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The first time I marched for Women’s rights I was about 12 years old.
As thousands of us crossed the bridge between Ottawa and Hull, I remember looking back and feeling exhilarated, powerful and proud; I was part of something real, important and tangible.
Raised by a once hippy dad and a bold, feminist mom, I had everything I needed to become a strong and proud feminist. But somehow, along the way, something went wrong. For years, the mere word gripped me with irritation and a sense…
As I’ve entered my 30s, it seems, getting sick has become a much bigger deal. My friends and family are no longer talking pesky UTIs and surprisingly violent cases of the stomach flu; they’re talking multiple sclerosis, endometriosis, chronic depression and anxiety, dementia, debilitating chronic pain, cancer scares — actual fucking cancer.
I guess when it comes down to it, they’re talking death.
There’s an IG post that keeps going around with one of those quotes about the relativity of it all. I have fairly cheap and easy taste when it comes to inspirational quotes, so I bite every time…
I’ve always loved my grandmother.
As a child, she was the woman who snuck me sweets despite my parents’ best efforts, who could miraculously pick out the perfect Florida outfits for me from ages 4 to 15, who woke me to the smell of cheese bagels every time I visited — a smell that became emblematic to me of the very essence of Judaism and Montreal.
We were partners in mischief and stifled giggles. She would sometimes hide her fits of laughter coyly behind her hands, as though that was in any way discreet. I loved navigating the space and…
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