What's in a Name

AND HOW TO SET IT ON FIRE

Stage 1: Deciding

I was staring into the reflection of woman with a ghost of a life who couldn’t speak her own name. And my soul was using its painful last breaths to tell me that was my problem the whole time.

I had been sitting on this decision for over 15 years. The only reason I never pulled the trigger was because I was deeply afraid of judgement.

Something in my soul didn’t let me go back all those divorced years ago. There was no doubt in my mind that it was just a matter of time before I changed my name again…until time ran out. See, it was all about being a family. But one day there I was, staring into the reflection of woman with a ghost of a life who couldn’t speak her own name. And my soul was using its painful last breaths to tell me that was my problem the whole time.

It’s easy to explain ditching your ex’s name: it makes everyone uncomfortable when the marriage goes down the toilet and you’ve still got the paper stuck to your shoe. But folks look at you like they’ve just wet themselves if you pick a new name. Yet there I was: couldn’t go back to my birth name, couldn’t go to my grave with my current one, and there was no family forming in front of me.

I imagined going back. I even ordered a few things under my original name to see what it would feel like to receive the packages. It was the same: I didn’t know how to be any different. And my past self fell nice and orderly into its ancestral line, looked at me in the mirror and said it was my comeuppance to re-introduce myself with my tail between my legs. “People Like Us” don’t deserve to feel any better. It felt worse than death. It felt like I died a hundred years ago.

I didn’t know this woman and she had already brought me such a new experience of myself.

Fifteen years ago, I found my great grandmother’s name at birth—before two marriages, ten children, and emigration for a very different life—and knew then, if I went down that road, this would be it. Pretty is such a light-hearted word, and when I tried her on in the mirror, this is the first thing I experienced: a lightened heart. I liked it. I liked how it felt to say it, to hear myself say it; how it made me slow my speech; how it felt as my lips pressed together, and my tongue teased my palate as it reached in for my teeth. I didn’t know this woman and she had already brought me such a new experience of myself. I asked her for information and there wasn’t any. I didn’t know what I would do with this, but it felt like every door in front of me was open and that I was allowed to try. It felt like life.

Then I let Past-Self and Pretty talk to each other. Butting in with her years of experience, old me looked at us both and said—with authority—that people like us don’t deserve to feel that good. Right then and there, I knew this woman needed to die. I would kill her one way or another. Bigger than accepting who I was, was my need to denounce who I wasn’t.

I did not seek permission, but I wanted to tell them first—my family—this was not about them. I lost a percentage of my body weight as I wrote and rehearsed and delivered my speech…I couldn’t have dreamt a more supportive response…and at 2AM on a Friday, under one of the brightest displays of the Milky Way, I claimed who I was.

That was the easy part.

Stage 2: Making it Official

So consumed by the emotion of it all, I hadn’t researched the how. Like fundraising to participate in a marathon but not training for it.

I sat on this decision for 15 years and now the bell had been rung. So consumed by the emotion of it all, I hadn’t researched the how. Like fundraising to participate in a marathon but not training for it. A quick internet search led me to book a “change my name please” appointment at the registry. Romantically, it was set for the exact day and time I changed my name the first time 19 years prior.

Luckily, champagne doesn’t quickly spoil. A due diligence phone call from the nice registry lady led me instead to two prerequisite appointments. I needed the okay from both the RCMP (five weeks processing time) and the city police (two weeks).

The happy surprise was that to submit the RCMP application the fingerprint people had to create an account under my NEW name! My first official paper on which someone else referred to me! This certainly softened the disappointment of having to wait. And, with the symbol it already was in hand, I immediately started treating myself differently. It felt like I started a new family, and the first and only family rule at this point was that we loved ourselves and therefore treated ourselves, others, and the world lovingly.

With this new instruction, and up to five weeks to fill, I embarked on a project.

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The couple of preceding years held the memories of the flurry of experience that would lead someone to this choice. Little did I know I was within a larger grief journey. Denial and depression over with, here I was making a deal with my God. I bargained with work, key relationships, my ancestral lineage; trying to make sense of my life in those containers. Determined to get a fresh start, I bargained with myself on what memories to keep and started going through every picture, video, and voice memo I had on file: keep, throw away, too-painful-decide-later. I needed to see, touch, remember, and re-live all of it; acknowledge what wasn’t over: and what was.

I received a single page letter from the RCMP dated only two days after my fingerprinting appointment. Based on everyone telling me this would take five weeks, this must have been a “we are processing your request” note…like they know how much I like paper. Also dated within the week was the city police background check I received with my green light. Motivating! My RCMP check would likely come in within the month, so I told myself to just…keep…going on my project, which was hard.

I once listened to a woman speak of her excitement about assuming her fiancé’s name, "I believe in the family brand.” A different woman’s story ended in “I wish I had the same name as my kids.” Then there are the kids with hyphenated names, and the parents who hyphenated theirs after the fact. It took me until WAY further along in this journey to re-learn that the practice of assuming another person’s name is cultural and inconsistent. What allowed me to separate my identity from my desire to have a family was denouncing a rule that one of life’s random teachers tortured me with. It was firmly planted in my brain that people who do that, who change their name to “some damn thing they pick...better keep it forever.” The punishment, if I ever did re-marry, was that I could not change my name again. I guess because…it would frustrate other people? I had officially done my time. Processing my memories brought all my teachers in front of me and, one at a time, I decided which lessons to keep and which were bullshit.

I could see now that I hadn’t been there for myself and the work I needed to do to land safely.

I pity the fool that got in my way. Within one week, I set boundaries that shifted five different relationships. I blew off so much steam I needed a steam to calm the fuck down. I could see now that I hadn’t been there for myself and the work I needed to do to land safely. Well into the gestation period of being in and between both worlds, this work served as a critical lifeline while I tolerated the existing old; and was solid juice for starting over. The night before I finished, I dreamt I was employing an exorcist to get through the final stages. Oddly, even though my entire family changed my contact card in their phones on Milky Way Night, it was not until now I did this for myself. After eight weeks and 7000 files—simultaneously tired and rejuvenated—I caught up to myself. I felt like I knew where I was now, and what happened, and I was ready to be my next self.

I had been over-frequenting my mailbox for three weeks, but it did not strike me until this moment to double check that two-day letter I originally dismissed. Lo and behold, I had it the whole time. I was at the registry the next business day.

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Hilarity ensued in the form of me not clocking the actual application form required.

Hilarity ensued in the form of me not clocking the [ACTUAL APPLICATION] form required; creating a new account with my old name at the nearby library so I could panic-print the [WRONG] form within my appointment timeslot; eventually—now I’m behind the registry counter like I just got off break—three of us figure out the very confusing requirements (WRONG the first time because I’m from so many provinces); and my application was off! Four to six weeks processing time.

What I did not expect was that this was the death. I had to surrender my birth certificate: shit just got real. There it was, on the other side of the glass, and suddenly I was intellectually tossing a bit of dirt and laying a flower. That weekend there was a very intimate celebration of life. That was the first bottle of champagne.

There it was, on the other side of the glass, and suddenly I was intellectually tossing a bit of dirt and laying a flower.

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The next day, ceremoniously, it felt like the labour began. I now had an approximate date that would be stamped on some paper stating when someone said I was me. I had been doing so much hard work looking back and burning the path I came in on that when I turned around, I didn’t recognize anything or know where I was. Letting your world be new is delightful: messages come from everywhere. My immediate takeaways were that my life would be beautiful and full of special moments, and that I would not be alone. But that didn’t mean there was no work to do.

During this next waiting period, something in me slowed down, dropped low, and I felt my eyes open on the inside. Now creepily watching myself, I strongly felt the need to cocoon. I started paying attention to how I treat myself and how I make decisions.

I was flabbergasted how hard it was for me to simply make a choice based on what I wanted.

In my precious spare time, I analyzed the fuck out of everything and was flabbergasted how hard it was for me to simply make a choice based on what I wanted. One of the first big new decisions I made for myself led to me coining a phrase: Make a Maradyn Move. This has landed squarely in my toolbox to accompany awareness that I am making a choice I would not have before: one made with self-worth that aligns with the life I want to create for myself. I started scattering changes around and using big words like “do stuff that feels like someone is giving me the life I want.” I was learning new things and changing—bit by bit—in front of my own eyes.

It was exciting to dip my toe in, but I had so little experience that the whole thing was sloppy. One very frustrating day, after what had been almost another month of waiting (I was starting to check my mailbox even on weekends just in case the schedules of federal employees changed), I realized if someone swooped into my life today and offered me the life I wanted—if I could describe it—I could not. On the heels of that frustration, I got an email from Vital Statistics instructing me to get ANOTHER police check because I let too much time pass between the two-day letter and my application. Off to the cop shop again (two weeks processing time).

Another month went by, during which, I was feeling so tossed around by my present life my gut was now yelling at me to “stop the bleeding” everywhere. My shields went up. There were boundaries on my boundaries. Braver. I was handling everything with a “just wait until your father comes home” tone while I madly checked even my front mailbox multiple times a day, where they don’t deliver my mail. I dreamt someone at a party played a video of me and I hated it, so I stopped it. People stared while I desperately searched for a better video to represent me; there wasn’t one. This is when I knew that getting my new name was more than the symbol the naysayers suggested I didn’t need: it was a tool. I had a job to do—create a life I love—and Making Maradyn Moves was how I was going to do that.

Just as I became aware of the task ahead of me, my neighbour—who had no reason to check her mail multiple times an hour—found police background check #2 had been delivered to her mailbox. I emailed it immediately, with an unnecessarily desperate sounding message, “for the love of all that is sacred and holy, let me know if you need anything else” and—based on their delicate response—I was confident it was a matter of a stamp and mail delivery (5-10 business days).

Hold on to people that throw you zero birthday parties.

My best friend said it felt like I had been “her” for a while now and we were sure all these delays had been divinely guided; to get me ready. Exactly eight days later she received the story in pictures: the unopened envelope—front and back—then opened, the certificate, the extravagant dinner I ordered in for myself under my new name…

And that dinner, because it included wine, was the first time I had to show I.D.—WHICH I DID NOT HAVE YET because there is an order to these things. That poor courier just needed proof of age, but no, he was going to appreciate the magnitude of my certificate, believe my story, and address me accurately damn it.

As for telling people, great freedom came with being unapologetic and letting no one speak for me. “Congratulations, nothing feels better than becoming yourself” came the best response ever. And zero birthdays are important…people don't usually get to celebrate an actual zero birthday, but I did. Hold on to people that throw you zero birthday parties. That was the second bottle of champagne.

Stage 3: Changing it Everywhere

I had promised myself “The Love Wash”.

All that to just make it official: true in the eyes of government and the law. Only now began the stage of changing it in my actual life; and the true journey of changing my actual life. I was so looking forward to the cleanse my life was about to get. I had promised myself “The Love Wash” wherein, as I went through every inch of my life from my passport to my Pizza Pizza card, I would clock anything that did not feel how I wanted to feel and change it on the spot.

Updating my online presence was low-hanging fruit; I found ways I didn’t even know I was misrepresenting myself. Things snowballed: I unsubscribed from stuff, fixed my car, made a will, and booked a check-up with my doctor. After about two weeks of power-name-changing, I arrived home to a mailbox FULL of letters addressed to my new name. My neighbour caught me in the moment as I was flipping through, “Wow! Whoa! Ohmygosh! Yeah!” We had a giggle and I left as she realized how un-exciting her mail was.

Eventually, you have to face someone horrifyingly saying to you “It doesn’t matter.”

The trouble is, your life is huge and your name is everywhere. Doing this, you find the holes in the world’s systems and eventually—encountering people struggling to manage (let’s motivatingly call it) “substandard obsolete technology”—have to face someone horrifyingly saying to you “It doesn’t matter.” Even harder is encountering the things you yourself are struggling to manage; some are big life choices or projects on their own. The pressure was not helpful for what I was doing. I had to remove it, focus on changing my name everywhere without changing my life everywhere, and simply create a baseline.

I called it “done” when I had looked everywhere I could think of and had done my best. I knew my old name would still pop up here or there in life, and I could deal with it at that time, but there was nothing really left for me to do. As for anything that didn’t stick, it felt amazing using the “Not at This Address – Return to Sender” trick. in the end, it took nine months to get here from my original decision. The exact amount of time it takes to grow a person.

Stage 4: Changing My Life

I’m excited about who I am. That’s new.

I have no more room in my life for stories I don’t want to tell. Does it feel good when I’m awake and doing stuff? That is being alive. Can I feel the fire in my soul? That is my pilot light.

Now at the one-year mark from my original decision, the undercurrent of my life has shifted. It’s like I built a new terminal and different things land and take off from here compared to the boarded up one I came from.

Life is full of offers. You say yes or no to things one at a time and those choices create the path that becomes your life. Changing how you treat yourself is an uncomfortable process requiring practice, but that is the thing that changes how you make choices.

It starts with a pang, a little emotional punch—that’s my soul complaining. I take myself to the place where we have family chats, remind myself of the family rule, and honour myself with an authentic choice simply because I do in fact deserve to feel good.

And my family—whomever I chose to do life with—will grow from that foundation. That is the place I will find my people.

I love my name: saying it, writing it, knowing it, having it. That is new. I’m excited about who I am. That’s new. I’m committed to loving, caring for, protecting, supporting, and showing up for myself; and connecting with supportive people. That’s all new. I’m giving myself a new story to tell using a tool that’s building my sense of self-worth. I don’t need to react to a single thing in my life today the way I would have yesterday. I am starting to feel excited about my life again; knowing that it is a work of art in progress, and it will be better if I’m in it.

Oksana Kathryn Maradyn: present. ❤️

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How To: The List I Wish I Had

Disclaimers:

This list is based on me being born in Saskatchewan, Canada and living in Alberta, Canada and is limited to the facets of my life as of 2021/2022.

It is important to know that a legal name change corrects or changes someone’s name as it appears on their current birth certificate. Only do this if that is what you want. You do not need to legally change your birth name to assume a partner’s name or to go back to using your name at birth.

Things change. If anyone reading this “in the future” finds things have evolved, rendering the list inaccurate, please leave a comment and I will update it accordingly.

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1. Obtain supporting documents you will need to include with your Vital Statistics application:

   • Birth Certificate (the one you want to change)

     • If you do not have a copy of your current birth certificate you will need to order one before you are allowed to apply to change it.

     • Do this through the Vital Statistics office of the province you were born in. I did not have to do this, so you will need to confirm the turnaround time and cost for your applicable province.

   • RCMP Fingerprint Confirmation (allow 2 days to 5 weeks) - ~$80

     • Make an appointment to go to a fingerprinting service in person; specify it is for a legal name change.

     • They take your fingerprints and submit them to the RCMP for you. The RCMP performs a search to make sure you are not flagged for anything that would make them not want you to change your name. They then destroy your fingerprints for your privacy.

     • You will get a simple, single-page letter in the mail saying you have been processed for name change purposes.

   • Police Criminal Background Check (allow 2 weeks – TIME SENSITIVE) - ~$50

     • Do this through your local police detachment; either online or in person depending on what they offer.

     • They perform a search and provide you with a letter that discloses if you have a criminal record or not.

     • The date it was issued cannot be more than 30 days prior to you submitting your Vital Statistics application.

2. Apply for the name change through Vital Statistics (allow 6 weeks) - ~$200

   • Make an appointment at a registry; specify it is for a legal name change.

   • Complete the Legal Name Change Application prior to your appointment. It is important to know the application has two sections that require different proof of who you are in each:

     • Proof of Name section: use your original birth certificate. Note: You will have to surrender your birth certificate with this application.

     • Applicant Information section: use your current ID.

3. While you wait, decide what your new email will be. YOU WILL NEED THIS FOR EVERYTHING THAT COMES NEXT.

   • I didn’t want to hit go or send out the new address until it was official (I recommend this just in case) but I wish I had planned out what I was going to do ahead of time.

   • If you have any tech to sort out, I recommend doing it at this stage (e.g., I chose to consolidate/simplify how I use my electronic services (i.e., email, contacts, tasks, cloud storage, calendar), but it took awhile to learn about what I was even using, then decide what to keep/change, and then set it all up how I want.

   • If you feel so inclined you can also prepare the paperwork you will need for step 7.

4. You receive your Legal Name Change certificate in the mail!!!

   • Celebrate! FYI, if there are no issues, you will simply get a certificate in the mail. If there are issues, they will email both you and the registry with what they are missing. I got the email...it all worked out. No panic required.

   • Set up that new email address if you have not hit go on that yet. But DO NOT delete your original account yet: forward it to your new one so you don’t get any more emails to manage there. Many account changes involve sending email verifications to your old email address for you to update it. The last thing you need is your Pizza Pizza app sending your old self coupons. But there’s nothing worse (ok not true) than losing your Pizza Pizza order history. When you are done changing it everywhere, that’s when you’ll get rid of your old email account. Give your new email to any key contact that need it right away.

   • Be mindful of the order of operation of the following steps.

5. BIG ROCKS: FIRST WAVE. Go back to the registry office and change:

   • Driver's License/Photo ID (~2 weeks)

     • Because you'll get a temporary card, which does not have photo ID, DO NOT change your passport until you get your replacement card in the mail. You will need it as photo ID in combination with your Legal Name Change Certificate while you wait: to prove to anyone who you are.

     • Also WAIT to change any other travel-related documents until you are changing your passport.

   • Health care

     • It will be official in their systems within about a week. That is when you can download a new proof of vaccination card.

     • Your physical card will come in the mail (up to a month). OMG, shredding my old card felt great.

   • They can take your passport photo so that when you are ready to do that application you have the photo already...the passport photo just needs to be taken within 6 months of your passport application.

   • Vehicle registration (immediate)

6. Go to the bank next (into the branch).

   • Why next?

     • I tried to update my info my with clients, but how they pay you is connected to your banking. So do your bank changes before changing anything with work.

     • If any of your government accounts are tied to your bank as a sign-in partner, it will make things easier if you do this first.

   • Don't forget all your banks (i.e., think of mortgage, group savings, out of country). Note: One of my banks would not accept the name change without my SIN number being updated first (see step 7).

   • Make sure you ask them to change it everywhere (i.e., cards, online banking, statements, cheques, accounts at other branches). I had to go back in person twice and wait a month for it all to get sorted out just because the first person did not change it in all the places.

7. BIG ROCKS: SECOND WAVE. These are reliant on each other as noted in-line (i.e., require waiting time in between), and all need separate applications/calls/updates

   • Birth Certificate: Order a new one online from Vital Statistics. When you are filling in “Name at Birth” it is YOUR NEW NAME.

     • Service Canada: With your new birth certificate in hand, you can now make an appointment to change any accounts you have (e.g., SIN). Do this BEFORE you change your passport in case you end up mailing your passport application.

       • CRA Business Accounts: these change automatically based on the above being done, but it takes a month or so before you actually see the change online.

     • Passport: With your new birth certificate in hand, you can now submit your passport application. Note: This requires temporarily surrendering your new birth certificate.

       • With your new passport in hand, you can now change any other travel-related accounts (e.g., Nexus, points cards)

   • CRA Individual Account: I had to write them a letter and actually mail it.

   • Insurance: be sure to update all the kinds you have (i.e., life, home, vehicle, critical illness, professional liability, financial.)

   • Title on your home:

     • I just talked to my lawyer.

     • Alternatively, you can download a Statutory Declaration Regarding a Change of Name form (i.e., from Service Alberta), get it signed by a commissioner for oaths at a registry, and mail or drop it off at the Land Titles office with your official Change of Name certificate and a small fee. You will get confirmation of the change in the mail.

   • Monthly bills: energy, internet, mobile, condo fees…keep the lights on.

8. Work

   • Tend to any manners in which you get paid first.

   • Next, deal with the fact that YOUR OLD NAME IS EVERYWHERE. Ask your tech department to change it, but expect 2 things:

     • There will be this glorious moment at some point where suddenly you see your new name everywhere! I was working on a document with a hundred of my own comments and in flash I saw my new name a hundred times…it was exciting!

     • There will be places that are hard for them to figure out where your old name keeps coming from. It feels horrible when someone tells you “it doesn’t matter” because they haven’t figured it out yet and they just want you to go away. It sure as fucking hell DOES matter!@5$ For me, it took me seven months, but I can say—based on experience—they absolutely can change your name in every single deep dark recess of the digital landscape…at least to the point where you experience it.. Don’t settle…you worked too hard for this.

9. Everything else: while you are waiting for each of the above processes to complete, most of your other accounts are fine with you just telling them your new info, or they'll just want the certificate or ID you already have. If you do not care about it taking a while then just update each account as you encounter it in your life.

   • I found it helpful to go through the following as a checklist to feel satisfied that I was done:

     • Brower bookmarks

     • Electronic [or paper] filing system

     • That little [I refuse to have a fat wallet] place where I tucked away all the plastic cards

     • Actual wallet

     • Apps on my phone

     • My own home network stuff

   • While going through each of these, it’s possible to get rid of any annoyances along the way (e.g., unsubscribing from mailing lists).

   • For whoever is listening: I really appreciate tech providers that allow you to manage your profile (i.e., change your name). Gosh if the banks can do it, you can too.

10. Once enough time goes by, or you have spent enough focused effort on it that you are satisfied, you can get rid of your old email (if you so choose).

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Shredding the Pounds

Blessed are they that can simply light a match.

It’s like looking back at the feelings you had before you knew what was going to happen: before the breakup, the pandemic, the accident, the layoff, the death, the birth…you just had no fucking clue.

I held the hand of a woman with twenty more years experience than I’ll ever have while she processed what was left behind. Parents, partners, preschoolers, and puppies had all moved on... and somehow, she was now responsible for it all: the remains. The easy stuff was easy... his, hers, and their stuff. Turned out, the poison was in the papers. That which represented all that was supposed to have been done...by someone: anyone. And I watched her, like The Goddess of Fucking Pushing Through, face it. It was hard: for her to do, and for me to watch. All I could do was make supper, and stoke the fire, and tell her it was okay. And after the long silent drive home I walked into what was supposed to be my sanctuary and there it was...everywhere...poison.

Papers are a funny thing. The sum weight of something you’d blow your nose in can represent entire careers, projects, dreams, obligations, commitments, opportunities, and regrets. Family, friends, foes, and the forgotten. And as they all rose in front of me, like a nightmare I was having of my future, I promised I’d purge my entire life.

“Hello?” I’d whisper into the closets, and corners, and piles hiding other piles behind doors and on shelves.

It started with the big dig. “Hello?” I’d whisper into the closets, and corners, and piles hiding other piles behind doors and on shelves. The dust and faded type punctuating how long they’ve been waiting for me. Furniture had to be pushed aside. And sorting into smaller more-organized piles and themes padded the moment I knew I’d have to really feel it—face it—and decide what to do with it all. And it even gave me a giggle: cat-proofing the whole thing. And when there was nothing more to prepare, I found the thing I could never prepare for: hindsight.

It’s like looking back at the feelings you had before you knew what was going to happen: before the breakup, the pandemic, the accident, the layoff, the death, the birth…you just had no fucking clue. And now it’s now.

Surprisingly, relief was immediate. When the first tiny sub-sorted pile was cleared from my floor it was replaced with a breath deeper than I had taken in some while. Better than cutting the grass: instant gratification, but it won’t grow back! I quickly became motivated to pick off the low hanging fruit and was rewarded.

I found unopened mail from a year ago; some with money inside. I was reminded of that addicted-to-ordering-wings phase, that delightful coffee shop where I had all those meetings, and that blessed server who gave our table the funniest names that would appear on our receipts.

Keeping ticket stubs from past events in a folder in my filing cabinet honours them far less then taking a snapshot of them all, by year, and posting it somewhere where I will look at them from time to time.

And revelations:

• There is a time frame in which keeping the toilet paper headdress from your stagette is meaningful. But the time will come where it matters more to have the toilet paper. It’s ok to let it go. It’s not like your bridesmaids all took a piece to remember you by.

• Keeping ticket stubs from past events in a folder in my filing cabinet honours them far less then taking a snapshot of them all, by year, and posting it somewhere where I will look at them from time to time.

It got hard when I could see the line where I stopped doing what I wanted to do.

It got hard when I could see the line where I stopped doing what I wanted to do: that stuff I was writing, those now-exposed canvasses with a sufficiently dry base coat, that gift I was making, and—the worst—my precious notes from classes, workshops, and important appointments from more than one ugly/frantic attempt to change my life…none of which I did. And it got harder when I could see reminders of what remained of my resentments. I’m happy to report that blowing-off-steam walks can transmute into liking going for walks and building healthy routines. I took my time—had more than one fire ceremony—but during the really hard parts this low-grade hum of a question persisted: how I could ever forgive myself for it all? The answer was rooted in the process itself.

Poundage, in paper land, refers to the measure of how much 500 sheets weigh (among other factors). So, one piece won’t slow you down: it’s the build up of hundreds that has weight. The sheer quantity of it all is the paralyzer. So, as you alchemize each pile into a breath you’ve been desperate to take for so long you start loving yourself for doing it. And that love makes forgiveness possible, and eventually delightfully automatic.

Near delirium set in as I hit the homestretch…

Before I claimed victory, I even ran to the mailbox...just in case there was the possibility of MORE PAPER in this exact moment…and there was! But quickly dealt with as—months later—I was a pro. Then I had no choice but to celebrate; for the only “papers” left behind were poison-free! Books I’d like to read: and those I’d like to write. The contents of finally-next-in-line projects I truly looked forward to spending time on. And corners, closets, and shelves that used to taunt me daily now remind me of that freedom every time I pass them by as I have repurposed them for simple joys. All that stuff that used to piss me off is gone.

I gave myself the gift of my own time to catch up to myself, to simply see what happened, and to remove any physical reason to go-back.

And my paper habits are forever changed. Now don’t get me wrong...I want to continue to give and receive greeting cards, keep the proper receipts, and subscribe to one thing or another... but it’s just a matter of who is in control. Keep things that give you a feeling you want to carry with you throughout your life: and for the love of all that is sacred and holy don’t burden yourself with the rest.

No one—outside yourself—will ever make you do this; they’ll never have to deal with the consequence. Shredding these pounds cleared the path to things that have been told to wait; and gave me the energy to jump back on the bike that is my life. The past hasn’t been erased but it’s not weighing me down anymore. I gave myself the gift of my own time to catch up to myself, to simply see what happened, and to remove any physical reason to go-back. And my house does feel like my sanctuary now. Like I gently washed it—and the soul it reflects—with the belief that my life is worth that level of attention. And that belief is quite powerful in the wake of what was left behind.

The trash heap has spoken[1].

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Tips: what helped me.

• I had to be willing to go digital. If the banks/government/etc. are digital—basically whom I keep papers for—then I can do it too.

  • Get a scanner. They are the cost of one very nice dinner: ranging in price to satisfy various people’s version of “nice dinners”. If you’re unsure of whether to keep something or not, or if it something you legitimately want access to for the rest of your life but don’t need it collecting dust on a pile in your house, scan it. We don’t want digital clutter either, but if it’s decently organized it’s quick to find it and get rid of it if/when you are ready. Meanwhile it’s not taking up space in your house. If you’re willing to capture one page at a time, taking/saving a photo also works.

  • Organize your digital folders to match your filing cabinet (if you have one on the go). It will then be a smoother transition from a to b.

• If you’re conscious about ditching personal information, a shredder is not a bad idea. I personally had SO MUCH that I took it all to an office supply store and they did it for me for $1/lb. Then I bought my own little home office version so I can take care of it going forward. I figured if I did it the other way around, I would have just worn my new one prematurely. I’m happy with my choice.

• It serves me well now when, in stores, I decline receipts I know I won’t need for taxes…much smaller pile at the end of the year.

• Implement a Special Papers Box. Throughout the year put special papers in the box (e.g., cards, photos, drawings from kids, ticket stubs, love notes…). At the turn of the year, you can look at them as you toast to the year and decide then which things you’d like to keep and how you’d like to keep them. Side benefits:

  • It reminds you of people that you want to reach out to.

  • It gives you the opportunity to say goodbye to things that have ended in that time.

  • It keeps you organized and prevents the return of the clutter.

  • It helps you process what happened and move forward with intention in your life.

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[1] Shout out to Fraggle Rock (I wanted to be Red).

Landing

Breaking a Deal with the Devil

I was trained to say yes. To everything. My self-worth relies upon it. What do you need? I can probably figure it out. Shapeshifter at your service.

I had gone too far…and I was on my way back there. Home.

I was staring at the back of 11 rows of heads on a return flight following an epic weekend escape from my day-to-day. While contemplating if earbuds were a suitable replacement for a fancy seat, the movie in my mind had me stand up, rip my clothes off, and lap-dance the ghost in 12F just to feel something for one more second before I went back - followed only by the flight crew asking me to “please return to your seat ma’am”- and all I was really embarrassed about was being called ma’am. Fuckers.

I had gone so far in fact that I truly identified as nothing and was uncomfortable coming home to myself. Motivation reaching its familiar tantrum. Heart stomping. Hands grasping for air. Panicking in anticipation of being drawn and quartered. Wishing it was a dream. Knowing full well that I created this messy landing. Like a Carrier Pigeon with a set of encyclopedias. It hurt just knowing it was coming. Upon my return, where would I even begin? What. Have. I. Done.

Although this way of being has led me quite far down several paths, the recurring pattern is to reach a point where I must retreat or die. And I find myself at square one. Starting over. Again.

I was trained to say yes. To everything. My self-worth relies upon it. What do you need? I can probably figure it out. Shapeshifter at your service. Although this way of being has led me quite far down several paths, the recurring pattern is to reach a point where I must retreat or die. And I find myself at square one. Starting over. Again.

Something’s missing…and it’s been a REALLY FUCKING INTENSE existence of looking for it. Is it peace? During the hypnosis of blow-drying my hair, every pull of my round brush brings revolving images of people waiting on me for something. The list of things to achieve. Vying for attention. Punching me in the gut as they pass. And here I’ve not even started whatever it is I’m getting ready for…

I accidentally gave myself a day off. As glorious as it felt, I woke up the next morning with the weight of my entire ancestry sitting on my chest. Actual pain. Intense guilt.

I’ve watched them. Those people that just say “No thank you 😊” when they don’t want to do something. WTF??!?

I learned what makes me a good person is whether I can be what people need me to be. Add to that the deep wound seeking confirmation from someone, anyone, that who I am is okay (whoever that is??!?), and an entire life can be built upon responding to requests. But eventually one looks around and sees that everyone else has an actual life and you don’t. Something they’re doing. Someone they’re doing it with. Some reason they’re doing it for. They’ve landed. And whatever their path, they’re on it.

It’s like my parachute got caught up in the trees and I’ve been dangling about trying not to strangle myself. Distracted by colourful subsistence vine-ripened within my reach alone, time has passed, but I’ve never forgotten why I jumped out of the plane.

In exchange for never having to disappoint a person that had any capacity to love me, I simply had to agree to an existence of judgment.

Perhaps we all have a devil that distracts us from our journey. In exchange for never having to disappoint a person that had any capacity to love me, I simply had to agree to an existence of judgment. Every thought, word, and deed under self-scrutiny without the ability to self-direct. Reliant on the peanut gallery. Fuelled by the belief that I don’t get to choose. Want. Crave. Rest. Play. Don everyone else’s mask first. Suffocate in a martyrized sense of obligation and carry on. Or else. So, I never indulged in the art of saying no.

In grade 11 I failed a social studies exam on purpose just to see what it would feel like. I got 30%. OH, the tongue lashing! But it was fucking juicy...letting myself go there…to be a disappointment. And even though I’ve fed the monkey on my back cheap snacks for so long I can’t see past its flappy arms holding on for dear life, I remember what it felt like to have freedom of choice…just for that moment.

There are times, while we are (re)defining who we are, when it’s a good idea to say yes to everything. Throw it all at the wall and see what sticks. We’ll succeed and fail and discover what we like, need, want, and don’t. But eventually we get to a place where something fires us up and then we must start saying no. I rephrase: Until that path is satisfied, orgasmically, the answer to everything else, outside of our survival, must be no. Otherwise, the prize we worked so hard to find will pass us by like everything else that mattered less.

And this doesn’t mean giving up on relationships. The community in which you indulge in authenticity is the breeding ground of what will become your people. And landing doesn’t mean you’re stuck. You can jump again…if and when it’s time.

When you’ve gone too far you have to gut it. Your life. Stop everything. Put tarps out on the lawn and sort what stays, gets given away, and what’s garbage.

But choosing to jump can be messy unless you do what it takes to land properly. To stick a landing, which is a thing of beauty, takes focus, precision, commitment, strength, desire, and resolve. The reward is personal power. Self-actualization. The buzzing of pure life-force energy pulsing through your pores. Alignment. And for the love of all that is sacred and holy people WANT you to go there. People want to be around that feeling. That’s why they clap during the Olympics. The more of us that create bliss the happier we all are.

I’d like to say we’ve trained for this but…

When you’ve gone too far you have to gut it. Your life. Stop everything. Put tarps out on the lawn and sort what stays, gets given away, and what’s garbage. Face everything you’re doing and answer truthfully if they represent what you want to be. And even then…create a wait list. Perhaps figure out one thing at a time and face the music with everything else. Just tell them you can’t. Or won’t. Or don’t want to. Or at least where they’re at in the queue. It’s possible they’ll be fine.

When you’ve gone too far something must go. There are signs. Eating a protein bar in the shower, sitting up in the bath just to be closer to the towel that I’ll need any second now, shutting off the ‘remember to eat’ alarm so it won’t interrupt my next meeting, cramming in errands between other errands, hyperventilating at the sight of my own calendar, feeling relief when something I’m looking forward to gets cancelled, frequenting public washrooms because I haven’t had time to buy fucking toilet paper…and when did my neighbours put their fricking Christmas lights up? Don’t they work??!?

Don’t get me wrong. Some of the best ideas generate in the bath, while driving, on the bike, while working on something else, or while we sleep. That’s not the issue. That’s simply the workings of a creative mind. Bring it on. The problem occurs when the process of thinking about things is attached to resentment that you’re thinking about them.

Saying “no” has shifted from something that makes me a bad person to something that makes me a person.

Being unpracticed I simply must expect to fall. And expect it to hurt. In fact, I’ll pick the thing that will hurt the most. It’s obvious what it is…it already hurts the most. Pick that thing and say no because my truth requires me to focus elsewhere. Do it with gratitude and kindness. Say no. Disappoint. Clock the pain and let it motivate me the next time I consider taking on someone’s vision of what I can be for them. And when I walk away head down, look at my feet and see that I’m on some version of a fucking path … one that I’m carving out for myself … and notice the juicy sense of self that just grew a size.

It’s that thing we sell to the world that we do. “I’m a <fill in the blank>”. To be able to say that, with a sense of freedom, joy, and authenticity, I must be doing it. And if I’m wasting my life doing everything else instead that’s on me. Saying “no” has shifted from something that makes me a bad person to something that makes me a person.

Touchdown.

Starting Line

Making a sandwich with the afterbirth

I held my ego gently in both hands and scattered its ashes all over the rehearsal hall, actually craving the stability of square one.

I handled it with quasi elegance and grace but it was day four and I was breaking down. It wasn’t the fact that our fireball of a musical director swept in and changed what we had planned to do. It was the preceding half hour in which I observed, like a twelve-year-old school dance wallflower, the speed-of-light collaboration that created a four-part harmony to run past her. Pencils and erasers flying around. Half-sentences being finished by one anothers’ guttural expressions of understanding-and-moving-on. Sinking backwards into some tunnel I couldn’t hide in. Asked to deliver edits when I hadn’t even clocked what we created in the first place. Frozen. Naked. Fugly[i]. Music as a second language. The facial diarrhea of tears through laughter. “Don’t. Panic.” she calmly panics me. Everyone’s blood pressure rising. Knowing I’m failing yet refusing to turn back. “We’re gonna…(sob) just…let…this…happen…” I break the ice and blubber to youthful faces that are proud of me at my age. Just letting my face leak and [sort of] sing all at once. And I see it…the starting line.

I knew with every ounce of my being that, even though I fucked up the dance call and really didn’t sing my best, I was - starting right then and there - in a safe enough place to start over.

It had been 14 years since I went through the process of sitting in a room working on harmonies from sheet music which has never been my jam. Before that year’s trauma triggered my seven years of smoking, I was a soprano. I typically sang the melody. I was the ingénue. And there I was…getting my ass humbly handed to me for not computing a low-range string of OOHs. Where the fuck did I go??!? It’s just like riding a bike (that’s been left to rot in a farmyard so long trees are growing through the tires). But I was happy…fuelled by my choice to try again as the human I had turned into over all this time.

Every day I start fresh: “Who I am today is not limited by what became of me yesterday” as I smudge my aura and slap on essential oil blends like Wake Up to All I Can Be and Dive In to it with Courage.

On day one, after (I later learned) I broke most of the how-to-audition rules[ii], they asked me, what do you want to do? … With my life??!?  … and there it was. The skipping record I’d listened to for 18 years. You know…the one where I complain how I’m not doing what I want to do? Super entertaining. And I spewed. (It’s okay…read this bit twice.) My heart cracked open. For the love of all that is sacred and holy could THIS panel of ten be where the story finally landed? Finally ended? And it was! Holy shit now what? I gushed. How grateful I was to be finally giving myself this gift of being in this environment! I would no longer deprive myself of tending to my creative needs! I could have started a frickin’ union. And the lineup of eyes staring back were all turning puffy or red or glassy … except that one guy … I didn’t know if he wanted to hug me or hire me or set me on fire. But as I emotionally wet myself in front of this panel of strangers I knew with every ounce of my being that, even though I fucked up the dance call and really didn’t sing my best, I was - starting right then and there - in a safe enough place to start over. To find home again.

Not dissimilar to many actor’s stories, because of how things were when I was growing up, the only place I ever felt at home was on stage. Although I’d been singing in church as early as I could be left alone with the Sunday school teacher, I really found the stage when I did my first play in grade seven. Missy in R. Eugene Jackson’s Rumpelstiltskin Is My Name. I (realize in hindsight the pros and cons to this but) got a lead role in the drama club play EVERY single year until I graduated high school. However, in my small farming community, that only ever required me to show up. There was no training. No discipline. No classes[iii]. No understanding of craft. And off to the small city I went!

The first stage I was ever on…Rainbow Hall in Canora, SK. I was five years old and sang What Child Is This during the Christmas concert.

Because of (and I repeat) how things were when I was growing up, it only took one year after graduating from theatre school for serial monogamy and the draw of contributing financially to bully my soul out of playing around. One by one my skills of acting, singing, song writing, playing the flute, movement, and general arts-and-crafting fell into dormancy. Yes, I fought it; but it fought back with the strength of that unfillable hole I tried to satisfy with the wrong things. The one that distracted me from the responsibility of getting on with my life for almost 20 years.

“You had a goal at the beginning of the week; did you meet it?” asked the big-hearted intern that helped me more than twice with choreography one-on-ones. Yes; we’ll call it The Great Unsticking of 2019. Now painfully aware of the pit of shame the performer in me had crawled into, I could choose life rather than the purgatory of wanting it. There was a point during the week where I held my ego gently in both hands and scattered its ashes all over the rehearsal hall, actually craving the stability of square one.

No part of the world will be impacted if I have the confidence to let it all hang out alone in my basement.

It’s half about continually working your craft, practising, honing your skills, yadda yadda, and half about being comfortable with exposing who you are. No part of the world will be impacted if I have the confidence to let it all hang out alone in my basement. And if my throat closes when I’m in front of another creature…if my body ceases to be okay with how it wants to move…then THAT’s the true starting line. Allowing vulnerability.

The production team told us up front that they weren’t there to give us participation awards. Their ongoing intention, achieved through providing an authentic (yet gentle-ish) industry experience, is to help build careers; to push people down an effective path[iv]. The great success for me was the triad of gaining awareness of where I am, exposing desires of where I’d like to improve, and motivating me to evolve. The choice to jump into a week-long musical theatre intensive to transition out of “office life” didn’t dump me off in a place where I could see my future, considering my practice stayed in the same stasis as my dream for so long. But it DID leave me in a beautiful place - crouching down, sweating, placing my hands firmly next to my feet: ready, and set.

I could choose life rather than the purgatory of wanting it.

One thing I’ve practised nearly every day for years is writing. I’ve identified a fraction of my identity that I actually identify with (yes it rattles my brain too). So, I wrote something that doesn’t hide my ugly bits and I’m pressing “OK” (that’s the crunchy part). Although visualizing my entire creative future is unattainable at this point, I acknowledge I’ll always know deep down one thing that is a step in the right direction. And I simply know my evolution relies on me always taking that step.

Bang.

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[i] Fucking ugly.

[ii] You’re welcome (FYI: these are specific to the world of musical theatre as defined by New York people):

• Cut your resume paper to be 8x10 and staple it (4 corner staples!!!) to the flip side of your 8x10 headshot. No paperclips. No 8.5x11 photos. Don’t print your resume on the back of your headshot.

• Your headshot MUST look like you now. Don’t give them a collage of photos with different looks. If you change a feature drastically, and often, it’s fine to show them a single corner ‘other look’ with your current crazy hair style (or whatevs). Include your name, but don’t put it ON your picture (keep it in the border).

• Your resume should NOT have your weight, age, eye colour, hair colour, or say “non-union”. It is good to put your height, contact information, and vocal range (only if you have a unique vocal thing going on - otherwise they can tell by the first 3 notes you sing). Don’t put credits on your resume that are meaningless or that may bring you down a notch. It’s okay to include a credit from a no-name theatre company or armature experience if it showcases something personally professional that you’re prepared to gush about.

• Your audition book should have a table of contents, with tabs to match it. Have contrasting repertoire options for 16 bars (i.e. 30-45 seconds) and 32 bars (i.e. 45-60 seconds). Anything longer is weird. Music should be hole-punched and in a binder and organized strategically to require the least amount of page flipping as possible.

• Your wardrobe tells them a lot about who you are; be intentional about your brand.

• Be low maintenance. Don’t bring in your water bottle (show them you can last 5 minutes on stage without it), your notebook (have you ever taken notes in an audition?), your folder(s) full of things, your phone (you’re not gonna text them while you’re there), your purse (someone will watch it), etc.

• Walk in the room like you would a job interview (that’s what this is). Be confident and present yourself as someone that they’d actually want to work with. Be cool.

• Don’t shake hands unless they initiate it. Consider it perpetually cold and flu season.

• Upon entry into the room, go directly to the pianist (upstage if possible…they have too many people bend over and show them their butt as a first impression), place your book on the stand, flip to what you’re going to sing (don’t make them decide…that’s high maintenance), and take a moment to tap on your chest (no finger snapping) to show the pianist the tempo and feel you want to sing to.

• Plan to sing your best song first…you may only get one opportunity. Don’t announce what song your going to sing unless they ask you (they know them all…just sing it.).

• If you forget your words do not apologize. Don’t blame the pianist (it’s always your fault no matter what). It’s okay (once) to gracefully and efficiently start over.

• If the music is too quiet for you to hear and follow along, it’s okay to stop and kindly ask for more volume. If the music is too loud…suck it up.

• Don’t sing directly TO them (i.e. gazing awkwardly into their eyes). Let them be in the audience and put yourself on stage.

• And remember…you don’t have control over their vision, their mood, who’s in the room, the competition, if you are sick or not. Just do your best, be grateful that today you got an opportunity to practice your craft, and be cool enough to maintain these relationships.

[iii] Not being a part of our curriculum, the only reason I had theatre in my life growing up was because of the school culture and the generosity of those teachers that volunteered their personal time.

[iv] It was like they brought a glass of water to a city that doesn’t know it’s dehydrated; I guess even a city starts somewhere.