When I was 11, I tore up a diary and threw it away because I didn’t want anyone to know what I was actually thinking. But here I am 30 years later, throwing my words at the internet.
My work often focuses on LGBTQ2S+ issues, climate, politics, mental health, and parenting. But I’m also easily drawn in by pine trees, ski tracks, anti-consumerist rants, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, and other diversions.
I have a Masters of education, a teaching degree, and an undergrad in political science, English, and history. I’m a parent, a partner, a queer woman (she/her), a settler living in a glorified cabin at the seam of the foothills and the mountains on Sioux/Stoney Nakoda and Blackfoot (Treaty 7) land. I’m a font snob, a coffee snob, and a recovering grammar snob.
I hated high school. But it had nothing to do with learning, as my eight years of post-secondary education attest to. I taught high school social studies and English for six years until my second kid was born in 2017. Now I’m qualified to teach courses in advanced sleep deprivation studies and the postmodern semiotics of preschooler communication. I also chair a local Pride non-profit because free time, apparently, is boring.
No matter how sleep deprived I am, the wilderness is my retreat, and I spent over a decade leading backcountry expeditions and adventure therapy trips. My love of things literary and political always put me in the minority of outdoor instructors; stack of books, newspapers, and journals always awaited my return home off trail.
Once I start writing, I try to keep going until I get to the place Shel Silverstein describes as “where the sidewalk ends” — that small space between what we know and what we don’t, where only words and stories can lead us.
I haven’t let go of another diary since that lone unfortunate incident.
Although I’m 40 with two kids and a mortgage, my old journals still take up an embarrassing amount of space in my parents’ basement; sorry, mom and dad. I hope it seems worth it now.