Pursuing Presence: Lessons from my 37th lap around the sun

I recently celebrated my 37th birthday.

If I’m being honest, I typically find myself struggling around my birthday. This happens largely because thoughts of celebration can be easily overshadowed by grief, and also because over the years, each birthday seems to carry with it the burden of expectations. 

Expectations of what I should be doing, what I should have accomplished, and what my life should look like as a woman of a certain age. 

Although today’s version of me is generally less concerned with expectations that I now realize were never mine to meet, as my birthday approaches, I inevitably feel myself deflate under the weight of all that I’ve lost, and all that I have not yet received.  

In order to combat this, over the past few years, I’ve taken to using my birthday as an opportunity to reflect, celebrate, and set intentions for the year ahead, similar to what many folks do to ring in a new year. This shift has helped me reconnect with myself during a time where my emotions can feel complicated and all consuming. It has also helped me view my goals and accomplishments in a way that honours me and my life cycle, rather than through the arbitrary constraints of the calendar year. 

My 37th lap around the sun felt tumultuous. There has been grief, anxiety, anger, shame, and sadness, but when I zoom out and look at the bigger picture, I can see that it has also been full of joy, love, accomplishment, connection, growth, and peace. 

This year held:

My first year of homeownership with my wonderful partner

My first solo road trip

My first international speaking opportunity

My first year of teaching jiu-jitsu to beginners 

My first Personal Training practicum student and sub-contractor

My first market

My second successful Self Care Day event

My second Wild Roses Festival as both attendee and presenter

My third stripe on my purple belt

Numerous learning opportunities

Countless moments of connection with clients and community

Deepening friendships and relationships

Invaluable opportunities to play, create, and be present

As I reflect upon all the good that came with this last year, it’s hard to reconcile it with the turmoil I felt at times, but the truth is, being human is complicated. The good does not wash away the bad, and in fact sometimes it exposes just how bad things really were, but if I’ve learned anything from this year, it’s that I have the capacity to hold a full spectrum of emotions and experiences, from great joy, to immense sorrow, and everything in between all at once, and that’s pretty fucking amazing. 

As I move through my next year of existence, I’m not chasing specific goals, or even trying to make the good outweigh the bad. Instead, I’m pursuing presence. 

Presence with others

Presence with my emotions

Presence in my experiences

Presence within my body

And while I’m sure that sounds great, you might be wondering what a practice in presence actually looks like? 

The truth is, I’m not one hundred percent sure, because it would likely look different for different people. 

What I have learned about myself in these 37 years however, is that presence is not something I can force, yet it can be easily disrupted.

I’ve tried for years to “quiet my mind” and “harness the flow state” by using things like meditation apps, focus timers, and following the guidance of others that seemed to have what I wanted, and sure, I’ve had some success. But the more I’ve grown to understand myself, and my unique nervous system, I’ve realized that I have to forge my own path to presence. 

Just like with exercise and eating, what works for one person, may not necessarily work for another. Instead of grabbing hold of the tools and strategies of others and running with them, expecting them to hold the key to a mindful existence, I choose to think of them as acute variables within the experiment of life. It’s up to me to test them, and determine if the results they yield are significant enough to warrant continued use. 

This year, when I sat down for my annual review, swiping through the photos and videos I accumulated between my birthdays, a few things became abundantly clear. Not only had there been so much to celebrate, I could also see the activities, actions, and environments in which I felt the most grounded and present. What I’ve realized, however, is that it’s not really the activity itself that facilitates this sense of embodiment in me, but rather how they make me feel, and what parts of me are engaged when I participate fully.

The things that seem to draw me most deeply into the present are the things that invite me to be creative, playful, curious, or engaged in problem solving. I feel present when I’m trying to figure something out, making something, learning something new, or moving in a way that allows me to experiment rather than perform. Jiu-jitsu does this for me. So does dancing, writing, puzzles, planning, and even some of the mundane problem solving that comes with navigating everyday life. Sometimes it’s as simple as putting on music while I move my body, listening to an audiobook while I walk, or finding a way to make an ordinary task a little more interesting. And when I can do these things outside, surrounded by trees, sunshine, or fresh air, even better.

I’ve also noticed that some of my most present moments have very little to do with what I’m doing at all, and everything to do with who I’m with. Playing with my niece, getting lost in conversation with a friend, laughing with my partner, connecting with clients, or sharing an experience with my community can pull me out of my head and into the moment in a way that no focus timer ever has. There is something about connection, and especially about feeling loved and known, that makes it easier to put down the things I’m carrying and actually inhabit the moment I’m in. And maybe this is why play has felt so important to me this year. When I’m truly playing, there’s nothing to accomplish and nothing to prove. I can just be.

But there is one more piece to this that I can’t ignore: safety. It is difficult to be present when some part of me is busy anticipating what might go wrong, managing uncertainty, or trying to protect me from something that hasn’t happened yet. Sometimes planning and preparing are the very things that allow me to let go and be present. Knowing that I have what I need, that I have somewhere safe to land, or that I have people I can rely on creates enough space for me to actually experience what is happening around me. Presence, I’m realizing, isn’t simply a matter of paying attention. Sometimes it requires having enough safety to stop looking for the exit.

So perhaps pursuing presence doesn’t mean learning how to be mindful every minute of every day, or finding the perfect practice that will finally teach me how to quiet my mind. Maybe it means getting curious about the conditions that help me get there. More creativity. More play. More movement. More connection. More opportunities to solve problems and learn and make things. More time outside. More love. More safety. And, perhaps most importantly, less pressure to do any of it perfectly.

At 37, I don’t think I need another list of things I should accomplish before my next birthday. I’d rather pay attention to the moments when I forget to count the years at all.

Ripping the Band-Aid Off

Photo by @rebeccamwalker

I am struggling to sum up my experience at the 2026 Wild Roses Festival because if I’m being honest, I had a hard time this year. 

I expected that the most difficult part of the weekend would be managing my pre-presentation anxiety, avoiding mosquito bites, and staying dry in my tent. What I did not expect was to uncover a wound that brought me back to a time when I felt most vulnerable. 

I went into the event desiring an emotional outlet, but more than that, I was craving connection and the space to be present with other women. I planned my schedule to include sessions like “Hex the Patriarchy” with Sierra Jameson, "Sacred Rage” with Briar Culbert, and "Reparenting Attachment Wounds” with Tessa Lawlor, as well as a variety of somatic movement and dance sessions, including my Sunday morning Somatic Mobility session, Release. 

And while I gained so much from each of these, it was the experience of simply being present at the festival that hit me hardest. 

I felt it wash over me like a wave as soon as I pulled my little VW onto the land, like a long overdue exhale. This space, created for women by women, all the way down to the porta potties, felt more like a diverse and thriving community than a festival, and in some ways it felt like coming home. 

I can think of very few places in my life where I’ve felt entirely safe from the male gaze. I felt it land on me, track me, motivate me, and instill a sense of un-ease in me as a young woman long before I knew a name for it.  Although, in the more recent of my 37 years, the impact that gaze has on my choices has gone way down, I can’t say that it doesn't occasionally make its presence felt in one way or another. 

The opportunity to lay that burden, which should never have been mine to carry, down for a few days is a gift for which I am endlessly grateful.

But if I have learned anything through my years of therapy and personal development, it’s that the more I heal, the more I realize that there are deeper wounds below that still need tending. This sudden break from the male gaze was like ripping the bandaid off to expose what some might call the “sister wound” or “witch wound.” 

If you know me personally, or have heard me speak, you may know that I lost my mother just before the age of twelve, and that loss, of course, impacted me greatly. But grief is just one small piece of the puzzle that I am still slowly putting back together. 

As I moved through girlhood toward womanhood, my lack of motherly influence often made me feel like an outsider with other women. 

Learning about fashion, personal grooming and my own changing body mostly through books, magazines, and what little information I could glean from school and my peers often left me feeling like I was doing this girl thing wrong, and it seemed that others thought so too. 

Girls at school critiqued my body and my clothes, while others shared even crueler gossip that inevitably made its way back to me.

Surviving these early experiences was no easy feat, and I’m sure that there were many times since, when I’ve perpetuated similar judgemental behaviours. Over the years, however, it’s been the love and friendship of other women that has most helped me heal these wounds and change, but I see now that there is yet more healing required. 

I went into the festival with hopes of connecting with other women over shared experiences, but to my surprise, instead of connecting, I felt myself withdraw. 

I showed up physically for the experiences, but I struggled to be present and connect. A familiar feeling of being “too much,” of not feeling safe to be vulnerable for fear of judgement and rejection stung me and I struggled to fully express myself, even in the company of trusted friends. In the absence of the male gaze, I found myself drowning in a mixture of grief and fear of “doing it wrong” when what I had been craving for so long was there in front of me. I craved the opportunity to share in rituals with other women that I felt I’d missed out on, not having any women left in my family to look up to and learn from. 

I spent the first day or so of the festival unsuccessfully holding back tears until a woman I hadn’t seen in years offered me comfort, and my flood gates opened. 

We ran into each other outside of the washrooms after a powerful presentation, and she told me she’d seen me crying and asked if she could give me a hug. Although in the moment I didn’t have the words, or the capacity to share the depth of all I was feeling, and in my usual fashion, I laughed it off like it was no big deal.

“Oh I’m always crying” I joked, “I love a good cry.”

But the truth was, that moment created a shift in me. I had been seen in my pain, and offered love and acceptance, with no further questions asked. 

I would love to say that this simple moment of connection helped me let my walls down, and it did, but first it cracked me wide open, and in private, I crumbled. 

Over the next hour or so I hid away in my tent, grief spilling out of me in buckets as I grappled with the realization that I was missing out on the connection I so desired simply because I feared being seen. 

Being seen in my pain

Being seen as different 

Being seen as I am

I had every reason to believe that this of all places, was safe for me to show up authentically, to engage in community, and experience on a large scale, the exact thing that I myself have been trying to build, but I was holding myself back. 

Eventually, I managed to pick myself up off of the floor of my tent, and carry myself back into the remainder of the festival, feeling a little lighter. 

By the final day of the festival I felt myself returning, and for that I am so grateful. Not only did it happen just in time for me to show up authentically for my morning presentation, but I was also able to be present for the rest of the day’s activities, which proved to be just what I needed. 

One of the last presentations I attended was called "Healing the Witch Wound" and was facilitated by Eileen March. 

In a nutshell, the witch wound is a wound rooted in the historical persecution of women and healers, and can present itself in a fear of being seen, and a distrust of others, particularly women. 

Eileen’s presentation could not have come at a better time for me. It not only helped give a name to my feelings and experiences, but as she guided us through a visualization practice, I found myself feeling connected not just with the women around me, but to the generations of women who came before me, even those who’ve been lost. 

As I reflect back on my wild roses experience, I am grateful for the journey it took me on. 

As much as it would have been nice to experience the whole weekend from this place of lightness and connection, I am grateful that the experience I did have, helped me get there eventually. 

I know that there is still work for me to do, and I will likely continue to uncover deeper layers of myself that need tending. But this experience has reinforced my belief in the importance of nurturing a sense of community in which folx feel safe to be authentic, and vulnerable, and the best way for me to do that, is to continue getting comfortable with my own authentic and vulnerable self.

Take Imperfect Action

Spotted next to Peace Garden park in Wîhkwêntôwin. Artist unknown

What is imperfect action?

To me, imperfect action is literally any action that moves me in the direction of the behaviours, habits, or goals that matter to me. It's not about doing the thing perfectly. Sometimes it's not even about accomplishing the thing I originally set out to do. It's simply about taking one step, no matter how small, slow, or sloppy.

When it comes to exercise, maybe that's a workout session. Maybe it's five minutes of stretching while the kettle boils. Maybe it's putting my gym clothes on and driving there, even if I only stay for twenty minutes. Maybe it's choosing to walk around the block instead of scrolling on my phone.

None of those actions are "perfect." But every single one of them reinforces the identity of someone who values movement and cares for themself.

I didn't always see it this way.

In my twenties, more was always better. More frequent workouts. More intensity. More competition. I had something to prove, and working out was the method I chose to get there. At that time, I thought consistency looked like hitting a certain number of workouts every single week, forever. 

I knew there would be disruptions for things like illness, vacations, or major life events, but I expected myself to just get right back into the swing of things afterward, and when I didn't, I got frustrated.

The longer it took me to get back into my routine, the more disappointed in myself I became. In turn, that created resistance, because it wasn't just about my workout routine anymore–it was steeped in shame, guilt, and self-criticism.

Over the years, though, I've learned more about myself and my body, about exercise science, psychology, and social determinants of health. I've also had the privilege of walking alongside hundreds of women, each navigating their own unique barriers to movement.

And along the way, I softened.

Not because I lowered my standards or stopped caring about my health, but because I started caring more about sustainability than perfection. This shift in thinking has completely changed the way I think about progress.

So often when we are thinking about becoming more active, we put too much emphasis on motivation, when what we really need is momentum, and only motion builds momentum. Shame rarely does.

One of the biggest misconceptions I see online is that if you're not training several days a week, tracking every workout, or meticulously increasing the weight on every lift, you're somehow wasting your time. 

In exercise science, we talk about something called progressive overload. At its simplest, it just means gradually asking your body to do a little more over time so it has a reason to adapt.

Sometimes that means lifting heavier weights. Other times it means doing another set, walking a little farther, spending a few more minutes on your bike, challenging your balance, slowing down the tempo of an exercise, or simply performing a movement that once felt intimidating confidently, and more efficiently.

Progressive overload isn't just one specific strategy. It's the gradual process of becoming capable of doing a little more than you could before.

Social media often makes it seem like this highly technical process where every variable needs to be perfectly optimized. While there is certainly value in structured programming—especially for athletes or specific performance goals—for most of us, progress happens much more naturally than that.

Stick with an activity long enough, and chances are you'll slowly become stronger, more coordinated, more confident, or have more endurance without even realizing it.

Progressive overload doesn't require perfect consistency. It requires continued exposure over time. Sometimes that time is measured in weeks. Sometimes it's measured in years.

Sometimes you'll make rapid progress. Sometimes life will demand your attention elsewhere, and your progress will plateau—or even move backwards for a while.

That's okay.

Because your body doesn't know whether you missed the gym for three weeks because you were caring for a sick family member, planning a wedding, grieving a loss, raising children, or simply trying to survive a stressful season. It's primary concern is what you're asking of it today.

And if today you're asking it to move a little more than yesterday, you're still moving forward.

One of the questions I get asked most often, both from personal training clients and from people at jiu-jitsu is:

"Can I still make progress if I only come once a week?"

The answer is almost always yes.

Will your progress be slower than someone training three or four times each week? Probably. But slower doesn't mean insignificant.

If once a week is what genuinely fits your life right now, then once a week is infinitely better than waiting for the mythical future version of yourself who suddenly has endless free time and energy.

I've found myself embracing this idea recently as I've started rebuilding my own strength training routine after a few weeks off. Instead of trying to force myself back into the schedule I followed in the past, I'm asking a different question:

"What feels realistic for my life right now?"

I'm planning workouts that fit around teaching jiu-jitsu, running my business, and work with my attention span. I even have options for the days where anxiety or body discomfort make the gym feel like a bigger hurdle than usual. Ironically, this more flexible approach is probably the one I'll be able to maintain for years to come.

That's also how I approach personal training with many of my clients.

When someone is brand new to the gym, nervous about exercising, balancing kids and work, experiencing chronic pain or other conditions, or have been disconnected from movement, my goal isn't to create the "perfect" workout plan.

It's to help them build a relationship with movement that feels approachable enough to come back to. Because if we can help someone move consistently for years instead of perfectly for six weeks, we've accomplished something far more meaningful.

In general, adults are encouraged to accumulate around 150 minutes of moderate to vigorous physical activity each week. That sounds like a lot until you realize it averages out to just over 20 minutes a day.

And those minutes don't have to happen in a gym.

It could look something like this:

• Monday: A brisk 20-minute walk.

• Tuesday: A one-hour exercise class you genuinely enjoy.

• Wednesday: A spontaneous 15-minute dance party in your living room.

• Thursday: Some gentle stretching or yoga.

• Friday: An outdoor activity with friends or family.

• Saturday: Housework that gets your heart rate up (yes, vacuuming counts).

• Sunday: A casual walk or another day of rest.

  
  

Movement doesn't have to be all or nothing.

It doesn't have to be optimized.

It doesn't have to be miserable.

And perhaps most importantly, progress doesn't happen in a straight line.

Life is full of busy seasons, illness, grief, celebrations, vacations, new jobs, changing priorities, and unexpected challenges. There will be weeks where movement feels effortless, and weeks where it falls completely off your radar.

That doesn't mean you've failed.

It means you're human.

The goal was never to maintain a perfect streak. The goal is to keep finding your way back. Because the person who keeps taking imperfect action over the course of decades will almost always end up healthier, stronger, and more connected to their body than the person who waits for the perfect conditions to start again.

Your progress isn't measured by whether you missed a week, a month, or even a season.

It's measured by your willingness to begin again.

Again.

And again.

For the rest of your life.