Like a few things I’ve done in my life, the decision to write about fifty memories was a bit of a whimsical event. The idea came to me one day, a couple days before I needed to start, and I thought “Hey! I could do that.” Not, perhaps, fully understanding that fifty is a big number. Writing about fifty things that could be interesting is actually quite the task. When I started writing all those days ago, I did not have a plan. I did not even have the memories plotted out. I did not even have the second day planned.

Each day was a new adventure. At best, I had two days ‘in the bag.’ I think by week three, I had fifty ideas jotted down, and while I don’t have the paper with me, probably of those fifty, ten or more are sitting on the ‘cutting room floor’ having never seen the light of day. Some because they were not enough to make an article of (the time I saw a bald eagle on a bike trail with some childhood friends) or were too involved, or I just wasn’t ready to write about. Maybe someday I’ll put them all together in some kind of wacky memoir

In addition to the realization that fifty was a big number, and that I should be wary of my whims, I’ve come to another conclusion about the writing of these memories.

I’ve always said writing about these things was for me. When I was in grade 10, I had to write an essay about a musician. My fifteen-year-old self chose Joan Baez, and my reference material was her autobiography. The title of her book was ‘And a Voice to Sing With.’ That title has always resonated with me, and I feel it applies here. These memories were initially for me. Some of them lighthearted, but others were deeper and more cathartic. A way to somehow express what I needed to say. But I’ve had to question… Were they just for me?

As a writer, I’ve come to find I love to write. I write to get the words out of my head, and really, it doesn’t matter to me who reads them. BUT I want them read. I’m not after clicks or followers or comments. That does not matter. Really and truly, it does not matter, but I want someone to read what I write. Because if no one does, what am I writing for? This has posed a bit of a problem, for me because while these are personal memories that I wanted to write about, I’m writing because I love to write. But why am I writing? Unlocking the words from my head doesn’t really matter if I am the only person who reads them. A singer sings to be heard, a pianist plays to be heard, and while both do it because of a fundamental love of their craft, both have something to say, their instruments vary.

Now, some reflection on the memories themselves… There were times where I thought “Huh… I’m making this seem like my life is all breaking rocks and stones!” Health issues, one bad luck story after another. Seemingly all bad news.

Friends, that is not the case. I do not look at my life, or the lives of those around me and think bad things. As I sit, on my birthday, sipping coffee, surrounded by the beautiful Canadian Rocky Mountains, the cool mountain air chilling my fingers and toes, I am fortunate. There have been hard roads walked, there are difficult days ahead, but I have people who love me, a good support network, and I know that there are people who will push me up that hill. Heck, I had people push me all over Oshawa and my kid pushed me up Parliament Hill!

My favourite memories are those involving my grandmother. My Gramma was amazing. She was the quintessential Grandma. Bake you cookies, scold you with the wagging finger, love you fiercely, Gramma. She lived with us, helped raise us, and I know she loved us, and we loved her to the ends of the earth. She had a hard life, but she taught us anyone can overcome anything and do so with love in their hearts.

While my niece and nephew do not remember much of the traumatic events I wrote about, those of us surrounding them do. I still cannot think of either of those times without crying. Accidents and catastrophic times happen. Praise be that both children are here today. Not every family is as lucky as we have been.

I’m quite open about my mental health. I am alive today because of the actions of my best friend, Chris, and my husband. If I had not had these two men in my life, I would not be here, in these mountains, writing. I adore them both, and I am grateful they were both there to help me.

My health has been a kick in the pants. But it could always be worse! I try to never view my health as a bad thing. It just is. I do not know why, but I try to live the best life and take care of what I have. Move when I can, eat well most of the time (there will be celebratory drinks, cake, and a good dinner tonight). I shared, with some detail, the issues that have followed me because I want people to understand that life can be complicated, but it doesn’t mean the end of days! I am generally happy, bubbly, and have a ‘can do’ attitude. Of course, there are days when that is not that case, and pain dominates. My immediate family, and those I worked closely with last year in Manitoba saw, but they also saw that I can put my head down and pull through because I will not be pushed down.

Reflecting on these memories has shown me that I have a beautiful, worthwhile life. I am surrounded by good, genuine people who also want to help make this world a little bit better than we found it.

And that, my friends, is a reason to keep putting one foot in front of the other every single day. The voices in my head will always be there, and I will keep talking to them, because there are no friends better than the ones in my head. But, I’ve also come to realize that the ones outside my head are pretty great too. Sharing these memories has shown me that.

I’d like to extend a special thank you to Chris, who has read and edited all fifty-one of these memories for me. Encouraged me to keep going and keep sharing my writing. He made me believe in my writing. Thank you, Chris, for always believing, and catching the missing words, typos, and clarifying my thoughts.