My birthday photo today. 72 and I get to choose to not wear make-up!
Another year around the sun, and the emotions are a chaotic, beautiful mess. Joy and weariness co-exist. That’s the whole point, isn’t it? Today, I claim my birthright: unadulterated self-celebration.
Birthdays are a moment of necessary, guilt-free narcissism. We get to hit pause and declare: This is all about me.
But this year’s number – 72 – is different. Seventy-one was the year I finally got clear. I stopped tiptoeing around other people’s visions for my life and stepped fully into my own power. I shed the fear of upsetting someone else’s apple cart and chose to claim ‘the more’ I truly want.
It was a challenging year. We weathered my husband’s health storms, navigating travel with his oxygen and wheelchairs. Yet, I found myself more confident than ever, able to right my own boat in any sea. It was a year of profound firsts: traveling to Europe, (the continent where I spent most of my formative years) with my youngest daughter, discovering Malta (and Maltese hospitality! wow!), and even living on an island.
More than any of those adventures, this past year I finally put down the metaphorical knife I used to fend off intruders to my personal space. I don’t need defense; I need declaration. I claimed my space. Unequivocally.
Here’s to aging, not worrying about whether it’s “graceful” or “fierce.”
Here’s to claiming the right to do it however I damn well please.
A photo of two friends, a husband and wife, hugging, waist-deep in the Mediterranean sea, flits across my social media page.
My mind immediately trips me up, spitting me out of contentment with the speed of a child emptying a bowl of mushed peas onto the floor. “C.C. and you will never do that again,” the harsh, woebegone critic hisses. I remind him he’s not welcome here, but the critic pays no heed. His niggling at my peace is relentless.
C.C. is my husband. His health has been severely compromised by COPD and a year of on-again, off-again pneumonia. With each passing day, the list of ‘Things we’ll never do together again’ grows.
This struggle, watching his health decline while my attitude eroded, is why Dear Me, I Love You, was born. I saw a harshness creeping into my voice and a lack of care: who cares if the soup is slopping onto the tray? He should be thankful I serve him at all! That negativity required a fast attitude adjustment.
Whether life is getting me down or lifting me up, writing these poems grounds me in the moment. Like the automatic joy of children’s laughter, writing urges me to stop peering into the darkness and look up. I’m learning that the true challenge isn’t a lack of Love — Love flows, always, everywhere. The challenge is my attitude.
Life Now, Life Imaginedby Louise Gallagher
I struggle some days
to balance
life now
with life imagined.
How two words
juxtaposed
jammed together
have the power
to redefine me.
I struggle to contain
the roles I inhabit
Lover,
friend,
partner,
co-conspirator
and in all of it, that word.
Caregiver.
The heavier the struggle
the greater the need
to retreat
and find solace
in the one place
that soothes
my confusion
my fear
my anger.
Love.
No matter how
battered and torn
my heart
is all I have
to lean into.
When I became a mother, I was terrified. How could I be entrusted with such precious beings? How would I ever live up to their right to live and grow into their dreams? I had no idea how I would manage, or even if I could. But I took a breath, and every day I continued to breathe through the fear, the pain, the anxiety, and the absolute conviction that I was failing, again and again. Yet, in those breaths, I also found the joy, the love, the absolute miracle of motherhood.
There are moments where I surpassed even my own fears, where I rose to the challenges, and there were moments where I fell, hard. There were moments to celebrate and moments I regret. Yet, even in that regret, I know that being a mother to my daughters is the greatest challenge and joy I have ever faced. I do not regret one single moment of this journey.
Too often, while working at a family homeless shelter, I witnessed one of the most heartrending scenes—a mother arriving with her one-day-old infant in her arms. Despite the often overwhelming struggles with addiction and poverty, the mothers’ desires mirrored my own: to want only the best for their child. She, too, carried dreams for her newborn, a poignant reminder that the hopes we hold for our children bind us together, transcending circumstances.
Becoming a mother was transformative for me. Thanks to my two amazing daughters, I was gifted the opportunity to heal, grow, and evolve into the woman I am today. Being a mother is the daily choice to accept my fallibilities, to learn to love myself—beauty and beast, warts and wounds, wisdom—and to forgive myself and begin again to learn, grow, change, and expand, time and time again.
Every child, including you and me, has come into this world through a mother’s womb. This Mother’s Day, let us honour all the wombs that gave birth, and all the arms that held, soothed, and loved a child, whether from your womb or another’s. May today remind you of how precious, beautiful, loved, and loving you are. You are magnificent.
Thank you to my mother and her mother’s mothers for this gift of life. Thank you to my daughters for the gift of seeing myself through Love’s eyes.
Processed with VSCO with a6 presetProcessed with VSCO with a6 preset
Thirty-six years ago today, the world was a flurry of icy chills and Olympic anticipation. Calgary, caught in the grips of a Polar Vortex, was buzzing with excitement for the upcoming Winter Olympics. In the midst of this, Alberta nurses were striking, hospitals were navigating through tumult, performing only emergency procedures.
Liseanne, my vibrant youngest daughter, chose this intense backdrop for her grand entrance, arriving two weeks before her due date of February 13 – the very day the Olympics were set to begin. Unlike her sister, whose 3 week-late arrival made me wonder if she’d ever venture out, Liseanne was eager, ready to embrace the world with the fervour of the star athletes descending upon our city.
Her early arrival was my first lesson in the unpredictable joy of motherhood. With my eldest, I was unprepared for the tidal wave of protective love that overwhelmed me. With Liseanne, it was the fierce, unconditional love that made me wish to keep her safe inside me forever. Yet, amidst the nurses’ strike and my impending C-section, Liseanne’s determination won-out. It always does.
I remember that day vividly. My water broke, but I remained silent, helping her father put the final touches on her nursery. It was only after we finished that I called my doctor. “Can I wait until the strike is over?”, I asked him when he said he’d meet me at the hospital – right away. His response mirrored the impending life lesson Liseanne herself would repeatedly teach me: Life doesn’t wait for you to get ready to live. There’s no better time than now.
Liseanne’s entrance into this world was a testament to her indomitable spirit, a trait she has carried throughout her life. She’s always lived with an urgency, a ‘do it now’ philosophy, shining brightly and touching every life in her orbit with her radiance.
Liseanne possesses many superpowers, but her most remarkable is her warrior spirit. She has an innate ability to stand for justice, to uplift the downtrodden, and to infuse joy in every heart she touches. During her school years, it wasn’t unusual for me to hear from her teachers about how she ‘talked back’ – but it was always in defense of a classmate, a stand against injustice or unfair treatment.
Being Liseanne’s mother has been an extraordinary journey. Both she and her sister have taught me immeasurable lessons about love, courage, and resilience. They have been my greatest teachers, showing me the depths and heights of what it means to love and be loved.
As Liseanne celebrates her 36th birthday today, I am filled with immense pride and gratitude. Her life is a beautiful tapestry of strength, compassion, and unwavering commitment to making the world a better place – a world she’s travelled extensively due to her goal of visiting 30 countries by her 30th birthday. Since achieving it, she continues to find new places to go, new adventures to experience, and new goals to accomplish.
It is her way
Happy Birthday, my darling daughter. You continue to be a beacon of light in our lives, guiding us with your wisdom, warmth and humour. The privilege of being your mother is one of my life’s greatest blessings, and I look forward to the continued journey of learning and growing alongside you.
Photos by @ChristieeJames – Thank you CJ for ensuring we carry on Jackie’s tradition of always taking photos of family events and special gatherings!
Adorned in twinkling lights and festive charm, this angel on our tree is a heartfelt symbol uniting our family with the spirit of ‘Jackie,’ a tender reminder of love and memories shared. I purchased identical angels for my sister, Anne, as well as both my daughters to place on their trees.
This morning, as the sun rose on the day after an evening spent engaging in a cherished activity — making poppycock, I found myself enveloped in a blend of tradition and reflection. For several years now, my friend Jane, her daughter, my youngest daughter, and I have gathered to cook-up batches of this sugary popcorn delight. It’s an evening brimming with laughter, dance, off-key singing and the rhythmic sounds of popcorn popping and sugar melting and cautions to “Be careful. Don’t burn yourself,” as Jane pours the hot sugary mess into the giant bowl of popcorn I’m stirring as her daughtger C.J. turns it to ensure the popcorn is adequately covered in gooey sweetness.
In the corner of our family area, twinkling and sparkling with tiny white lights, our Christmas tree stood adorned in spearkling balls and glitter.
It almost didn’t.
When I awoke yesterday, a realization dawned on me. Among the myriad tasks of the festive season, one significant ritual remained undone – decorating our Christmas tree. This tradition, typically shared with our adult children, had been unexpectedly set aside on Friday night when we’d gathered for dinner and decorating the tree. Exhaustion and emotional drain from the past two weeks, along with the anticipation of my sister Jackie’s celebration of life the next day, had drained me of energy. In the midst of all that had happened and needed doing since she’d taken her last breath on November 24th, the act of decorating the tree, which for me symbolizes hope and rebirth during this season of light, felt discordant with my grieving heart.
However, something shifted within me yesterday morning. I knew the tree had to go up. Even if all I did was plug it in, it had to grace our poppycock festivities.
And then, as I assembled the tree and watched it come to life with its twinkling lights, a gentle whisper from within urged, “It’s time.”
Not just time to decorate the tree, but time… to allow grief to flow, to let sorrow make way for love, and to embrace the season’s promise without the yearning to turn back time to when Jackie’s calm, caring presence filled our lives.
This morning, amidst the remnants of our poppycock-making extravaganza, memories of Christmases past with Jackie and her husband Jim wafted through my mind. Their early arrivals (if dinner was for six I could count on them arriving for 5:30), Jackie’s famous mashed potatoes (always enough for 30, no matter the guest count), and her take-charge attitude in the kitchen are memories etched in my heart. The fact is, I shall miss grumbling under my breath about her bossing me around in my own kitchen and her countless reminders to check the mashed potatoes to make sure they’re not burning!
This Christmas, Jackie’s physical absence will be palpable. Jim will be spending his holiday with one of his daughters. Our gathering will be smaller, with 11 of us around the table. Yet, I know Jackie’s spirit – her generosity, kindness, and the love that never quite grasped my youngest daughter’s humour – will linger amongst us, filling the space where she once sat.
This Christmas will be unlike any other, a bittersweet symphony of memories and presence. It will be a celebration in honour of my sister as we build new memories. Memories that will be embued with Jackie’s reminders of the enduring power of kindness to touch hearts and illuminate the true essence of this season of light, hope, joy, and love.
Dare Boldly 