Ten years ago, I was very actively planning a June wedding.

I used to spend a lot of time looking forward (and counting down) to June 26, 2010 because at the ripe old age of 22, I was finally going to be married.

(My Opa used to ask why it was taking me so long to find a husband...I like to think he was joking.)

I wasn't necessarily the girl who had a wedding book made up or spent her childhood yearning to be a bride/wife, but I always assumed that I would meet the "right" guy, settle down and get married, start a family, all that jazz that had been modelled to me as a kid.

At that stage of the game, I had a pretty fixed (and limited) idea of how my life should play out and what "success" would look like:

I wanted to be engaged right after school (so everyone knew I was desirable and worth locking down) to someone from my church community (so everyone would know I wasn't tarnished goods and going to hell) and buying a house (so they'd know we were financially secure and making smart investments for our future. Also because renovating your own house looked like a very fun project).

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I am a big advocate for falling apart.

In fact, I think that fighting to keep it all together is highly overrated.

About ten years ago, I was very into posting quotes as Facebook statuses.

And because the internet never forgets, here's proof:

(You’ll have to click “Read more” to see the picture.)

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I just heard my eldest yawn audibly…the kind of yawn that comes with a good stretch. That’s a pretty solid cue that he’s about to emerge from his room, and I feel like I am no longer breaking some sort of magical spell by saying what I'm about to say — because at the time of writing this, it is 7:55am on a Friday morning.

I am the only human awake and moving in my household, and it's been that way since 6:30am.

I even have coffee.

(Every parent on the planet is like FOOL YOU JINXED IT but it’s fine. I’m fine. Everything’s fine.)

I won't lie — I got up so that I could get a head start on writing, but when I realized no one else was awake I didn't want to start anything meaningful; that's usually when spidey senses rouse the kidlets from slumber.

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I have been an earth-side mother for 1,441 days. Which means that’s how long it’s been since I felt my brain belonged to me, and it was about 10 months before that, that I last felt like my body was my own.

I always “knew” I wanted to have kids, but I didn’t have the language to describe my transition into motherhood until I was listening to “Nobody Talks About This,” a podcast by Elise & Scott Grice. The clarity came when I heard them describe the word trauma.

I always thought of trauma as a physical event, like being shot or abused. And to be honest, I’ve had a pretty a-ok (read: privileged) life. That’s not to say there haven’t been hard moments, but I’d be hard-pressed to look back and say, “here is an isolated incident that seriously fucked me up.”

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I spend a lot of time thinking about legacy and stories — what we inherit, what we live out, and what we pass on. Especially as I watch my kids learn how to make sense of the world around them and write their own stories.

Watching my kids mirror me is a sobering experience to say the least, and it serves as a constant reminder of the influence I have on the stories they write, and ultimately the legacy that they pass on.

When I was in grade 2, my teacher got a book out of the library that contained names and their meanings. She sat on a stool at the front of the room and looked up each student's name and the corresponding meaning; Justine wasn't in there.

That tiny event ended up carrying a lot of weight for kid me — why was everyone else's name in that book and mine wasn't? Also, I could never find a personalized pen or keychain with my name, so I swore I'd never give my kids weird names….sorry kids but not sorry.

Anyway.

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If you’ve had any amount of real conversation with me, you will have heard me say this: Both things can be true.

It’s a concept that I had to start wrapping my head around when I became a mother and the range of emotions and experiences was making my head spin. How was it possible that I could love my babies so much and want absolutely nothing to do with them in that moment? How could the role of mother be simultaneously so rewarding and so exhausting?

Eventually I had to embrace contradiction and settle in a place of uncertainty and murkiness, where both things were true. And once I accepted that, I became to embrace the contradictions and nuances all around me.

That good people can do bad things.
That bad people can do good things.
That people can be acting with the best of intentions and still do irreparable harm.
That something can be your responsibility, without being your fault.
That you can be nice, without being kind.

That all seems counter-intuitive — and surely the point of the truth is that there is only one, right? That’s what evangelical christianity taught me, and that black-and-white this-or-that model has influenced so much of our culture, politics, and society as a whole.

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I find myself sitting at the bar, again. Staring at a blinking cursor and blank screen, again.

Because there is so much that I want to say, and it all tries to come pouring out at once. And in the cacophony of thoughts, it’s tough to pull the clarity out. But I’m here, and I’m trying.

We have two days left until Election Day here in Canada, and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a bit scared.

Not because I think that a new party will come into power and everything will suddenly change because that’s not it…I’m afraid of the division, and what we are giving voice to in our country.

I’ve been pretty vocal about my desire for a progressive government, specifically throwing my support behind Jagmeet Singh and the New Democrats.

Yes, I think Jagmeet is the most sincere of the leaders (well, and Elizabeth May…I love her!) and the NDP platform speaks to a lot of the struggles that I’m facing as a millennial, a parent, a woman, and [insert demographic descriptor of choice here].

But more than that, the NDP platform is one that’s rooted in inclusivity. In hope. In taking care of each other. And I care about that, a lot. A lot a lot.

Now. I haven’t always been a left side supporter.

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It's no secret that I struggled with a nasty bout of postpartum depression and anxiety after baby two.

It's taken me a couple years to unpack everything that went on — and while some of that unpacking has been done publicly, the majority of it is done privately.

That process led me to examine not only my experience with mental illness and addiction, but to reflect on how things could have gone differently if I were someone else. It does all the time.

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I am going to start this post with a major brag/celebration. A bold move for a Monday morning, I know, but let's do it. 

It is currently 7:15am and I have daycare lunches packed and ready to go, the kitchen is not in a state unfit for the general population, and the kids are having an actual food breakfast. Oh, and I have coffee. All of the winning.

To those with the untrained eye and ear, that just sounds like providing the basics of parenting - alive and fed.

But. Getting out the door in the morning with kids is like facing a walk across an expansive field... that's full of barbed wire.

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It's Monday morning - the morning that always holds the most possibility for me. And, it's a particularly sweet Monday because it is 7:22am and my kids are still sleeping.

 I know -- the moms out there just had a chill. Like DONT SAY IT AND TEMPT FATE!

But I did, and I shit you not - the toddler just started making noise. Crap. 

I'm going to cross my fingers and persist...because I found myself with a moment of choice this morning. I wanted to make coffee (crap. now the baby is up too.)

I WILL PERSIST AND WRITE A BLOG POST. 

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