Dear Mom, I made it. I don't know how I did it without you, but I did. You said I would love it here in Kentucky, and I do now, but man it was difficult in the beginning. What made it even worse is that I knew you were the only one who would understand what I was going through, and I couldn't call you. I couldn't cry to you about the culture shock – about how much slower life moves down here, how no one is afraid of conversation, how everything will get done ‘when it gets done', about the one-lane hilly holler roads that gave me panic attacks every time I drove them, about the thick accents and phrases I didn't understand. I knew if I could just talk to you, you'd explain everything and make me feel so much better. But I couldn't…I had to get through it on my own. And for a while, I was mad at God for taking you when He did – when I needed you more than I've ever needed you. But then spring came, and oh my gosh – I can't tell you how many times I wanted to send you a picture of a new wildflower I'd never seen before, or a bird – you would have loved the birds down here. And the sunsets. And the gentle rains. And the way the fog settles in between the mountains in the evenings and rises as mist in the early mornings. How was it possible that such a beautiful place existed, and so many people had never experienced it? I spent so many summer evenings on my porch, just admiring nature, and wondering how a place that was so breathtakingly gorgeous could be so poverty-stricken and desperate. I knew that if anyone would understand how I felt, it was you…and I wished I could call you. There have been so many times I've thought about all the times I didn't call you…the weeks and sometimes even months we went without talking because of different issues we were struggling with…and I don't know whether to laugh or cry at the irony of it – because I probably would have called you almost every day, if not multiple times a day, this past year. There were so many struggles, so many weird moments, so many new experiences that warranted a phone call – like how the Walmart here is Black Friday every Friday, and there's such a thing as “Holler Dollar” and “holler dogs,” and the people here eat this cheese on their sandwiches that I think would taste better as a dip, and there's a native fruit call a Paw Paw that tastes like a cross between a kiwi and a banana, and kangaroo jerky is a real thing, and one shot of moonshine goes straight to your head, and almost everyone owns a side-by-side, and there are giant crickets here and five different kinds of hornets and more slugs than I've ever seen in my life, and one inch of snow is enough to shut down the town, and people will get mad if you insult their Double Kwik pizza rolls, and bluegrass music is wonderful, and did you know I turned 40? How weird is that? I'll never forget sitting on your bed, crying, thinking you'd be upset when I told you we were moving to Kentucky. You were sick, and I was terrified to leave you. But you smiled and hugged me and told me it was okay – you told me I was going to love it. And again, when I stopped at the hospital on our way out of town, you held me tight and told me not to cry, and told me again I was going to love it. Well mom, I want you to know – I do. It has by far and away been the craziest, most difficult year of my life, and it probably would have been a little easier if I'd been able to call you, but I made it. I'm grateful for who I've become. It's ironic - I feel closer to you, and more like you than I ever did before. I know your spirit was here cheering me on. Thank you for supporting my move here. I'm excited to see what this next year brings. I love you and miss you. Happy New Year, mom.

As I was driving home from our Young Women's Christmas party last night, tears began streaming down my face. Those tears soon turned to sobs, and I let myself cry freely. My eyes turned Heavenward as I realized that my tears were not those of sadness, but of immense gratitude. I have experienced intense pain and anger this past year, but I have also experienced profound love. The Book of Mormon says there must be opposition in all things; that without pain there is no joy. I know this is true; sometimes it's not a matter of recognizing opposites but cause and effect - there must be pain in order for there to be joy. If I had to put a label on this past year, I would call it the Year of Relationships. Or maybe the Year of Human Connection. I feel like I have rediscovered a lost treasure - something that existed in abundance long ago but has been lost with the passage of time and the advent of technology in our ever-increasingly fast paced world. It is something that I didn't realize I was missing until I experienced it, and then it was so profound and so lovely that I can't believe it's real. It is simply the human relationship. I know that sounds weird but let me explain. This past year, my therapist and church family have shown me that my view of relationships is inaccurate. Because of my life experiences, I have a very hard time accepting favors because I feel like a burden, I'm fearful that those favors will be used against me, and I don't want to be a disappointment or a failure. But it turns out that none of this is true, as long as you're dealing with genuine people. Genuine, kind people will never expect something in return or use those favors to cause you shame and guilt. And they will never cast you aside because of your mistakes. This is the meaning of unconditional love, and I didn't truly understand what that meant until this past year. It turns out that when people are truly genuine - when they are kind, loving, altruistic, and have Christ in their lives - they will love you despite your flaws. They will love you because of your flaws. They will engage in deep, long, heart-felt, engaging, intense, emotional conversations with you. There will be prolonged eye-contact, and laughter, and tears, and they will not be distracted by their phones, or looking for a reason to move on. There will be tough questions and vulnerable answers, and there will be love - so much love. There will be love despite the pain, and sometimes the pain will make the love stronger. The pain is what many people turn away from, which is very unfortunate, because they are missing out on the amazing love that comes afterward. We live in a world of disconnection, depression and anxiety. We live in a world where we place our orders with screens instead of people, where we have our groceries delivered to our doors instead of going to the supermarket, where we get the majority of our news and relationship advice and therapy from influencers on social media. We teach ourselves what we need to know on YouTube rather than asking for help. We even take our college courses online. The cases of depression, anxiety, self-harm and suicide among people under 30 is the highest it's ever been in all of human history. Why? Because we've forgotten how to have relationships with people. Genuine relationships. Relationships that involve love and laughter and vulnerability and trust and dependability. I cried with gratitude last night because of the love and beautiful human connection I experienced at the Christmas party. I witnessed a room full of teenage girls sitting together - talking, laughing, hugging, expressing gratitude, singing - and not a one of them on their phones. I witnessed adults smiling and laughing and helping each other with children and dishes and carrying armloads of items to cars. I also cried because of the therapy session I had been to earlier that day with a close relative, where we had finally surmounted all the pain we'd suffered this past year. This was how it used to be! This is how we as the human species are supposed to be! We are supposed to be out in the world, interacting with each other, rejoicing with each other during the good times and working through the tough times. We are not supposed to be sequestered inside, spending the majority of our waking hours staring at screens. As much as I love my beautiful relationships here and this discovery of what healthy, genuine relationships look and feel like, I know it was preparatory work for moving to Kentucky. I am moving to Appalachia, where life moves a little slower, where there is more emphasis on human connection and less on keeping up with the world. It will be a culture shock, but I know it will be beautiful. My wish for the human race this next year is that we learn to reconnect, to rediscover what it means to be in healthy relationships with one another. It is the only way we're going to survive and thrive.

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My New Year's Resolution this year was to live every moment. To do everything with direct intention. To take advantage of the time that I have been given. I made this resolution while sipping a Piña Colada on the beach of a little known island in the South Pacific under a full canopy of stars, surrounded by my friends and family. My energy was high and my joy was boundless. "This is my year" was the thought that propelled me home to Canada. I carried the intoxicating smell of fresh blooms and salty waves back to the Great White North. I am a big believer in the plausibility of supernatural omens. If a sign lands in my lap, I am inclined to notice. I should mention that on New Year's day, not 12 hours after I had made my inspiring resolution, the beach we were sitting on was pummelled by a hurricane. I noticed, but I didn't think. I saw, but I didn't care. I was on a quest to find amazement, and I didn't think that I would find it buried beneath a devastated beach country being ravished by the forces of nature. So I turned my head, and sought brighter horizons. Here's how that turned out for me. January I was elbow-deep in study materials for my final exams. Rumours of a new and dangerous disease circulating in China were mentioned, but never pondered. Exam anxiety had a tight grip on my attention. The world would have to wait. February The beginning of my final semester of high school. The air was thrumming with excitement and tension as new classes were beginning. The rumours were stronger now. People were starting to cancel trips abroad. I spent most of that month feeling like an animal milliseconds after a trap had been sprung: knowing that something big was about to snap shut, but with no idea of how much pain it would bring. March By March we all knew that we were living on borrowed time. Warnings from Health Canada rang in my ear. March 13th was our last day of school. None of us believed that it would come to that. We were told that we would be back in the building in two weeks. Two weeks later we were asked to come and pick up our things. April Like most of Canada, I spent this entire month entombed in a gilded cell. My siblings and I were forced to stalk the stagnate rooms of our prison, terrified that our parents would lose their jobs, that a gust of wind would carry a deadly disease with it, that we would die from boredom. Every breath was a risk; every trip outside a dangerous trek across continents. May My screen time would come to nearly eleven hours every day. My only escape to the outside world was through the small box resting in my hand. I remember one day our wifi went down. As trivial as it sounds, I almost lost it. June School ended this month. If you can call it school. I received my diploma and tassel in a box. I was able to take pictures of my graduation with some close friends, but most were too afraid to leave their homes. They had relatives that were at risk. They couldn't chance it. July I started working. I interact with people from behind a plexiglass screen. I shout to be heard through my mask. I miss my grandparents, my family overseas, my friends. I'm luckier than most. But I will never be able to shake the feeling of total isolation from the world that plagued my entire being for the course of 11 full weeks. Month 7 of a tumultuous year is now behind us. A year incased in doubt and fear and isolation. But I have stayed true to my resolution. I have tried to search for the good. I love running. I can now run 9km in 55 minutes. And skateboarding? Whereas before I could barely survive a slight hill, I now stay out for hours at a time, just exploring my neighbourhood. It's true what they say; that you only learn you love something when it is no longer available. I learned how much I truly appreciated schooling in person. 8 months ago I complained endlessly about having to wake up early. I would kill to have those complaints again. Through an endless stream of FaceTime calls, I have discovered a gold mine of information about my friends. The gift of isolation allowed me to really understand their driving forces. When you can't laugh about shared drama, talking about your fears becomes a ready ally. Most of all, I've gotten to know myself over the past 6 months. I know that I value my family endlessly. That I am dedicated to projects. That I am strong when faced with a challenge. That I am unafraid to put in the work to create something that I am proud of. A solar eclipse results when the moon covers the sun's light for a small period of time. You can grieve the disappearance of the light if you want. But why stare into darkness when you can search for daytime starlight? Rock bottom is a solid starting space. Rainbows only appear after a thunderstorm. Misfortune should not be rejected, but cherished, for in it, we find ourselves.

The bare bones of writing comes down to expressing a thought, idea, or feeling. We use it to communicate with others, as a way to convey a message we find important or personal. The bare bones doesn't care about brilliance, complexity, mistakes, or your chosen medium (pen and paper, anyone?). It's significant in only having written your word or words of choice, and the rest—be it a masterpiece, or just a grocery list—is up to you. When I was a teenager, the act of writing was a way to release, and to entertain myself. I wrote stories with characters that accurately, if not dramatically, conveyed the emotions that I had a hard time expressing in my adolescence. The themes crossed paths with things I experienced, and things that I anticipated to experience. It was my world, glittering and bright, even through the dark themes and circumstances that were written. While I didn't know it at the time, it was an important self-reflection through elaborate plot lines and quirky characters. It didn't matter that it wasn't what I had deemed publish-worthy. All that mattered was that I conveyed my feelings, and sometimes shared them with others—and with that, catharsis. I stopped writing like that years ago. These days, writing has become something of a chore. The pressures I put upon myself to just write something good, or even better than good, made my joy burn out like a candle wick. I put writing on hold while my life unraveled into the milestone of young adulthood. Through it all, I'm certain that my life would have a clearer direction, and my soul a happier glow, had I written... anything. No matter what though, I couldn't bring myself to do it, even if it were simply “Today sucked.” The desire to create was burning in my veins, but my self doubt riddled me with a hate plague I couldn't shake. Taking a look back, I knew I yearned simply for life experience. I wanted to experience without reflection, even if that took me through a lot of impulsive choices that I regret now. It also took work to sit down, focus, and write. Now, with the desire to be heard, to be seen as articulate, and with something to offer, I still struggle. The fear of a page written with utter garbage is a greater fear than of an empty one. And I want to change that—even if the page is merely filled with one word, I'll know I've put forth an effort to say something. In today's world, where everyone puts out their best image, their best work, and the edited, filtered versions of themselves—I vow to allow myself to be raw, messy, mediocre, and riddled with mistakes. To speak what's on my mind, to dare to create, to do. It's now my time for honesty, even if it masquerades as a poem, a crime drama screenplay, an essay, or an account of my day. The bare bones are all that matter, and even if to no avail, it all ends up in a graveyard—then, at least for a moment, they lived.