On Turning 27

“How do you feel about turning twenty-seven?”

In one word, relieved. This past year has built grit and tenacity in me beyond limits I thought I’d already exhausted. To finally turn the page feels like regeneration, an opportunity to begin anew.

—

My twenty-sixth year started with still tender heartbreak from my last relationship and the conclusion of my summer French program. One question loomed over me: with graduate school now done, what was I going to do with my life?

At the time, I thought I would move to Montréal. I tossed my resume out to various jobs, hoping something would land in my lap. Nothing did. So one night in early August, fueled by feelings for a boy I’d been talking to that summer, I applied for one job in my hometown. It was the only one I heard back from.

“You’re here for a reason,” said my friends. After eight years away from home, I interpreted that to mean a new chapter, a do-over in the place I thought I’d never return to.

Coming back to Winnipeg was really good, for a while. I fell in love with my gym, my work and a boy who made me want to stay and build something real here. But my newly rebuilt life was too good to be real, and it came crashing down fast. At the end of last year, I was rocked by hard truths about three of the men I loved most.

My ex-partner had lied to me for over a year about reconnecting at the end of his graduate school journey.

My best friend, knowing this, hid the truth and moved in with my ex-partner without telling me.

And the boy I’d moved home for had been lying about his relationship the entire time he’d known me.

Finding out the truth about each of these relationships was nauseating. In response to the first two, I faced hard conversations and even harder grief. In response to the latter, I did what I am always burdened to do—the brave thing—and came forward.

I spent five of the past twelve months fighting a sexual misconduct investigation, yearning for someone to take me seriously. I was heard, eventually, but only after the boy repeated his harmful behaviour with someone else. To this day, I remain frustrated that he was enabled to carry on his abusive pattern of behaviour as long as he did. Still, I stand proud alongside the other women who spoke up, because by holding him accountable together, we spared many other women from undergoing all we did.

—

And then, when I thought the year couldn’t get harder, my mom got cancer.

Lymphoma transformed me from my mother’s daughter to my mother’s mother overnight. That’s not to diminish her capability - my mom is the strongest person I have ever met. It’s just to say that since May, my time has no longer been just mine anymore. 

Living alongside cancer entails doctors to visit and side effects to monitor.  The emotional toll of feeling weak while having to remain a pillar of strength for her. Constant fear and uncertainty about what the future holds. And the bittersweetness of holding my mom tight, pleading with the universe to give her more life.

I now understand why I moved back home. It wasn’t to work my 9-5, or become a fitness instructor, or to date the boy who abused his position of power to manipulate an affair out of me. It was to be here, with my mom, giving back to her for all the times she’s given so much to me. Helping her to heal, in any way I can, has been my greatest honour.

And still, to be a butterfly, trapped somewhere I no longer want to be, feels restricting. Living in the same city as those who have traumatized me has me on high alert, always one degree removed from someone I am afraid to see. I know now that once my safety net, Winnipeg, has become a cocoon, one wrapped too tightly around me. Whenever I think of my future now, I always envision it in all the other places around the world I’d rather be. Places that don’t hold painful memories.

—

Losing the connections I care about most has been agonizing, but I am so proud of myself for holding my boundaries firmly. I still love each person who has hurt me; as my final act of love to each of them, I will try to justly weave these relationships into the book I am now writing. The characters just won’t be written as the faultless heroes I always imagined they would be.

My twenty-sixth year taught me that I cannot rely on any one person to love me. No matter how many times I’ve tattooed “I will love you forever” in a heart on my sleeve, I know now that I have no control over when the ink will fade. 

But what I do know is that while I can’t control who loves me, I can always rely on the fact that someone, somewhere out there does. I know this to be true in every one of the friendships that have carried me through the darkest moments of this past year. I am lucky to have made new friendships in the past year that feel this close, this soon - friends that, when the day comes, will be profoundly missed when I move.

—

And when I think of twenty-six, I think of the mountains I’ve moved despite the ache I have felt in the process of pushing through. I was named a top 30 writer in the country for a second time. I started multiple new career paths. I sold out my first creative event. I ran my first half-marathon, where I placed incredibly well. And perhaps most of all, I started writing my debut memoir in a program sponsored by the world’s biggest publisher.

I’ve been on eight trips in the past year—the most I have ever taken—and I feel proud of the way I’ve centred seeking novel experiences as a core pillar of joy in my life. I’ve brought bubbling joy to the spaces I occupy, despite circumstances that would understandably warrant otherwise; most people who know me in passing would probably never guess that I’ve been undergoing this much behind the scenes. I’ve sought out communities all around me, and been a villager to them as I’ve let them become a village for me.

Mostly, I am grateful for this year’s small, beautiful moments in between. One day, I’ll move on to more illustrious chapters and cities, but for now, I have gyms, run clubs, coffee shops, and DJ collectives who love me. If my mom’s cancer has taught me anything, it’s that I have to focus on loving whomever I have in front of me, because the present moment is the only thing we are guaranteed.

—

Thinking about turning twenty-seven makes me feel heartbroken and hopeful.

Heartbroken, because twenty-six crushed me and I’m still picking myself up from the aftermath. There are reminders of my bruising heartache around every corner, and my mom is still sick, and I am stuck in a city I’ve outgrown without the agency to change that.

But I remain hopeful, too. Hopeful that I’ll make the most of my remaining chapter here. Hopeful that in my twenty-seventh year, I’ll run faster, plan more creative events and above all, finish my first book. And when my agency returns to me, when I do get to choose where I go and what I want to do next, I’m hopeful that the right places, people and opportunities will flow to me; that after the last few hard years, my life’s pieces will click more easily.

How am I feeling about being twenty-seven?

A few words.

Heartbroken.

Hopeful.

Excited.

Relieved.