2026 Goals

It's that time of year again.

 

Usually I'm really excited for these goal-setting posts, but this year I feel I've lost quite a bit of momentum. That's crazy to say... I added six shows to my résumé this year alone, including a 15-minute solo tap dance set for a fairly well-known theatre company and two theatre-musical choreography gigs. I made enough crocheted shawls to place them in a brick-and-mortar shop for sale. I learned how to draw half-decent human eyes (in colour).

 

But I feel like I'm stuck in quicksand.

 

This is probably understandable. We just made a fairly major out of town move less than two months ago. Work has been absolute madness for the past two months and I'm thisclose to burning out. My body feels weary. My brain feels like a car that won't start. I have $3 to my name, winter tires balder than Peter Furler, and less than a quarter tank of gas with which to get to work for an entire week before my next paycheque. I am so tired of worrying about finances, of asking for help, of having to put off legitimate needs (like safe tires for my vehicle) with more pressing legitimate needs (like gas for said vehicle). I think this year's goals may be more about getting my immediate 'boring' surroundings in order than creative projects that will probably never be seen by human eyes anyway. Maybe the fact that the small boring details of my day-to-day life are in chaos is the reason I'm struggling to work on my choreography and writing projects.

 

I've recently discovered Struthless on YouTube. This channel has been a Godsend, and a lot of what's in the rest of this post is probably going to be adapted (if not directly lifted) from his videos.

 

2026 Goals:

 

FINANCES.

I absolutely need to get some finances in order. I am so freaking done with not being able to go anywhere or do anything because I didn't set aside enough gas money for the van. I'm tired of knowing I'm driving on extremely unsafe tires, and the catastrophic electrical failure that took the van off the road for so long that the registration on it lapsed is still fresh in my mind. If something like that happens again, how are we going to pay for it?

I'm not trying to become a millionaire, I just want an emergency fund. Something we can fall back on if another $3,000 part on the van drops dead or if I get sick and have to miss a week of work. I want to be able to go to the grocery store and not have to prioritize some food needs over others because we don't have enough money for the whole list.

I'm guessing that the financial chaos we have lived in for so long is a big part of why I can't get my act together enough to work on anything creative. 

 

So how am I going to do that?

First, any and all Christmas gift money is going to open up an investment. It's something I have been talking about doing since I was 18 years old and never did. Not doing it is one of the biggest regrets of my life, and the longer I wait to open one, the bigger that regret will be. I don't even know what I'm saving for, I just want that money out of my easy-to-access chequing account where it WILL get spent on fancy snacks because that's exactly where it has been going for at least five years.

Second, I want to set up autotransfer so that every time a paycheque comes in, a certain dollar amount will immediately get siphoned off to a savings account of some kind. This may honestly just go toward buying Christmas gifts next year or something, as that has been a huge sticking point for me every year since we got married. Clearly I'm not doing this manually, so I need to automate it or it just is not going to happen.

 

Third (and we've already started to do this a bit since we moved), I want to meal plan at least a week in advance so we can buy groceries accordingly and cut back on eating out (last time we went on a dinner date it was over $80... just for the two of us! This wasn't even a high-end, fine dining restaurant, this was the culinary equivalent of a decent sports bar).

 

 

DANCE.

This is a tricky one. My confidence in my abilities took a huge hit on the second-most-recent show I choreographed, and now I feel like I need to prove something. Again. I was only just getting out from the 'I have to prove myself' mindset from college and then this. I've been asked to be a choreography consultant (not even the actual choreographer) for a local show and even that feels like I'll mess it up somehow.

I'm also fairly out of shape. Our new place has two levels, and even climbing the stairs twice in a row knocks the wind out of me.

 

I've been offered a really great teaching opportunity, and while I really want to take it, I'm also VERY aware of how easy it is for a teacher to absolutely destroy a student. My biggest fear is that in my inexperience, I will do the same to all my students and they will come away hating dance and hating themselves, the same way I often have. 

 

How am I going to do this?

First, I am NOT starting by posting on Instagram, where all the people who have tried to break me will see them. Instead, I have drafted an email to those who have supported me over the years asking if they would like daily video clips of me performing choreography for the month of January. I have learned that if I don't have any specific people waiting for a video, I will not make one... so I need to get people invested and waiting.

Over Nachmo, I would like to do an Alphabet superset -- 26 dance clips to songs starting with each letter of the alphabet. After 26 days, I'll run a poll and see which piece my accountability group thinks I should develop further and run out the run of the month working on that. I want to start putting those clips on my Ko-fi account and after January will start actually promoting that (because then it will have actual dance content on there -- wild, right?).

 

Second, I want to make a Project Board with a clear timeline of the dance thing I'm working on and focus only on that ONE dance project. The thing that has always hamstrung me with making dance films is trying to have eight of them on burners at once. This is impossible to do, and I absolutely know this. But I keep freaking doing it. I need to start with one (1) film, and not even think about any others until that one is legitimately done.

Also on this project board, I want to lay out a memorization schedule. The other MASSIVE difficulty I have with making dance films is simply not learning the choreography and then trying to cram it all in the week (or even the day) before. I want to schedule one section of memorization per week, so that by the time I want to film these upcoming projects, I will already know them well enough to feel comfortable performing them.

 

 

WRITING.

Kyrie has stalled out. The older I get, the less confident I feel writing about interpersonal relationships, and unfortunately that's exactly what Act I of this novel is. I've been stuck on/avoiding this one dinner date scene for probably almost a year at this point. I love this story, and even if I don't bring any of my other novels to fruition, I want to see this one published. I have had a handful of friends publish their own books, so I know it can be done by people like me. I just need to do it.

 

How am I going to do this?

Small, daily goals. One sentence a day. On good days, maybe shoot for 100 words per day. Just get something, anything, on the page. I'm going to set myself a goal to get this draft done and out to beta readers by the end of April. Most of that period is my layoff time from work, so I have PLENTY of time to write 100 words a day (especially since I'm pretty experienced at cranking out 3k+ words an hour from my NaNoWriMo days). Plus, Act II is already is pretty decent shape and really just needs some light editing before it's beta-reader ready.

Or, if 'one sentence' is too much, I might try for half an hour per day (setting a timer). 

I may also need to implement some kind of reward system until I can get Act I to be more fun. 

 

 

WIP CLEARING.

I have a pile of (mostly crochet) works-in-progress that I need to either finish or officially abandon and rip out. I think these are taking up a lot of brain space and slowing me down from doing other things because I keep thinking 'I really should work on this...' Two weeks ago I knocked out two crochet projects that literally took less than two hours each and already I'm starting to feel a little more like I can breathe again. I wrote a list of all the WIPs that exist so I can think about which one to tackle next (and which ones I need to seriously consider ripping out so I can use that yarn for other things).

 

How am I going to do this?

I used to crochet while watching YouTube videos, no I need to get back into the habit of doing things while watching YouTube again. Adrian's Digital Basement is a great channel for this, as Adrian is really good at explaining what he's doing as he's going along so you don't actually need to look at what's happening every single second. Plus, if you're watching one of his repair videos, you can tap into the body-doubling effect, as he's working on a project too. I also learn a lot about patience, troubleshooting, and computers in general from his videos.

 

 

 

SLEEP.

My mother often tells of when I was a two-month old baby and she would have to sit up with me at night because I was awake and wanted to play. (She's still bitter about this, by the way.) I wasn't crying or upset, I was just ready to explore and hang out and had zero interest in going to sleep.

That has set the tone of my entire life. I can sleep just fine. As soon as my head hits the pillow, I'm down for the count. The actual sleep is not the problem. The getting-to-bed part is. There's just too much to work on, and learn, and do, and explore. Life is short, and to spend a third of it sleeping, a third of it working, and half of it dealing with feeding myself seems absolutely ludicrous. When exactly am I supposed to, you know, live?

But my husband has given me an ultimatum: be consistently in bed by midnight before May 2026 or he'll leave me. And if it means that much to him, I do really want to try. But I've never done this before.

 

How am I going to do this?

I've come up with a physical tracker idea and I know I want to implement a reward system (which, of course, will require me to stay on track with the financial goals). A reward system helped me a LOT with getting my wake-up times solid (still going strong after six months!), so I'm hoping it will help with this too.

Being on ADHD meds has already helped a lot because now I can actually get the chores done before midnight (most of the time), which was definitely a big part of what kept me from going to bed. But now I'm using that time to putz around on other projects. I have a feeling clearing out the 'should do projects' (the WIPs, see above), might help a lot here.

 

 

COMMUNITY.

Part of why we moved was for a community. We had some friends in this town already, and for YEARS my husband and I have dreamed of hosting people for dinner... which is tricky when all your friends live(d) 90 minutes away or more.

I'd like to set a goal of hosting two dinners per month. That feels manageable, and that will be a great day to strengthen the connections we have (which is turn will hopefully help our mental health).

 

How are we going to do this?

Meal plan. Schedule. Text people until somebody's available for that date.

 

So what are my first steps?

 

- Buy a corkboard and some brad fasteners (to make the project board, as at least three of these goals will be tracked on these).

- Make a list of people to send the accountability email to.

 

- Keep referencing the WIP list and work off the momentum I've already built.

 

- Write one sentence in Kyrie.

 

- Wear the tap shoes. 

Hand-Me-Downs

This summer I started researching hoarding disorder, and it illuminated a lot of things.

 

I have been accused of hoarding (at least half-jokingly) since I was a child. I have always been a 'pack rat.' I have always carried either a backpack or a very large bag everywhere I go. I go through it and clean stuff out regularly for the sake of my back, but I have just always carried around a lot of stuff. You never know when you're going to need a pair of scissors, or spare AA batteries, or a protein bar, or sunglasses.

 

My room was always in a state of (somewhat) organized chaos. All the papers were loose, but they were all in one pile. Half the clothes weren't on hangers, but they were all piled on the same chair. I could still see the floor, and I vacuumed the ever-shrinking patch fairly regularly.  I had a trash can, and I emptied it whenever it was full. I took dirty dishes up to the dishwasher within 24 hours at least (but usually the same day). My parents and siblings knew not to touch anything in that room lest I spiral into a full-blown panic attack about the 'missing' (usually just moved) object. I could find everything I needed.

 

A few months ago, during some argument, my husband accused me of being a hoarder. I fired back that I wasn't half as messy as I used to be (which is true), but the words lodged in my brain.

What if I really am a hoarder?

I started Googling.

My fear was quickly put to rest as I saw the pictures of what true hoarding looked like. Our house was messy, but it was nothing like those photos. We still had surfaces on which to sit, and cook, and do projects. We still had clean, usable floor space.

 

But some of those photos did look familiar. The cardboard boxes stacked high, the empty margarine containers on every available surface, the newspapers piled in corners. That -- that was my grandparents' house.

 

My paternal grandparents' house had always felt small and cramped. I was well into my teens before I realised that their 'tiny' basement was supposed to have a fireplace on one wall -- that's why I could see brick at the top, behind all the cardboard boxes that slowly encroached on the discoloured patch of shag carpet, the old once-blue exercise bike, and the ragged and very out-of-tune piano. I watched, in real time, as the old spare room in the basement that we played in as kids became so full of boxes and old clothes that we couldn't play there anymore. Then the upstairs spare room that we played in after that suffered the same fate. There was apparently a second spare room in the basement that I have never seen because there were so many boxes piled in front of it from before the time I was old enough to climb down the stairs. I distinctly remember the moment I realised that one of the piles in the basement was actually on a large wooden workbench, and I only realised this because I suddenly recognised a wooden table leg amid the visual chaos. The surface was completely gone. Among the clutter, there was a used, vintage KFC chicken bucket. I know it was used because there were grease stains on it. I examined it once and saw a copyright date of 1973.

 

I remember at some point in my childhood asking my parents why my grandparents had so much stuff. My parents explained that they had grown up during the Great Depression and World War II and were so used to having to save everything, just in case, that they hadn't learned how to turn off the instinct. That was enough explanation for me. I didn't connect the dots between my grandparents' house and the phenomenon of 'hoarding' until this year, despite years of their children (my parents, aunts, and uncles) trying to intervene and often congregating to clean out the garage or the basement or the backyard. My grandmother would 'give things away' to the kids, knowing full well the things would get thrown out, but unable to placate my grandfather about it any other way.

 

The more I think about that house, the more I realise how mid-century glamourous it really was. It has a HUGE kitchen (literally bigger than the entire apartment my husband and I just moved from), at least four, maybe five bedrooms, a large basement with a massive storage room and (presumably?) a faux fireplace, a basement exit, 2.5 bathrooms, a large walkout balcony from the master bedroom (which itself took up over half the upstairs), with a sunroom underneath and a huge backyard. If you were to build and sell a house today with that exact floor plan, it would be worth well over half a million dollars. They were sitting on an absolute jewel of a house, but my memories of it are that everything was tainted. I always felt somehow contaminated every time I set foot in there and I never really thought about why. I just knew I didn't like going there. Something about their house always made my skin crawl.

 

Then I remembered the one time I was in my one aunt's house, how stuffed bears and craft supplies covered every available surface. I mean every surface. There weren't even any chairs to sit on because they were all covered in stuffed animals. How when my oldest uncle died of cancer, it took weeks for the entire neighbourhood to help his wife clean up the yard. How my youngest uncle and his then-wife were constantly at odds about all the engine parts in their yard. How my own dad only has goat paths through his huge workshop, despite my (more motivated) siblings cleaning it out at least once a year since I moved out.

 

Then I began to understand my husband's fear. I am nowhere near that level yet, but all the genetics are there, he knows I grew up poor, he knows I have a significant variety of trauma in my personal history, he knows I struggle a lot with boring things like organization and cleaning.

 

Meds have helped me with motivation and I also notice meds make it easier to get rid of things. But I don't know if there's a way to get rid of the genetic fear of going without that has been built into my soul one cardboard box at a time for three decades. 

One Month Of Vacation

Today marks one month since the day we drove away from our decrepit old apartment in the desert and did not come back.

 

I drove past it a few days ago. There were no Christmas lights on the balcony, for the first time in five years... I have always made sure to put up at least one strand of Christmas lights. And they are up... just not at the blue apartment.

 

It still feels like we're on vacation in a beautiful little guest house, with our Christmas tree and my husband's streaming setup and my grandma's rocking chair and my husband's mead-making station and all my plants on their stand. It still feels like one day we'll wake up and we'll have to leave and go back 'home' to the desert apartment with the spiders and the mice and the four-storey hike one-way to the laundry room and the cinderblock walls with no storage that pressed in around us.

I cried when we left... I was shocked at that. While there were memories in that apartment, most of them were bad ones... ones of my husband so sick that he was quite a different person, one who screamed and threw things and allowed his relatives to dictate my life without standing up for me. Those are all memories that dominated that place and dominated our first three years of marriage, before we were finally able to diagnose and cut out a food allergen that was wrecking absolute havoc on his brain.

I am so grateful for this new place, for the storage space and the natural light and the general livability and lack of lead pipes and the quiet streets. We have heard one (1) vehicle the entire time we've lived here. At the old place we were both routinely woken at night (sometimes multiple times) by people street-racing in souped-up Fords at 3am. I sleep like the dead (I have had roommates consider calling 911 because I sleep so deeply) and even I was sleeping poorly.

I'm not sure whether I should treasure those troubled memories of early marriage or if I should be happy to turn my back on them. I don't want to forget how much better things are now. Both my husband and I are coughing less. We can drink the water straight out of the tap and it tastes delicious. We get curbside recycling pickup... there wasn't even a recycling depot in the town where we used to live (let alone pickup) until mere months before we moved. We have more of a social life already than we ever could have dreamed of in the old town. This is an upgrade in every way.

 

I am struggling to set up my dance studio. I have the flooring pieces (although I do want my larger one from my parents' house), and the room is almost cleaned up (it's been a disaster for most of the time we've lived here because it was one of the lower priorities for unpacking and organization). I'm struggling to want to. I don't know if the stress of moving (and work -- currently in the middle of a show that breaking ticket sales records for the theatre as well as launching ticket sales for next season) is zapping my motivation, or just thinking of all the times I've tried and failed to get dance going again since I've gotten married. I have an opportunity to teach in the new year, and I think I might take it... although last time I tried to teach choreography, I was raked over the coals for being 'unrealistic' and my co-worker actively sabotaged my work so I'm very nervous how it will go. I don't know if the flame of dance has died, necessarily, but it has certainly had a large amount of dirt shovelled onto it.

 

I also want to write again. NaNoWriMo 2023 was the last time I wrote anything longer than a blog post. I don't have any ideas, but I'm finding myself poking absentmindedly around for one. I mentioned wanting to write again to my husband the other day and for the first time in our entire marriage, he said something supportive instead of telling me how I'm wasting my time writing. It might be a while before I actually write something, but I'm open to an idea.

 

I don't know if I should post practice videos on Instagram again when I do start dancing. The world of social media changed significantly during the pandemic, right at the time my in-laws banned me from posting on it. It's an alien landscape to me now, all ads and fake positivity, both of which I have always avoided. There's a definite allure now to the thought of not posting a single thing about dance until I create my next major work... maybe during Nachmo? I do have the space for working out choreography now, so maybe I can do an honest-to-goodness Nachmo for once instead of just a thought experiment (I say that as if I didn't choreograph an entire one-woman show during Nachmo 2023 that got screened in their online festival and is now one of my highest-viewed videos on YouTube).

 

So far, both my husband and I are healthier and happier. I had hoped that this move would give us a place of peace where we can heal from the old wounds and grow into a life instead of just an existence.

 

So far... I think it just might be working. 

Nouns & Adjectives

One of my in-laws recently complained how they don't know me. This elicited two responses in me.

 

The first and most overwhelming was 'maybe if you hadn't spent the last six years criticizing every single word that comes out of my mouth we'd have some semblance of a relationship.'

 

The second response was: 'that makes two of us.'

 

I have never known 'who I am.' I have some nouns, most of which encompass verbs I partake in. I'm a dancer. I'm a choreographer. I'm an artist. I'm a writer. I'm a daughter. I'm a Canadian with German heritage and German bluntness. I'm a hockey fan. I'm married. I'm a sister.

 

This disconnect is apparently a fairly common experience for neurodivergent people, but if anything that makes me wonder even more 'who I am.'

 

I have likes and dislikes. I like the colour pink. I like '80s music. I like salt and vinegar chips and Coffee Crisps. I like sunsets and sweet peas. I dislike 'dance' that is mostly acrobatic tricks. I dislike hot weather. I dislike coffee. I strongly dislike hypocrites and people who weaponise the Christian faith as a tool for manipulating the people around them.

 

There are lines I physically cannot cross. I absolutely can not drink dairy because every single aspect of the experience repulses me (however, I can and do eat my body weight in cheese several times a year).

 

There are things that have happened to me in the past that have informed who I am today. There has been death, divorce, abandonment, loss, poverty, and bullying. There have been moments of kindness, love, warmth, and comfort.

 

There are clinical definitions to describe me. I have ADHD. I have anemia. I have asthma. I am autistic.

 

Over time I have been called smart, stubborn, stupid, courageous, lazy, strong, out-of-touch, too negative, good with words, a bad writer, funny, a failure, cute, unloved, annoying, unremarkable, inflexible.

But who am I, really?

These are all facts about me, but I'm not sure they capture the essence. Or maybe I don't have an essence to capture.

 

Maybe this really is all there is to me. Just a couple of nouns and adjectives, only half of which can be conclusively proven.

Gearing Up For A Boss Fight

Several years ago, I choreographed a piece to White Heart's Desert Rose, arguably one of their biggest hits.

 

The song didn't 'take' for me, at first. It was 'too slow' for my high-octane brain, and there were so many other good danceable White Heart songs available to choreograph to.

 

Then I moved to the desert.

 

The desert is, quite literally, the place where dreams go to die. You are surrounded by nothing but brown, all year long. The grass never turns green. The trees... what trees? Those aren't a thing. Rain? Yeah, right. Cloud cover? Never met her. Cool weather? HAHAHAHAHAHA yeah that only happens in fairytales.

The desert is also home to the most formidable naysayer I have ever encountered. The church, the college professors, my extended family and multiple visits from the literal Angel Of Death combined could not do what this woman did: stop me from creating.

 

She stopped me from writing, from having opinions, from dancing, from choreographing, from talking, from thinking, from living. 

She dug me a grave and kicked me into it, then forcibly held me her hands on my throat till I lost consciousness. I have been trapped in that grave for five years. And I'm tired of wasting the breath of my one precious life being silenced by somebody who, by her own admission, knows nothing about me. For the past few months, I have been excavating the ruins of my life, trying to find the faith and courage that was once my sole focus. I'm starting to find the jagged shards and piece them together, like a cosmic jigsaw puzzle. If I can solve it, I'll find my soul again.

For my return back to the stage and the screen, I want to make two dance films: Desert Rose and Hope.

 

Hope has seen a test audience, who seemed to enjoy it. What's more, that means it's already memorised. My idea for that video is pretty simple... probably just a studio video, no fancy sets or costumes.

 

Desert Rose, however, is a lot more complicated.

 

I want to film it in the desert that tried to strangle me and God's purpose for me. I have deliberately curated a bright costume to stand out against the scat brown. Because like it or not, that's what I do. That's what I have always done. I do not and will not fit in. I do not and will not hamstring myself to impress somebody else's imaginary social circle.

Desert Rose has been 'in production' (read: sidelined by my fear of her violent, vindictive oppression) since the summer of 2022. That's over three years now. Every single year, when the weather finally cools enough to even consider being outdoors for any length of time, I look at all my plans for Desert Rose. I think about what it means and how much I want to dance again. I think about how long it's been since I did anything close to fulfilling my dream.

 

Yesterday I was watching a YouTube video about the importance of backing yourself. Most of the points the presenter made were very similar to things I said on this very blog, years ago, that this woman forced me to stop believing. One of the points was 'compare the consequences of doing the thing with the consequences of not doing the thing.'

 

I went to my oft-viewed Desert Rose planning document and wrote the following:

 

'What happens if I DON’T do this?

You will regret it. You already are. You will have no self-respect. You will be disappointed in yourself for not making a way, not trying harder... That $45 you spent on that pink bodysuit will be a waste. This will become just another brick on the road away from your dream. You will never have more time than you do now. 18-year-old you would be angry and disappointed to find out about the fearful pansy you’ve become. She would be so angry that you didn’t fulfill her dream. That you didn’t push through, didn’t follow God, that you have become what she hated and swore she’d never be. You will have crushed her dreams — the only thing she had to live for for so long. You only live once.

 

If you don’t do this, then none of her pain was worth it.'

 

I owe it to teen Kate to get back up, to put on the gloves, to train until I'm untouchable again.

 

I am about to face what I hope is the final boss: the two-headed hydra of the desert environment and the violent, manipulative woman who tried to bury me alive.

 

I will win. And I will win on their turf. 

25 Years

This fall is the 25th anniversary of me starting ballet classes. That means I've officially been performing, in some form or another, for 25 years.

 

Especially in dance, and especially for a 'late starter' like me (I was six), 25 years is fairly monumental. Dancers often age out in their mid to late 20s, so for me to still be going is a blessing I don't take lightly.

 

Don't get me wrong, I feel the years a bit. My back has never been the same since my work injury in 2023, and my ankles are often grumpy in the mornings. But I have a HUGE body of work to look back on, and for the time being, I'm still able to add to it.

I'm currently working on a (non-dance) project that chronicles every show I've ever performed in or choreographed for, and so far there are over seventy-five shows represented.

This has made me look very hard at my constant feeling that I don't know what I'm doing. Imposter syndrome has been a thread throughout my entire life. In everything -- school, chores, work, performing -- I have always felt like I wasn't meeting people's expectations of me. And sometimes this perception was enforced by instructors. My childhood ballet teacher literally told my parents that I would likely get a failing grade on an upcoming RAD exam (I passed that exam with my highest score ever, probably because my parents chose not to tell me what she had said till months afterwards). More recently, my college professors would tell me to my face at least once a week that I 'wasn't even trying.'

 

I've mentioned before how I literally made it my goal in my final year of college to practice myself to death, (and almost succeeded) and the reason I made that goal was to prove, once and for all, that I actually was trying (spoiler alert: as far as I know, that professor still doesn't believe I was trying despite me turning in practice logs of 60+ hours weekly, despite my frequent hospital visits because my body was disintegrating in the wake of the effort I was putting in, despite me being the only one from both of my graduating classes from that college still actively performing). Even though I'm no longer actively trying to practice myself to death, the same feeling of inadequacy that drove me to make such an unthinkable goal still lingers in the back of my mind every second of every day. Living in a tiny, artless, colourless, forgotten, literal-hole-in-the-ground desert town has only strengthened that feeling of falling behind... the lack of artistic opportunities make me feel like the few meagre skills I had managed to cobble together are atrophying.

 

But then I look at my list of shows for my project, and I see how I did four shows in 2024 alone, and have added six shows to my résumé in the first eight months of 2025. I'm getting opportunities. I know what I'm doing, and I know how to learn new things.

 

Maybe I'm not the lazy failure that my professors, the church, and my extended family made me out to be. I have 75+ shows and 25 years on a CV that say otherwise.

Stage Fright? ...Now?

I am two weeks away from tap dancing in an established music festival which could draw up to 450 people. I am high enough in the billing that my name actually appears on the poster that's plastered around town and circulating social media. As far as I know, nobody has tap danced in this festival before.

 

I am rather terrified.

 

This is strange for me. Even as a kid, I never got stage fright. As I waited backstage for my first ever dance recital performance, I waited for the nerves to show up, but they never did. Twenty-five years of performing and they never have.

 

I've tap danced in front of bigger crowds than this. But usually those performances are in darkened theatres with audiences who came fully expecting to see dance. An outdoor mostly-folk music festival that's marketed to a somewhat faith-based and generally older audience is NOT the same thing. When I submitted my proposal, I half-expected to be laughed out of their email inbox. Instead, they offered me a slot.

 

I have spent literal months agonising over which songs to use. They had to be pieces I either already knew or could memorise thoroughly enough to perform comfortably (which limited my options severely), and they had to be accessible for an audience that has almost certainly never seen tap dance before and is at this event for the acoustic guitar music.

The day before the performers were publicly announced, I finally settled on my final set list.

 

I'm starting them off simple, with some classic, upbeat Michael Card. Then we're moving to a similarly upbeat-sounding Steve Scott (but with more pensive lyrics). After that, there is the obligatory DA song, which will make absolutely no sense to anybody in the entire audience (but the tap dancing sounds cool), and then I'll hit them with the biggest risk -- an NF song. Like an honest-to-goodness rap song (*clutches pearls*). It's a huge risk, given the target audience, but my choreography for that song is absolutely show-stopping. I cannot follow that with anything else currently in my repertoire. I have to end off with this one.

 

I keep reminding myself that I have spent my entire adult life launching myself off artistic cliffs... and surviving. I keep reminding myself how so many people look at the barriers I've pushed back on and how they've called me courageous, with a blush of awe in their voices. I keep reminding myself of all the other faith-based audiences I've accosted with my art and how many of them actually loved what I did, even though it was (*gasp!*) dance. I remember how my most recent tap dance performance (in Newsies) brought down the house every single time.

I can do this. I have done this.

 

But I'm still terrified.

The Unborn Baby That Changed History

Content warning: death, child loss, abandonment, family trauma, mention of abuse. 

 

I have long wondered why I can be so angry, bitter, and distant. After 2015, that makes sense, but why was I already walking with an emotional limp before that phone call saying my uncle had cancer?

 

The other day, while cleaning the kitchen, I got thinking about my first experience with loss -- so long ago and at such a young age that until this week I had not categorized it as such.

 

In 2000, not long after the birth of my brother, my parents announced they were having another baby. I was delighted. I loved my baby brother, and I wanted very badly to have a baby sister as well.

 

In the fall of 2000, my mother went for a routine doctor's appointment. The doctor could not hear the baby's heartbeat, so she was sent -- with some urgency -- to the local hospital for an ultrasound. In that in-between time, I was told the truth -- that they could not hear a heartbeat -- but I was also told it was possible that something was blocking the stethoscope, hence the ultrasound. This was explained so calmly and in such a matter-of-fact way that while I do remember praying that the baby was okay, I was mostly convinced that everything would be fine -- the ultrasound would find the baby safe and sound.

Someone took me to dance class, I don't remember if my mother snuck me over between appointments, or if my dad or grandma took me.

 

An hour later, I left dance class and headed to the parking lot. Dad was waiting for me -- Dad never picked me up from dance. Even though I thought it was perfectly logical that Mom was still in her appointment, I knew somewhere in my soul that the baby was not okay.

 

I don't remember when or how it was explained to me -- probably on the car ride. But there was no sugarcoating (even as a child, I hated it when people danced around an issue, and my parents largely respected that). The baby, at 17 weeks, was dead. When I asked if the baby was going to stay in my mother's 'tummy,' Dad explained she would have the baby like normal (I was familiar with the concept from my brother's birth), only it wouldn't be alive when it came out. He also told me that would probably happen that night or the next morning, not in the springtime like it was supposed to.

 

I saw my mother only for a few seconds when we got home. She looked terrible (she usually did when she was pregnant -- she never had a single easy pregnancy, and it was only another year or so before I started to wonder why she kept putting herself through all that awfulness). She retreated quickly back to my parents' bedroom, and Dad put us kids to bed.

 

I don't remember much of the next morning. Dad told us (or at least me) that the baby had been delivered the night before. I don't remember if Mom was there at all.

 

I do remember over the following weeks how Dad would occasionally check in with me about it, to see how I was feeling about it. While I was old enough to understand death and emotionally connected enough to know I was sad, I didn't have the vocabulary or emotional awareness to go much deeper than that. He shared with me that he was sad and upset too. He also told us how his mother had also lost a pregnancy when he was young. He invited my grandparents over for coffee one night to talk about it. My grandmother shared that she had actually lost two -- news that surprised even my dad. She told the stories of both losses. Knowing her, she probably offered a lot of comfort and cried with my parents, but I don't actually remember that.

 

A few months later, my parents announced that they were expecting again. The doctors kept a much closer eye on her this time, but things progressed well.

At her 16 week checkup, the baby had a strong heartbeat and was moving well. At 17 weeks, my mother went to her doctor's appointment. The details in my memory aren't nearly as clear. But I remember her saying she hadn't felt the baby move in a couple of days, and then somehow I heard that this baby, too, had died.

 

In retrospect, this was the one that altered my mother forever.

 

I didn't realise that till this week, in 2025. I had wondered for years what had happened to the fun, kind, gentle woman who raised my sister and me, who took us to the library and baked cookies with us and showed us which blades of grass made the best whistles, why suddenly she was replaced by this screaming ball of rage with an absolutely hair-trigger temper. I'm shocked I didn't make this connection before.

 

The next few months were a whirlwind of specialists appointments as the doctors tried to figure out how my mother lost two pregnancies at 17 weeks within six months of each other after having three perfectly healthy children -- the youngest of whom was barely a year old. We, the living children, spent more time at my grandparents' and my aunt's house than we did at home, and as the oldest, I was in charge of my two younger siblings. My parents became strangers to me. After the first loss, my parents had held space for our emotions even while they were openly processing their own. After the second one, they disappeared. I lost them too when that second baby died.

 

By the time my mother's violent morning sickness started again, she was broken and terrified. She tried to hide it, but there was no hiding her symptoms. At eight years old, I was already a veteran of spotting morning sickness. I called her out, and she swore me to secrecy until she was past the 17-week mark. I kept that secret, and it worked... that baby is my little sister, and she is entering her third year of college.

 

It was around this time, I realise now, that the rage set in. She had always been opinionated and a bit fiery (I had to get it from somewhere), but after my rainbow-baby sister was born, my mother would scream bloody murder at anything that moved. In a house of four children under ten, there were a lot of things that moved. I remember writing in my diary many, many times how she would scream at us if we breathed too loudly. I spent the remainder of my childhood trying to figure out the triggers that would set off her screaming rages, but never succeeded in cataloguing them all. Seven months after my sister was born, I developed depression.

 

It's obvious now that that depression came as a direct result of the loss, abandonment, and verbal abuse from those three years. I still suffer with depression today. It has impacted my education, my friendships, my decision-making, my career (both of the ones that I straddle independently), my faith, my hobbies, and my marriage. If the depression doesn't kill me directly in the end, it will still be etched on my heart when it stops.

 

My mother's rages continued until I left for college at age twenty. My youngest sibling at that time was three years old. That was the longest my mother had ever not been pregnant since before she was pregnant with my brother, the one before the miscarriages. My entire teen years had been a cycle of violent morning sickness; long, dramatic, difficult deliveries, and white-hot rage -- all of it hers. I raised all the post-miscarriage siblings because my mother was either too sick or too angry to do it herself and I couldn't bring myself to let those helpless babies suffer for something that wasn't their fault. I'm still not convinced it's a coincidence that the baby factory stopped when I left home.

 

Thinking back on all of this, it's not as much of a surprise why I all but stopped being human after my cousin died. Something in my soul remembered the deaths of those young babies all those years before and remembered how I was left alone, overburdened, and screamed at for every. single. misstep for a full decade in the wake of those losses, and it knew I could not go through that again.

 

This fall is will be 25 years since that first baby died and my life was irrevocably changed for the worse. I don't know what I can do at this point. Knowing why my mother's behaviour shifted so suddenly is helpful, but it doesn't take away the pain of having to choose which of my siblings to shield with my own body and which ones to leave exposed to my mother's rage -- whose cries I had to listen to helplessly as I was only so big and couldn't protect them all at the same time. It doesn't change the fact that my sister and I have basically no relationship because I prioritised the younger, weaker siblings over her and had to harden my heart against her pain because I couldn't handle being helpless in the face of it. It doesn't change how I've spent decades feeling like I wasn't wanted and that my parents were desperate to replace me with the next new baby rather than be content with the ones they already had. It doesn't change the fact that I dissolve into wild, uncontrollable, suffocating sobs the second anybody raises their voice at me or speaks with the very slightest of harsh tones because all my hear is my mother screaming at us that we're all failures and how she didn't want us.

 

It's nice to have a starting point, I guess, but I still don't know where to go from here. 

Update: Nothing Has Changed (And It Probably Never Will)

I'm tired of being a useless, lazy, stupid, 'entitled,' 'out of touch' failure.

 

I'm in a busy season in my life right now -- a job I enjoy, doing a show that's been on my bucket list since I first saw it in 2018, finally making some measurable progress toward what I've always wanted to do with my life, actually managing to keep up with the household tasks 95% of the time (thanks, meds).

However, despite trying for over three decades now, I have never figured out how to stretch time, or pause it, or beat it, or whatever it takes to pack more activities/responsibilities into every day. And as a result, I sometimes have to prioritise some things over other things. Last week, I prioritised cleaning the kitchen floor over putting away the (already washed) laundry. It's worth noting that every single household chore that I am responsible for got done except for putting away the clean laundry. What did I get for my efforts? An eight-hour lecture that has now bled over into a second ongoing, multi-hour period of silent treatment because I also dared have the audacity to pick the 'wrong' flavour of ice cream for myself.

Yeah. I'm just as confused about this as you are.

I've spent the last 24 hours remembering all those plans I made to disappear, to catapult myself past the wall of sleep, beyond the stars. I stand in our kitchen doing dishes, listing all the reasons I should live... I'm doing a show that I've wanted to do since before I met my husband, I want to go shopping with my best friend again, I don't want to make my parents and siblings have to lose me like that, I want to see all those goals I have set for my dance career get met, I want to see things get better because even after spending thirty years watching my life spiral deeper and deeper into hell with no sign of stopping I'm still dumb enough to believe that it'll get better someday.

I can't talk to anyone about this, I burned all those bridges multiple 'rough patches' ago. Even my best friend snapped at me last time I told her I wasn't doing well mentally, insinuating I was selfish for thinking I was the only person in her life having problems. After that, I realised if I wanted to have any kind of relationship at all with any human being ever, I would have to hunker down and get through depressive episodes entirely alone (my husband made it abundantly clear LONG ago that he was going to be personally offended every time I even alluded vaguely to being depressed). That had worked just fine until now.

Those are all great reasons to live, on paper. But they don't seem to connect with the bruised, bleeding, hacked up remains of my broken heart that's already mangled by third-degree burns. I know logically that those are good reasons, but they don't mean anything to me at this moment, even though I know they do (or at least they should).

Right now, all I can see and hear and feel and taste is how EVERY. SINGLE. TINY. INSIGNIFICANT decision I make is somehow the wrong one. It does not matter what it is, it is always wrong. Even if I ask for clarification a thousand times, everything I do is still somehow wrong. I'm so tired of always having to defend myself and always having to walk on eggshells and giving 275% of myself every single day of my life and still being reamed out for 'not even trying.'

It's just like freaking college all over again. I very nearly didn't survive that. I'm not sure I have the energy or desire left to survive this too. What's even the point? The longer this goes on, the more likely it seems that nothing ever will actually get better, and there's no big reward coming for hanging on to breathing like this.

So how much of my blood do I need to spill to make right the wrong I have done by existing?

Exiting Sleep Mode

One year ago this month, I clocked out from my fast food job for the last time.

I had managed to get somebody to pity me enough to offer me a summer job which wouldn't further damage my already-destroyed back, and I wanted that job so bad that I worked both that job and fast food for a week because the new job could use me that early and I wanted to work my full two weeks' notice and leave fast food on good terms with the management (it paid off... maintaining their respect has already helped me along in life since then).

Since then, I have lived.

I have choreographed three musical theatre productions (in a variety of lead or assistant roles), added four and a half shows to my performance résumé, started crocheting again, reconnected with a couple of friends I hadn't spoken to since before I graduated college, bought a gym membership (and been actually using it), started drawing more often, contributed artwork to a theatre production, finally got meds for my ADHD, started actually keeping the house moderately clean on a somewhat regular basis... and our marriage started getting better immediately because I actually had some scraps of energy left to give my husband at the end of the day. We went from screaming matches every other day to maybe once a month, and even those are shorter and less intense as a rule.

It was literally like waking up from the dead. Even the other remissions I've had from depression were nothing like this. I literally felt like I had just pushed open the casket lid and seen the sunrise for the first time since I left home for college.

Sometimes I go through that drive-thru and I sit at the window and I think about how I used to watch the sun set at night and think to myself, 'before the sun comes up again, I will have to be at work,' and I would be on the other side of that window, my brain in a sort of semi-permanent sleep mode while my body moved through the motions of brewing and crafting coffees almost simultaneously. It literally felt like that job consumed my entire life. Even at only 32 hours a week, I couldn't let go of the stress, no matter what I tried. My life was work, eat, get lectured, sleep, rinse, repeat, every day. By the time I quit that job a year ago, I had literally forgotten how to think. I was a zombie. I had no thoughts, no joy, no sadness, no anger, no hope, no feelings at all. I have suffered from depression since I was nine years old, but this was a completely new level of dreary, drab, and lifeless. At least during my depression periods I could still make art, but during the fast food years I could not. My brain literally shut itself off all conscious thoughts, feelings, and observations in order to conserve energy, because one can literally never have enough energy to work a job like that.

This year, I set a goal for myself to read more books. I set an arbitrary goal of eight books for 2025.

It's barely May and I've read six books. And with every book I read, I can feel my brain waking up, beginning to string words together again, beginning to observe my experiences more, beginning to think again. The books aren't even super think-y and deep, but the mere act of reading is bringing my brain back to life.

I didn't even listen to music in those years. I had no energy. I stopped buying music, stopped importing records from my collection, stopped listening to the music I had, stopped following the bands' websites and social media accounts, stopped participating in the music fan groups I had been a part of.

Nothing existed but work and pain.

I tried to fight back against the encroaching unconsciousness, but that only wore me out more and pushed my brain deeper into complete shutdown.

And now, I'm reading, I'm listening to music, I'm connecting with my husband and the few friends I still have, I'm going to the gym, drawing, dancing, creating art, singing... living the life that freaking college took from me and fast food tried to lock away forever.

Though I don't remember much of those years, I hope I never forget that they happened. I never want to go back to that mental place again. I never want to forget how far I've come and how hard I've worked to get to where I am.

I never want to enter that level of sleep mode again.