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Red, White & Royal Blue by Casey McQuiston - Kaylee's Honest and Authentic Review

Kaylee Miller

7 Aug, 2023

– And How It Broke Gone Girl‘s Long Reign As My Favourite Book Of All Time

*All artwork depicted is by the amazing Venessa Kelley (@vkelleyart on Instagram).*

Red, White & Royal Blue by Casey McQuiston was published in the spring of 2019. Since then, it’s become a staple in the Queer Romance genre of fiction. If you love queer romance and haven’t read it yet, you should. If you don’t love queer romance and haven’t read it yet, you also should. It’s a literary masterpiece, and there’s a reason that it’s so beloved worldwide.

When I first heard about the premise – the First Son of the US falling in love with the Prince of England – I assumed this was just another gay romance story. As many people probably do. Then I learned that the protagonist, Alex, was a bisexual man that comes to this realization in the book, and my interest went up tenfold. I knew I had to read it. As a bisexual, I find that representation of our stories is often lacking, so I get very excited when I find them. (Although, I will acknowledge that such representation is growing in pop culture, with the rising popularity of stories like Heartstopper and even the upcoming Red, White & Royal Blue movie.)

Nevertheless, my first assumptions about this book were wrong. This is not another gay love story. This is a queer love story – and also a monument in queer literary history. I aspire to the level that Casey has hit with this one, and she’s really encouraged me to put my focus into queer romance elements in my future work.

Sticker artwork of Alex and Henry by Venessa Kelley.

Alexander Gabriel Claremont-Diaz

I have a bad habit of flipping through books before I’ve read them. So, naturally, I flipped through my copy of Red, White & Royal Blue just after I bought it. The first thing I read was the end of an email from Alex to Henry where Alex signs off as the “First Son of Cheese Shopping and Blowjobs.”

“Oh, shit,” I thought. “I’m totally going to fall in love with this character.”

And that’s exactly what happened.

I am not ashamed to admit – I am absolutely fucking head-over-heels for Alex Claremont Diaz, and I always will be. I often refer to him as the “character love-of-my-life” (second to my own characters, of course), because that’s what he swiftly became. Sharp-witted, fearless, fiercely intelligent, and a little self-centered (okay – a lot), Alex is nearly impossible to hate. He’s bold and ruthless in going after what he wants in life; and this very much includes his handsome prince, Henry. He’s also fucking hilarious, and his sarcastic sense of humour is such a joy to read.

Alex’s Bisexual Realization

One thing I loved about this story is that Alex doesn’t know he’s bisexual at the beginning, and he starts off being straight. He comes to this realization after deepening the bond with Henry, and experiencing their first kiss. With sexuality being as fluid as it is; this I found very realistic and relatable.

I was thirty-two when I realized that I was bisexual. Or, really, had the courage to embrace it. And though Alex was much younger than I was – being only twenty-one – I know what it’s like to have such heavy self-realization hit you at an older age.

I respect the debate and reflection that he goes through after Henry kisses him, because I can identify with those feelings.

He starts to think about his teen years and the true nature of the relationship that he shared with his friend, Liam. He starts to see things as they really are, instead of hiding them behind a straight lens.

One thing that differs between us, though, is that Alex embraces it quickly, and I suppose that’s because he has Henry to inspire him. When I came out, it was all tears and confusion and letting my old self go and many questions like, “How the fuck do I do this?” But perhaps that’s a story for another blog.

Long story short, Alex’s bisexualism and his revelation are one of my favourite parts of this story, and I’m glad Casey wrote such a great representative character.

Alex Overall

It’s impossible to define Alex Claremont-Diaz in a nutshell. Half Texan, half Mexican; and imbrued with a whole lot of charisma. All “America! Fuck yeah!” and one foot on the gas a hundred percent of the time. There’s just something about him that can’t be explained unless you’ve read this book. In the bonus chapter of the special edition, Henry describes Alex as a symphony, and I feel like that’s an incredibly accurate metaphor for him. I admire him to no end, and I’ve seen lots of evidence that many die-hard fans of this book feel the same. In all seriousness, I wish he existed so I could fly down to D.C. and become his best friend.

I love you, Alexander!

Also, on a side-note: Alex is the one reason that I’m as terrified for the Red, White & Royal Blue movie as I am. He’s such a unique and unprecedented character, so this actor better not fuck him up! Jk. But also – very much not jk!

Alex Explains Himself – Endpaper art by Venessa Kelley

His Royal Highness, Henry George Edward James Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor

(Also lovingly called such names by Alex as: HRH Prince Dickhead, Huge Raging Headache Prince Henry of Who Cares, and His Royal Horniness)

Ah, our gentle Prince. (Who also has a shit ton of names!)

I can’t talk about Alex without talking about his loving counterpart, Henry. The ying to Alex’s yang. The calm to Alex’s chaos. The day to Alex’s night.

I didn’t connect with Henry on the same level that I did with Alex, but I still fell in love with him.

As the prince of England, his character arc was very sensible. Just like any royal that exists today, his “image” and “who he’s expected to be” is defined for him from birth, and straying from that comes with a great deal of risk. Not just to the royal family, but also for his own future. So, when we find out that Henry is gay and that he struggles deeply with this, it’s very understandable. It makes the moves and decisions where he “ghosts” and leaves Alex more characteristic and pragmatic for him. (As fucking painful and frustrating as they are as the reader!) We want a happily-ever-after for our two lovebirds, but their diplomatic position and roles (unfortunately) make this a strife. And I think this is much more visceral and difficult for Henry than it is for Alex.

Alex fearlessly embraces who he is and isn’t afraid to show it. Henry, on the other hand, has been told who he is and has had to hide his true self in the interest of the Crown’s image. And my heart bled for him the entire book. Freedom is a one of my highest values, and I can’t imagine having to mask yourself so thickly as Henry does.

He deserves to live as his authentic self; regardless of his regal position. He deserves revel in to his true love with Alex and let it show without fear of public consequence. But reality is cold to him, and many times in the book I found myself wanting to give him a tight hug.

Though I can’t identify with being a royal and always being mercilessly scrutinized in the public eye, I can relate to being a queer person that’s masking who they really are. And as well-written as his arc of unconditional self-acceptance was, part of me wishes it didn’t have to exist at all.

Another thing I admired about Henry was his bravery. His decision to turn away from his pre-determined path and go after the future he wants made me do a mental, standing ovation.

Fuck yes, Henry! Fuck yes, mate!

His gentle, kind, and calm nature also make him a loveable character, and he’s a great romantic counterpart for the book’s spirited protagonist.

And, on a side-not: I love hen Casey let the more casual parts of Henry show. Every time he said, “Oi!” and “Numpty,” my heart pulsed in fondness.

Henry, Flushed by Alex’s Messages – Endpaper art by Venessa Kelley

Enemies to Lovers Trope

Enemies to lovers is my favourite romance trope! Why? Because I love reading about the assumptions that the characters make, then watching them shift as they get to know the other person. In RW&RB, this is written effectively.

At the beginning, we’re shown all of Alex’s false assumptions about Henry. They’re based on a negative experience when they met at the Olympics in Rio, and the fact that the press is always comparing them. Alex is unfairly judging the version of Henry that he’s been shown. He’s also, naturally, assuming that Henry’s attitude in Rio is all about him. This is so realistic that it hurts.

As human beings, we’re always taking things at face value, and internalizing others’ reactions to be all about us. They acted like this, so they must not like me. They said this, so they must not like me. And if they don’t like me, I don’t like them.

But what Alex doesn’t realize is that Henry just lost his father, and he actually didn’t have the emotional energy to put on a good face for Alex in Rio. What Alex also doesn’t realize is that the version of Henry he’s seeing has been dictated and curated since his birth. The version of Henry he’s seeing isn’t the real Henry.

Alex Meets Henry – Endpaper art by Venessa Kelley

Then, after “cakegate,” Alex and Henry are forced into close proximity to smooth over the image of the US and the UK, and here’s where we start to see the shift. It’s delivered slowly in the scenes that lead up to their first kiss, so the blossoming of their new relationship seems natural to the reader. Alex learns things about Henry like: He enjoys Cornetto ice cream cones and sneaks them in the middle of the night because he can’t sleep. He’s deeply philanthropic, and visits the kids in the cancer ward because his father died of cancer. He resents his dictated path under the Crown and wants more. He’s gay and he has to hide it to protect his image and the nation’s image. You get the gist.

Alex Settles Thins the ‘Merican Way – aka. Cakegate – Endpaper art by Venessa Kelley

I love enemies to lovers because nothing is ever as it seems. What we see in others is the tip of the iceberg. There is always more to discover about people.

Casey wrote this message into the relationship between Alex and Henry beautifully.

Casey’s Style

RW&RB is written third person, present tense. Which I thought was a really interesting choice.

When you write third person, the advantage is that you can write from multiple character perspectives. The disadvantage is that you lose the deeper connection between the reader and the protagonist that comes from writing first person. Somehow, Casey managed to use this advantage, while (mostly) avoiding the disadvantage. Though she wrote third person, she still wrote everything from Alex’s perspective, and made it feel like first person. That kept the connection between the reader and the character strong.

The choice to write present tense was also an advantage, because it immerses the reader straight into the action.

In addition, there were also lots of different written elements that broke up the narrative/dialog (emails, articles, texts etc.), and this made it more fun to read.

There’s a great deal of skill and talent in her style, and as a writer, I learned a lot from reading her work!

My Favourite Scenes (that I hope are in the movie!)

The Turkey Scene

I remember seeing Venessa Kelley’s drawing of this on the inside of my book and thinking, I have to know what happens in that scene!

Alex decides to keep the live Thanksgiving turkeys in his room, only to call Henry and talk about how scared he is of them. Not only is “the turkey scene” pure Alex-being-Alex, it also shows Henry’s playful side. If they cut this scene from the movie, I’ll keep it close to my imagination’s heart.

Alex and Cornbread – Endpaper art by Venessa Kelley

The New Year’s Kiss

Also known as, “When Henry gets tipsy off of champagne and kisses Alex for the first time.” Alex is adorably clueless. Henry’s imbued with liquid courage. They’re alone and outside in the snow. Henry can’t ignore how much he wants him. It’s the iconic spark that starts their romance. I’ve already seen previews of this scene in the movie, and I’m looking forward to seeing it come to life!

Alex and Henry’s First Kiss – Endpaper art by Venessa Kelley

The Red Room Scene

And their first sex scene in Alex’s bedroom after! Casey is so incredibly talented with writing classy sex scenes, and I loved every one. The Red Room scene shows Alex mercilessly going after the man he wants. And him telling Henry that if he “ghosts” him again, he’ll get him on a “fucking no-fly list” is just so Alex. It’s hot. It’s steamy. It makes Henry start humming God Save The Queen to get rid of his hard-on after they part. It’s pure Alex being Alex. Love it, love it, love it.

The Entry to The Red Room (or I’m interpreting it as such) – Endpaper art by Venessa Kelley

The Moonlit Lake

Alex takes Henry on a mini-vacation to his father’s lake house in Texas with his family and friends. In the evening, they skinny dip alone and Alex tries to tell Henry that he loves him. Not only is this scene brutally romantic (until Henry walks off because he’s scared of what Alex is about to say), it also becomes a pivotal point for their future. It sparks the moments where they start to fight for each other.

The Lake Scene – Endpaper art by Venessa Kelley

History, Huh? Bet You We Could Make Some

The way that the worldwide queer community (and allies) support Alex and Henry after their relationship becomes public is truly heartwarming. I love the mention that the Dykes on Bikes chase homophobic protestors out of D.C. and that people start wearing “History, Huh?” t-shirts to show their support. It makes me hopeful that the same would happen in reality, and that queer relationships can be normalized, regardless of social status.

Alex’s Emails to Henry – Endpaper art by Venessa Kelley

You and Me

The added scene in the special edition from Henry’s perspective. Expertly finished with Alex and Henry declaring “You and me” to each other. *Dreamy romance sigh.*

You and Me – Endpaper art by Venessa Kelley

What I Didn’t Like About RW&RB

(What?? There are parts of your favourite book that you don’t like??)

Well, yes. The list is small, but it exists. Here goes:

  1. The President of the US saying she’s a “mom first, and a president second” and then proceeding to tell her twenty-one-year-old son that, if he’s gonna choose Henry, he’d better be forever. Whoa. That is a massive amount of pressure to put on someone so young. Though I realize this is a fictional romance, it’s completely unrealistic to demand this of a twenty-one-year-old. Are you with the person that you loved at twenty-one? Chances are, no. We barely know what we want for breakfast at twenty-one. Presidential campaign at risk or not, that’s your son, Ellen! And I think this scene is the book actually sends a bit of a toxic message to the reader. (Sorry, Casey.) She should have just told him that she’d support him with his sexuality and his present choice of partner – Whether Henry ends up being forever, or not.
  2. There are too many characters. Yes, I understand that there are massive crews of people that run both the White House and The Crown. And, yes, I do think that Casey captured the most important characters well. But throughout the book I found myself thinking things like, Who the hell is Amy again? Perhaps some small reminders would have served better.

To Conclude

Despite the tiny list above, this book is amazing with a capital A. I love it with all my heart – enough that it’s this suspense-preferring reader’s new favourite – and you should go read it. Even if you watch the movie, read it. I promise; you’ll connect deeper with these incredible characters, and it’s worth your time! Seriously. Read it. And if you don’t like it, I don’t need to know.

Santa Chiara – Endpaper art by Venessa Kelley

*All artwork depicted is by the amazing Venessa Kelley (@vkelleyart on Instagram). References – Red, White & Royal Blue by Casey McQuiston – Collector’s Edition.*

Sexual Assault - My Story

Kaylee Miller

8 Jul, 2023

A Purely Healing Piece

I realized last night at 3:00am – when I often wake up – that I have to write this piece. As much as I don’t want to. As messy and unstructured and as hard as it’s going to be.

The literary equivalent of abstract art. My most raw and vulnerable work to date.

Even if no one reads it. Even if it helps no one in particular; other than myself; I have to write it. Writing is how I heal myself. Writing is how I feel heard. And I need to feel heard, because others have taken this story and told it for me. I’ve never had the chance to tell it for myself.

When I was twenty, I trusted someone that I shouldn’t have. I was young – so young – in university, and just coming into a kind of delusional confidence with who I was. Or had the potential to become.

My life at home when I was growing up was tumultuous. I had an alcoholic father, an absent mother that lived on the other side of the country, and a verbally abusive stepmother who made me feel unwelcomed and out of place in my own home. When I graduated from high school, my sister was just turning sixteen, and things with my father were getting worse. We knew it wouldn’t be long before we’d be forced to leave home. So, we did. Whisked away by those who loved us. Gifted a new home, where we were cared for and accepted. And I’m grateful for that. Eternally. I really am.

But only later did I learn that, for me, it would come with a different kind of price.

From seventeen to twenty, I built on a relationship that already had a strong foundation. It wasn’t a romantic relationship – in any fucking way – but a relationship with someone that I enjoyed spending time with. Someone who I spent a lot of quality time with. Someone who could guide me in the absence of my reverse-role-model parents. Someone who I thought would keep me safe. Someone who I trusted.

I was truly mortified and heartbroken the night that betrayal came.

Young. Twenty. Barely a woman, but with all the parts to support that now. I was just having fun with life and living in the relief that everything was good, for once. So the night of my sexual assault completely blindsided me. It came out of left-field. Ran me down like a Mack truck.

I don’t remember much about that night. My brain has shielded me from the trauma by pixilating it like a censorship box. But I remember it being late at night. I remember alcohol being involved – because, when is it fucking not in the traumatic times of my life. I remember that person throwing themselves on top of me. Touching places that I didn’t want them to touch. Making motions that they shouldn’t have been making.

The free ride’s up now, and it’s time for you to pay.

There was a flurry of limbs and struggle and adamant suggestion. And if I can remember anything, it was the fear. Being startled. Taken off guard. My flight-or-flight response kicked in, and I chose both. First, I fought. Then, I ran.

I sought refuge in the bathroom; my back to the door and my feet braced on the wall opposite to it. That door didn’t have a lock, and it was the only way I could stop my assailant from bursting in. They tried several times. Knocking and calling my name. Tone severely apologetic. I must have been flooded with adrenaline, because somehow, I was strong enough to keep them out.

After a while, they left. I curled up against the door and cried. I wondered why this had happened to me, and what I’d done wrong. Where, in the lines of the construction of that relationship, it had ever been hinted at that something like this could ever happen. I couldn’t find the answer, so I cried some more. Beat myself up for being so stupid and not seeing it. Thought about how my life had become an episode of Skins in mere minutes.

Then, a letter was slid under the door. I don’t remember what it said, other than it was very remorseful, and included the line, “I just want you to feel safe.” Yeah. Right. I’ve been searching for safety my whole life, and every time I find it, I’m proven a fool. My west coast town is my refuge these days, and I’m hoping that doesn’t come back to bite me.

After that, things were very hard. Something inside me snapped from that blatant violation, and I’ve been trying to fix it since.

My assailant and I didn’t speak for a long time. Then, the opportunity arose at school to go off to Australia for a year. I was adamant on taking it. They were adamant that convincing me not to go was a good enough reason to start speaking again. I let them, because I didn’t know what else to do. Being discouraged from your dreams was a common occurrence back then.

Fast forward and I fell in love with a wonderful Englishman. We dated for a year, and then decided we wanted to move in together. This created tension between my assailant and me, and it wasn’t long until I found myself unwelcomed in my second home. I got kicked out for loving my boyfriend, and had no choice but to move in with him and his roommate until we could find a place together in Guelph.

Meanwhile, the sexual assault was eating me up inside. I told no one for a long time – years – because I was hellbent on protecting my family. I wouldn’t let the information out, as long as it posed a risk to them. And I’m not trying to be a martyr for that. But I love my family and I’ll do anything to protect them.

Still, the dissolve occurred, and knowing there was nothing I could do to stop it, I decided to trust a family member with my story. Just one. There were other members of my family that I never wanted to know about it, and I told that story in confidence. But again, I was proven a fool. It spread, and I worried that those who heard about it through familial-telephone-tag would blame me for it. I was never brave enough to go to them and tell my own story.

Then, I told my two best friends and my boyfriend. My boyfriend was very angry about it, because he was one of the few people in my life who genuinely protected my heart. My best friends were mortified and suggested I get professional help. I didn’t know how to do that, so I didn’t. I let it sit inside. A noxious pit that still remains today.

Fourteen Years Go By

I’m thirty-four. My Englishman and I broke up long ago. My two best friends are absent from my life. I’ve sought refuge from my birth province on the west coast. I have three fucking badass novels written and pro-edited that will be published next year. Good for me.

Then comes a wedding. A wedding that is revered and lovely and highly anticipated and wonderful. A wedding that should serve as a time of joy and celebration and laughter and love. And it was all of those things. But for me, that wedding also came with a figurative knife to the throat. I was going to be in the same room with my assailant for the first time in over a decade, and I had to be emotionally prepared for that.

Upon descending into Toronto, I didn’t realize that I was in tears until the flight attendant touched my knee and asked me if I was okay. Going back to Ontario somehow always feels wrong for me. I always leave half my heart in Vancouver, and it feels like I’m moving backwards. Like all the work I’ve done to get my life to an amazing place is going to be reversed.

Bisexual, Vancouverite, black sheep. There are places were I still feel like don’t belong.

I’m never myself when I’m in Ontario, and I hate that. There are people there that I can only go surface-level with. There are people there that I have to don full-on emotional armour in order to face. I don’t usually take down my walls; with the exception of a select few. I don’t even really sing – which is something I do every day in Vancouver. Facing my birth province is challenging for me. Let alone facing my birth province plus the person who forced themself on me when I was only twenty.

“You don’t have to say anything to them,” my therapist said in the session prior to the wedding. “You don’t owe them anything.”

Easier said than done. As soon as my assailant entered the room, I found myself very aware of their presence. Though I’d expressed to my family that I didn’t wish to talk to them, and I made a conscious effort to distance myself, they followed me throughout the night.

“I’ve heard you’ve gone through hell,” was one of the only things they managed to say to me.

I’ve been through many hells. You’ll need to be more specific.

But I did well to protect myself that night. I was constantly checking in with myself and was honest when it was too much. Then, I’d action. I don’t fear walking out in the middle of a speech when it’s in the spirit of defending my inner child.

Other emotional shit came up for me, though. Women with Daddy-Issues. I could be the founder of that fucking group. My birth province had me caught in a vice.

Then, the night moved and they left. I was finally free to celebrate properly with my loved ones. I felt relieved.

A few days later, a verbal fight broke out between some of my family members. I don’t know how, but the assault was brought up. Probably in mention of how certain people “protected” me at the wedding. Because, that’s how it works with some of my family members, you see. You don’t get anything for free.

“When people ask me, Do you believe her -” my family member was saying.

“Who fucking said that?” I was blinking on the couch; ears ringing from the emotional grenade. My family member had said this without any consideration to how it would make me feel. They were saying it because they were about to banter on about how they always defend me. They were saying it in preparation to make themself look good.

They named no one in particular. Because of course, they didn’t. But I was still absolutely devastated.

There are people that don’t believe me…

Read that again.

There are people – that may even be in my own fucking family – that don’t believe me. There are people that think I made up my sexual assault for attention…

Now, I’ve been lied to my whole life and I don’t vibe with that anymore. Integrity is a massive value for me – as is honesty. So I hate lying, and I try my best to never do it. I’m the worst fucking liar in the world, and I’m certainly no attention seeker. I’ve got enough fucking real problems to get “attention” for. Never mind that from a pragmatic perspective, it makes no sense for me to “make-up” my own trauma.

I was so fucking shattered by this.

Releasing my emotion to the extent that I deserved, I got very upset. Which lead to me being attacked by my other family member for being upset. Which made things much worse.

“Your family uses anger for manipulation,” my therapist once told me. Man. If there was any proof of this, it was in that fucking moment.

Once again, I escaped into isolation. Crying for hours up in the bedroom. How could people think that about me? How could they be so cruel? Then, a revelation hit me…

“You’re not safe here, baby,” I whispered to myself. And I didn’t mean that I wasn’t physically safe. I meant that my heart wasn’t safe…

There were people in my family that were treating my assault like gossip. A rumour. A juicy little tidbit that they could hold until it could somehow be twisted against me. And it hurt like hell to know that the people that are supposed to love me can be so careless with my heart.

Unable to think on it anymore, I picked up Red, White and Royal Blue and escaped into my favourite book. There, I could be with Henry and Alex, and they’d help to make my emotional turmoil disappear. And I’m so fucking grateful to Casey McQuiston for this. Books are so fundamentally important to their readers in that regard. They provide worlds that we can disassociate into when things get too heavy in this one. And I hope – to the most visceral depths of my soul – that I can be the author that does that for someone one day.

When I landed in Vancouver and walked out to the Skytrain, I took my signature three gulps of sea-air, hoping that it could help heal my poisoned heart. I came back emotionally and physically sick in a way that I hadn’t felt for a long time, and my feet fell dejectedly across the sidewalks of my city.

“I’m here,” I heard Vancouver whisper, as the wind caught my hair. “I’ve got you, and we’ll heal it together. Don’t worry. Welcome home, kiddo.”

I raised my chin to the wind, grateful for the immediate embrace. It was finally clear to me why I felt so alive here and so dead in Ontario. Here, I was safe. Here, I was far from the people that could hurt me. And though I’m still looking for my partner and chosen family, I’m hopeful that one day I’ll find those that will nourish my heart instead of poison it.

To Conclude:

A range of emotions have come and gone as I’ve grown over the years. I’ve minimized the assault. Buried it. Felt bad for being mad about it. Even justified it on my assaulter’s behalf – as unfair as that is to myself. Love in any form is a funny thing and it makes you see things that aren’t there.

But I’m old enough now to know that was happened to me was severe, and it wasn’t my fault. I didn’t deserve what they did to me, and I certainly didn’t owe them anything – especially my body – for where I was in life. I am not the reason this happened. But I am the only one that can heal it. I want to embrace that twenty-year-old version of me. Love her like no other, make her feel safe, and prove to her that she wasn’t doing anything wrong.

So, am I going to do anything else about it?

Other than emotionally healing myself, probably not. It was over fourteen years ago and I don’t want to risk anymore damage to my family by escalating it. For me, justice is much more trouble than it’s worth. That and I’m the victim. I’m allowed to be tired of it now.

And I know that’s sad, but what can I say? I’m certainly no good example of the Me Too movement. Maybe I’m just not as brave as those women. But if people have made it to the end of this blog, then I hope my story’s been eye-opening in some way.

There are people that I know will probably be hurt by this post, and that has to be okay. Because I need them to know how deeply I’ve been hurt by how I’ve been treated. I am a human being – a bisexual woman – with worthiness issues, a wounded inner child, and a spectrum of feelings. I have a hard enough time reconciling what happened without being unfairly judged by it. But at least my truth is in writing. At least the story is out there. Written by me. Like it always should have been.

If you’ve been a victim of sexual assault, please know that you are not alone. You are not at fault, and you did not deserve that to happen to you. Your worth cannot be measured in words, and you deserve to feel safe and loved and emotionally nourished. Your feelings are valid; even if they don’t seem to make sense at the time. The world needs you.

Resources:

https://www2.gov.bc.ca/assets/gov/law-crime-and-justice/criminal-justice/bc-criminal-justice-system/if-victim/publications/hsh-english-sexual-assault.pdf

http://www.bcwomens.ca/our-services/specialized-services/sexual-assault-service

https://www.sadvtreatmentcentres.ca/

https://www.rainn.org/national-resources-sexual-assault-survivors-and-their-loved-ones

Young Mungo by Douglas Stuart - Kaylee's Honest and Authentic Review

Kaylee Miller

15 Apr, 2023

I finished Young Mungo by Douglas Stuart on April 8th, 2023 and let me jump straight to the answer of the question that you didn’t know you had. Would I recommend it? Well, to anyone who is a fan of suspense, drama, and queer fiction – Yes, I most certainly would! (But let me warn you that you will never see pigeons in the same way. Every time I see one, I am now injected with a little bit of heartache.)

The Plot

Young Mungo is the story of a gay, teenage, boy living in the throes of working class, 1990s Glasgow. The city is divided between the Protestant and Catholic groups, whose men/boys often find themselves in literal battles for territory. The Protestant gang is lead by Mungo’s older brother, Hamish.

Mungo makes an unlikely friend of a Catholic boy, James, and the two start to fall in love. However, the novel is set in a time and place where being gay is dangerous. So, this could lead to deadly consequence for both boys if it becomes public knowledge.

In a catenating timeline, Mungo is sent away by his mother to go fishing. He needs to “learn to be a man” under the guidance of two strangers that she met at AA. But the men turn out to be very shady characters, indeed. Will he survive the trip and get back to James?

Ah – the plot! It makes me want to read it all over again.

When I look up the genre for Young Mungo online, I get coming-of-age, and gay fiction, spat back at me. Both of which are appropriate for this novel. However, I like to think of it more as romantic suspense mixed with queer drama. I’ve also seen family drama declared on a page on the Google-machine, which also makes sense. In any case, this novel spans multiple genres, and it is crafted beautifully.

Douglas Stuart

To start, I want to write a little about Douglas Stuart himself. When you pick up any of his books, you’ll see that he has a long list of awards, and has also been a finalist for many. Naturally, the most punctuating of these is the 2020 Booker Prize award for his debut novel, Shuggie Bain. A Booker Prize for a debut novel? Talk about impressive! Not many authors can say the same. Young Mungo is the first novel of his that I’ve read so far. But after finishing it, I can say that he deserves every award that he’s got. He is a talented author that is capable of weaving intricate and compelling stories. I’m a fan for life, Douglas!

Mungo Hamilton

Douglas Stuart has developed the hero of this story down to every last detail. Mungo’s arc is a massive one, and it’s filled to the brim with family dynamics, self-discovery, and survival. He is a sweet, kind, and gentle character. But he is also a people-pleaser, who reminds me a little of a kitten who was weaned from his mother far too early.

Mungo shifts between forms of who he thinks others want him to be. For example: when he’s with his mother, he returns to a childlike-version of himself that also caters to her needs. No matter how much his mother neglects him, he loves her. When he’s with his brother Hamish, he plays the harder and more violent role, while also being on the constant defense against his attacks. No matter how badly his brother abuses him, he loves him.

There are multiple scenes in the novel where Mungo tries to show his true colours to the ones he loves – but they are often flourished with a figurative flinch-and-shield. The only one that accepts him for him is his lover, James. Mungo is self-deprecating, highly-sensitive soul that has to learn to stop pleasing others and fight to be who he really is. He is also irrevocably and effortlessly easy to fall in love with, and I can say, without a doubt, that I’ve fallen.

Hamilton Family Dynamics

Mungo’s family, the Hamiltons, are highly dysfunctional, and the impact of it showed through each of the characters. His mother, Maureen (Mo-Maw), is a neglectful alcoholic, and his father died, leaving her to raise the children on her own. His older brother, Hamish (Ha-Ha), is a drug-dealing, gang leader, who asserts his dominance as the man of their household in their father’s absence. In contrast, his older sister Jodie takes over the motherhood role and raises Mungo in Mo-Maw’s absence. As the youngest, Mungo is left floating somewhere in between.

When I come across characters who are neglectful – especially a mother that abandons her children for self-serving reasons – I’m guaranteed to hate them from the get-go. This is very personal to my own neglect/abuse in my childhood. I’m not going to expand much more than that. But Douglas has developed his secondary characters well, and has included enough back to story for to help you understand why they are how they are.

Maureen

Maureen is a self-serving alcoholic that pops in and out of her children’s lives when it serves her. Her children name Maureen’s drunken, alter ego Tattie-Bogle to help protect and distance themselves from this version of her. And as a child that grew up with an alcoholic parent, this struck a very big nerve and choked me up enough to take pause after I read it. I can tell you first hand that this is a very realistic element of such a thing, and it is horrid. But, as an author, having your audience relate to your characters is also a pinnacle of our art from. So, despite the emotion, I appreciated this.

Jodie

I also related to Jodie. She’s a highly intelligent and capable character, who feels the weight of the responsibility of having to raise Mungo. Talk about something else that hits home. I saw a little piece of myself in her. But the Hamilton disfunction also affects her character as well, and I like that she made many realistic mistakes backed by her history, despite how Mungo idolizes her. She often coddles and encourages Mungo, but I believe that she needs him as much as he needs her.

Hamish

Hamish is terrifying and erratic. Douglas also expanded on his desire to fill the gang-leading role of his predeceased father, and his actions very much lean into this. One thing I’ve learned as a writer is that your characters actions must be based on their history, desires, and fears. You can’t change how they act simply to serve the plot. Hamish is a great example of this. He leads with violence to uphold a perceived expectation, and symptoms of this bleed into both Jodie and Mungo’s characters from the three growing up together. However, we see bread crumbs of Hamish’s softer side, and I loved that. The ending of the book was particularly impactful to Hamish’s true character underneath the mask-of-a-role that he played.

Also of Note

Violence is a big part of the Hamilton family dynamic, and none of the characters get out of this unscathed. I appreciated how this came out later in the developing relationship between Mungo and James. Violence comes first, love comes second. It was a big part of Mungo’s foundation. So, it made complete sense that he’d act this way based on his family dynamics.

Mungo and James

The romantic relationship between Mungo and James blooms slowly and naturally. It has honestly given me a whole new angle of perspective on how two teenage boys would fall in love. There was plenty of play-fighting and teasing, which feeds into the societal perception of how “boys” should develop relationships. This enforces how Mungo’s actions are driven by his family background.

It also mirrored a “straight-narrative” in the fact that James says privately to Mungo that he can be only be his boyfriend if Mungo will be his “girlfriend.” James also tries to enforce that there is a time-limit to how long he and Mungo can be their authentic selves. James’s father puts him under immense pressure to become “straight,” and James is forced to get a fake-girlfriend to uphold this ideal. In contrast, Mungo is constantly worried about what could happen to them if Hamish finds out, and is always dodging hints at his sexuality. Their hidden queerness causes a whiff-of-death-and violence to flow through the air of this novel. As a reader, you wish that this wasn’t the case, and that they wouldn’t have to hide it at all.

Mungo and James develop their romantic relationship in complete privacy. Any public affection that crosses the lines of friendship is swiftly smothered before anyone can see. This speaks to the societal pressures that queer people face to hide themselves and blend in to what is “normal.” If not, they face the consequence of abuse, death, or living as outcasts. Just like the only character Mungo has to confide in other than James – Poor Wee Chickie – who is labelled as a child-molester to the rest of Glasgow.

Wow. Impact. As a queer person, these themes have massive impact, and they definitely hit their intended targets.

The doocot photo on the inside of the book – where James raises his pigeons!

Other Interesting Points

At first, I wasn’t a fan of the Scottish dialect of this novel. But over time I became accustomed to it, and I found that it really helped me “hear” the characters. As a Canadian reader (with nothing but an estranged, Scottish heritage), it was hard to understand sometimes, but it was an important part of developing Mungo’s world.

Also, the violence in this novel got to me on a deeper emotional level than I expected it would. There were multiple scenes of gang violence, and the thought of these boys having to take these risks and endure this physical suffering in the name of defending religious territory was actually hard for me to endure. Douglas described them in such masterful, realistic detail, that I could picture them vividly, and they made me very sorrowful. As a writer that has crafted some horrid scenes myself, the personal impact of this surprised me a little. But it’s just another testament to how brilliant a writer Douglas Stuart is.

To conclude this section, completely out of the blue – Saint Christopher and Gallowgate can go fuck themselves.

The Ending!

Oh, the ending! Many parts of the novel are heart wrenching, but none other than the finale and ending. I love, love, love that Douglas Stuart left the ending loose and interpretive. I – being the hopeless romantic that I am – like to think that Mungo went away with James, and they lived happily ever after in a land where they could be free to be in love and their authentic selves. Hamish’s personal sacrifice for Mungo also made me think of the immense power of love, and how it has the ability to soften even the hardest of hearts. Amazing. I simply loved it, and I definitely wanted more.

To Conclude:

This novel is a beautiful, masterpiece of literary art. I recommend it to any reader that has the stamina to endure having their heart in a vice. You have my applause, Douglas Stuart, and I thank you for touring me through one of the many worlds that I’m sure are in your head!

photo of two pigeons
Photo by Ashithosh U on Pexels.com

Carpe vitam!

Textationships: what they are, and why you need to avoid them

Kaylee Miller

17 Mar, 2022

Textationships – am I right?

With all the complicated types of relationships we have out there, my friends, unfortunately technology has allowed us to create one more. That’s right: I’m talking about the dreaded “textationship”.

Don’t get me wrong here: technology has improved our lives in many ways, and keeps us connected with those we’re distanced from. However, if we’re not using it wisely, this can come with a detriment to healthy human relationships.

Getting caught in a “textationship”

It can feel so easy, can’t it? Seeing the words “I love you” on the screen of your phone and allowing yourself to feel the warmth that comes with it. The joy that comes with it. The validation that comes with it.

But, we need to remind ourselves that, as nice as those words might seem to be, texting takes the least effort of all forms of human communication. It doesn’t require the emotional effort of being in physical proximity to another person. And it also doesn’t require the feelings that come with seeing the other person’s response in real time. It is much easier to express complex things over text than over the phone, let alone face-to-face with another person. These beautiful words can seem like a dream as they come up with that “ping!” on your phone, but sometimes we need to check ourselves and simply ask, “Do these words match the effort that this other person is investing in me?” And, I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news when I say, if the answer is “No” then we have a problem.

I fell into this trap myself in 2021.

So, what is a “textationship” anyway?

One of my favorite podcasters, Case Kenny, who runs the mindset podcast “New Mindset Who ‘Dis?” did an episode in Oct 2021 that opened my eyes to the possibility that I may have been in one. In the episode, he describes a “textationship” as: “A relationship where two people are texting, but one person only texts and never makes any effort to see you.” He goes on to add, “They are all talk, they’re no action.” I think that’s a pretty accurate description of what I experienced.

If you would like to listen to Case’s episode on this, check out his show link below on Spotify, and look for episode “335 – No more “textationships”. (Note: We are not affiliated, I’m just a big fan of his that loves to share his show! It’s personally helped me tremendously!)

Additional Definitions of a “textationship”

Urban Dictionary describes it as: “A friendly, romantic, sexual or intimate relationship, either brief or long-term, between two people whereby text messaging is utilized as the primary form of communication throughout”. Source: https://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=textationship

Sound familiar? You may want to think twice about continuing communication with this person unless they match their words with their effort. Because you deserve someone that treats you the way that you want them to. You deserve someone that meets your needs in a relationship. Anything less is a waste of your time. Especially while a person who is right for you is out there waiting!

Let me tell you my personal story with this; it will probably help you feel better if you’re experiencing it too (and if you are – you are not alone!).

woman in blazer using a cellphone
Photo by Marcus Aurelius on Pexels.com

Falling into the trap

My relationship with my ex ended much the same as many others did; during the turmoil of the beginning of the pandemic. He moved out of my apartment and the time after was strange for me. I was suddenly available again and that energy brought me a bit attention from others. One of my old coworkers surfaced on Facebook messenger. We started chatting and after a few days he admitted that he’d had a crush on me for a long time. We exchanged phone numbers and after a few weeks, scheduled a date.

Before our date I had tried to get him to call me, but he made an excuse and slipped out of the commitment. I wish I had caught that red-flag then, but, after a long-term relationship, my radar for that sort of thing was weak.

Text vs. Reality

Our date was awful. Because we were in the beginning of the pandemic the only thing to do was to hang out as his place, which I had to make the effort to come to as we were in separate towns and he had no car or license (rolling your eyes at me yet?). He also made no effort to clean and I got bit by his dog (she was being playful, but it still left a bruise). Needless to say, I took the bottle of wine he’d gifted me and ran. I also remember saying to myself, “NEVER go back there”, and, thankfully, I never have, but I used him as an emotional crutch long after that.

We fell out of communication for a while, but also fell back into it. We had nearly constant communication, especially after my move to Vancouver when I needed a friend. Over text he was lovely, vulnerable, and he made me feel close to him. I used this as justification for why we kept in contact. And I felt like I needed him, even though we never heard each other’s voice. I also couldn’t see the fact that I was using this to fill the void of loneliness that came with my move.

person holding smartphone
Photo by JÉSHOOTS on Pexels.com

Falling further

Through my blindness, I let it get worse. Along came the additional excitement of sexting, which provided a dopamine hit every time I heard my phone go off. I was too enthralled with this mask of communication to see that we were simply using each other. This continued for a while. We payed rent in this comfort zone of texting and didn’t want to move out. That is, until I wanted to get closer.

I started to ask variations of the question, “What are we?” with no clear answer from him. Eventually we settled on the awkward label of “lovers” and that’s when he pulled away. While he’d answer within a minute or two when we first started our “textationship”, he started taking hours, then days to respond. Finally, I got frustrated and passive aggressively sent something ending in, “All the best” before I held my ground through several months of silence.

“I love you…” but not enough to call you…

He came back, months later, begging for forgiveness and spewing excuses better than the Crown Fountain in Chicago spews its water. I portrayed the seriousness of how he’d hurt me in essay long texts, but I still caved and accepted him back. And, even worse it went. He started to give me the minimal energy of texting again, so I slowly started trusting him again. I started to touch upon taking things more seriously in our relationship, and then out came those three words. Like magic. I love you.

The feeling of joy that came with those words was too good for me to admit the cheapness that they came by text. I de-valued myself just to feel that joy, which is something I will never do again. It almost horrifies me to admit that now, because I know I am worthy of much more. I abandoned myself to let him use me, and it was a hard lesson to learn.

Giving with no return

Needless to say, the rest isn’t a story of strength. I soon started giving too much (letters, gifts etc.) just to feel worthy of receiving that cheap effort back through text. The worst part is, I instinctually knew I was doing wrong to myself, but that feeling of joy was like a drug.

Once again, I started asking for more effort in return. We arranged a phone call on my birthday, but (shocker), it was me who had to call him. I asked for another call on Christmas Day (my birthday is close to then), but it never came, and all I received was days of silence instead. My fake, cheap, little, world of love came crashing down with the realization that people call the people they love on Christmas. It’s the one day of year where that isn’t optional, and he wasn’t even willing to give that minimal effort. It turned my whole Christmas holiday into a feeling of desolation and idiocy.

Of course, the best lessons are quite often the harshest.

photo of man in white dress shirt holding phone near window
Photo by Andrea Piacquadio on Pexels.com

Easy come, easy go…

It seemed so easy! And it seemed so effortless! We connected on a deeper level! But, here’s the thing: relationships do not exist without effort. I let things slide for so long just so I could provide him my energy in the form of sexy texts! Energy that he fed on greedily until I started asking for energy in return that he fought tooth-and-nail not to give back. Then, guess what? Off he goes.

After I realized my mistakes, and what I’d done to myself, I made it hard for myself to contact him again. I deleted his number from my phone, and blocked him from my social media accounts. I will never speak to him again, because I will never de-value myself again.

This isn’t a space I’ve created for myself to rant about this, as much as it seems that way. This is a cautionary tale. I don’t want others to get caught in the same trap. Luckily, though, if you are; ending it is as easy as starting it. You need only send them a text to wish them the best and move on (for good).

Set yourself free!

If they can’t even call you, let alone make the effort to schedule time with you, then it’s time to make the cut, my friend. It sounds harsh to say, but, it isn’t real. Don’t waste your valuable time and energy any longer. The right people will make those moves for you; real phone connections, real in person connections, real quality dates. Your person/people are waiting for you! So never let anyone use you for your energy without giving investment in return, even if it’s just a text (or a few). You are much too worthy for that!

I’d like to end on a quote from my favorite dating coach, Matthew Hussey. He often says: “Learn to identify the wrong person, so you can get to the right person faster.” Simple, yet powerful. Because once you realize that the time you’re giving this person is sacrificing not only your love for yourself, but your love for your future right person, you’ll have no problem deleting that “textationship”.

Carpe vitam!

low section of man against sky
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Kaylee Miller

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How Moving to Vancouver Saved My Life

Kaylee Miller

26 Feb, 2022

The Beginning

I’d like to touch on the story of how I ended up moving to Vancouver, and how it changed my life.

When I was growing up in a town called Belleville in Ontario, I was estranged from my Aunt and Uncle. They lived in foreign world that was approximately 4500km away from us, and through the turmoil of my difficult childhood, I didn’t get a chance to think much on it.

My father told me he’d pay for me and my younger sister to fly out to visit this place out west where they lived, but only once I’d turned 16 and was old enough to understand how to get on a plane.

The age of 16 came and went for me. By the time it had, we’d acquired dial-up internet access, so my curiosity led me to look up the details of this city. That’s when I discovered that, not only was this placed called “Vancouver” magical, it had natural beauty beyond belief. It’s snow-capped mountains and clear blue ocean were things that I’d only seen in movies. From the first time I laid eyes on the pictures of the city, I was hooked into daydreaming about it.

The Olympic Cauldron at Jack Poole Plaza in Vancouver: installed to hold the Olympic flame in the Winter Olympics of 2010.

Writing about Vancouver as an Escape

Since my life was stressful , I started to use writing as a way of escape. It was a way to mentally take myself out of this world and put myself into one where I could control everything. The first short-story I wrote was an embarrassing little number called “Weakness” where the characters were loosely based on my favorite actors from Lord of the Rings. I submitted it as an English project, and I don’t remember getting raving reviews from my Aussie English teacher, but that little story became my first shaky step into becoming a writer.

Then, I started writing for fun after school. Following “Weakness”, I wrote a story about vampires (surprise, surprise – it was the early 2000s, but, lucky for me, this was years before “Twilight” became popular). Then, I started writing my first novel, which was set in, and inspired by, Vancouver. I was 17 at the time, and I almost had the draft finished, before my desktop computer crashed and I lost it all. (I’d neglected to use a floppy disk and will never make the same mistake again!). I cried on my bed for hours afterward, then moved on, reluctantly accepting the loss of the story forever. But I never shook it. It remained stubbornly in my head for a long time after (to this very day, in fact).

12 Years Later

Fast-forward to my late 20s in 2017. While driving home from my agonizing Quality Assurance job, I day- dreamed the first scene from that re-vamped story to life. From that evening on, I decided that I was going to completely re-write my story set in Vancouver, and I was going to publish it as a novel. (Something that I’m still working on – and I hope my blog can help!). Throwing myself into my passion, I crafted my story every evening, gaining a new love for it along the way. I was doing what research I could with photos, maps, and the street-level view in Google Maps, but it wasn’t enough.

I soon realized that I was missing the critical experience of having visited there; of having walked the streets with my own feet, seen the mountains with my own eyes, and breathed the salty air into my own lungs. So, I started deducing a plan for how I would fly out and see the magnificent city for myself. Luckily, my Aunt had now settled in Tsawwassen, and I used her as an excuse for why my younger sister should join me. After settling the details of the trip between us, we booked it for late September 2017, and, in no time, we were leaving Ontario in a plane headed west.

The 9 O’clock Gun in Stanley Park, Vancouver: a historical piece that still fires every night at 9pm!

My first visit to Vancouver

When we landed, I remember seeing the fog rising up from the coniferous trees around YVR.. I could feel how different the land was from Ontario just through the sight of those trees. There was something comforting about it. Dark, and oddly familiar. I remember the quiet of the smaller airport and the freshness of the air as my sister and I made our way to the Skytrain. There were totem poles everywhere. I could tell that the city was engrained with the nature surrounding it; something that Ontario very much fails to do in its major cities. There was excitement rising up through the depth of my very core. I was here; in the place that I thought I’d never be able to visit. There was something very powerful and exciting about that.

I remember my first glance of the mountains as the fog began to clear, exposing them as the Skytrain turned towards the city. I’d never seen mountains before, so the sight of them in the distance brought forth shock and awe. “Brittney! Look at the mountains!”, I exclaimed to my sister, much to the annoyance of the locals on the train that took them for granted.

Encountering the Eastside

We stayed in Vancouver for a week. I ran into my first mistake a mere hour into landing in the city. I’d booked a cheap hotel on the Eastside of Downtown, and my sister and I walked from the clean streets of downtown, through the historic cobblestone streets of Gastown, and then straight into the poverty of the worst area of town.

We’d suddenly encountered Vancouver’s dark side. The state of the two-star hotel that I’d chosen and the sight of people doing heroin out on the streets sent my sister into tears. Although we walked all the way from Waterfront station, down the worst that East Hastings street has to offer, and emerged on the other side where the hotel was, no one had bothered us, save for a man asking us if we were twins. Even the cab driver, as we piled into the cab and headed back west to our new hotel (the Marriot), simply said regarding the people on the streets: “There are a lot of them, but they’re not dangerous.” I would agree with that – to a certain extent. Now that I live here I’m looking for volunteer opportunities to help the people there.

Exploring Vancouver

When we moved over to the Marriott, my sister started to relax and we began to enjoy our visit. We spent the week doing a bus tour through the city, exploring Stanley Park, visiting my Aunt in Tsawwassen, popping down to White Rock, and, of course, taking the Sea-to-Sky highway on a fantastically clear day up to Whistler. To this day that drive remains my favorite, and it had me in awe of life in the west.

As we moved through the week, I realized that it was not only the drive that gave me that feeling. It was the province as a whole. I begin to realize, very suddenly, that I was born in the wrong province and that I belonged here. I felt it viscerally, down in the depths of my heart and intuition. This must have started to show on my face, because, as we stood at Crescent Beach admiring the view my sister turned to me and rightly said, “You’re going to move here, aren’t you?”.

My sister, Brittney, and I: posing along the Sea to Sky highway, just outside Vancouver, during our first visit to B.C.

All Sights Set on Vancouver

As soon as I got back to Ontario, I missed the west. My thoughts began to center on how to get back there. The move was big, and intimidating, and my fear kept my from action for many years. I stayed connected by writing my novel, looking at the photos from our trip often, and planning my next trip out as a 30th birthday celebration for myself. I took that trip in the summer of 2019 – almost 2 years after my first visit – but my thoughts never strayed from my city. There were other trips that I’d taken elsewhere during that time, and I went through some life changes between the two trips, including getting back together with my ex for a short time.

Back in 2018, I’d mentally seen myself at a fork in the road; one leading to Vancouver, one leading back with my ex. Unfortunately, I took the wrong path. These were only distractions anyway. My mum and cousin joined me on the trip back to Vancouver in 2019. When we landed I felt at home once more. I had a blast touring them around like I knew the place, but by the time we went to board the plane “home” to Ontario, my mood had shifted miserable. I was leaving the place that I loved – again! – and after that, I knew the move was imminent or I was going to suffer mentally.

Uncomfortable in Ontario

I went through a steady period of depression after we got back; through 2019 and into 2020, that only got worse with the beginning of the pandemic. I’d never felt so lost in my life. I knew where my home was, but I had difficult decisions to make to get there. These included finding a job out west and breaking up with my ex (which was easier said than done, considering he was living in my apartment with the dog that we’d gotten together in late 2018).

Then, the pandemic hit and destroyed the way of life that we knew. I, like many others, was drinking too much. I had this narrative in my head that I’d never get to Vancouver anyway, so I might as well give up. It wasn’t long before I struggled with suicidal thoughts. I began to despise the city that I was living in, and the person that I’d invited back into my life. I, like many others in 2020, spiraled into a mentally dark place.

Finally, I gathered up the courage to speak to my ex about my move, and, to my surprise, he was supportive of it. He even started asking me questions about my plan that I hadn’t thought of before. We agreed to part amicably, which was for the best, but the conversation made me feel as if I were finally getting somewhere. After he moved out with our dog (now his dog alone), I started searching for jobs, and making plans. None of this came to fruition in 2020, though. I struggled with the virtual interviews, and the pandemic complicated everything beyond measure (at least, those are my excuses).

The Olympic Cauldron sitting at the base of Coal Harbour’s skyscrapers in Vancouver.

Where there is a Will, there is a Way

Finally, in December of 2020, I had a breakthrough. I caught sight of a sales coworker whose location was in British Columbia. This set off an explosive and sudden realization in my mind: Wait a minute… If people are working virtually from BC for our company, then what’s stopping me from doing the same? Afterall, I’ve been working from home full-time for almost a year… What if I just asked? What reason would they have to say no?

Just like that, I had the courage to take the first concrete step in making my move a reality. I set up a call with my manager and bravely posted the question if I could work remotely full-time. The call went well, and then we got on another call with my director to discuss it further.

I made sure to express that this was a life-dream for me, and how grateful I’d be to have support on my move. In my salaried role, I work with a great company, so I didn’t expect that they’d have a problem. I also didn’t expect the incredible support that I actually received. Within a month, I had been cleared at work to go, and that felt surreal, as well as incredibly exciting.

Making the Move

I chose my moving date – May 1st – and made a 3 month plan to land in Vancouver on that date.

The move itself came with all manner of challenges, some of which included:

  • Allocating what was going and what wasn’t.
  • Then deal with difficult people on Facebook marketplace.
  • Packing all of the stuff going into 5 suitcases and 13 boxes
  • Living with my mum and stepdad for a week before I left.
  • Getting my first COVID vaccine days before we flew.

But would I take any of them back? Absolutely not! The way I see it, every challenge was a step that lead me home, so I’m grateful (even if someone off Facebook marketplace had shown up to pick up my mattress in a tiny Toyota on the day I moved out of my old apartment).

Admiring the view at the love locks at Lonsdale Quay in North Vancouver. Go there for one of the city’s best views!

Feeling at Home for the First Time, and at Last

They say that when you’re in the wrong place the Universe will make you so unbelievably uncomfortable that you won’t be able to stay there. For me this was 100% true. I felt so incredibly out of place in Ontario that I don’t know how I endured there for so long. I now say, “I was born in the wrong province,” because I really do believe that. I’ve never encountered a place that I vibe with more than Vancouver; a place that feels so incredibly mine and so much like home. Now, I couldn’t be prouder to boast that I’m finally a Vancouverite – I am from Vancouver BC! – and I’m now so genuinely happy for the first time in my life, that I couldn’t imagine being anywhere else.

Not to be all “drama-queen-writer”, but I really believe that the move here has saved my life. I don’t think I would have been able to live in the state that I was in for much longer, so I’m so incredibly thankful that I did the work to get myself out here. Not only that, but I’ve now set myself up with a bright future, and I can finally live again!

So, if there is somewhere that you want to be, don’t let anything stop you! I promise you, that the results will be well worth it once you’re on the other side.

Carpe vitam!

The summer sunset over the Sunshine Coast from English Bay in the West End, Vancouver; something I get to enjoy quite often in my new neighbourhood.