I spent my second Canadian Christmas out on the farm with J and his family; the very place where he grew up and started to become the person I now know. Upon arriving in Ontario on Christmas Eve, we were gifted with a white Christmas after all, a mild start to our winter in the west leaving our town a barren, snow-less place.

I couldn’t find a word for this year, so I put it to my siblings and my mother. “What would you say the theme of this year has been for me?”. Resilience, they answered. I’ve sat with this for a little while, because I’m unsure if I agree; I didn’t feel resilient, brave or strong at all last year. I allowed myself to slide into a mental slump that I’m now finding difficult to climb my way out of.

Our favourite part of the trip, hands down, was the day we hiked up to Snowbird Pass. It was a 9 hour, 27km (16.7mi) day, all to walk to a spot where you could see an enormous icefield thousands of years old. We stood and imagined how the rest of the valley would have looked centuries ago—the lush green valleys, bright wildflowers & flowing streams we had just passed being nothing but ice. The world was quiet here, and I longed to sit in its stillness for far longer than our little lunch break.

Our second day at Berg Lake was a little more leisurely. I had every intention of letting my body rest, but for me, sleeping in was impossible when the world came alive. I woke up a little after 5:30am, gently unzipping the tent to peel away our “door” and peek at the outside world, gingerly facing the cold.

“Do you guys do this for fun?”

These were the words uttered by a group of girls we passed on our way down from Berg Lake. By that point, we were already a quarter of the way into our 20km descent, having already spent 4 days living at the foot of Mount Robson, the Canadian Rockies’ tallest peak (3,954m above sea level).

I want to tell you about this woman; my aunt Juliet, Julie, or “Bibi” as she was known in our family. I want to tell you what I tried to tell everyone at her memorial, whilst choking back tears, my whole body trying to contain all I was feeling to no avail.

A spontaneous camping weekend in late July, trying to make the most of the summer. When you’re surrounded by mountain beauty, getting away is quick and easy (and only half an hour from home); there are few excuses not to get up and go, and yet so often we all let life get in the way of the experiences, moments and opportunities that truly matter to us.

This summer was fleeting, in a vastly different way to that of last year’s. This year felt a lot like treading water, taking things one day, one step at a time. Before I knew it, it was mid-July, and my backcountry trip to Berg Lake was fast approaching. All the glamorous ideas I had about training for the trip went out the window while I focused on working and applying for permanent residency.

A memorable day for many a reason, although I find myself wishing that one of those reasons was not that my bear spray accidentally went off as I was putting my pack on. Thankfully, it only mostly affected my hands and we carried on.

A moody, rainy day in late June. Our summer in the Rockies looked mostly like this, but the rain helped to keep the smoke from the wildfires at bay, for a time.

In many ways, and in the biggest of ways, this year has been a reset. When I think about why this reset feels more akin to having the ground lifted out from underneath me with no safe place to land, vs. a reset that is rejuvenating, clarifying, and a slate wiped clean, I know that it is because it is intertwined with the ever-complicated emotions surrounding loss.

This has been my longest hiatus from writing on the blog in years. Today, the words flow, so here I am, ready to share some of those swirling thoughts with you.

From early December, already a lifetime ago. We took our new friend Rob to Kootenay National Park with our friends' dog, Hobbit. The four of us chased winter across the British Columbia border, the thaws in Banff & Canmore leaving everything bare of snow.