You can do the thing – where you can get drunk till you black out, because you’ve left an advil beside your bed the night before. But you won’t – at least not very often – because you’ll pay for it in the days to come.

You can do the thing where you spend a little, because you’ll never spend too much – the bills will come back to haunt you. You’ve been there. You’ve bounced rent before, and hydro before, and you’ve sworn to yourself that time – that time was awful enough you’re disinterested in doing it again.

And in your 40s, you start to develop a keen sense of self. At least, I did. I’m a baby adult. I’m not even half-way to the finish line (especially given my paternal Grandmother is hurtling towards 100, and if I’m anything like her – outside of having her genes plastered all over my face – well, I have a ways to go, yet.) And because I’m not even on the inside track of this rat race – again, I decided to concede to growing up this year, without growing up at all.

Part of being this age hasn’t all centred around developing who I was as a hobbyist – travel and sports being my dominating favourite pastimes. But also, conceding that taking care of my body was going to set me up for the years that would ensue.

So, in 2023, nearly a full-year to the date it all went sideways – the goddamn surgeons finally finally agreed to remove my ruptured appendix. (Oh yes, I said a year later.) By the time they elected to take out the trash, the garbage built inside my body from last summer resulted in having to also remove an ovary and fallopian tube due to damage caused by this dead organ that just sat there wreaking havoc on my system.

And while I’m eternally grateful that my gynecologist set the record straight with the general surgeon, and booked me MRIs, CT scans and the like that finally got me to the OR – the surgery effectively ended my summer sports. I hung up my skates, kissed the pole goodbye (not literally, how gross), and stayed off the court. I’ve only returned to volleyball this winter.

What does it mean to drop 30lbs with the Bariatric Clinic, to maintain that weight with sports, just to have a surgery mere months later? It means that by the end of the winter (and a killer trip home with family), that you’re back at ground zero for weight management. But, we’ll save that for a 2024 goal.

Again – your forties provide you with all sorts of things. Like peace. And hopefully a decent credit score. Kids you can be proud of and parents you can call. But it also provides you with a sense of perspective. So I gained back some of the weight. The cost of the weight was the value of finally having my appendix removed. And that meant no longer leaving work midway through the day while I was bowled over in an abdominal pain, praying for someone to take me to pasture. I’ll take the weight gain. Rollerskating, and pole fitness, and volleyball will always be there. Now, I’m assured I will be, too.

Of all the rad and awesome things to present themselves in 2023, I also Dj’d more events than I ever have in a single year, than I ever have before. Daisy entertainment. has a lot to be proud of this year. From weddings, to stag n does, to events, to Social Media Management, to building networks, and aligning with other community local businesses … it was a year to remember. And yes, for those wondering, I did have my appendectomy on Thursday, and then Dj’d back to back stag n does on Friday and Saturday. Small business owners don’t take sick days.

And as we segue into my work life, it was my first full year at FRESH Radio. And it was a year of finding my footing, finding my voice, learning where I fit in. I have adapted, grown, becoming aware of who I am as an announcer, with a responsibility and gratefulness to those who catch a listen here and there of my show. It’s about finding meaningfulness in what I say – whether I’m saying absolutely nothing at all (a tidbit about my insane life), or offering an update about the world around us. I look at my job with a critical lens, calculating what may be interpreted from what comes out of my mouth.

Again – in your forties – in that calmness that stirs inside of you – you begin to appreciate things like criticism. Somewhere in your thirties, what you used to defend starts to become something you consider. Start to mull over. Start to examine. You choose your fucks. You choose your battles. You begin understanding that you actually don’t know it all. But if you do know it, and you know it well, you’ll know when to fight for what you believe in. My Program Director told me earnestly, and honestly, that I’ve come leaps and bounds as an employee, and as an announcer. Because in your forties, you listen.

And there are rewards for that.

Like, explaining to my boss that I missed my Prom from being a teenage Mom, so he granted enthusiastic approval of us at FRESH hosting our own.

Or – explaining to my boss that I was once a single Mom on welfare, utilizing social programs to get by, and wanted to run the annual 7 Days of Care-ing in support of the Food Bank.

And, a proper shout-out to my favourite holiday of the year, and convincing my boss I should celebrate in a big, big way. Scary Carrie 2023 was the time of my life.

Life, at the radio station, is so good. It is so, so good. From four months of Friday afternoon patio parties, to our Party Cruise in August, to a camaraderie of like-minded folks eager to have fun every single day at work – life at the radio is so, so good.

And life at home has improved. Jayda and Colby continue to succeed in their adult lives; Jayda and Tye planning to tie the knot this fall, with Colby and Jessica looking into their first apartment.

Both of these excellent humans have set the course on who they’re becoming as adults, as they navigate their futures. Colby has become an ironworker. Jayda is looking into horticulture. And they call often, make plans, buy gifts, are grateful, and humble. And as I stumble into things I wish I knew then – like credit scores, and TFSAs, and financial advisors – I’m passing along my growing up in real time. And what kills me – slays me, even – is that these two are so much like me, it’s nearly comical. They are smart, driven, funny, responsible – yet covered in tats, and holler with trucker mouths I don’t know if I should be ashamed or proud. They’re both a coupla pirates, and I’m so glad they’re mine.

Here at home is my Sweet Pea Kid C, who has infinitely made up for the lost time her older siblings skipped over. She is giving me a run for my money. She is equal parts intelligent as she is tempestuous. She’s equal parts giving and loving as she is unruly and rebellious. She’s quick to bring a gun to the knife fight, while simultaneously propping you up with words of encouragement and support. I am her safe person. I am her Mama. She is my purpose. And while her world was set on fire in 2022, she’s setting the world ablaze in 2023 and I’m popcorn and pursed lips for what inferno burns brightly for her in 2024. The young lady who started highschool during a pandemic is about to start a semester at college, in a program she’s dreamt about for years. In doing so, she’s already applied for the fall, and has her heart set on moving out and leaving this Mama at home with an empty nest. I have watched her stumble, fall, crash, look over the cliff and consider leaping, and now I’m watching this phoenix from those ashes staring directly into a future she’s carved out for herself. Parents – it isn’t easy. It never is. But my takeaway from parenting three teens – and one who keeps me sleeping with one eye open – is to stay within your paygrade. I’ve never shied away from calling in the troops to assist my teen with whatever it may be I can’t help her with. I’m not a doctor. I’m certainly not a psychologist. I’m just a Mama who loves her implicitly – and these kids are coming up in a world broken by politics, and inflation, and a disparity in wages versus living expense – and they are scared, and worried, and fearful, and us of them. So, I called in the troops. And Kid C has come out on the other side. I wish for you courage as you help your teen make it to the prescipe of their future.

I have come away from 2023 with a renewed sense of peace, and calm. I made some epically difficult decisions for myself. My love language is “service”. I am a fixer. I will fix you. And I will help you. Even if it’s at my own detriment. If you need me, I’m there, no matter what other priorities I may have had. I will fix it. I will do it for you. I will love you back to health. That’s what I do. I run my relationships, and friendships, and parenting, and siblinghood by this mantra. I will drop what I’m doing, or spend what I have – emotionally, physically or financially – to help you. That’s my truth.

But in 2023, I learned that I have to better tow the line between helping, fixing, offering, assisting, healing, or doing with keeping some of myself for me. I have had to learn that ‘no’ really is a complete sentence. ‘No, I can’t come tonight.’ ‘No, I don’t want company.’ Or simply: ‘No.’ I’ve learned that. The hard way. But I can’t keep sacrificing myself on the altar of affection. Cause here’s the thing – they don’t actually like you more if you do everything for them. In fact, they might actually respect you less because you’ve got such little respect for yourself. Read that twice.

During the year, Colby called me and said: You sound at peace, Mama.

And I am. I actually am. I like my house, and my kid, and my career, and my sidehustle. And I haven’t coloured my hair in nearly a year, cause I like that, too. I like my parents – who treated me like a child when I went home for Christmas, in the most endearing way possible. I like my sisters. And my brunches with a bestie I see once a month. And new friends who like Costco. And friends who have been my friends since I landed in this little town all those years ago, alone, lost, heartbroken and searching for anyone who’d become a soul sister. And now I have a full-on mess of them I treasure with my whole heart. To my girls – you know who you are. I am so proud of each of you, and I’m proud to know each of you. You’re all family.

I like that I’ve gained my independence. And I’ve refused to allow being alone feel like loneliness. This year, I went on a picnic alone.

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And I learned the value of a good book.

And I dined alone.

But it was never really alone. It was solo. And peaceful. And quiet.

I took up knitting this year.

And the novel I’ve been writing is sitting at more than 13 000 words. I got myself a library card. And I took myself to the movies. I started planning my next big adventure – the UK – in August. And I’ve booked more than a dozen gigs for Daisy. I continuously strengthen the relationship I have with my roommate, Nicole, whom I’ve lived with for over two years and has become my Kingston family. We realized today that never – not even one time – have we ever had a fight. No drama. No conflict. Just two women versus a big, bad world; holding on for dear life, and holding on to each other to get through it.

Oh – and I even painted holiday windows. How could I possibly forget. I was contracted by Tim Hortons to paint their holiday greetings this year. And I couldn’t believe a corporation of that stature was going to take a chance on a little amateur painter like me.

And I created holiday cards, saw Journey, Toto, Loverboy, Foreigner, Tears for Fears, Def Leppard, Motely Crue, Alice Cooper, Pitbull and Guns n Roses. I got matching tats with a bestie in Syracuse. I drove through New York to the Rainbow Bridge to visit Niagara Falls. I went to the trailer with my siblings and hosted the first cousin’s summer vacay. I played golf for the first time. We vacationed in Cuba. I ran Bingo for the Senior residents in our building. I really did do it all, this year. I really did.

I’ve omitted one person through-out this piece. Sort of a “best for last” kinda deal. This year was one of the best on record for me. And I know for him, it was a difficult, winding road. But one he tackled head-on, to the best of his ability – and the wins far exceeded the perceived losses. Because every time a door closed for him, he kicked down another and began a new challenge, rivaled a new competition, and prevailed in ways only those of us who love him the most can truly see. I had a front-row seat in his life. From closing one chapter, to going back and thumbing open the pages of a former. To trusting himself and his doctors enough to make a life decision so great, it really became life-altering. I’ve watched him maneuver, swerve, side-step, sweep, secure, and survive this trip around the sun in a hundred million different ways – and he doesn’t even see it for himself. Loving J has meant being his biggest cheerleader – his ultimate fan – and championing him to the finish line on a very tumultuous 2023 that could have easily taken down a lesser person. But not him. He doesn’t accept defeat. He conquered and climbed his way out of even the darkest nights, focused on the light beckoning him from a distance – no matter how small the sliver or slice of bright it was. Jan – I love loving you. You really bested a year that tried to best you.

Only two more pages in my 365 book, before I can close 2023. With my many mugs, and my many little quips I’ve read over the year that have imprinted on my heart. Nuggets of advice that scrolls through my newsfeed I can’t help but pass along.

How do you sum up 525 600 minutes? How do you look back on the year and wager the good against the bad? Can you safely say that everything you learned, took away, asked for, were denied, were granted, received or gave was worth it?

Because I can. I can, for the first time, feel satisfied that 2023 did what it was meant to do – it came up to my doghouse door and dared me to leave behind the inhibitions, and try. Try on independence in real, meaningful ways. Try new friendships. Try traveling. Try sports. Try hobbies. Try setting a goal and seeing it through. Try focussing on what’s been good and leave the bad stuff behind. Siphon down the noise till it’s nothing more than a background television playing in the lobby you can simply ignore. And it dared me to try on my forties in ways I never otherwise thought imaginable.

When you’re 18, 30 is old. When your 20, 40 is a scary, daunting number you can’t imagine becoming.

And when you’re in your 40s, and your waistline doesn’t matter, and eating alone doesn’t bother you, and you actually really like your job and your parents, and bedtimes, well, it could just mean you’re into the best decade yet.

Here’s to growing up – without ever, ever growing up.

Happy New Year.

-c xx

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