It’s mid November. Four new moons and five festivals—Lughnasaad, Mabon, Diwali, Halloween, Samhain—have come and gone since my last post. After vowing to be more consistent, I vanished after my third entry, stitched with roadside dust and the taste of adrenaline.

But maybe picking yourself back up and showing up again (and again), is its own kind of growth. Let this space be a living record, honoring both recovery and relapse.

I lost my car. I am not getting her back. My companion, my little anchor is not coming home. Since then, while I’ve been working on mobility, I have lost my routine and my endurance, bother literally and figuratively. I lost my momentum and, for a while, my words.

There’s a myth that writers must come back with something profound after the silence. I don’t have it yet. Or may be I do, but I haven’t identified it just yet? I’m living in liminality and I’m starting to believe that “not knowing” is the story.

I keep looking for some neat reflection or lesson I’m meant to wring from the mess. Maybe I’ve leaned into astrology too much searching for meaning, but the truth is: all I find is the ache of what’s different now. The days have changed—there’s anxiety in crossing the street, and a bus ride that takes an hour to cover what used to be a 15-minute drive, using the Go Train to be anywhere but in Hamilton. Even small things like grocery shopping are measured against the disappointment of having to choose between moving forward or waiting to be moved by something outside myself.

When you’ve lived for over a decade depending on such a resilient car, adapting to this speed is not easy. The transition from being able to lift 150 lbs to struggling to empty your dishwasher takes a real toll on your mental health.

Truthfully, I’ve felt inconsistent, tired, and a little unmoored. I have written, but most of my work is on paper. It took me 3 weeks to type an essay on credentialism for my consulting site. And while I’ve been able to use my desk since early October, the personal blog became a question: When do I return? What am I even returning to?

So I decided to first write just to name the absence, to hold space for the in-between. Maybe showing up is the new consistency? All I can offer is this: I’m still here. Still sorting. Still adapting to yet another life change.

I’ll keep trying, especially when I don’t know what comes next. And if you’re reading, I thank you.