Liminal Health and Wellness

2 years ago I wrote this on a piece of paper before any of this fully existed.

Just an idea.
A feeling.
A pull toward creating a space where women felt supported, nurtured, educated, and cared for through pregnancy, postpartum, and all the identity shifts that come with becoming and rebuilding.

I wrote:
“When we support moms we support the entire world.”

And I still believe that deeply.

Since then, Liminal Health has become more than a name on paper. It has become a home for meaningful conversations, safe landings, nervous system exhales, growing families, healing bodies, and community.

Reading this back reminds me that sometimes the things that light us up the most also ask us to trust ourselves before there’s proof it will work.

Tired, yes.
But deeply satisfied. Forever grateful for our sister journal. Thank you for this reminder.

Snacks are optional… but like, why would they be?

Because sometimes your body doesn’t need more talking
it needs something crunchy, something chocolatey, something that says
you’re allowed to take up space and have your needs met.

I’m not here to force snacks on anyone
but I am absolutely here to offer them like a loving nudge.

A quiet “hey… have you eaten?”
without the guilt, without the rush.

Because care doesn’t end at the treatment
and it definitely doesn’t skip over basic human needs.

So yes, optional.
But also… highly encouraged.

Because being held sometimes looks like a warm room
a soft landing
and a snack waiting for you 😌

An annoyed, humbling moment for me.

I’ve been an RMT for 14+ years.

I started running again. Slowly. What I thought was methodically. I truly believed I was being smart about it.

For a few months, I felt amazing. Strong. Capable.

Then old injuries whispered.
New compensations showed up.
My body had notes.

And I got frustrated.

Because how could I, of all people, let this happen?

Turns out, no matter what kind of professional you are
how much you know
how many years you’ve been doing it

You still need support.

So I booked with other RMTs.
Physios.
Chiros.

And they helped me get back on track.

We are not meant to do this alone.
Not healing.
Not training.
Not building.
Not life.

Do not wait until crisis mode to reach out.

This is your reminder. And mine.
Put yourself on the list. ✨

It’s taken me just over a week to find words that don’t feel rushed or incomplete.

Last week, we lost my father in law.

A man who is the grandfather to my children.
A man who is half the reason my husband exists in this world.
A man I’ve known for fourteen years of my life.
A man who loved desserts more than anyone else on this planet.

Not as the one who raised me, but as someone who witnessed me becoming who I am. Our relationship was different. Softer in many ways. It allowed space for conversation, for curiosity, and for me to share my perspective on life through a gentler lens than that of someone who raised me from childhood.

I loved him.

In his last days, within the fullness of our life, it became clear what truly mattered. What we once thought were priorities quietly rearranged themselves. With the support of family and friends, Kev and I were able to show up fully. Our kids showed up too. Those days gifted us the most beautiful and lasting memories, ones that now live quietly and deeply in our hearts.

Watching my husband, my mother in law, and my sisters in law care for him so deeply was profoundly impactful. To witness that level of love, devotion, and tenderness is a transformative place to stand. It is something that changes you. I am deeply grateful to have been able to share and be present for the final moments of someone’s life.

In my work, I am so familiar with waiting for birth.
Waiting for death is an entirely different experience.

The love is just as immense, if not more.
Because here, the impact is already known.
A life already lived.
A legacy already imprinted on the hearts of those who loved him.

Birth holds possibility.
Death holds meaning.

As my father in law, and in the relationship that we had, I will truly miss him. I will remember him for all the ways he impacted my life, the conversations we shared, the softness he offered and the food we ate.

Grief rearranges everything. It slows time. It allows gratitude and heartbreak to sit side by side.

Holding our family close 🤍

January, for most people, means rushing back into routine.
Schedules. Deadlines. All the things we neatly packed away during the “break”.

What I want to remember instead is this
The break is where time softens and calms.
Where it’s supposed to freezes just enough to let us breathe.

If we defrost too quickly, we risk breaking.
Cracking.
Snapping back into a pace our nervous systems have not agreed to yet.

So this is a gentle reminder for my fast paced people
You are allowed to thaw slowly.
You are allowed to move at your own rhythm.
You are allowed to carry the softness with you as you return.

January does not need to be rushed.
I know I not rushing anywhere right now.

✨ My mirror ✨

She is my mirror. Her eyes feel like a portal. When she looks at me I see who I was, who I am becoming, and the patterns I am gently rewriting. She reflects my softness, my spark, and the places I am still learning. She also shows me the armour I’ve worn through life, and every day I work to lift it piece by piece so she never has to carry the same weight.

Motherhood has opened this liminal space where past and future meet. I feel my mom there too. A woman who loved me fiercely in the only ways she knew. Her strength was survival. Her generation loved differently because they had to. I honour that. I honour her. And I also know I get to love my daughter with more softness because of everything she carried.

Every day I learn myself while I raise her. Healing old layers. Choosing presence. Creating a steadier foundation for her to grow.

She is my mirror. My portal. My tiny teacher. And together we walk this threshold between what was and what can be with grace and love. ❤️