Wild Mother

02/24/2026

I’ve felt the pull for a long time now. The quiet tug back to something slower. Softer. To really deeply do the work of regulating my nervous system. I meditate, walk, fuel with healthy things, but it just is not enough. This is all too fast.

So I’m deleting Facebook and Messenger. Not in a dramatic way, but in a way that hopefully inspires some others to do the same.

This little house, this little nest in town, it feels like the perfect place to begin again. I keep daydreaming about summer , the kids fishing, long drives, camping, sandy towels in the backseat, sun-warmed skin, bikes dropped in the driveway before supper, chalk, skipping rope.

I think I will create a little oasis out back with flowers, herbs, a sandbox, and make a space for a projector and movie along the fence.

I am pausing our home internet for 3 months. We are pulling out our vinyls and the radio. The kids are on board.

I want the 80's 90s kind of memories. The kind you print. The kind you slide into photo albums. The kind you don’t post, you pass around.

I might even splurge on a real Canon camera and hear the click of something that isn’t an app. My mom whispers to me in my sleep all the time or at least that is who it feels like. She says slow it ALL down, watch it grow. It's fleeting.

Don’t you ever just want to let it all go? Don’t you wonder what life feels like without the constant access? Don’t you miss a slower life?

In many ways I already do this, and our farm life was such a great childhood, but I am pulling and yearning for even deeper.

I want porch lights and long evenings and being unreachable in the best possible way. But reachable in every way to certain people. I have had so many beautiful woman reach out and send messages, please know - I do want to be friends. And I am so grateful for all of your stories and messages. I am also tired. And I feel like life is so fleeting. Reach out for a walk, coffee or whatever.

And one place you will be certain to find me is the Farmers Market.

If you need me, this is how to reach me.
Call or text: 613 213 4039 , I will save you in my contacts.

See you in real life 🤍

This is going to be amazing.

be the change you wish to see my friends. xo

02/24/2026

* every time you comment, hit the heart ❤️ emoji it helps my page. Now i am saving for a small portable greenhouse and some garden boxes! Thank you 🙏

For over a decade, we built a life on the farm.
For 30 days, I shared the memories. The dust. The dreams. The growing.

For 3 months we have been in our little nest.
In a space that feels light and open. Room to breathe. Room to move. Room to begin again.

There’s something sacred about keeping things minimal. Only what we use. Only what we love.
A windowsill with plants makes me happy.

I ordered seed packets this week. Grow lights are going up. Because no matter where I live, I grow things.

This is a rental. So we’re keeping it gentle.
Mobile planters. Raised beds we can move when it’s time. Nothing permanent , except the way we root ourselves wherever we land.

Little things make me happy. Daydreaming of summer days with those i love.
And right now that is more than enough. 🌱💖

Wild Mother

02/23/2026

🩷

02/23/2026

02/23/2026

It’s 5:30 am. I have no idea how but last two nights i have slept fully through the night!

In 2020, I lost my mom.

Even now, it’s hard to explain what that time was like.
She thought she had bronchitis. It was lung cancer.

She didn’t know she was sick until she was very sick. And she was scared. I remember the fear in her eyes. The part of me that is spiritual, that believes in miracles and meaning and divine timing, wanted so badly for there to be something we could do. Something to fix. Something to fight.

But there wasn’t. Instead, we said goodbye. Over and over again. For almost three months. She told me i would be ok, that I was a tough cookie.

Three months is such a short time. And also an eternity when you are living in anticipatory grief, not sleeping, holding vigil, watching someone you love slowly prepare to leave. I remember breastfeeding River while holding my mom’s hand. Life in one arm. Death in the other.

The newness of my baby. The ending of my mother.
That kind of moment splits you open. It forever changes you.

At the same time, I was walking into my first court appearance in a very serious custody battle. I was terrified. Truly terrified. I knew my mom was leaving and there was nothing I could do to stop it. And someone was trying to take full custody of the tiny baby girl I had birthed at the farm , the same baby in my arms while I said goodbye to her grandmother.

I lived in fight, flight, or freeze. My nervous system didn’t know rest. Everything felt unsure. Everyone felt unsafe.

A dear friend rold me to stand tall like a mountain but to make sure i left room for a valley to run through me.

It was traumatizing, to say the least. There are seasons in life where you are not thriving.You are surviving. Flowers were my saving grace.

I am not the same woman I was before 2020. Grief reshaped me. Fear refined me. If you have walked through a season where everything felt like it was falling apart at once , I see you

Go grow some flowers or anything, I promise 🌺

Wild Mother

02/21/2026

But my tailgate was frozen so no work happened lol

02/21/2026

We are adults we can dream whatever we want!

*not my photos, but you get the idea for fun 💓

02/20/2026

Tomorrow my bestie Dannielle L Bigras and I are heading to the farm for one last dump run. Just a few old toys. Little bikes. Some garden pots. The last bits of evidence that two babies grew up there for eleven years, and flowers stretched all over.

And then we’re done.

It’s wild to think other people will soon walk those farmhouse floors. I truly believe they’ll feel it though how much love lived there. How hard I tried to being back life. How much dreaming was done within those walls.

From the moment I arrived at that farm, it was a blank canvas of nostalgia. I’ve always been a dreamer. And out there, I got to build the dream.

Noah when he was 6 and I had a jar. We labeled it truck. We would drop money in whenever we could because we wanted a square body so badly. And one day we got it. My 1983 GMC Sierra. It was the 79/80 that i wanted but i fell in love with Ruby. Letting that truck go was harder than I expected. It wasn’t metal. It was proof that we could dream something up and make it happen. My dad drove a black one.

I had my flower farm. I had the old truck. I had the old dog that laid on the porch like something out of a country song.

And right before we left, I lost Charlie in a way that still takes the air out of my lungs. It was my fault. One I’ll never understand.

Sometimes dreams don’t end gently.
Sometimes you have to let go of everything at once. And it burns to the ground.

But I will say this , no one could ever say I didn’t try. I gave that farm my whole heart. I tried to make it beautiful again. I tried to build something meaningful for my children. I tried to create magic from dirt and memory and sheer will.

Instagram showed me years of archived stories. Little clips of my babies when they were tiny. Of flower fields. Of long days and hopeful nights. I watched them back and thought wow She really believed, she was me.

And she still does.

Just gave my truck a bath. The tires are are on ( thank you Dayne Gifford I’m grateful

One last load.
One last sweep.

And then we step into a new vision.

Thank you for witnessing it all , the flowers, the lows, , the truth, the faith, the grit. It mattered. You mattered.

Here’s to the dreamers who build it, lose it, and dare to dream again ❤️

Wild Mother