There’s something beautifully Canadian about a holiday Monday that smells faintly of wet grass, charcoal, and nostalgia. 🇨🇦 Like the entire country collectively exhaling into Muskoka chairs.

Victoria Day always feels like the unofficial gateway into summer. Growing up, it meant the carnival at Memorial Park, fireworks after dark, and inevitably arriving home with a goldfish whose lifespan rivaled a bag of milk. To my mother’s absolute horror, I treated every midway game like I was rescuing aquatic treasure. They never lasted more than four or five days, but somehow every single one felt legendary.

Eventually, those childhood Victoria Days evolved into the classic “May 2-4” camping weekends at Sauble Beach. And by camping, I mean an open field, questionable tents, carloads of freshly-minted adults, and exactly zero survival skills. The only true requirements were peach schnapps, an ability to day drink, and at least one person insisting they were “totally fine to set up the tent” while actively losing a battle with the wind.

One year, a storm hit so violently that we abandoned all dignity and slept crammed inside a car before driving home at dawn looking like raccoons who’d seen combat. To this day, I genuinely don’t know how we survived some of those weekends. The early 2000s were basically just vibes and dehydration.

And now?

Now “May 2-4” no longer refers to a 24 of beer. It means cleaning out the garage, dragging patio furniture out of hibernation, and sitting on the front porch with a coffee muttering, “We needed this rain,” like somebody’s retired uncle named Gary.

And honestly? I’m not even mad about it.

Life has been absolute chaos lately. Between wrapping up hockey seasons, finishing gymnastics, and entering full-throttle dance competition season, our house has looked less like a functioning home and more like a sporting goods store exploded beside a laundromat. Mountains of laundry. Dust thick enough to write motivational quotes into. Dinners lately have consisted primarily of “whatever can be cooked in under 11 minutes while someone is looking for a skate guard.”

But underneath all of that chaos has been something even heavier lurking in the background:

Tryout season.

Honestly, I think only sports parents truly understand what this season does to a family.

We don’t really talk enough about the survival it takes to maintain competitive sports. The sleepless nights. The 6am practices after barely sleeping. The late-night drives home from cities two hours away. Protein bars replacing actual meals. Financial stress quietly hanging over households while we all pretend everything is fine. The emotional balancing act of trying to motivate your child without pressuring them. Wondering constantly if you said the right thing, the wrong thing, or too much altogether.

And then comes the cut.

And suddenly every sacrifice feels painfully loud.

Every dollar spent. Every missed family event. Every freezing cold arena coffee. Every kilometre driven in silence after a hard practice. Every ounce of emotional energy poured into helping your child chase something they love.

For a moment, the heartbreak becomes bigger than the dream itself.

I know this feeling intimately.

Last season, Kristian went through a heartbreaking cut. The kind that completely knocks the wind out of a kid. And if I’m being honest, it knocked the wind out of me too. Watching your child hurt while trying to remain calm and positive beside them is a very specific kind of pain that sits heavy in your chest long after everyone else has moved on.

That feeling sat rent-free inside my body for far longer than I wanted it to.

But here’s what I wish someone had told us while we were sitting in that disappointment:

Sometimes the redirection becomes the very thing they needed most.

Because this past season ended up being the best minor hockey season of Kristian’s life.

A fresh start.
A new team.
A new hockey family.
A place where he rediscovered confidence, joy, and belief in himself again.

And somewhere along the way, I realized something important:

Kids are watching how we survive disappointment just as much as they’re celebrating success.

They’re learning resilience in real time. Learning that heartbreak is survivable. Learning that growth often shows up disguised as rejection at first. Learning that one coach’s decision does not determine their worth.

And honestly? I think some of us adults need that reminder too.

Because there are families sitting in heartbreak right now. Kids questioning themselves. Parents replaying conversations in their heads at 2am wondering if they could have done more somehow.

But one season does not define a child.

One roster does not determine their future.

And sometimes the team that didn’t choose them accidentally pushes them toward the place they were actually meant to be all along.

Funny enough, I think that’s why this Victoria Day weekend feels different to me now.

When you’re younger, the magic is fireworks, carnivals, and surviving storms in a Sauble Beach parking lot fueled entirely by peach schnapps and poor decision-making.

But somewhere along the way, the definition of a “good weekend” changes.

Now it’s slower mornings. Sunshine through the kitchen window. A Sunday brunch, followed by supper. Hearing your kids laugh from another room after months of stress and pressure and nonstop schedules.

It’s sitting on the porch with a coffee while the rain rolls in, sounding suspiciously like Uncle Gary, muttering, “We needed this.”

And maybe we really did.