Everybody has a history - a story that starts with a breath and ends with a sigh...I want to share mine, with the hope that some of it will resonate with you and we can walk hand in hand, sharing the joy and supporting each other through the harder times, when me may feel deserted and unloved.

I was born on a farm in Prince Edward Island, Canada. It wasn’t romantic. It was mud, cold hands, machinery that didn’t start, and days that began before you were ready. Life was hard, and there wasn’t much room for complaint. You learned to get up, do the work, and keep your mouth shut and keep going. That’s where I learned something important early on: resilience isn’t a slogan. It’s what you do when there’s no other choice.

But there was beauty there too. The red dirt. The smell of salt in the air.  I learned to help people when they need it. I leaned into love. Long stretches of quiet that taught you how to listen to your own thoughts. It gave me a toughness, but it also gave me curiosity. I wanted to see what was beyond the island.

So, I left.

I went to university in New Brunswick, where the world got bigger. New ideas. New people. A sense that life could unfold in ways I hadn’t imagined, especially for a girl. Eventually, I found my way into law. Not because it was glamorous, because it wasn’t. It was long hours, difficult conversations, and people at their worst and sometimes at their best. But it mattered. For 30 years, I practiced law, helping people through disputes, breakdowns, and turning points. You learn a lot about humanity sitting across from someone whose life is unraveling.

You learn that everyone is carrying something.

Alongside the work, I travelled. I saw places that made me stop talking for a while. I met people who had less than I did but somehow laughed more. I sat in small cafés in cities I couldn’t pronounce properly and watched life unfold in a dozen different languages. Travel stripped away assumptions. It reminded me that the world is bigger than our worries, and at the same time, strangely intimate.

Then, in 2006, everything shifted.

I was diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease.

There’s no clean way to receive news like that. It lands quietly and then echoes. Suddenly, the body you’ve relied on starts negotiating with you. Movements slow. Balance changes. The future becomes less predictable. Some days are good. Some days are not. You learn patience whether you want to or not.

But here’s the thing.

Challenges have a way of stripping life down to what matters. You stop chasing the noise. You start noticing the light coming through the trees. The kindness of someone holding a door. The quiet victories that don’t look like much to anyone else but mean everything to you.

I’ve had incredible adventures. I’ve met inspiring people. I’ve seen the world in its beauty and in its rough edges. I’ve also faced moments that tested my body and my spirit in ways I never expected.

Through it all, one thing keeps showing up.

Love. Not the greeting-card version. The real thing. The kind that shows up when life gets difficult. The kind that keeps you moving forward when you’d rather sit still.

This site is a collection of glimpses from that life. The farm. The courtroom. The road. The setbacks. The discoveries. The hard-earned lessons.

Nothing polished. Nothing perfect.

Just the story of a life lived wide open, still learning, still moving, still believing that even when things get rough, there’s something steady underneath it all.

And that’s enough to keep going