After my separation (which, spoiler alert, turned into a full-blown divorce), I found myself smack in the middle of a life I hadn’t exactly ordered off the menu. There I was: a solo mum, five kids, one broken heart, and zero clue what came next.

Cue the survival era.

Suddenly I was responsible for everything. The breakfasts, the bills, the 47 forms for school, the emotional stability of small humans…all of it. And when you add in all the “Greyson-isms” you will understand how every day felt like it lasted an eternity. Ha. All jokes aside, I had to figure out how to make it all happen, every day, without losing my mind (more than I already had, of course). With the support of my amazing sister and parents, I managed to get the kids into their beloved sports and classes… eventually. It took a lot of trial and even more error. Especially with a pandemic thrown in there. (Shoutout to Covid). 

Real talk: it was a total circus. An exhausting, expensive, emotionally-draining circus with Goldfish crackers and Welch’s fruit snacks strewn all over my vehicle. 

The simple act of getting out of bed felt like a heroic feat. But no one else was going to show up for my kids. There was no backup parent waiting in the wings. It was me… showing up in every moment, no matter how drained, disheveled, or dead inside I felt.

And sure enough, somewhere in the chaos, I found myself in a long-term relationship. It was my first step toward letting someone back in (a brave move for someone whose idea of romance at that point was sitting alone with a hot cup of coffee). That relationship taught me it was okay to allow people to help, especially those who cared about the kids. It also taught me that… well, some things still don’t work out. When it ended, I didn’t fall apart (though I did dramatically delete some photos.. because growth and petty can coexist). Instead, I decided not to beat myself up. I shifted focus. I worked on myself, started feeling whole again, and, apparently, became a full-blown hockey mum.

Determined to be the cool mum (a term I realize no child has ever used about their actual mother), I dove headfirst into the local hockey association. I learned what “offside” means, figured out the equipment puzzle, and yelled things like “Backcheck!” as if I knew what I was talking about. And really, I still don’t think I know what I’m talking about. 

Enter: Chris.

Hockey dad. Kind dad. Hot dad. The man who took me completely by surprise.

Fun fact: our boys had gone to school together for years, but our paths somehow never crossed. Until, in a very public-skate-meets-romcom moment, I walked up and introduced myself.

To which he replied, “Yes, I know. We’ve met before.”

Nailed it.

But instead of crawling into a snowbank out of embarrassment, I decided to double down. I started asking for small hockey favours … like help at my son’s evaluation skate or calling for advice on which position my kid should play. (Yes, I already knew, but hey, sometimes you’ve gotta pretend to be clueless to get the conversation going. Strategy, people.) And just like that, our lives started overlapping. Not in a forced, weird way,  just naturally, and at exactly the right time.

Today, we live under one roof with our gloriously blended bunch of kids. It’s messy, loud, and often feels like a logistical nightmare disguised as a family. And while Instagram might make blended life look like Sunday pancake breakfasts, the reality is… different.

Letting another parent into your kids’ lives is no joke. It’s hard. You second-guess everything. You wrestle with guilt. You bite your tongue (sometimes). And yes, Chris and I have wildly different parenting styles, as one of us is more structured, and the other is me. But here’s the thing: my solo mum years proved that I’m adaptable. I can handle tough situations and still pull off decent school lunches and cry silently in the car. (Talent!)

And sure (not-so-fun fact) a lot of blended families split up because the dynamic is so tough. But communication and adaptability have become my superpowers. I’ve learned when to lean in and when to hand things over. Sometimes Chris parents differently, and sometimes that’s exactly what the situation needs. He’s my better half. 

Resilience used to mean doing it all on my own. It meant being the last one to bed, the first one up, the one who packed everything and remembered the birthday parties. Now, resilience means knowing when to ask for help. When to not do it all. When to let someone else drive to practice, even when I convince myself that I’m “fine.” (Cue Ross Gellar holding a hot pan).

I’ve come a long way from the days of powering through solo. Now, I’m part of a team. Not just on the rink sidelines, but in life. So yes, what started as heartbreak and chaos became something deeply unexpected. Blended, beautiful, ridiculous chaos.

And honestly? I wouldn’t have it any other way.