There’s a strange weight to having a male best friend. People see us together and immediately want to assign a label, a story, a script. “Are you dating?” “Do you like him?” “Is there something going on behind the scenes?” And the truth is, none of that matters to us. But the questions linger, because society doesn’t really know what to do with a friendship like ours.

As National Day for Truth and Reconciliation approaches, I feel it tug at me in ways that are hard to explain. For many, it’s a national day of mourning, of reflection, of learning. For me, it is family history.

I didn’t go to work looking for friendship. I went for the cheque, the benefits, the illusion of stability. Like most of us. I kept my head down, did the job, played nice in meetings, and dipped when the clock hit 4:59.

Let me tell you something about waking up at 40 and realizing you’ve built a career that pays the bills but starves your soul: it’s not a graceful epiphany.

It’s strange how absence has a sound. You don’t hear it until it’s deafening—until the familiar background noise of someone’s presence goes quiet and you’re left sitting in the echo.

Let’s rip the Band-Aid off, shall we? Rejecting someone gracefully is like trying to eat a taco without something falling out—it looks doable, but reality hits different when the guac is sliding down your wrist.

In a political landscape that’s felt more like a reality show than a functioning democracy, something remarkable happened—Canada chose calm over chaos, reason over rhetoric, and common sense over the never-ending churn of rage-bait politics.

Let’s get one thing out of the way: I don’t usually like platforms other than Instagram. But then again, all social media is basically a...

Let’s talk about small victories. Not the highlight reel, not the “just closed a $250k deal from my laptop in Tulum” nonsense.

I’ve kept my political opinion off this blog—not because I don’t care, but because I wanted this space to breathe, to hold joy,...