For years, when people asked what I “did,” I never quite knew how to answer.
 

I was always busy, or at least, I looked busy, but inside, I was asking myself more difficult questions: Who am I, really? Where am I going?

 

My go-to reply became a joke: “I’m livin’ the dream.” It usually drew a chuckle. But it was flippant. Soulless.

 

Back in the season of my life when I worked as a paramedic, I knew

who I was. My purpose was clear, and my identity solid. But as I moved

into education administration, important work, yet removed from the

front lines, that sense of self began to blur.

 

I no longer had words for what I “did” – what IS “education administration” anyway?  I was busier than in any other season of my life, but I was no longer being. The hours of meetings, the reports, the budgets, they held little meaning for me, and I lost my sense of purpose.

 

During that time, I began practicing photography. I mostly photographed nature, flowers, birds, images I knew my parents would enjoy. I liked the way I lost track of time when I was immersed in photography, how time slipped by while I was looking for a raindrop lingering on a leaf after the rain.

 

I posted my photographs on social media. Now and then, someone would contact me and share that one of my photographs had brought them a moment of calm, amidst their own brand of "busy". For a heartbeat, I’d feel a sense of purpose again. Then being busy would once more fill the frame, and the sense of purpose faded.

 

In 2020, I started a blog. I worried that with how busy I was, I’d struggle to find time to write. But like photography, I eagerly anticipated opportunities to write a new post. I loved the connection when readers reached out to share their own stories or ideas. It felt meaningful.

 

When my husband and I moved from Canada to Europe in 2023, the “busy” disappeared overnight.

 

We faced a new language, a new home, a new rhythm to life, we had left everything familiar behind. New people we met asked me what I “did”, and I still didn’t have an answer, and the questions I had for myself still crowded my mind.

 

That’s when I began to write in earnest.
 

I turned the journal I’d kept during my first medical aid deployment

into a memoir. I learned to stay in the chair, to show up to the page, to

shape raw experience into story. Writing communities became my

classrooms and lifelines. The questions that kept me awake were no

longer about identity, but about meaning; what do I want readers to carry from this story?

 

Now, I’m writing the stories of my parents, before they were my parents. What began as curiosity has become a shared journey. Through their memories, I’ve learned to listen deeply, to honor the threads that connect generations, and to see how our stories shape us all. Strangers who follow along often tell me they’re inspired to ask their own families questions, and that’s the most meaningful part of all.

 

Photography still pulls at me, too. It’s the visual echo of the same impulse, to notice, to compose, to make sense of fleeting moments and emotions. I experiment with movement, layering, and abstraction to capture not just what I see, but what I feel.

 

These days, my creative life extends beyond the page and the lens. Through Relocurious, a blog and podcast I co-host with my husband, Michal, we explore the emotional side of relocation, identity, and belonging.

 

I no longer chase definitions. When someone asks what I “do”, I enthusiastically tell them about my current project. But more broadly, I create. I listen. I tell stories – mine, my family’s, and perhaps, I can inspire you to tell yours.

 

I may not have a polished elevator pitch to describe my life these days, but I know this much:
I’m finally livin’ the dream.

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