Personal Growth
Personal Growth – Your Journey to Self-Improvement and Fulfillment Personal growth is more than just a buzzword — it’s a lifelong journey of self-discovery, learning, and evolution. It’s about intentionally shaping who you are, striving toward your goals, and building a life filled with meaning and fulfillment. At its core, personal growth is the ongoing process of becoming the best version of yourself while embracing the ups and downs along the way. We all have areas where we want to improve — maybe it’s advancing in a career, building stronger relationships, or finding a deeper sense of inner peace. The beauty of personal growth is that it touches every part of life. It’s not limited to one stage, skill, or milestone. Instead, it’s about choosing to keep moving forward, no matter where you are right now. Setting Goals That Inspire Growth One of the most effective ways to nurture personal growth is by setting clear, achievable goals. Goals give you direction, structure, and motivation. They turn abstract dreams into concrete steps you can follow. These goals can be big or small, long-term or short-term. For some, it might mean learning a new skill or habit. For others, it could mean improving communication, developing emotional intelligence, or becoming more resilient in the face of challenges. The key is to set goals that feel meaningful to you. Personal growth is not about comparison — it’s about defining success in your own terms. Every step forward, no matter how small, brings you closer to the life you envision. Self-Improvement in Daily Life At the heart of personal growth lies self-improvement. It’s not about perfection, but about progress and consistency. Self-improvement can take many forms, such as: Cultivating healthy habits like regular exercise, balanced nutrition, or consistent sleep routines. Seeking new experiences that challenge your perspective and push you outside your comfort zone. Practicing mindfulness and reflection to connect more deeply with yourself and your emotions. Learning continuously through reading, listening, or engaging with mentors and teachers. Small, intentional choices add up over time. By making self-improvement a daily practice, you create steady growth that transforms your confidence, your mindset, and your life. The Benefits of Personal Growth Why does personal growth matter so much? Because it enriches every part of who you are and how you live. When you prioritize growth, you: Strengthen your confidence and self-esteem. Build resilience to face life’s inevitable challenges. Develop adaptability in a constantly changing world. Enhance your relationships through better understanding and empathy. Gain clarity on your values and purpose. Personal growth is not just about personal success — it has a ripple effect. When you grow, you impact those around you. You become a source of inspiration, support, and strength in your community, family, and friendships. Support Along the Journey Sometimes, the journey feels overwhelming. That’s when guidance and support can make all the difference. Personal growth coaching, counseling, or simply connecting with a supportive community can provide fresh perspectives and encouragement. Having someone to help you set goals, track progress, and reflect on challenges can accelerate growth in powerful ways. But remember — the most important commitment is the one you make to yourself. Even without external support, your willingness to keep showing up for your own journey is what makes growth possible. Progress, Not Perfection It’s easy to fall into the trap of striving for perfection, but personal growth isn’t about flawless results. It’s about moving forward one step at a time, learning from your mistakes, and celebrating your small victories. Some days will feel like leaps ahead, and others may feel like stumbles — both are part of the process. The truth is, personal growth never ends. As long as you’re open to learning and evolving, you’ll continue to uncover new layers of strength, wisdom, and possibility within yourself. Final Word Personal growth is a journey that belongs uniquely to you. It’s about becoming more aware, more intentional, and more connected to the life you want to live. By setting meaningful goals, embracing self-improvement, and celebrating progress, you invest in yourself and the world around you. Remember: every effort counts. Every challenge teaches. Every victory, no matter how small, is worth acknowledging. Embrace the journey of personal growth — and discover how it can transform not only your own life, but also the lives of those around you.
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THE QUIET REBELLION
I built my media company in Pakistan when everyone told me not to. Pakistan’s youth proved them wrong.When I told people I was building my media company in Pakistan, the warnings came fast.Be careful.Why would you do that?Do you have security?My followers acted like I’d announced I was relocating to an active war zone. Some of them literally thought I was going to Afghanistan.One message said: “You’re a Gora. Be careful out there.”For those who don’t know: gora is a slang term some Pakistanis use for white foreigners. And yes, I’m very white. Italian-Canadian. Loud. Zero filter. I stand out. I don’t blend. I’m not mysterious. I’m not subtle. I’m a walking neon sign.But here’s what those warnings ignored: I’d been working with fourteen Pakistanis for a year and a half. Remotely. Building my company from Canada while they built it from Lahore and Islamabad. Day after day. Deadline after deadline. They showed up early, stayed late, pushed back when I was wrong, and delivered work that was better than anything I’d paid for in Toronto or New York.So I came to Pakistan to meet the people who were already building my company.What I found wasn’t what North America thinks Pakistan is.It was a country in the middle of a quiet revolution—economic, generational, personal—and the West is too busy clinging to its old story to notice.The Flight Everyone QuestionedThe warnings started the moment I booked the ticket.Friends: “Have you told your family?”My mother: “Why can’t you run it from here?”Random people online: “Do you have a security detail?”The subtext was always the same: Pakistan is dangerous. Pakistan is backwards. Pakistan is a place people like me don’t belong.I get why people think that. The narrative has been sold for decades: Pakistan equals instability. Terrorism. Poverty. Religious extremism. A place to fear, not a place to build.But fear based on what?None of the people messaging me had been there. None of them had worked with Pakistanis. They were reacting to a story they’d absorbed, not a reality they’d experienced.I’d spent eighteen months working with my team through Zoom calls and What’s App messages—watching them solve problems, build systems, ship product, and handle pressure with the kind of calm competence that makes you realize how much of North American “professionalism” is just performance. I knew what they could do.What I didn’t know was who they were beyond the screen.So I went.And the moment I landed, I realized how much of what we’re told about Pakistan is less about Pakistan—and more about the West needing somewhere to project its fear.I Didn’t Do Pakistan a FavorLet me be clear about something before we go any further: I didn’t build my company in Pakistan out of charity. I didn’t do it because I’m noble. I didn’t do it because I wanted to “help.”I built here because the talent is better—and North America is pricing itself out of relevance.Here’s the math that no one wants to discuss at dinner parties:In late 2025, the United States imposed a $100,000 fee tied to new H-1B visa petitions. One hundred thousand dollars to hire a single skilled foreign worker—on top of the existing filing costs.The stated goal was to force American companies to hire Americans instead of foreign workers.The real result is a brain drain with consequences no one wants to own.A huge share of H-1B holders are Indian and Pakistani professionals—software engineers, data scientists, doctors, researchers, the kind of people who built the modern economy. People with graduate degrees and specialized skills. People American companies depend on.And when you make it that expensive—or that humiliating—to hire them, you don’t suddenly create a domestic workforce overnight.You just push talent away.Canada tried to capitalize on that shift. But Canada is also becoming unlivable for many people. The cost of living is punishing. Housing is obscene. Winters are brutal. And immigrants get tired of being treated like they should be grateful for the privilege of enriching a country that still keeps them slightly outside the circle.So people go home.And here’s the part North America still isn’t saying out loud: Pakistan is ready for them.The Economy We Refuse to SeeThe numbers don’t lie, even when the narrative does.In October 2025, Pakistan’s IT exports hit a record $386 million in a single month.Pakistan’s broader targets are even more ambitious: multi-billion-dollar annual IT exports now, with a stated push toward $10 billion in the coming years.Pakistan has a deep pool of English-speaking IT and business-process professionals, and tens of thousands of new tech graduates each year trained in the same languages and frameworks Silicon Valley uses: Python, JavaScript, React, Node, backend systems, full-stack engineering. This isn’t “cheap labor.” It’s modern talent.And yes—Pakistan’s developers cost dramatically less than North American developers.Not because they’re less skilled.Because currency exchange rates make the same work cheaper in dollars. Because a massive, young workforce creates scale. Because Pakistan’s economic instability—devastating for everyday people—has created a brutal reality: their world-class skill is undervalued in Western currency.The work is the work. The quality is the quality. The only thing that changes is what the West pays for it.And while the West argues about immigration, Pakistan keeps building.Large multinational companies have long had operations in Pakistan—real engineering, consulting, and R&D work. Not the caricature of “call centers reading scripts.” Actual technical infrastructure.So when Western companies can’t bring talent in, they don’t stop needing the talent.They move the work out.Which means Pakistan gains economic power while North America pays them to do it.I didn’t do Pakistan a favor by building my company here.Pakistan made my business possible.My TeamI landed in Lahore on a Sunday Evening.The air was warm, even in January. The city hit me immediately: the hum of traffic, the honking, the street vendors, the call to prayer echoing in the distance. Lahore didn’t feel like a place people were “surviving.” It felt like a place that was alive—messy, loud, layered, and moving.My CTO and my assistant met me at the airport in Lahore. They’d hired a driver—steady, unbothered, navigating the city with the kind of calm that comes from knowing exactly where you are.I was only in Pakistan for three days. Lahore was my entire world during that time.We didn’t go straight to the hotel. We went to dinner.They took me to the Lahore Polo Club, and it immediately dismantled whatever expectations I’d arrived with. The grounds were immaculate. Green, expansive, elegant. It felt layered—historical without being stuck, refined without trying to impress.The food was exceptional. Deeply flavored, intentional, generous. The kind of meal that makes you question how often you’ve accepted “good enough” elsewhere without realizing it.But what stayed with me most wasn’t the food.It was the atmosphere.The service wasn’t performative. The staff weren’t rushing or resentful or going through motions. There was pride there. Ease. A sense that they belonged to something that worked.It was my first real moment of dissonance. Pakistan wasn’t matching the story I’d been told.Before we talked about work—before platforms, logistics, timelines—I gave them the floor.And that mattered.They were honest with me in a way that took courage.They told me they were scared.Not of the work. Not of the ambition. But of what Between the Covers represents.BTC is real. It speaks the truth. And in Canada, that truth includes conversations around LGBTQ identities, cannabis, bodily autonomy, and systems that don’t align neatly with Pakistani culture or religion.They worried about what it would mean to bring a magazine known for honesty into a context where honesty carries different risks. Different responsibilities. Different consequences.They weren’t asking me to dilute BTC. They weren’t asking me to censor it.They were asking whether BTC Pakistan would listen before it spoke.That conversation mattered more than any strategy meeting could have.We talked about Pakistan having one of the largest youth populations in the world. About how young people here are deeply aware of global conversations—but also deeply rooted in faith, family, and cultural responsibility. About how many Pakistanis leave to work in Dubai or abroad, and how many come back not because they failed—but because they want to build something at home.And that’s when the direction of BTC Pakistan became clear.Pakistan doesn’t need a magazine for women aged 35 to 65 modeled on Western exhaustion. That story doesn’t fit here.BTC Pakistan will be younger.It will speak to a generation navigating ambition, belief, identity, economics, and change—often all at once. A generation that is educated, globally fluent, politically aware, and deeply conscious of its cultural and religious frameworks.This isn’t about importing Canadian conversations and forcing them onto a different society.It’s about creating a platform that reflects the reality Pakistani youth are already living—their questions, their pressures, their hopes, their contradictions.I wasn’t there to tell them what BTC Pakistan would be.I was there to listen to what it needed to be.That conversation—open, careful, honest—was its own kind of rebellion. Not loud. Not performative. Just people choosing integrity over convenience.And it set the tone for everything that comes next.The Generation North America IgnoresPakistan has one of the largest youth populations in the world. Roughly two-thirds of the country is under 30.Think about that.A country the West writes off as “dangerous” is mostly young—ambitious, impatient, educated, connected, and done waiting for permission.And they’re not just building apps and startups. They’re pushing for accountability. For change. For a democracy that functions.In 2025, Pakistan’s youth showed up again and again despite arrests, internet shutdowns, suspended mobile service, and state pressure designed to exhaust them.They kept showing up.Imran Khan—former cricket star, former prime minister—has been in prison since 2023, serving multiple sentences on corruption charges he says are politically motivated. His supporters argue the same. And international scrutiny has intensified around reports of detention conditions.Whether you love him or hate him, his imprisonment has become a symbol: for political suppression, for institutional power, for the cost of dissent.And young Pakistanis understand that symbolism.My team is part of this generation.We don’t sit around debating politics in meetings. That’s not my lane and not my right to center. But I see something political in how they work: the conviction. The insistence that the future can be built, not begged for.In Toronto, young people are exhausted. Burned out. They’ve been sold hustle culture, then priced out of the life hustle promised. They’re working harder for less and being told to “practice gratitude” for the privilege.In Pakistan, young people are exhausted too—but in a different way.They’re tired of being underestimated.So they build anyway.What I Found in PakistanI met two Types Pakistans.The first is the one the West rarely acknowledges: old money and young millionaires. Families who built empires. Entrepreneurs who run logistics, textiles, tech, real estate. People living lives Canadians assume only exist in Dubai or London. Beautiful homes. Impeccable food. A level of luxury that makes Toronto look modest.I had dinner with a family connected to major industry. The house was marble and light. Art on walls that belonged in galleries. The meal served with a kind of ritual seriousness that made me want to straighten my posture.We talked about supply chains and global markets and the way Pakistan is positioned in a world that loves using Pakistan for labor but refuses to give Pakistan credit for competence.The patriarch, in his sixties and sharp as hell, said something I couldn’t stop thinking about:“The West thinks we need them. We don’t. They need us. They just haven’t realized it yet.”The second Pakistan is the one the West uses as its whole story: young people who want change, who want freedom, who want the right to speak without being punished for it. People who are brilliant and ambitious and working nonstop—and still struggling because systems are inconsistent, corruption is real, inflation is brutal, and opportunity doesn’t always match effort.Both Pakistans exist. Both are real. And that’s what the West refuses to do: hold complexity.We want simple narratives. Pakistan is either a dangerous hellscape or an undiscovered paradise.But Pakistan is complicated. Like every place that’s alive.The Hospitality North America MisunderstandsI stayed at Lahore Grande, a boutique hotel in Lahore. The owner, Aisha, made me feel at home in a way that didn’t feel like service.Within a day, she knew how I took my coffee. She knew I worked late and slept in. She knew I was constantly in motion, constantly thinking, constantly half-stressed even when I’m pretending I’m not.Every morning, she asked about my plans. If I mentioned wanting to see something, it was arranged. If I looked tired, tea appeared. If I came back frustrated, someone noticed before I had to say anything.One night, I returned to the hotel carrying the kind of tension you can’t hide. A meeting earlier that day hadn’t gone the way I’d hoped. Decisions were heavier than they’d felt that morning. The familiar questions had started looping: Was I moving too fast? Was I underestimating the risks? Was I asking too much of people I barely knew in person?I hadn’t said a word. I hadn’t complained. But somehow, it was visible anyway.Aisha noticed before I made it past the lobby.She didn’t ask what went wrong. She didn’t offer solutions. She didn’t try to fix anything. She simply asked if I wanted tea, without a word she poured it, and said quietly, “Don’t work to much.”It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t sentimental. It was simply true.And it landed harder than any motivational speech ever could.This is the part North America consistently misunderstands about Pakistani hospitality. We mistake it for politeness. For softness. For deference. We assume warmth means people are easy to exploit, easy to overrun, easy to take advantage of.That assumption is wrong.Hospitality in Pakistan isn’t weakness. It’s intelligence. It’s awareness. It’s a deeply ingrained understanding that people do their best work when they feel safe, seen, and respected.In North America, we perform friendliness to close deals. We smile, network, exchange cards, connect on LinkedIn, and then disappear the moment the transaction ends. Relationships are provisional. Conditional. Useful until they’re not.In Pakistan, hospitality is relational, not transactional. It’s an investment in trust. It’s the long game. It’s understanding that business, loyalty, and reputation are built through consistency—not optics.You’re welcomed not so you’ll owe something later, but so you’ll stay. So you’ll return. So you’ll build something that lasts.That night, sitting in a quiet lobby in Lahore, it became clear to me that what I was experiencing wasn’t kindness for show. It was cultural confidence. The kind that doesn’t need to announce itself. The kind that knows its value without demanding recognition for it.North America confuses loudness with strength. Pakistan understands that steadiness is power.And once you see that, you can’t unsee it.What This Means for Between the CoversI’m announcing something here that will surprise some people and make perfect sense to others:Between the Covers is expanding to Pakistan.Not just Marbella. Not just Canada. Pakistan.BTC Pakistan will launch in 2026.And before anyone asks: yes, it’s still a magazine for women. But for different reasons than Canada or Marbella.In Canada, BTC exists because women are exhausted from performing. From being told to lean in, optimize, self-care, practice gratitude, and somehow stay beautiful and productive while the world keeps extracting from them.In Marbella, BTC exists because women want luxury without the bullshit. Not aspirational branding. Not perfection theatre. Just real life with better lighting.In Pakistan, BTC will exist because women are navigating a different set of systemic barriers—and still building businesses, raising families, and shaping change inside constraints most Western women don’t have to think about.I’m not going to pretend I fully understand what Pakistani women need yet. I’ve been here once. I met incredible women—smart, ambitious, building empires while navigating restrictions I don’t face and never will.But I know this:Pakistani women don’t need me to save them. They need a platform that doesn’t patronize them.They need stories that reflect their actual lives—not the “exotic Pakistan” bullshit Western media sells. They need a magazine that understands rebellion looks different depending on what systems you’re refusing.And they need it run by Pakistanis.My team will build BTC Pakistan. Not me. I’ll fund it. Support it. Protect the vision. But Pakistani editors will run it. Pakistani writers will shape it. Because they understand the terrain in ways I never will.That’s not virtue signaling.That’s respect.The Truth About PakistanI’ve lived around the world. I’ve worked in multiple countries. I’ve seen wealth, poverty, innovation, corruption, beauty, violence.And I’m telling you: I see more truth in Pakistan than I see in North America.More directness. More genuine connection. More people who say what they mean instead of performing what they think you want to hear.In Toronto, people smile and nod and ghost you. In New York, everyone’s networking. In LA, everyone’s a brand. In Vancouver, everyone’s performing wellness while quietly falling apart.In Pakistan, when someone commits, they commit. When someone says you’re family, it often isn’t a line. When they invite you in, you’re inside. Fully.And yes—before anyone accuses me of romanticizing—Pakistan has real, severe problems. Poverty. Corruption. Political repression. Violence against women that makes my blood boil. Systems that need dismantling and rebuilding from the ground up.I’m not pretending Pakistan is perfect.I’m saying the West has decided Pakistan is only its problems—and that decision is lazy.Because while the West warns people like me not to go, Pakistan is building an economy the West now depends on.While the West clings to superiority, Pakistan’s youth are building leverage.Quietly. Strategically. Without asking for permission.The RebellionHere’s what rebellion looks like now:It’s building your company in Pakistan when everyone tells you not to.It’s highly skilled Pakistani professionals walking away from Western systems that tax their existence and returning home to build something better.It’s youth demanding accountability while also building the infrastructure of the future—one line of code, one startup, one business, one refusal at a time.It’s women navigating barriers and still building empires, raising families, and refusing silence.It’s hospitality as strategy, not weakness.It’s proving North American assumptions wrong not by arguing with them—but by outworking them.There’s a revolution happening in Pakistan. Quiet. Economic. Political. Personal.While North America was busy warning me, Pakistan was building the workforce the world now needs.I came to Pakistan expecting to meet employees.I found people building a country while the rest of the world looks away.That’s not hospitality.That’s rebellion.And Between the Covers Pakistan will tell that story.Because if there’s one thing I learned in Pakistan, it’s this: the people the West has been taught to fear are already building the future. And we’re too arrogant to see it.Between the Covers recognizes the importance of responsible storytelling and affirms that this feature is not intended to speak on behalf of Pakistani citizens, institutions, or movements. The publication respects Pakistan’s cultural, political, and social diversity and supports local editorial leadership in all regional editions.
ASMA JAHANGIR: The Woman Who Said No First
Every rebellion needs an origin story. Asma Jahangir is Pakistan’s.At 18, she marched to the Supreme Court to demand her father’s release from military detention. He had been imprisoned for speaking against the government’s actions in East Pakistan—what the world would later recognize as genocide in Bangladesh. Most teenagers wouldn’t know where to begin. Asma filed a petition.She won.That victory—Asma Jilani v. Government of Punjab—became a landmark constitutional case. It established that even military governments could not detain citizens without legal justification. She was barely an adult, and she had already handed the Pakistani state its first lesson in accountability.She never stopped teaching.What She BuiltIn 1980, Asma and her sister Hina Jilani founded AGHS Legal Aid Cell—Pakistan’s first law firm run entirely by women. Their clients were the people everyone else refused: Christians facing death sentences under blasphemy laws. Women accused of adultery for being raped. Bonded laborers. Teenagers on death row. The voiceless, the erased, the inconvenient.She co-founded the Human Rights Commission of Pakistan. She co-founded the Women’s Action Forum. She became the first woman elected President of the Supreme Court Bar Association in 2010—after decades of men telling her she didn’t belong in courtrooms at all.The United Nations appointed her Special Rapporteur on Extrajudicial Executions, then Special Rapporteur on Freedom of Religion. She investigated human rights abuses in Sri Lanka, Israeli settlements, and Iran. She stood on international stages and said what needed saying, even when governments wanted her silent.Especially then.The CostIn 1983, police beat, tear-gassed, and arrested Asma during protests against laws that reduced a woman’s legal testimony to half a man’s. She was imprisoned. Then placed under house arrest. Then imprisoned again.In 1995, she defended two Christian teenagers accused of blasphemy. Mobs surrounded the courthouse. They smashed her car. They threatened her children. She sent her children abroad to keep them safe—and kept showing up to court.In 1999, a gunman walked into her office and shot a client dead. The bullet missed Hina by inches. The client, Samia Imran, had come seeking help to escape an abusive marriage. Her own family had ordered the killing.Asma didn’t stop taking cases.In 2007, Pervez Musharraf declared emergency rule and had her detained. She spent months under house arrest. In 2012, U.S. intelligence uncovered a plot by Pakistani security officials to have her assassinated.She kept going.Why She MattersAsma Jahangir didn’t just challenge laws. She challenged the assumption that laws were unchallengeable.She defended people accused of blasphemy in a country where that accusation is a death sentence—social if not legal. She fought honor killings when the culture called them tradition. She represented women accused of adultery for the crime of being raped, then watched courts overturn unjust verdicts because she refused to let them stand.She made rebellion look possible.Every woman in Pakistan who starts a business, builds a platform, or speaks without permission is walking a path Asma cleared. She didn’t do it politely. She didn’t do it quietly. She did it while governments tried to silence her, mobs tried to kill her, and critics called her a traitor.“I cannot bear to live where there is so much injustice and I cannot do something about it,” she once said. “What kind of a torturous life is that?”The InheritanceAsma Jahangir died of a heart attack on February 11, 2018. She was 66. The day before, she had spoken at a protest demanding justice for a young Pashtun man killed by police. She called the detained children of Swat “her own kids.” She was still fighting.Her name means world conqueror. Her legacy is simpler—and fiercer: she proved that one woman’s refusal to accept injustice can reshape what an entire nation believes is possible.Aleena Mohsin Mughal builds ethical fashion empires.Shameelah Ismail restructures who gets to earn.Myra Qureshi dismantles toxic beauty standards through market power.They stand on ground Asma Jahangir broke open with her bare hands.She said no first. She said no loudest. And she never, ever stopped.
The Thirty-Two: When TV Chose Kites Over Bodies
At 1:38 PM on February 6, 2026, CCTV captured the exact moment a suicide bomber detonated explosives at the Khadija Tul Kubra Mosque in Islamabad. Security guards had stopped him at the entrance. He opened fire. Then he walked into a hall packed with Shia worshippers mid-Friday prayer and blew himself up.Thirty-two people died. One hundred and seventy were injured. Glass and debris scattered across bloodied floors. Victims visible in the mosque's garden. Families running. Ambulances screaming toward hospitals already placing surgical teams on standby.And on Pakistani television? Kites.For hours after the bombing—the deadliest attack in Islamabad in seventeen years—major TV channels continued airing Basant festival programming. Celebrity interviews about kite-flying. Entertainment segments. Cheerful coverage of Lahore's spring celebration. Geo TV had actor Naeema Butt discussing Basant just as news of the blast broke.The contrast wasn't subtle. It raised a question that applies far beyond Pakistan: What does it mean when a country's major news channels continue entertainment programming while the capital buries its dead?I have a team in Islamabad. They texted me within minutes of the blast. My first instinct was to turn on the television—the way you do when something catastrophic happens, when you need to see it to believe it.Basant coverage was still running.I've seen this before. I lived in Bahrain during their internal conflict. I know what it looks like when certain communities' deaths become routine enough that regular programming continues. I know the math that gets done—consciously or not—when news organizations decide which bodies merit interrupting the schedule.My best friend is Shia. So I know what it costs to be the community that gets calculated away.This isn't theoretical for me. This is what I watched happen, again, on February 6.The Metrics That Should Have MatteredBy every traditional news standard, the Islamabad bombing should have dominated coverage:Deadliest attack in the capital since the 2008 Marriott Hotel bombingSecond major attack in three months (November courthouse bombing killed twelve)Happened during Friday prayers—maximum casualties, maximum horrorCCTV footage of the exact explosion momentISIS claimed responsibility within hoursInternational condemnation from the UN, EU, USA cousin of Islamabad's own Inspector General among the deadPakistani print media covered it extensively. Dawn ran comprehensive reporting. Express Tribune documented the aftermath. International outlets from Al Jazeera to CNN to the Washington Post covered it immediately.But in Pakistan, television is how most people consume news. And for hours, television showed kites.Were editors waiting for verified information? Avoiding broadcasting graphic scenes? Operating under regulatory constraints? Worried about inflaming sectarian tensions?Perhaps. But Journalism Pakistan, a media watchdog, noted that "critics linked extended entertainment coverage to commercial interests and advertising." The Islamabad Bar Association called for a day of mourning.Whatever the internal reasoning, the result was the same: viewers who turned on their TVs while the injured were still being pulled from the mosque saw spring festival coverage instead of the deadliest attack their capital had seen in nearly two decades.The Pattern That Precedes the SilencePakistan's Shia community represents about twenty percent of the population—roughly fifty million people. They've been systematically targeted for decades. ISIS explicitly stated after this attack that it views Pakistani Shias as "legitimate targets." This bombing wasn't anomalous: the 2017 shrine attack killed ninety-plus, regular attacks plague Kurram district, sectarian violence that analysts warned would "inflame tensions" continues.There's a calculation that happens—conscious or not—when news organizations decide what merits urgent coverage. Commercial considerations. Political pressure. Audience fatigue with certain types of violence. The normalization that happens when specific communities are targeted so regularly that each new massacre becomes, somehow, less newsworthy than the last.You can call this systemic bias. You can call it market forces. You can call it editorial caution. But you can't call it coverage.The Narrative That Moved FasterWithin hours, Defence Minister Khawaja Asif blamed Afghanistan and India for the attack—claims made without immediate evidence, rejected by both countries. Interior Minister Mohsin Naqvi announced four arrests including an "Afghan ISIS mastermind." The narrative took shape quickly: foreign enemies, cross-border terrorism, external threats.What got less attention: This was the second major Islamabad attack in three months. The bomber operated freely in a heavily guarded capital. When asked about security lapses, Naqvi responded that "if one blast happens, 99 others are being foiled."Al Jazeera's correspondent in Islamabad interviewed people after the bombing. "They say this is a lapse of security," he reported, "that authorities knew very well there was an imminent threat, given the fact that intelligence-based operations are going on in Balochistan and in Khyber Pakhtunkhwa province."Whether through coordination or coincidence, the extended entertainment coverage meant fewer hours of uncomfortable questions about how thirty-two people died in Friday prayers while intelligence agencies were supposedly conducting operations against known threats.It's easier to watch kites.The Mechanics of DisappearanceThis is how marginalized communities disappear in real-time. Not through dramatic censorship or obvious propaganda, but through the accumulated weight of editorial decisions that—individually—might seem defensible. Waiting for confirmation. Avoiding graphic content. Balancing competing priorities. Considering audience appetite.But when those decisions consistently result in certain communities' deaths receiving delayed or diminished coverage, the pattern reveals something darker than any single choice.The victims' families buried their dead on Saturday. Thousands gathered for funeral prayers. Coffins lined up. Mourners screaming. All of it well-documented by photographers whose images ran in international media.But for hours on February 6, while bodies were still being identified, Pakistani viewers who turned on their TVs saw entertainment programming.You could argue this was editorial judgment. Caution. Market-driven programming decisions. Fear of inflaming tensions.You could also ask: How many times does this have to happen before the pattern becomes the point?What Gets CountedThere's a reason print media covered this and television delayed. Print doesn't rely as heavily on advertising from festivals and consumer brands. Print doesn't face the same regulatory pressures. Print can afford to publish uncomfortable truths and wait for subscribers to find them.But television's reach dwarfs print's. Television shapes what most people understand as urgent, important, newsworthy. And on February 6, television made a choice about what mattered most.This matters beyond Pakistan. Every marginalized community worldwide knows this calculation. Knows their grief only becomes news when it's profitable or politically convenient. Knows that some deaths will lead broadcasts while others won't interrupt regularly scheduled programming.The mechanics aren't subtle. They're mathematical. The question is whether we're willing to name what the math reveals about whose humanity gets counted and whose gets calculated away.The Names You Don't KnowThirty-two people died on February 6. Their names were printed in Dawn, Express Tribune, international outlets. Their families held funerals while TV aired festival coverage.Analysts warned after the bombing that it could be part of a broader attempt to inflame sectarian tensions. They urged the government to take action against urban militant networks. They noted the danger of normalization.But something was already normalized: that certain deaths aren't urgent news. That commercial and political pressures can delay coverage of mass casualties. That you can have bodies in a mosque and kites on screen, and the kites win.This isn't speculation. It's what happened. The interpretation is yours.But if this pattern continues—if the next attack on a marginalized community receives the same delayed coverage while entertainment programming runs—we'll know it wasn't an aberration.It was a choice.And systems don't build themselves—but they do sustain themselves.Joseph Tito is the Editor-in-Chief of Between the Covers. He operates businesses in both Canada and Pakistan and has teams in Lahore and Islamabad.
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Winning Her Way: How Melissa Grelo Redefines Success
THE NOTE WAITING IN HER HOTEL ROOMMelissa Grelo was on the brink of one of the boldest moves of her career - a wellness retreat built on her Aging Powerfully platform, the passion project she’s nurtured alongside running a podcast, parenting an 11-year-old, and hosting The Social, Canada’s most-watched daytime talk show. Her daughter, Marquesa, had tucked a note into her bag with strict instructions: Don’t open until you get there.Alone in her hotel room, minutes before leading a room full of women who’d come to learn from her and the group of experts she had curated, Melissa finally opened it. On the first page, in her daughter’s unmistakably confident handwriting:I am so proud of you.“It was a very long letter,” Melissa laughs now. “She’s a very prolific writer. Her vocabulary is fabulous.”But the message was simple: Go. Do this. I’m good. I’m cheering for you.This is what it looks like when a woman builds a life that supports her joy - and raises a daughter who sees and celebrates it.THE GAME IS RIGGED. SHE PLAYS IT ANYWAY.Let’s get something straight: Melissa Grelo hasn’t come undone. She’s building a life, a career, and a rhythm that reflect her strengths, not society’s expectations. What she has done is thrive in an industry where women, especially those on camera, still face extra layers of scrutiny: age, appearance, composure, perfection. Viewers often expect media personalities to be flawless, polished, and ever-present, even when their lives are evolving behind the scenes.And still, Melissa moves forward with clarity and confidence.When The Social finally premiered, it wasn’t just another show for her. It was something she had dreamed up, pitched, and championed for years. So even though she was only 11 weeks postpartum, she chose to be there - excited, grateful, and fully aware of the significance of stepping into a project she had helped bring to life.“I went back to work really fast after I had her,” she says calmly. Not apologizing. Not justifying. Simply acknowledging that the moment mattered to her. She wanted to show up for something she had helped build.Men call this dedication. Women are often told it’s “balance.” But the truth is simpler: Melissa followed her ambition and trusted herself.WHEN HER BODY HIT PAUSE, SHE HIT RESETA year and a half after Marquesa was born, Melissa was hosting Your Morning and The Social. Early mornings, long days, big interviews, and two live shows that demanded focus and energy. Her career was expanding quickly, and she was embracing every opportunity that came with it. Mid-flight to Calgary, her body signaled it was time to calibrate - dizziness, racing heart, the kind of symptoms that demand attention. Doctors checked her vitals: all perfect.The lesson wasn’t “slow down,” it was “support yourself.”She did exactly that. Therapy. A later call time. And a more intentional approach to her already full life.“I’m very bad at resting,” she admits with a smile. “I’ve always been foot-to-the-floor.”But instead of pushing harder, she adjusted smarter. She didn’t crumble; she evolved.THE MATH OF MODERN PARENTHOODMelissa had Marquesa at 36, and like many parents who have children later in life, she occasionally does the quiet calculations – how old she’ll be at major milestones, how life stages might line up. “Always, always,” she says. “Everybody does the math.”But here's what the math doesn't consider: wisdom. Experience. A fully formed self."What we feel like we might be behind in or losing in age, we've gained in wisdom," she says. "We're bringing a whole different self to parenting."Her daughter gets the version of Melissa who knows who she is. Who lived a full life first. Who built a career and collected stories and mistakes and victories before motherhood.This Melissa doesn't crumble when the culture whispers that she's "aging out." She launches a podcast called Aging Powerfully and fills a retreat with women who want what she's modeling: strength without shame."I'm going to be the youngest version of my age at every step of the way."CHOOSING A FAMILY PLAN THAT FITS THEIR LIFEAfter four years of fertility treatment and two clinics, Melissa conceived naturally the very summer The Social was greenlit.Later, when she and her husband Ryan discussed having a second child, they communicated honestly and without pressure.“I’m not slowing down,” she told him. “If we have another, lead caregiving will fall on you.”They talked it through. They both had ambitions. They chose one child. A thoughtful, mutual decision.No guilt. No external expectations. Just a family designing a life that makes sense for them.“I’m very proud of how I’ve navigated the challenges,” she says, recognizing her own growth and the strength in choosing intentionally.RAISING A DAUGHTER WHO KNOWS SHE BELONGSPeople often ask ambitious mothers how they teach their daughters that they can “have it all,” but Melissa reframes the question. For her, the focus is helping her daughter understand that when challenges arise, the issue isn’t her, it’s the world she’s moving through.The approach in their household is simple and open. “There are no secrets in our family,” she says. “Just living life.”Marquesa knows the real stories behind Melissa’s journey - the fertility challenges, the anxiety attack, and the truth of what ambition can cost and give. She also sees something her mother developed later in life: strong boundaries.“She has boundaries very clear in a way I didn’t figure out until my mid or late 30s,” Melissa says. “When my daughter sees me pushing myself too hard because I don’t have good boundaries, she already does.”Their connection is built in everyday moments. At bedtime, Melissa asks: “What makes you feel loved?” and “What moments matter most?” And the answers are always the same - braiding her hair, cuddling on the couch, the rituals that make her feel safe and seen.It’s presence over perfection. Consistency over performance. Love woven into the ordinary parts of life.THE COSTUME AND THE TRUTHEvery morning, Melissa puts on the polished on-air version of herself. Every night, she settles into sweatpants on the couch.“This is who I am,” she tells her daughter. “Work-Mommy is a costume.”Marquesa prefers the no-makeup version.Melissa even built a clothing line - MARQ, named after her daughter, because she wanted kids to feel free before the world labels them.“I’m not throwing gender expectations on a child who still has placenta on her,” she jokes.Their house uses RuPaul’s Drag Race and Love Island as jumping-off points for conversations about character and confidence.“What’s more important than being pretty?” Melissa asks.Marquesa never hesitates: Being smart. Being kind.CHOOSING A FAMILY PLAN THAT FITS THEIR LIFEAfter four years of fertility treatment and two clinics, Melissa conceived naturally the very summer The Social was greenlit.Later, when she and her husband Ryan discussed having a second child, they communicated honestly and without pressure.“I’m not slowing down,” she told him. “If we have another, lead caregiving will fall on you.”They talked it through. They both had ambitions. They chose one child. A thoughtful, mutual decision.No guilt. No external expectations. Just a family designing a life that makes sense for them.“I’m very proud of how I’ve navigated the challenges,” she says, recognizing her own growth and the strength in choosing intentionally.RAISING A DAUGHTER WHO KNOWS SHE BELONGSPeople often ask ambitious mothers how they teach their daughters that they can “have it all,” but Melissa reframes the question. For her, the focus is helping her daughter understand that when challenges arise, the issue isn’t her, it’s the world she’s moving through.The approach in their household is simple and open. “There are no secrets in our family,” she says. “Just living life.”Marquesa knows the real stories behind Melissa’s journey - the fertility challenges, the anxiety attack, and the truth of what ambition can cost and give. She also sees something her mother developed later in life: strong boundaries.“She has boundaries very clear in a way I didn’t figure out until my mid or late 30s,” Melissa says. “When my daughter sees me pushing myself too hard because I don’t have good boundaries, she already does.”Their connection is built in everyday moments. At bedtime, Melissa asks: “What makes you feel loved?” and “What moments matter most?” And the answers are always the same - braiding her hair, cuddling on the couch, the rituals that make her feel safe and seen.It’s presence over perfection. Consistency over performance. Love woven into the ordinary parts of life.THE COSTUME AND THE TRUTHEvery morning, Melissa puts on the polished on-air version of herself. Every night, she settles into sweatpants on the couch.“This is who I am,” she tells her daughter. “Work-Mommy is a costume.”Marquesa prefers the no-makeup version.Melissa even built a clothing line - MARQ, named after her daughter, because she wanted kids to feel free before the world labels them.“I’m not throwing gender expectations on a child who still has placenta on her,” she jokes.Their house uses RuPaul’s Drag Race and Love Island as jumping-off points for conversations about character and confidence.“What’s more important than being pretty?” Melissa asks.Marquesa never hesitates: Being smart. Being kind.WINNING LOOKS DIFFERENT THAN THEY TOLD USOur interview took place on Melissa’s train ride home, a quiet moment in her busy day. As the train pulls into the station, Melissa gathers her things. Ryan is on pickup duty. Tomorrow she’ll do it all again, the work she loves, the routines she cherishes, a life she’s built intentionally.Tonight, she’ll braid Marquesa’s hair. She’ll ask the questions that matter. She’ll settle into the couch as her real self.The version that is fully present.The version that embraces every part of her life with intention.The version showing her daughter what’s possible when you follow your own path.And someday, when another letter comes, it won’t say I miss you.It will say:I see you. And I’m proud.
The Woman Who Wouldn't Giggle: Elvira Caria's Four Decades of Refusing to Play Nice
After 40 years of fighting for her voice in broadcasting, Elvira Caria lost the only title that ever mattered to her: Matthew's momThere's a street named after Elvira Caria in Vaughan. She didn't pay for it, she'll tell you right away. Awards line her walls—forty years' worth of recognition for lifting up her community, for being the voice that shows up at every damn event with her phone and her genuine give-a-shit attitude.But when I meet her at The Roost Café on a grey autumn morning, she says the work that matters most is the stuff nobody sees."My real satisfactory work?" She pauses, weighing whether to trust me with this. "I help young girls escape human trafficking. You can't put that on social media."This is Elvira Caria: the woman who refused to be radio's giggling fool, who chose late-night shifts over morning show glory so she could be home when her son's school bus arrived, who now sits across from me one year after burying that same son at 25."I wouldn't be here if it wasn't for the community," she says. And she means it literally.The Day She Found Her Voice by Refusing to Use ItPicture this: a young Elvira in a radio control room, told by a well-known male broadcaster that her job was to giggle. To be the pretty voice that makes him sound better."I don't do giggling fool," she says now, decades later, the Southern Italian fire still in her voice.She stopped showing up to giggle on cue. Got fired on a Friday. Instead of folding, she handed her termination papers back: "If you can find a better reason to fire me on Monday, I'll accept it. If not, I'm coming back."Monday passed. So did Tuesday. By Friday she expected another dismissal—everyone fires on Fridays. But a month later the man who told her to giggle was gone. Elvira stayed for six more years."I found my value voice," she says. "I wasn't going to bend for someone else's value."The Choice That Looked Like SacrificeAt the height of her career, being groomed for a morning show at one of Canada's top stations, Elvira walked away."Nobody quits Rock Radio," her boss said."Well, I just did."She took the shifts nobody wanted—weekends, evenings, 3 a.m. hits at Yonge and Dundas. People called it sacrifice. She calls it choice."While others were sleeping, I was talking to the people we now call homeless. Nobody wakes up saying, I want to be on the streets when I grow up. Nobody."The choice meant she was home when Matthew got off the school bus. It meant knowing his friends, his teachers, his world. For 25 years, it meant being Matthew's mom first, Elvira Caria second.The Irony That Breaks YouHere's the part that will gut you: she spent decades insisting she was more than just Matthew's mom. She was a broadcaster, a journalist, a voice for the voiceless. She built a career on authenticity when authenticity could get you fired.And then, in 2024, Matthew was gone— twenty-five years old and on the edge of everything. Suddenly all Elvira wanted was the one title that had been stripped away."Matthew never saw me as a radio announcer," she says, voice steady, eyes somewhere else. "He saw me as his mom. And that's all he cared about."The Part Where She Stops Pretending Everything's FineLet's talk about not getting out of bed. About hygiene being optional when grief is bone-deep.Her sister-in-law was the one who finally broke through: "They need you. My boys need you! You're more than their Zia." So Elvira took small steps. A shower became a victory. Coloring her hair, an achievement. Looking in the mirror and trying to recognize whoever stared back."I'm mad at God," she admits. "People say everything happens for a reason. What's the fucking reason? Why take away a kid who never did anything wrong, who was just starting his life?"The Community That Saved Her When Awards Couldn'tTen people can tell Elvira she's wonderful. One critic cuts deeper at 3 a.m. That's human.She'll admit some awards now feel hollow—accolades in a season of loss. The recognition doesn't heal the absence.But the community? They showed up in ways that mattered. The woman from her coffee shop who just sat with her, no words needed. The neighbor who mowed her lawn without asking, week after week, because grief means grass keeps growing when you can't. The radio colleague who took her shifts without question when she couldn't form words, let alone broadcast them. The mothers from Matthew's old baseball team who still text her his jersey number on game days. Or the Baseball league who named an umpire award after him."Someone left groceries at my door every Tuesday for three months," she tells me. "Never found out who. Just bags of real food—not casseroles, not sympathy lasagna—but the exact brands I buy. Someone paid attention to what was in my cart before. That's community."The vigils, the legacy fund in Matthew's name, the quiet notes slipped under her door—that's what kept her standing."The real work happens in shadows," she says. "Helping a girl escape trafficking. Watching her graduate two years later. That's when I think—okay, maybe I've done enough to meet my maker."The Wisdom of Not Giving a FuckAfter decades of answering every critic, she's learned the most radical act: indifference."You don't have to react to everything," she says. "Not everything requires an explanation."She still hates small talk, still loves a stage. The influencer economy baffles her. "People think having a phone makes them reporters. Broadcasting is an accreditation—you're trained how to interview, how to fact-check, how to smell bullshit."Who She Is NowA year later, she's still figuring it out. Still showing up at community events with her phone and her give-a-shit intact. Still ironing her underwear (yes, really) because some control is better than none.The street sign with her name stands in Vaughan, but she lives in the in-between—between public recognition and private purpose, between the veteran broadcaster and the grieving mother."The evil grows faster than good," she says. "We're always catching up."So she keeps going. Not because grief eases—it doesn't. Not because she's found a new purpose—she hasn't. But because stopping isn't her style.She refused to giggle back then. She refuses to perform now. And maybe that's the lesson: sometimes the most powerful thing you can do is keep showing up, even when you don't know why you're still here. Especially then.Elvira Caria continues to support multiple charities across the GTA while maintaining her broadcasting career. She's still mad at God, still helping girls escape trafficking, still learning who she is now. She does not need your sympathy. She might need you to know that grief has no timeline, authenticity isn't content, and sometimes the bravest thing you can do is refuse to play along.
The Dentist Is Between My Legs: Bif Naked on Heart Surgery, Picking Felons, and Why She's Just Getting Started at 54
The punk icon who found euphoria on an operating table talks death doulas, divorce gratitude, and why her failing marriage hurt more than cancerBy Joseph Tito | Between the Covers | November 2025Bif Naked is cutting up her dog's food with her hands when I ask how it feels to be a legend.She looks at me like I've asked her to explain quantum physics in Swahili. "I'm a dog mom," she says, and goes back to mincing. Her fingers work methodically, tearing dog food into smaller and smaller pieces. The woman who once spit on audiences from punk stages now performs this daily ritual of care with the focus of a surgeon.This is going to be that kind of conversation—where every expectation gets shredded like dog food.The Operating Table High"So I was wide awake," Bif says, settling into her Toronto condo couch, miniskirt riding up as she crosses her legs. She's talking about her heart surgery like most people describe a spa day. "They thread a little camera through your leg all the way to your heart, and they can see what they're doing on the screen."She leans forward, eyes bright with the memory. "The surgeon is wearing a pineapple hat—like, the surgical hat had cartoon pineapples on it. And they're listening to William Shatner singing. Have you ever heard him sing? Who knew this album existed?"This is a woman describing having a hole in her heart closed with what she calls "a little umbrella device," conscious the entire time, finding it all hilarious and profound in equal measure. Her voice gets almost reverent: "I thought, this is the coolest shit ever. How is it possible that in this lifetime, I can listen to these people talking about their day jobs, which is fixing my stupid heart?"Then comes the moment that gives this article its title. They need to inject Novocaine into her leg to make the incision. You know that heavy, aching feeling from the dentist?"I said, 'Oh! It feels like the dentist is between my legs.'"She covers her face, laughing and mortified simultaneously. "The nurses started howling. This patient is on the table, making what they think is dirty talk. But I just meant—" she gestures helplessly "—the Novocaine!"Her whole body shakes with laughter now. "Of course that's what I said. How fucking funny is that?"God's Rejection and Other Love Stories"God is not going to choose me for whatever reason," she says, the laughter suddenly gone. "I'm going to stay here on earth and have to deal with it. Because I'm not learning my lessons yet."The shift in energy is palpable. She's talking about her pattern now—the violent men, the criminal boyfriends, the marriages to liars. "If there's a wrong guy, send him my way. If he is a criminal, if he's a violent felon, send him my way. I'm going to fall in love with that idiot every time."She delivers this like a weather report, no self-pity, just fact. When I ask why she got divorced, she doesn't hesitate: "Because I married liars." Then, catching herself: "But I have to look at what my fault was."She discovered what healthy relationships actually look like at 54. Fifty-four. After two failed marriages, cancer, and enough medical trauma to kill most people twice. "I had no idea relationships were supposed to be healthy," she says, and the wonderment in her voice is genuine. "I think that I've always been chasing true love. I'll never give up on love, ever."The contradiction sits there between us: the woman who picks monsters still believes in fairy tales."My emotional crisis of my failing marriage trumped my cancer experience."She says this so matter-of-factly that I almost miss it. The dissolution of her marriage during treatment hurt more than the actual cancer. Her hands, which had been still, start moving again—straightening pillows, adjusting her jewelry."Which was good," she adds quickly, "because it forced me to throw myself into volunteering."The man who married a rock star got a cancer patient instead, couldn't handle the plot twist. Now she trains as a death doula, works in palliative care. "If I was told tomorrow that I could not be a performer anymore," she says, her voice steady, "I think I would go into hospital administration."The Stage She Was Always SeekingBefore Bif Naked existed, there was a theatre kid at the University of Winnipeg who'd taken ballet for 13 years. She demonstrates a position, her leg extending with muscle memory from decades ago. "I wanted to be an actress and a ballet star."Then a drummer named Brett needed a singer. Suddenly she had a vehicle for all her poetry, all her rage about El Salvador and Indigenous treatment and misogyny. Whether it was ballet slippers or combat boots, she was always searching for a stage—just took her a while to find the right one."I got to stand up there. I got to spit on the audience. I got to say, fuck you, you can't objectify me." Her voice rises with the memory, that old fire flickering. "I didn't even have to sing very well. And believe me, I could not. I sounded like a dying cat."She pauses, grins. "And I don't mean the band Garbage."They opened for DOA. NoMeansNo. Bad Religion. She dropped out of university, and here's the kicker—"I'm still waiting to go back to school," she laughs, thirty-something years later, like she might actually do it.The same rage that fueled her screaming about El Salvador now targets Doug Ford's Ontario. "I couldn't figure out why I moved here," she says. "Then Ford got elected and I thought, 'Oh. I'm here to use my big mouth.'"The Children She'll Never Have (Or Will She?)When she cuts up that dog food with such maternal precision, I have to ask about kids. Her whole body language shifts—shoulders dropping, a softness creeping in."My ovaries were taken out at 36. So breast cancer didn't just cut up my tit." She says this with the same directness she uses for everything else, but her hand unconsciously moves to her stomach. "I've been in menopause since I was 36 years of age."People ask about adoption—she is, after all, adopted herself. The sarcasm returns, protective: "Oh yeah, let me get right on that. Let me turn around as a divorcee who's working nonstop as a self-employed artist in Canada and get right on the adoption train."But then, unexpectedly: "Now in my mid-50s? Yeah, I suppose I am ready."The possibility hangs there. Not this year. But the door isn't closed.Tina Turner's Miniskirt Ministry"I look to women like Tina Turner," she says, smoothing her miniskirt with deliberate intention. "Tina Turner didn't start playing stadiums till she was in her 50s."At 54, she genuinely believes she's just getting started. The documentary premiering across Canada this month (November 12 in Toronto, November 4 in Vancouver). The album finally released after she shelved it during the George Floyd protests because "the world didn't need a fucking Bif Naked record" during that summer of unrest."The sky is the limit," she says, and means it.When I ask who she's fighting for now, what her voice stands for at 54, she barely breathes before answering."When I was singing 'Tell On You' on my first record, I wasn't the only girl who was sexually assaulted," she says, her voice dropping to something harder, older. "I was the only girl with a microphone."The room goes quiet. Even the dog stops moving.She calls herself "a square" now—no cocaine, no partying. "I can be thoughtful and intelligent. I can try very hard to be a voice for the voiceless."But square doesn't mean silent. She's angrier about politics than ever, advocating for animals, healthcare inequality, LGBTQ+ rights rollbacks."Unfortunately," she says with a grin that's pure punk rock, "I'm still the one holding the mic."What's Next Is What She WantsThey're making a feature film about her life. The documentary's touring. When I ask what's next, she almost defaults to "that's a Peter question"—her manager's domain—then catches herself, takes ownership."We're working on the feature film based on the book."But really, what's next is whatever the fuck she wants. She's earned that.I ask what she'd tell a young girl starting out in music today. She thinks, really thinks, her face cycling through decades of memory."Never take it personally. Never take anything personally, no matter what."Then she says something that makes me stop writing: "There's room for everybody."This from a woman who had to claw for every inch of space. Who quit drinking partly to avoid being "misinterpreted" by men who'd use any excuse to discredit her. Who's been assaulted, dismissed, divorced, nearly killed."Anybody can make music on their computer, anybody can learn piano on YouTube, anybody can upload a song and send it to their nona," she continues, and she means it. "That's actually a gift."As I'm leaving, she's back to cutting up dog food, this ritualistic care that anchors her. I think about what she said about God not choosing her yet, about having to stay here and deal with it.But watching her hands work—the same hands that punched stage divers, that held microphones during cancer treatment, that reached for violent men who couldn't love her back—I realize something.She keeps saying she hasn't learned her lessons. But maybe she has. Maybe the lesson is you can marry liars and still believe in love. You can lose your ovaries at 36 and mother the whole world anyway. You can tell your surgical team the dentist is between your legs and still become a legend.She looks up from the dog bowl, catches me staring."I wasn't the only girl who was sexually assaulted," she says again, quieter this time but somehow louder. "I was the only girl with a microphone."Bif Naked's documentary tours Canada this month. Her album "Champion" is available now. She still wears miniskirts and heels. She's just getting started.
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The Quiet Rebellion of Receiving
A somatic therapist on anger, oxytocin, and the radical act of letting yourself be heldMost people think women rebel when they leave. When they ask for divorce. When they finally say, enough.But that's not the rebellion.Leaving is the outcome. The rebellion starts much earlier — with the refusal to fall into a role and be erased by it.Anger was my first signal. Not the explosive, obvious kind. The slow, clarifying kind that builds in the body over years of ignored requests, overridden needs, and pleas for support that got minimized until they stopped coming. Anger had volume. It had direction. It moved me out of a script I'd been following so long I'd mistaken it for my own writing.But anger also masks what's underneath. Once it dissolved, what remained was quieter and harder to name — years of resentment, overwhelm, the accumulated weight of too much responsibility with no space in between to just be me.The moment of real recognition arrived without warning, the way those moments do.I was looking at a photograph from my mother's seventieth birthday. There was a beautiful cake. My brother leaning in to kiss her cheek. It should have been pure joy.But her face. Her body. Her energy.Something stopped me.It wasn't humility or modesty or the shy pleasure of someone unaccustomed to fuss. What I was seeing was discomfort — a kind of awkwardness, as though the attention didn't quite belong to her. As though she didn't fully deserve that much love directed her way. As though being celebrated was a burden she was politely enduring rather than a moment she was allowed to inhabit.My own body contracted, almost imperceptibly.How many times had I done the same thing? Deflected a compliment. Made myself smaller to feel more welcome. Performed gratitude while quietly disappearing inside it.That's when it landed — not as a thought, but as a recognition in my chest. This wasn't just behavior. It wasn't just a pattern of thought. It was a survival state. Chronic over-functioning. People-pleasing. Dimming yourself because girls are nice and quiet and don't make noise. Hiding behind perfectionism because nobody wants to be the woman others call selfish. And so we absorb. We accommodate. We hold.We call it strength. Sometimes it's grief.When you spend years as the one who gives — who stabilizes, who anticipates, who manages — your nervous system adapts around it. It becomes organized around offering. Around holding. And slowly, without announcing itself, receiving becomes foreign. Uncomfortable. Something that requires justification."Pleasure, for a woman, is not a luxury. It is regulation."Oxytocin — the hormone that lowers stress, softens vigilance, and creates felt safety in the body — is how women regulate. And we derive it through connection, warmth, affection, and yes, pleasure. In early motherhood, that oxytocin floods in through our babies. It cracks us open, makes us ferocious and tender at once. But under the relentless weight of modern motherhood, we become isolated. The nervous system that was once held by community, by ritual, by rest, is now running on permanent alert dressed up as devotion. We pride ourselves on how much we can carry while the net beneath us quietly frays.I was the stabilizing force in my family. But I am also a woman who needs to be stabilized. To be held. To be seen beyond my function. To exhale somewhere without having to manage what happens next.That was where the deeper rebellion had to begin. Not loudly. Not dramatically.Just: I am allowed to receive.Self-care stopped being another item on a long list — the thing I squeezed in after everything else was handled, the concession I made to myself so I could keep going. It became foundational instead. Non-negotiable in the way sleep is non-negotiable. Not earned. Just necessary.What that looked like wasn't grand. Cooking a good meal and eating it slowly, without standing at the counter. Music in the kitchen while my daughter and I moved through the morning. Sitting in the sun long enough for my shoulders to actually drop. Laughing with friends without one eye on the door.Small things. Ordinary things. But in those moments I wasn't bracing. I wasn't earning. I wasn't performing usefulness to justify my presence.The freedom I had been looking for wasn't dramatic. It was the ability to enjoy something without having to explain it first. To let joy move through me without immediately asking whether I'd done enough to deserve it.Rebellion, I've come to understand, is not destruction.It's this. Staying in the room when someone is celebrating you. Letting the attention land. Not contracting against the love directed your way. My mother couldn't do that at seventy. I want to learn it now."Leaving wasn't the rebellion. Refusing to disappear was."Henrieta Haniskova is a former nurse and clinical aromatherapist working at the intersection of neurosomatic experience, women's health, and sensory ritual. She helps women restore nervous-system balance and emotional vitality through touch, scent, and presence.SIDEBAR: SEVEN WAYS TO HOLD YOURSELF WHILE YOU HEAL1. Pause Before You InterpretWhen a big emotion rises — shame, anger, grief — resist the urge to analyze it. Ask: What is happening in my body right now? Heat? Tightness? Numbness? Name sensation before story.2. Reduce the Intensity, Not the TruthYou do not have to feel everything at once. Open the door a little. Then close it. Take one breath. Look around the room. Let your nervous system know you are here, now, safe enough.3. Find One AnchorA hand on your chest. Feet pressed into the floor. Warm tea in your palms. Your body needs something steady while you touch something tender.4. Separate Past From PresentAsk gently: Is this reaction about this moment or is it older? Sometimes what feels overwhelming now is a younger part of you finally speaking. You are not regressing. You are remembering.5. Befriend the ProtectorNotice the part of you that wants to shut this down. The one that says, "Don't go there." That part kept you safe once. Thank it before you ask it to soften.6. Move in Small DosesDeep work is not dramatic. It is rhythmic. Touch the emotion. Return to something neutral. Touch it again. Healing happens in waves, not floods.7. End With ReturnAfter you feel, orient back to the present. Stand up. Wash your hands. Step outside. Text a friend. Do something that signals completion. The nervous system needs clear endings as much as it needs expression.
Time: The Slippery Bastard You’ll Never Catch
The other morning, I had one of those rare, magical moments where the stars aligned, and I woke up before my kids. If you’re a parent, you know how rare this is. My kids have an uncanny ability to sense the exact second I even think about sleeping in. But not that day. That day, the universe handed me a gift—a quiet house, a hot cup of coffee, and a sunrise peeking through the kitchen window. It felt like I had all the time in the world.I thought, Today’s the day. I’m going to crush my to-do list. Emails? Done. Content? Shot. Laundry? Folded. Maybe I’d even squeeze in a quick workout (okay, probably not, but the optimism was there). I was ready to conquer the world.Fast forward eight hours, and I’m back in the kitchen, staring at the clock like it just betrayed me. The sun’s already setting, the kids are arguing over who gets the iPad, and I’m still in the same clothes I slept in. My to-do list? Untouched. My coffee? Cold. The only thing I managed to accomplish was deep-cleaning the junk drawer because, obviously, that was my top priority.How does this happen? How does an entire day disappear without warning? Time, my friends, is a sneaky little bastard. One minute, you’re basking in the glory of a quiet morning, and the next, you’re standing in the kitchen wondering how you’re supposed to make dinner out of three ingredients and a prayer. Shouldn’t there be somekind of alarm system? Like, “Hey, just a heads up—it’s already 4 PM, and you’ve accomplished exactly none of your plans. Good luck with that.”The Myth of Time ManagementI love how people talk about time management like it’s a skill you can just master. Oh, just color-code your planner! Use this app! Wake up at 5 AM! As if waking up earlier magically gives you control over a chaotic life. Let me tell you something: waking up earlier just means you’re tired and behind schedule.And don’t even get me started on those Instagram overachievers. You know the ones. By 8 AM, they’ve run five miles, made a green smoothie, and posted a motivational quote about “seizing the day.” Meanwhile, I’m over here celebrating the fact that I brushed my teeth before noon. Do these people live in some alternate universe where time moves slower? Do they get bonus hours in their day? Because I’d like to file a complaint.The truth is, no amount of planners, apps, or early mornings can tame the beast that is time. It’s slippery, unpredictable, and, frankly, kind of a jerk. And yet, we keep chasing it, convinced we can somehow wrangle it into submission.Letting Go of the To-Do ListSomewhere along the way, we all bought into this idea that our worth is tied to how much we get done. If we’re not ticking off every box on our to-do list, we feel like we’ve failed. But who decided that finishing every task was the gold standard for a life well-lived? Sometimes, just surviving the day without losing your mind is a bigger win than crossing off ten to-dos."Time is a pickpocket—gone before you even notice."Here’s the thing: time is never going to slow down. The days will keep slipping by, and the to-do list will keep growing. But maybe the trick isn’t about trying to control time. Maybe it’s about learning to dance with it—messy, offbeat, and imperfect as it may be.The Small Wins That MatterAt the end of the day, it’s not about the big wins. It’s about the small joys that keep us moving forward: the first bite of your favorite meal, an unexpected text from an old friend, or the relief of finally taking off your shoes after a long day. Life isn’t just the grand gestures—it’s all the little brushstrokes that create the masterpiece.So, maybe I’ll never master time management. Maybe my to-do list will outlive me. But if I can find five minutes to laugh at the absurdity of it all—or organize one damn junk drawer—maybe that’s enough. Because time, sneaky bastard that it is, will keep moving no matter what. And tomorrow? Tomorrow, I’ll try again.
Rebel Without a Pause: Prophecies of a Nice Girl Gone Hard
I've often been criticized for being too empathetic. I'm way too generous with giving people the benefit of the doubt and always 'feeling bad'. I tend to assume people are always good and I know exactly where that's gotten me. But choosing to believe in goodness has never been the problem, it's confusing generosity with obligation.We live in a world that rewards skepticism and treats kindness as naïveté, especially in women. Somehow, softness is framed as a liability and restraint as weakness. But the real contradiction is this: we are expected to always be emotionally available (as partners, moms, siblings, daughters, friends) and then blamed when that availability becomes inconvenient. Believing people are capable of good doesn't make us unintelligent. What's draining is always being accommodating and understanding, even when our cup is empty.Kindness is intentional. It's when we consider another person's feelings and needs without erasing our own. It's generosity that comes from willingness to help, not fear. It's being warm and loving, but with boundaries. It's empathy that doesn't require self-abandonment.I used to think rebellion was being loud and confrontational. Something we announce to the world. I didn't know how deeply I'd internalized the role of 'emotional stabilizer' for everyone around me, the one who's always giving the sound advice, running to help, absorbing the tension so others don't have to. Maybe it's being the eldest child, forced to 'grow up' faster than I wanted, taking care of those around me to keep everyone safe. I was assigned a role I never really signed up for.It's easy to mistake endurance for virtue. Putting up with people's ignorance, tolerating awkward situations or always keeping ourselves available to help others (even when it's hard) doesn't make us good morally.Over the years, people I once considered close drifted out of my life. There were no dramatic exits (for the most part). Just a smooth escort out the door, unanswered efforts and eye-opening moments that "being gracious" had become a solo performance. Instead of being angry and setting clear limits, I'd downplayed how upset or disappointed I'd felt, expected less from others and had convinced myself this self-sacrificing behaviour was a sign of 'being mature'. I had basically trained myself to absorb hurt quietly, even if it had cost me emotionally. How was this maturity? By trying to be kind and avoiding conflict? Hiding my own feelings and ignoring my needs? For social approval, and to be called 'nice,' or accepted, even though it came at a personal cost.Kindness has functioned as something I performed rather than something I chose. It was programmed in my brain like a Windows update always running and hardly glitching. The shift wasn't dramatic. I didn't make any grand announcements, I just stopped explaining. I allowed distance where I once rushed to repair (because that's what I always used to do) until I finally 'glitched' and chose not to reboot.Some relationships didn't survive that reboot, and I'm perfectly content with that.I don't seek out confrontation ever. In fact, I hate it. And I value the relationships I have. But generosity without boundaries isn't generosity at all, it's exhaustion at its finest. As I've entered a new chapter in my life, I've realized protecting our energy isn't betrayal, it's refusal. And refusal makes people very uncomfortable. Why uncomfortable? Because when you're finally done with doing emotional labour, you're done over giving and absorbing everyone else's needs.We should believe people are capable of goodness. We should look around and notice who is truly there, who will always show up first for us and our families. What we no longer should believe is that it's solely our responsibility to be the only ones nurturing any kind of relationship, whether friends or family. Kindness, when it's compulsory, isn't a virtue, it's labor. It should not be handed out for free simply because it's "expected of us." We must learn to choose when and who should receive it, and recognize that 'kindness' should be by appointment only and with consent.Women are often encouraged to give freely, support without scorekeeping and remain composed when the same isn't reciprocated. Almost everyone except the women providing the work profit from this emotional labor. When we finally decide to pull back, the narrative suddenly shifts, and our silence is framed as a problem or lack of care. That's when everyone suddenly notices our value.From our partners, to the workplace, to our families and providing support for our loved ones (since most of us are currently sandwiched between children who still need us and parents who are needing us) the world around us is constantly profiting from our emotional labor, often without meaning to, while we spiral into burnout disguised as responsibility.This even happens in our own homes. Managing adolescent emotions, mediating sibling disputes, remembering to buy milk, finding the missing charger, hunting for supplies at midnight for school projects due the next day, scheduling appointments, running daily operations. Everyone else gets stability and functioning households. We get exhaustion and never-ending to-do lists.Rebellion isn't about becoming harder or colder. It's not who we are. It's about being less available for certain roles we were praised for. It's about choosing restraint instead of endless explanations. Withdrawal over constant performance. And every now and then, being able to put ourselves on 'do not disturb' without feeling guilty.Because real kindness should not drain us. We don't need to be endlessly accommodating. Being kind is not the problem; it's the expectation we should be giving it for free. Let's be done performing emotional labor when it starts costing us our well-being, our voice or our sense of self. That's not cold or harsh, it's just basic economics.
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Becoming Both: The Fear of Losing Myself to Find the Rest of Me
Sometimes the only way forward is through the unraveling.When I was a little girl, I thought identity was a declared truth — a neat little box you checked once and carried forever. I chose my mother’s.She was everything I wanted to be: an embodiment of resilience. A Russian Jewish immigrant who could, and did, make something out of nothing. I hoped with every fiber of my being to mirror her courage in any way possible.Around my fourth birthday, I ran to the park, magic wand in hand, ready to play princess. Another little girl quickly ruined that dream when she told me I didn’t fit the role because my skin was too dark. And I believed her.All I knew were heroines like Belle and Cinderella — pale and golden. That night, my mom sat me down and played Rodgers and Hammerstein’s Cinderella with Brandy and Whitney Houston. She called it “curly-hair Cinderella.” We watched it hundreds of times. That version taught me something the first one didn’t — that girls like me deserved a crown too.Growing up, my mom made sure I was connected to my Eritrean roots. She took my sister and me to gatherings where the air smelled like berbere and laughter rolled through rooms to the rhythm of Tigrinya music. She learned to cornrow my hair — painfully, lovingly — before I decided I wanted box braids instead. So she learned that too.Still, I felt a distance, like pressing my face against the window of a home that wasn’t fully mine.As a child, I didn’t question it. My mother was my compass, and I followed her unquestioningly.The suburb we lived in prided itself on diversity. My friends and I looked like a walking United Nations poster, or so we liked to say. But somewhere between middle school and high school, that illusion started to crack.It began with jokes — the kind that sliced and disguised themselves as laughter. The first racial slur I ever heard wasn’t whispered; it was shouted across my ninth-grade music class. The laughter that followed made it worse.I laughed too. A beat too late.I laughed until I didn’t recognize the sound.That became my defense — silence and small smiles. It felt safer than exposure. I thought maybe if I leaned into my white side, I’d fit better. It was easier to blend in than to risk visibility.But laughter is a poor disguise. Every chuckle chipped away at something. And soon, the ache of assimilation became a constant hum under my skin.By the time antisemitic jokes started echoing through the hallways, I knew the choreography by heart. Smile. Shrug. Stay quiet.It worked — until it didn’t.In my first week at Queen’s University, a friend encouraged me to join a Black student group. I said no. Then I went home and sat on my dorm bed, trying to understand why.It hit me like a confession I didn’t want to say out loud:I was scared of being perceived as Black.I stared at my reflection — my curls bleached and broken from years of straightening, my Magen David necklace tucked deep in a drawer — and realized how far I’d drifted.I had spent years trying not to lose myself, and somehow that’s exactly what I’d done.The unraveling came slowly. It didn’t look brave. It looked like crying in a dorm mirror, wondering if there was still something left to find.Then came the shift. I studied under a professor who changed everything — a man who made authenticity feel safe. His classroom became a sanctuary where Blackness wasn’t something to shrink from but to stand inside of.Through his courses, through long talks and harder truths, I began piecing together what I had buried. I started wearing protective hairstyles again — not as armor, but as celebration. I took Black Studies classes and stopped pretending to be a guest in my own skin.At the same time, I reconnected with my Jewish community. I joined a campus group that reminded me that faith doesn’t require explanation or apology. That Jewishness and Blackness didn’t cancel each other out — they coexisted. They belonged together in me, as I belonged to both.That old box I’d once ticked as a child couldn’t contain me anymore.“The fear of losing myself was never about loss. It was the fear of finally finding me.”When fear fell away, all that was left was freedom — messy, beautiful, overdue freedom. The kind that doesn’t come from perfection, but from surrender.The girl who once laughed too late stopped performing. She picked up her Magen David again. She wore her curls loud. She prayed and protested, sometimes in the same breath.Because identity isn’t a fixed place — it’s a living thing, constantly reshaping itself as we dare to be seen.“If you hide long enough, you forget how to look for yourself.” “Identity isn’t a label — it’s a conversation between who we were and who we’re becoming.”Today, I am both — my mother’s daughter, my father’s roots, my own voice. I am Russian and Eritrean. Jewish and Black. I am proud of every part of me.The journey wasn’t clean. It wasn’t easy. It was an unraveling — and that’s where the power lived.Sometimes, you have to lose yourself just long enough to meet the version of you that was waiting to be free.
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We Never Made It to the Beach
I used to think happiness was bullshit. Not the concept—I believed it existed out there somewhere, for other people. I just didn't think it was something you could actually hold onto. In my early twenties, I disappeared into a relationship like it was a full-time job. My family got the voicemail version of me. My friends got rain checks. I was present, technically, but not really there—you know that thing where you're nodding along in a conversation but your brain is doing that staticky TV screen thing? Yeah. That.When I finally got tired of performing happiness instead of feeling it, I did the bravest thing I'd ever done: I left. Just walked out of a long-term relationship and into the terrifying, liberating unknown. I felt like I could do anything. Like I'd finally figured out the cheat code to my own life.And then I became a mom.Look, they warn you that having kids changes everything. What they don't tell you is that "everything" means your entire concept of who you are gets shredded and reassembled while you're running on 90 minutes of sleep and someone else's bodily fluids are on your shirt. But I was still that person who walked away, right? Still strong. Still capable.Then my son was diagnosed with leukemia. He was two years old.That's when I learned there's a version of yourself you don't meet until your toddler needs chemotherapy. A version who can hold a vomit bucket with one hand while Googling "port infection symptoms" with the other. Who memorizes which nurses are gentle with the needle sticks. Who develops a sixth sense for when the fever is just a fever and when it's time to drive straight to the ER, do not pass go, do not wait for morning.We made it through. He went into remission. I thought we'd survived the worst thing that could happen to us.And then, a few months later, we became "Sick Kids" parents all over again.My daughter—my oldest—had a tumor. 11 centimeters, lodged in her leg muscle. And here's the fun part: to this day, nobody knows what the fuck it is. Not the origin, not the why. Just that it's there, and we're watching it, and living in this permanent state of medical limbo where every scan could change everything.The past five years have been a masterclass in drowning. Not dramatically, not all at once—just that slow, steady kind where you keep your head above water but you're so tired your arms are shaking. You learn words like "myositis" and "immunoglobulin" and "undifferentiated soft tissue mass" and which insurance rep to call when you need to get aggressive. You become fluent in medical jargon you never wanted to know. You develop strong opinions on pediatric oncologists. You can recite medication dosages in your sleep—when you actually sleep, which isn't often.I lost myself again, but this time it felt different. Worse, maybe, because I was supposed to be the strong one. The one who walked away and started over. The one who could handle anything. But how do you handle two kids who've both had the kind of diagnoses that make other parents hug their children a little tighter when they hear about it?I started canceling plans. Then I stopped making them altogether. It was easier to stay in my bubble of worry than to pretend I was fine when someone asked how the kids were doing. Every cough became a crisis. Every fever, a countdown. Every bruise, a reason to hold my breath. I was pulling away from everyone who loved me because being scared alone felt safer than being scared in front of them.My husband—who has made it his life's mission to see me happy even when I can't remember what that feels like—started doing these small things. Planning little moments designed to make me smile. And it was working, sort of. Slowly. Until one day he came to me and said, "I booked us a trip. Just us. No kids. Five years, and we haven't done this."I was terrified. But also? I wanted it. Desperately. I needed a break from being Mom, needed to remember I was also a person, also his wife. So I said yes.We packed. We made the plan: pick up the kids from school, drop them at my parents', head to the airport. That Friday morning, I was drinking coffee and mentally preparing myself for the guilt of leaving, when my phone rang.The tumor. They'd finally agreed to do another scan—after I'd fought for it, because of course I had to fight for it—and now they were calling with results. That 11-centimeter mystery that still has no name, no clear explanation, no roadmap.You know that feeling when you're on a roller coaster and your stomach just… drops? Imagine that, but it doesn't stop. It just keeps dropping.We unpacked the suitcases. Cancelled the flights. Picked up the kids and told them the trip wasn't happening anymore. My daughter's face when we told her—I can still see it. She didn't ask why. She just said "okay" in that small voice kids use when they know something's really wrong.I was scared. Obviously. That's the easy emotion—the one that shows up first and loudest when someone says your daughter has a tumor nobody can explain. But underneath that, I was furious. Why did I have to fight so hard just to get them to do this scan in the first place? Why do I have to scream and stamp my feet for someone to listen? Why does advocating for your kids have to feel like going to war?And then, underneath that: I was just so fucking sad. We were supposed to be on a beach. We were supposed to be eating dinner slowly, having actual conversations that didn't involve medication schedules or doctor's appointments. We were supposed to remember what we were like before we became the crisis-management team.I let myself feel all of it. I cried ugly tears in my husband's arms. I screamed into a pillow. I covered my kids' faces with kisses until they squirmed away, laughing. And somewhere in that mess of emotions, something shifted.We were still home. We caught this before we left the country. The appointments got scheduled because we cancelled the trip. We never got on that plane.I'm not going to say the universe was looking out for us, because honestly? Fuck the universe. The universe let my son get leukemia at two years old and then threw in a mystery tumor for good measure. But I will say this: I was grateful we were there. Present. Together. Not getting a panicked phone call from 30,000 feet up with no way to get back fast enough.I'm still learning how to do this—how to live with the fear without letting it swallow me whole. How to make plans without waiting for the other shoe to drop. Some days I'm better at it than others. Some days I still want to cancel everything and hide in the safety of my worry.But here's what I know now: My strength isn't the adrenaline-fueled "I can do anything" energy I had in my twenties. It's not about conquering or being unstoppable. It's quieter than that. It's the ability to take the next breath even when you don't want to. To show up even when showing up feels impossible. To find something beautiful in the wreckage—not because it makes the wreckage disappear, but because both things can be true at once.I'm tired of being scared all the time. I'm tired of missing out on my own life because I'm too busy bracing for disaster. So I'm trying—some days more successfully than others—to choose something different. Not happiness, necessarily, because that word still feels too big and too simple for what this is. But presence, maybe. Connection. The messy, complicated, terrifying gift of being here.The strength I have now isn't the strength I thought I'd need. It's better. More real. And I didn't find it by walking away this time.I found it by staying put.
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The Woman I Became When I Finally Stopped Holding It Together
Trigger Warning: This article contains content about suicideThere’s a fear that no one really talks about. Not to illness, heartbreak or grief, but to the deep, silent unraveling that happens when life as you know it begins to fall apart… bit by bit.For me, that unraveling came wrapped in pain.For most of my life, I used strength as armour. The kind of strength that keeps you going when you're tired, smiling when you're about to break, and saying "I'm fine" when you're not. I thought that being brave meant holding everything together; the tighter I held on, the safer I would be. But the truth is, I didn't realize how much I was losing myself while trying to hold everything together. I got out of bed every morning, even though my whole body hurt because that's what "strong" women do. I got my girls ready for school, smiled, and then sat down at my desk for work. During the day, I was always racing against the clock, and at night, I was working on my healing business. All while trying to be the loving wife and mother I wanted to be.My body told me to rest, but I didn't listen. Doctors told me to push through it. Family told me to keep going. And I did. I thought that was what strength was. I thought that if I worked harder, prayed harder, and made myself grateful enough, everything would eventually fall into place. But it didn't. The pain just got worse. I was falling apart in every way: physically, emotionally, and spiritually. Every pain came with guilt. Feeling guilty for not doing enough, for not being enough, for not spending enough time with my girls, for not growing my business fast enough, for not being the wife I thought I should be… And underneath that guilt was a deeper kind of pain, the kind that comes from the spirit. My ego told me, "You're a healer. You should be able to meditate yourself out of this.” But I couldn't. My faith was slipping away. Then the universe got involved. I had a really bad kidney stone attack. I have a condition called medullary sponge kidneys, but I hadn't had a stone attack in four years. I knew deep down that this was my wake-up call. This was what the universe was telling me… STOP. But I told myself I would rest later… when I finished one more task… sent one more email… helped one more person. And then I couldn't move. I was on the couch, not working, walking with a cane, high on painkillers, while I waited for surgery. (My stone was too big to pass and so I needed surgery to have it removed). When the painkillers wore off, I felt everything. I realized how much I had been avoiding. The physical pain I had been numbing for years, the emotional exhaustion, the hopelessness.I felt like I was hit by a truck. It hurt so much that one night I didn't want to be here anymore. I remember looking at a bottle of pills and thinking about how easy it would be to end it all. And the only thing that stopped me was the thought of my daughters… their faces, their laughter, and their faith in me. I couldn't let them hurt like that. I couldn’t be the reason their lives changed. So instead of ending it, I picked up the phone and said one of the hardest thing I've ever said: "I need help." Those three words made everything different. I agreed go on medication… which I had been against for years because I believed in natural healing. I also saw what meds had done to people I loved, and I swore I’d never go down that path. But this time, I wasn’t trying to escape. I was trying to survive. The days that came after were some of the darkest I've ever had. I cried all the time. I prayed for the pain to stop. Sometimes, I wished for something to happen to me that would take the choice away from me. From the outside, I probably looked okay… smiling, functioning, “doing life.”But I was falling apart on the inside. I couldn't tell my husband about it. As a police officer, he sees the worst parts of mental health every day. When I tried to open up, instincts and fear took over and he threatened to take me to the hospital. He wasn't being cruel… he was scared. But his response made me pull back even more and I hid behind a mask because I didn't want to be a problem. I didn’t believe I was worth worrying about.And my relationship with my body? Non-existent. When I looked in the mirror, all I saw was my pain, my weight, the redness in my face… disappointment. I hated what I saw. Angry at my body for betraying me, for not getting better despite everything I tried.It wasn’t until I was forced to surrender that things began to shift.At first, it was little things like showing up to my doctor appointments, meditating… even when my mind was racing. I even started seeing a psychologist who specializes in chronic pain. Little sparks started to show up slowly. Life began whispering back to me.Little signs started showing up. Synchronicities like Angel numbers 11:11, 12:22, 2:22, 3:33, 5:55, etc. They started to show up everywhere, on license plates, receipts, clocks, house numbers… even sale prices. I didn't pay much attention to them at first. But then I realized these were the universe's gentle reminders that I wasn't alone and to keep going. That’s when I started feeling faith again.I won't say I’m “healed… whatever that means. I still feel pain. I still have hard days. But I’ve learned how to find peace within the pain. Surrender isn’t giving up, it’s allowing something greater to carry you when you can’t carry yourself. You can only rebuild in a way that fits with who you really are when you stop holding everything together and let yourself fall apart. The hardest part of this rebirth was letting go of the woman I used to be. She needed to be in charge, thought that worth was based on how much work she did, who thought she had to be perfect to be loved.I'm learning to live one day at a time. Someone once said to me, "Give yourself the space to be a beginner." That's exactly what I'm doing. I'm starting over… softer… slower… more open. I don't push through pain to show how strong I am anymore. I am the woman who listens, who rests, who trusts that healing isn’t linear but cyclical just like life.My younger self would be so proud of me. She'd see a woman who didn't give up, who turned her pain into purpose, and who came home to herself. Even the most shattered pieces can be put back together. Even when you think it’s over, life still has more for you. The ego will tell you to stay stuck, to fear change. But your soul? Your soul is waiting for you to remember who you are beneath all the noise.You’re allowed to evolve. You’re allowed to start over. You’re allowed to change your path at any age and at any moment. Because we only get this one life, in this one body. So why not make it a peaceful one?Sometimes the only way forward really is through the unraveling.And when everything falls apart, that’s when your true self finally has the space to rise.If you or someone you know is experiencing suicidal thoughts or a crisis, please reach out immediately to the Suicide Crisis Helpline at 9-8-8 (call or text). These services are free and confidential.Teresa Bird is a somatic healing guide. After walking through years of chronic pain, burnout, and deep emotional healing, Teresa now helps other women release the weight of who they think they “should” be and reconnect with the truth of who they are.Through her soul-led approach that blends breathwork, energy healing, and intuitive guidance, Teresa creates safe spaces for women to soften, surrender, and rise again.You can connect with Teresa and explore her meditations, workshops, and offerings at www.empoweredhealingwithteresa.com or on Instagram @empowered_healing111.Because healing isn’t about fixing yourself, it’s about remembering that you were never broken.
When the Universe Says ‘Bet’ From Snowstorms to Siestas
July marks the anniversary of new beginnings and big changes for my family.You know what they say: "Be careful what you wish for." And let me tell you—when people talk about manifesting things by sending them out into the universe? I’m basically the universe’s favorite case study. I still remember that moment like it was yesterday: November 2003. I had just gotten home from work after being stuck in bumper-to-bumper traffic during a snowstorm of biblical proportions. I was trudging through knee-deep snow, juggling grocery bags and a purse that weighed more than a small child, all while trying to find my keys with frozen fingers I could no longer feel. Somewhere between almost wiping out on black ice and muttering every swear word I knew, I mumbled to myself, “Please, God, get me out of here. I don’t care where—just somewhere warm and less chaotic.”The universe said, “Bet.”Flash forward one year later: we were unpacking boxes in Hermosillo, Sonora, Mexico—where the only white stuff on the ground was sand, and the only storm we had to deal with was trying to find decent air conditioning.Just a few months after my dramatic “my-hands-are-freezing-get-me-out-of-here” meltdown, the universe clearly decided to throw me a bone—or maybe a taco—because my husband Vince was presented with an incredible job opportunity in Mexico. Before I could even say “¿Una cerveza por favor?”, we were packing our bags and heading off to the land of sombreros, tacos, and glorious afternoon siestas. We made the decision to drop everything and move for a couple of years—no turning back (couple of years turned into almost 15 years). Our house? Sold.Our belongings? Packed. Our lives? Shoved into cardboard boxes with the hope they’d magically reappear in the right country (and in one piece).As thrilling as it all sounded, I was secretly terrified of this change. At the time, I was in the thick of building my career in Toronto - always busy, always moving. And suddenly I found myself thinking, “What am I going to do with my time in Mexico?”The following morning, I turned on my work computer and received a random message on the screen - like a digital fortune cookie. It read: "Three grand essentials to happiness in this life are: something to do, something to love, and something to hope for."Naturally, I did what any deep-thinking person would do - I panicked slightly and overanalyzed it for the next three hours. I thought, Okay… something to love? Check. I had a husband and an amazingly supportive family. Something to hope for? Absolutely. I was about to move to Mexico and was really hoping I wouldn’t melt or accidentally offend someone with my beginner Spanish.But something to do? Ummm, I was clueless. I was the queen of structure and a master planner. The thought of having a blank schedule made me extremely anxious. Was this quote trying to tell me that without “something to do,” I was missing the key essential to happiness in my life? Was I destined for unhappiness? After a few more minutes of inner drama (and one very unnecessary Jalapeno chip break), I took it as a sign, a powerful nudge. I had the language skills and the patience (sort of), so all I needed was ‘something to do’ that didn’t involve eating tacos and drinking tequila all day. I decided; I would become an English teacher. I went online and applied to several different private schools and landed a job – teaching grade 4. And just like that, my happiness level was – restored, with a side of lesson plans!“Change is good, change is absolutely necessary. Life isn’t about settling, dwelling and waiting. It’s about making things happen and always maintaining a positive outlook while experiencing all that’s different and new in this world.” I was ready to make every moment count. That was the goal as we dove headfirst into our new adventure. And let me tell you—our experience in Mexico did not disappoint.I began teaching Grade Four at a private bilingual school near our home. Suddenly, I was “Mees Perri,” living my best life. My first week, I showed up to the teacher’s meeting bright and early - Canadian punctuality in full force. Half hour later, the rest of the staff casually wandered in, laughing, chatting, and not a care in the world. No one was stressed. It was like walking into an alternate universe where chill vibes and relaxed timelines ruled the magical pueblo.I’ll be honest—after nearly 15 years of that energy, it became very contagious. I try to keep that same carefree spirit alive since moving back to Toronto... “try” being the key word since everything here is about deadlines, timelines and a scheduling nightmare.But life in Mexico? It was incredible. And this July marks eight years since we returned. I won’t say I’m thrilled to be back... but I’m also not hiding in my closet sulking with a bottle of Don (although sometimes it’s tempting). It’s just… different.Coming back gave me a whole new perspective on life.I remind my kids all the time: life is an adventure. It’s not always sunshine and street tacos. Change, challenges, and even the “what on earth am I doing?” moments are what shape us. It’s about taking chances, even if it makes us uncomfortable. At times we are happy and at times we are not, but we are constantly learning and growing as individuals. The truth is, we all need to zoom out and look at the bigger picture and not be afraid to try something new and accept changes with an open mind."You have to count on living every single day in a way you believe will make you feel good about your life -- so that if it were over tomorrow, you'd be content with yourself." Jane SeymourI remember once seeing an elderly couple leaving the mall, walking hand in hand. I smiled and held the door for them, feeling all kinds of wholesome, when the gentleman looked at me and said, “You’ll be just like us one day, dear.” Most people might panic at the thought—wrinkles! dentures! orthopedic shoes! - but I smiled and said, “I hope so, sir. What a blessing that would be.” And I meant it, because growing old isn’t scary - it’s a privilege.That said, it’s not really about how long we stick around, but how we live while we’re here. So go ahead & close your eyes. Picture yourself old and gray—rocking chair, fuzzy socks, telling the same stories on loop. Now ask yourself: what’s the one thing you’d be proud of? Would it be the jobs you had? The cars you drove? The fortune you built—or tried to build? Or would it be the good stuff—the traveling, the deep belly laughs, the memories that stuck like glitter? My guess? It’ll be the moments, not the mileage. The chances you took, the changes you made, the story you wrote –all in your own narrative.Moral of the story? Comfort is a place to rest, not a place to live. Don’t be afraid of change – instead – be afraid of staying stuck in what's simply comfortable. Take the risk. Make the move. Change the job. Say yes to the things that may scare you a little, because the only way we evolve as individuals, as professionals and as humans—is by stepping outside the box and believing there’s more waiting for us on the other side. And also - wish wisely when walking through that snow storm one day, the universe is always listening—and sometimes, it too has a sense of humor.
THE ART OF SHOWING UP WHEN YOU FEEL LIKE FALLING APART
There are days when I can't find matching socks for anyone in this house, including myself, and the emails are piling up like a digital Tower of Pisa threatening to topple and bury me alive. Yet somehow, I'm expected to show up—at work meetings, at family dinners, at life—looking like I've got my shit together.Spoiler alert: I don't.None of us do, really. We're all just various stages of fraying at the edges while trying to hold the center. Life doesn't come with an instruction manual, but if it did, the first page would just be "HAHAHAHA" written in crayon by someone who clearly had a mental breakdown mid-sentence.The Beautiful Devastation of Being Everything to EveryoneLast Tuesday, I found myself sitting in my car outside the grocery store, having a complete existential crisis over whether to buy the organic chicken that would make me feel like a responsible adult or the cheaper alternative that would allow me to maybe pay my electricity bill. I sat there for twenty minutes, not crying but not not-crying either, caught in that liminal space we know too well—the space between who we thought we'd be and who we actually are on four hours of sleep and seventeen competing priorities.Here's what nobody tells you about modern existence: it's not the big crises that break you. It's the constant, grinding pressure to be everything all at once—professional, partner, parent, friend, activist, informed citizen, and somehow still a whole-ass human being with needs and dreams of your own."The real art isn't in perfection. It's in showing up anyway, sticky shirt and all."The mental load isn't just heavy; it's fracturing. It's remembering deadlines and birthdays and that weird sound the car is making and whether you've had water today and did you respond to that urgent email and oh god is that a rash on your arm or just dirt?Yet we show up. Somehow.We show up because there isn't another option, but also because buried beneath the exhaustion and the doubt is a fierce commitment to the life we're building—messy and imperfect as it may be.The Permission to Be Gloriously Imperfect"You make it look so easy," someone said to me recently at a work event.I laughed so hard I nearly pulled a muscle. Then I told them the truth: that morning, I'd used dry shampoo for the fourth day in a row, eaten a leftover Pop-Tart for breakfastand had a complete breakdown over finding an unidentifiable sticky substance on my last clean shirt.There's this pervasive myth that we should be gliding through life with grace and wisdom, when most days I'm just a sleep-deprived disaster barely keeping the wheels from falling off this metaphorical bus. And that's on my good days.The real art isn't in perfection. It's in showing up anyway, sticky shirt and all. It's in admitting that you're barely holding it together sometimes, and that's not failure—it's just the honest landscape of being human.The Radical Act of Self-CompassionThe turning point for me wasn't finding some magical system that made everything manageable. It wasn't a planner or an app or outsourcing or even therapy (though therapy helped, and if you're not in it, maybe consider it?).The turning point was the day I looked in the mirror—eye bags like bruises, hair a mess, wearing yesterday's t-shirt—and instead of the usual litany of self-criticism, I simply said: "You're doing your best, and your best is enough."It felt like bullshit at first, to be honest. But I kept saying it. On the days when I showed up late. On the days when dinner was cereal. On the days when I snapped at people I love because my patience had worn thinner than my favorite threadbare t-shirt.You're doing your best, and your best is enough.Slowly, almost imperceptibly, I started to believe it. And that belief—that shaky, uncertain permission to be imperfect—has become my North Star on the days when showing up feels impossible."You're doing your best, and your best is enough."
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