Tag: grief

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From Grief to Growth: Starting a Therapy Practice in Honour of My Dad

I’ve wanted to be a therapist for as long as I can remember.

At 16 years old, after a fight with my high school boyfriend, I scribbled a list of life goals into my diary. Right at the top were two things: become a therapist and own my own practice. This was long before I had children of my own, before I understood how life would twist and turn, and before I knew how closely my path would align with the person who inspired it all—my dad.

There were detours, of course. I pursued a doctorate in anthropology—the study of human behaviour (so not too far off track). But eventually, I returned to those original goals. Today, I am a therapist, and I do run my own practice. Looking back, I had a clear sense of direction early on—but what drew me to therapy? And why work with children?

The answer is my dad.

My dad lived an extraordinary life considering where he came from. He grew up in a home shaped by adversity: abuse, addiction, violence, incarceration, and neglect. If you’re familiar with the Adverse Childhood Experiences (ACEs) study, you’ll know that scoring high on it correlates with many poor outcomes. My dad had a perfect ACE score. That’s not the kind of test where you want full marks.

By all accounts, my dad should not have made it. But he did. He not only survived—he thrived. He worked at IBM, married my mom (his high school sweetheart), had two children, and coached many others who needed a father figure. He became the most compassionate, empathetic, and quietly courageous man I’ve ever known.

He taught me to look for people’s stories before judging them. He believed in the good in others and never gave up on anyone. He loved unconditionally. My dad once dreamed of becoming a social worker, but when he shared that with others, they laughed at him. This made me both angry and left me with deep sadness for him. Instead, he poured his heart into volunteering, friendships, and showing up for his community. He modeled what it meant to love deeply, support a strong woman (my mom), and live with unwavering loyalty and kindness.

He was also the first person who made me see the power of early intervention. When he shared stories from his childhood—especially when drinking—I saw a boy in pain, a child who had no one to help him navigate what he was living through. And I wanted to help all the other children like him.

Research tells us that someone with my dad’s background shouldn’t have lived the life he did. But he beat the odds. How? I suspect part of it was his intelligence—he was smart, resourceful, a problem-solver. Possibly neurodivergent (We’ll never know). But more than that, he had people who loved him: a grandmother he loved, loyal friends, and a partner who loved, challenged and accepted him. And he had hockey—his outlet, his escape, his lifeline. He always said hockey and my mom saved him.

Even in his final days, my dad was still helping others. He lived each day like it might be his last, and on June 10, 2020—exactly five years ago today—he ran out of days. My world cracked open. I had three young kids and an ocean of grief I didn’t know how to navigate. He had been the healthy one in comparison to others—active, social, full of life. He didn’t deserve to go, not like that. But 15 months after his pancreatic cancer diagnosis, he was gone.

And something shifted in me.

It may be the ADHD part of my brain, but after his death, I felt no fear. The anxieties that used to hold me back evaporated. I kept thinking: What if I only have 25 years left? What do I want to do with that time?

In that clarity, I created Bloom: Child & Family Therapy.

There was no hesitation. No doubt. I just knew I had to do it. Bloom was created for children like my dad—for the kids with silent struggles, hidden pain, and immense potential. It was created to honour him.

Because of my dad, I believe in the power of healing. I believe every person—no matter their past or trauma—can move forward, grow, and thrive. He taught me to be still, to listen deeply, and to see the strength in every human being. And I carry that with me into every session, every conversation, every moment I spend with a child or family.

Five years later, I still miss him every day. But I also feel him—his lessons, his love, his legacy—woven into the work I do. Bloom isn’t just a practice. It’s a tribute. To a little boy who didn’t get the help he needed. To the man he became anyway. And to the lives we can change when we believe healing is always possible.

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Grief and Love: Navigating Loss on April’s Birthday

Today is my best friend April’s birthday. She was supposed to be 44 years old.

For as long as I can remember, I celebrated April’s birthday with her. No one could ever surprise April—she didn’t really like surprises. She told her family and friends exactly what she wanted, and she always had a plan for how she wanted to celebrate. I now admire that quality deeply. April always knew what she wanted—whether it was for her birthday, her career, or her family. She had a vision for her life and worked tirelessly to bring it to reality.

April’s 43rd birthday was the last time I would wish her a happy birthday. I called her that day, as I always did. She told me she was going out for dinner with her husband. She was at the salon getting highlights. She also mentioned she’d been having trouble eating certain foods and wasn’t sure how much she’d be able to eat that evening. She sent me pictures of their beautiful new home in the Bay Area, where she would live with her husband and their soon-to-be three-year-old son.

One month later, April was diagnosed with late-stage pancreatic cancer—the same illness that took my dad at 65, just a few years earlier.

Grief is different for everyone. It can shake you to your core, distort your beliefs, and make you reach for anything that feels stable. For me, grief comes in waves—some massive, some small—but each brings a deep, somatic pain. My already foggy, unfocused brain becomes even more clouded. I freeze. I go numb. Other times, I feel the ache physically—my body holding memories, replaying conversations on a loop. I question what I did or didn’t do, what I could have done differently. I feel like I wasn’t enough.

I want to reach out for support, but then I talk myself out of it—afraid I’ll be too much. I crave connection while wanting to disappear. These contradictions, already familiar from my life with ADHD, feel even more intense in grief.

Joan Didion, in The Year of Magical Thinking, writes about the year following her husband’s death. Her words resonate deeply with me. Because April lived in California, it’s strangely easy to “forget” that she’s gone. If you’ve never lost someone close, that may sound odd—but Didion captures it perfectly: the mind protects us from fully absorbing the reality of loss.

Almost every week, I see or hear something and think, I need to tell April about this. And then I remember. And the wave comes.

As my children grow, they ask questions about my own childhood—and almost every story involves April. I tell them about the two of us watching MuchMusic on our lunch breaks from school, hanging out in her basement listening to music, our proms and semi-formals, traveling to Quebec, Cuba, Mexico, living in Asia, moving into our dorm at university, decorating our student house—our rooms always side by side. Boyfriends, heartbreaks, late-night talks. So much of my early life was lived with her by my side.

And now, joy and grief arrive together. I laugh at a memory and cry at its absence.

Writing has often been my way through, and lately, my creative heart keeps returning to April. I write to her. I write about her. And somehow, in those words, I feel close to her again.

Love doesn’t disappear. It changes shape. Today, on her birthday, I feel that love so clearly. It lives on in the stories I tell, in the memories I carry, and in the deep ache of missing her.

Happy birthday, April. I miss you so deeply.