If you’re new here, welcome!
Can I offer you a latte? tea? hugs? …all of the above?
If you’ve been with me for a while…hello again xo.
I imagine our encounter would go something like this:
You’ve arrived—I’m waiting for you at the door. Wearing my fabulous Catherine D’lish midnight blue silk dressing gown, with puffed sleeves and oversized clear crystal cuff buttons. Cocktails in hand. Espresso martinis. Dry orange on the rim? One for you, one for me. Welcoming you to my 1880’s Queen Elizabeth style mansion—step inside, there’s a lot to show you…
Ahh, I love daydreaming.
But really, I’m writing this from my bathtub. The only moment of tranquility after putting my toddler to bed. So… welcome to my steamy bathroom! Today we’re soaking in a revitalizing eucalyptus Epsom salt blend.
And if not the bathtub—I’m in yoga pants and an oversized band tee. Today it’s actually a Christmas onesie. Makeup-free with a messy bun and glasses. Writing to you from my office, which also doubles as my husband’s jam room. Surrounded by amps and guitars. Tucked away on the top floor of a brick and charcoal siding, cookie-cutter suburban home. Holding a black mug with “Best Seller Energy” written on it in gold and pink cursive (thank you cara alwill for the daily reminder—the cup, a host, for a caffeinated injection of your magic) containing a silky espresso latte (the Breville Barista was a good investment) with coffee beans sourced from a local cafe.
In 2023, I bought a white Audi SUV to really dial in that middle-class suburban mom energy.
For now, let’s put a pin in that Victorian house dream. My fabulous dressing gown needs grand halls to trail. With vintage gold-framed paintings lining the walls, some sourced from France with eyes that follow you, as you walk by. Some painted by me. But for now, that gown is lovingly tucked away in my closet. It almost made a burlesque stage debut this year—it really is that fabulous.
I’ve always been called to write. Although, I never quite felt like “a real writer”. English was one of my weakest subjects, outnumbered by Math. Which I failed a few times. Teachers were nice enough to offer side-projects to bump my grade. Art always took the top spot, with shiny A’s.
I grew up in a Polish-speaking household. My parents, immigrated from Poland to start a better life in Canada—Sailor Moon, The Simpsons and my older brother taught me how to speak English. Because of this, I always struggled with articulating and expressing myself the way I wanted to. Which in hindsight, resulted in failed attempts to stand up for myself at school. I found it hard to make meaningful friendships. Girls were mean (I hit puberty really early)—boys were easier to get along with, at least we could talk video games. Keeping to myself and only letting certain people in, lead to people-pleasing and trying to get by without being too problematic. I sold myself short for a very long time. I had the desire to take up more space than I did. Instead, I played it safe and shrunk myself for the sake of others’ comfort and acceptance.
I quickly learned, suppressing how you truly feel …it never ends well.
In high school, I was the art kid.
Always the first to volunteer for school mural projects. Art made me feel seen. It made me feel included. It spoke a language I understood. One that required very few words. I had too many thoughts, too many feelings—to know how to articulate them verbally. A paint brush and canvas spoke on my behalf and quite frankly, the only company I needed.
I found it difficult to be honest—to be myself and feel truly expressed. Like most kids, I was misunderstood most of the time. I can count on one hand the amount of people I truly trusted and opened up to back then. I guarded a lot. Although, I did have a tight knit small group of friends. We were like The Island of Misfit Toys. We didn’t seek popularity, to be well-known, or liked. We had weird hair and makeup, “scene” to be specific, smoked weed before it was legal, and ate raw cookie dough before they made it safe to consume. The other girls in my friend group were more rebellious, when they decided skip the afternoon classes, sometimes I ate lunch in the library and bonded with other misfits. One in particular, a well-known author today. I won’t name her, but…how cool!?
We immersed ourselves in MySpace, alternative rock and “emo” music. Hole-in-the-wall concert venues, and an unhealthy amount of Garnier Extreme Control hairspray. It was our sanctuary—que: Tears Don’t Fall by Bullet For My Valentine, The Crimson, Ex’s And Oh’s…everything by Atreyu, or Ride The Wings Of Pestilence by From First To Last (…Hi, Skrillex!)
There’s too many to name. And they all still slap.
I’ve always been a deep thinker, feeler and observer.
Endlessly fascinated by the world around me. The limitless potential of everything all at once. Hence the name of this publication—The Thought Canvas. This is a space to mix words and feelings like colors on a medium. To take a chance, see where it takes me—and you, dear reader.
So thank you… for taking the time to visit. I’m really glad you’re here.
My writing journey started as a 13 year old emo kid. Writing poems and song lyrics for a fictitious band I started in my mind. Which later manifested as a 9th grade high school all-girl alt-rock band called Tell Tale Lie. I co-wrote the lyrics, played guitar. We even played a few gigs in Toronto. Two at the iconic El Mocambo. One at The Kathedral, before it became a high-end furniture store. We competed in a battle of the bands, where an actual well-known band called Abandon All Ships—snagged the top spot. They played their iconic song “Take One Last Breath”.
To this day, it feels like a fever dream.
People chuckled and called us the Pussycat Dolls. We kind of sucked, but, honestly...we were 15. We had a lot to learn. We didn’t practice enough. But hanging out was fun, we discovered a lot about ourselves through the experience. And if we kept going...I saw big things for us. I think we saw big things for us. The momentum was there. Even though we didn’t snag the top spot that night, as runner-ups scored some recording studio time. We recorded one song. Mayyyybe I’ll post it if I’m feeling cute—but alas, I was too fascinated by boys, make-up and if my side bangs had enough hairspray, to give the band the attention it deserved.
It was fun while it lasted.
A few years later—memories of the past flashed through my mind, as I tapped my debit card on the teller counter, listening to “Punks Don’t Dance” on the radio at the local TD Bank. Good times. Our ex-lead singers vocals echoed throughout the room. She was talented and had a true passion for music— and actually made it out into the music scene in the end. Loved that for her!
A whole lot of life happened between then and now.
From getting married, my parents passing away, therapy.
Getting cracked open, healing. Repeat.
To building a whole career—and starting a family.
My actual writing journey started after the birth of my son, Phoenix. Eager to find an outlet to channel all the wild postpartum emotions. I started journaling into my notes app, between late-night feeds and wake windows. Motherhood shook me to my core. Honestly, it was the thing I was most afraid of—to have kids. And subconsciously—maybe what happens next is why.
I always knew I wanted kids (even though I was terrified) and I couldn’t envision when it would happen. Life just kept throwing curveballs my way. My nervous system could barely collect itself—before the next hit came. In a perpetual state of survival, romanticizing the idea of having a family. It felt like seeing a mirage out somewhere in the distance. A vision of what could be. The goal post kept shifting, while I was emotionally, mentally and physically parched.
While picking up the pieces after the storm of my mothers traumatic passing—to becoming the “woman of the family”. With the majority of my family living overseas, my brother and dad were the only immediate family I had. While attempting to come to terms with what happened, I became a caregiver, again, as my fathers health declined. When he stabilized, he flew to Poland. A fresh start. Only for things to take an unexpected turn, after a failed heart surgery.
I’ll never forget when he said, “I can’t wait to see your big round belly”, we both chuckled on the phone. Daydreaming when he could fly back home, soon hopefully.
He passed away, a few weeks later—I was three months pregnant.
The last 15 years were an isolating experience. I could only express the surface without exhausting those around me. I relied on books, therapy, self-help practices, a spiritual awakening—burying myself in academics and work, keeping just busy enough. But grief aways has a way of catching up to you. No matter how hard you try to push it aside.
Someone once said—
“The size of grief doesn’t change. It’s just the space around it that does”.
Having my son lit a fire in me. A deep inner-knowing that I couldn’t shake. All these years of trying to starve my pain—it all came flooding to the surface. And I knew the only way was through. I felt I owed it to myself, to all the women who felt it—but couldn’t quite describe it. To articulate, what happens to a woman after she gives birth to a child. It’s an initiation process unlike any other. And for me, it brought to the surface all the pain, anger, sadness, loneliness and everything in between.
I didn’t know I had postpartum depression until I was through it—it was survival.
Looking at my son was the biggest paradox. I saw this tiny, innocent, fragile human. Absolute perfection—yet, I was the complete opposite. Mentally, emotionally, physically and spiritually depleted. I was tired after all these years, but after creating a human and becoming a mother. Whatever mechanisms I relied on, whatever kept me standing all these years…gave way.
And with it…a seismic level of unbridled emotion.
I felt a deep calling to express and write about what I was feeling. I started logging, week by week. What I felt, my thoughts—reflections on surviving the early stages of motherhood. I knew I wasn’t alone in feeling the intensity of postpartum. I wanted to acknowledge what women didn’t speak about publicly. It was for my own healing, yes. But it also birthed a greater sense of purpose, to give a voice to the women who couldn’t speak about their experience. To give my younger self the voice she struggled to use. For her to understand her level of influence, she had the ability to work a room. Yet, she held back.
Not anymore.
To finally give permission, to herself—to take up space.
The Thought Canvas—explores the peaks and valleys of grief, self-discovery, postpartum, motherhood. And life-altering transitions. I unpack it all here. Sprinkled with a few random surprises and streams of consciousness. It all comes back to the same place though—recognizing how powerful we are as women, what we’re capable of. To be broken repeatedly, while holding space for the world, for others. It’s remarkable. And the potential to create, creatively and literally.
To reawaken within the fire and rise from the ashes.
So with each word I typed into my notes app, I felt myself returning back to myself. I started to recognize who I saw in the mirror. I started seeing a new version of myself, one that I was in awe of. And the love I had for my son, grew each day. I began to feel capable as a mother. I began to reassure myself, to say “I got this”. With each day, the love I felt for him grew, until it was immeasurable. Today, just thinking of him makes me want to cry.
This is me reclaiming my voice. With a pen (keyboard) in one hand and a paint brush (memories + heart) in another.
And this Victorian dream home? I’m glad you didn’t have trouble getting here. I’ve honestly dreamed of a place like this for so long. I can’t wait to show you around. Now, how about that espresso martini?
Get cozy, I’m really happy that you’re here. Let’s start with the double parlor on the right. Notice the details on the arch…
I’m a strong believer of speaking things into existence ;-)
For the book I’m writing “The New Mom Paradox” and pre/postpartum motherhood journey see - The New Mom Paradox
For healing grief see - Ugly Cry With Me
For everything else - The Thought Canvas
Thank you for sharing some of yourself here! So much resonates. My kids are grown now so I know your story ends well too. You *are* a writer and I cannot wait to read what you create.