If your 20s are for making mistakes, your 30s are apparently for paying for them. At least that is what I learned the day I turned 30 and found myself a freshly minted solo mother of five small humans. Jai was 6, Kristian was 4, G was 3, and the twins were approximately four months old, which is exactly the age where babies sleep like newborns but poop like adults. I remember blowing out my candles that year and thinking, Huh. So survival mode is my new personality.

I did not know if I would be okay, but I persevered, mostly because quitting was not an option and running away would require more sleep than I had access to. Divorce sucked (and there is no poetic way to phrase that) but I fought like hell and walked away with sole and full custody. It was the hardest, ugliest, most exhausting battle of my life. In a twist I still do not fully understand, that battle is the reason I am where I am today. Strength is born in the places you never wanted to visit, and those five kids became the reason I kept walking forward when everything behind me was on fire.

Lesson One: You do not know how strong you are until you have no other choice.

Then, as if single parenting was not enough, I went through something far more unsettling.
An identity crisis. A very loud one.

I stopped teaching dance during COVID, something I genuinely thought I would do for the rest of my life. Dance was the thing that felt like me. But teaching through a screen, teaching five year olds over Zoom while someone’s dog barked, someone else’s Wi-Fi froze, and I pretended the mute button was my best friend, was not sustainable. There is nothing that makes you question your life choices quite like shouting “GUYS, I NEED EVERYONE TO LISTEN” into the digital void while a kid named Olivia disappears behind a virtual background of a space nebula and came back with a basketball net tangled in her pigtails. True story.

Stopping dance was heartbreaking and confusing and also absolutely necessary.

Lesson Two: Losing an identity forces you to grow a new one. It is weird, painful, and surprisingly liberating.

Then, just to keep life interesting, I went back to school. University, because apparently raising five kids with a full-blown life hurricane was not enough excitement. It took late nights, early mornings, and a caffeine budget that likely kept Starbucks in business, but I earned my bachelor’s degree. It is the most expensive piece of paper I own and the only one I would save in a house fire. No, I still don’t have it framed or hung up. Maybe a goal for my 40’s?

Lesson Three: Education is priceless and also terrifyingly overpriced.

During the pandemic (because I love chaos) I co-authored a children’s book with my friend Erin called Just Our Mom. It was therapeutic, chaotic, and the closest I have come to feeling like a real author without any of the financial security. If you want a copy, let me know. I promise it is adorable, meaningful, and slightly autobiographical if you squint. Wink, wink.

Lesson Four: Creativity heals parts of you that you forgot were bruised.

Then came death. My first real dance with loss.
I lost my cousin, my role model, my confidante… the one who slid across the floor and burned holes in her brand new Lululemons, the queen of laughter and most importantly an incredible mother who showed up religiously to every event for her kids. Cancer took her, because cancer is a thief that no one can prepare for.

Then I lost my uncle. I remember sitting at his bedside, unsure how to say goodbye and decided to just ramble on by telling him about the Nick Carter concert I went to the night before, because that is absolutely the type of family we are. Somehow he woke up, likely out of sheer disbelief in my music choices, but I got my last moment with him. Those final moments taught me more about life than any textbook ever could.

They lived boldly and joyfully and ridiculously. Losing them cracked something open in me.

Lesson Five: Life is precious and unpredictable and deeply unfair, so live it while you can.

Then came the kids getting older, something I fully support until it actually happens. I watched my first child graduate elementary school and did the kind of ugly crying that should have come with a parental advisory warning. I cried with her through her first heartbreak and watched her slowly reshape herself into someone stronger and wiser and shockingly well adjusted considering who raised her. Letting go hurts in ways no parenting book warns you about.

Lesson Six: Loving your kids means letting them grow, even when it tears you apart.

Then I watched my son get cut from the hockey team he wanted more than anything. We pivoted and re-evaluated and discovered that resilience is a skill you learn whether you like it or not. I could not save him from disappointment, but I could be the net he landed on.

Lesson Seven: You are not your child’s shield. You are their soft place to crash.

Somewhere in the blur of parenting, grief, and tuition payments, I went back to work. Hospitality is a world of its own. I learned everything, from how to keep guests happy to how to keep staff happier and how to pretend I understood P and L reports on the first try. I also learned what burnout feels like, and spoiler alert, it is not cute.

Lesson Eight: Burnout is real. Pace of life matters. Family matters more.

Then came love. And heartbreak. And the realization that no matter how old you get, you are never immune to someone smashing your heart like a piñata at a kid’s birthday party.

Lesson Nine: Love hurts and heals and repeats. It is still worth it.

I threw myself into community, hockey, sports, events, volunteer work, and somehow emerged with a social life I did not realize I was still capable of. I met people who became friends and supporters and fellow “sleep is optional” parents. Being involved has given me more connection than I expected.

And then real love arrived. The rare kind. The sweep you off your feet and restore your hope and remind you what life can feel like kind. The kind that makes things softer and brighter and more possible.

Lesson Ten: Real love exists. You will know it when it stops feeling like survival and starts feeling like home.

And here is the part my 30s saved for last.
The part that makes all the chaos make sense.

I am happy. Actually and genuinely happy. My 30s brought me my people, the ones who feed my soul and give me room to grow and breathe and laugh. The ones who show up and stay and make everything feel easier.

I found the man I am spending the rest of my life with, and together we are building one incredible family. A loud, blended, chaotic, beautiful one. The kind of family you choose every single day.

I found a new career path too. One that challenges me and pushes me out of my comfort zone and lets me use my creativity and my brain and my sense of humour. I learn new things every single day. I am growing. I am thriving. I am exactly where I need to be.

Lesson Eleven: Happiness does not happen when life gets easy. It happens when life finally makes sense.

And finally, just when I thought I had mastered emotional resilience, the Jays lost. Again.

Lesson Twelve: Hope is a dangerous sport. Baseball is worse.

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So, what did my 30s teach me?

You can lose your identity and rebuild it.
You can change careers and change direction and still land on your feet.
You can love deeply and survive heartbreak.
You can carry grief and joy in the same hands.
You can raise kids who will age you, break you, heal you, and make you laugh in the same hour.
Life is unbearably fragile and unbelievably beautiful.
The hardest years can become the most meaningful ones.
You are allowed to crumble and rebuild and rest and rise.
You are stronger than every single thing you thought would destroy you.
Happiness is built, not found.

My 30s were not pretty. They were not graceful. They were not organized.

But they were mine, and they made me who I am.

And yes, the Jays still owe me emotional damages.