The Ordinary Reaction

When someone hurts me, most people assume the ending will follow a familiar pattern. The door slams, numbers get blocked, and the history between two people is quietly erased. That is the ordinary reaction.

I have never been interested in ordinary reactions. I have never been an ordinary person, and I tend to lean toward the extraordinary.

Being hurt does not change my character. I do not become cruel because someone else mishandled my trust, and I do not rewrite the past to make the ending easier to carry. If I cared about someone, that care does not disappear simply because things ended badly. I can acknowledge the hurt and still treat someone with respect. Not out of weakness, but out of discipline.

Some people misunderstand that.

For a long time I believed in the potential I saw in this person. That instinct goes back further than the relationship itself. When you grow up hoping a parent might one day become the person you needed them to be, you develop patience for other people's unfinished parts. You learn to recognize potential early, and you learn to wait for it longer than most people would.

Even after the relationship ended, I reached out a few times with a simple invitation for coffee. Nothing dramatic. Just two people who once cared about each other sitting down for an hour. Each time I was met with silence. A quiet kind of cruelty that told me who they are.

And yet it has not completely erased the belief that they could become more than that.

Some will call that foolish. I see it differently.

Very few people keep their character intact after they have been hurt. Most people choose distance, anger, or erasure. I chose something else.

When someone loses a person who still treats them with that kind of grace, the loss is not always obvious at first. It usually becomes clear later, when they realize how few people in life will ever offer it again.

EMPTY BUDGET

Two weeks ago I sat at a Dalhousie economic roundtable discussing how to build successful communities in Nova Scotia. Two weeks later, the province tabled a budget that undercuts the very things that make communities successful. The irony writes itself.

This budget touches every Nova Scotian, whether they realize it yet or not. It hits small communities hardest. It hits nonprofits. It hits arts and culture organizations. And while the spreadsheets may look tidy, the fallout will not. Arts and culture are not hobbies. They are not decorative flourishes added after the “real work” is done. They are part of the foundation.

They are why people stay.

They are why young professionals don’t immediately move to Montreal or Toronto.
They are why retirees choose to relocate here instead of Florida.
They are why families feel anchored rather than stranded.

Without arts and culture, communities do not collapse in flames. They thin out. Quietly. Gradually. Like a store that never restocks.

Let’s also be honest about business. Businesses exist to make money. That is the point. They extract revenue in exchange for goods and services. They employ people so those people can pay rent, mortgages, buy groceries, fuel their cars, and maybe take a week off in August. That is the economic engine. But arts and culture are the social engine.

You cannot run a province on transactions alone. People need places to gather. They need something to participate in. They need somewhere to volunteer that isn’t just another revenue model.

The Canada Council for the Arts reports that three-quarters of Canadians who attend arts and cultural events say it strengthens their sense of belonging. Participation in the arts is also linked to greater civic engagement and social cohesion. This is not sentiment. This is infrastructure. Arts do not just entertain. They create citizens who feel connected enough to care.

Full transparency: I run a nonprofit arts organization. We are newly formed. We have applied for charitable status. Yes, I am concerned. But this is not about one organization. When you weaken nonprofit arts groups, volunteer networks shrink. Civic participation declines. Young people leave. Businesses struggle to recruit. Main streets get quieter. Property values stall. Municipal tax bases soften. The damage does not show up in a quarterly report. It shows up later, when a town looks around and realizes it has become a place people pass through instead of build in.

Premier Houston’s government speaks often about growth and prosperity. Growth requires more than balance sheets. Prosperity requires people who actually want to live here. A provincial budget is a statement of priorities. It tells us what the government believes is essential and what it considers expendable. And if arts and culture are treated as optional, then community becomes optional too.

You cannot cut your way into a vibrant society.

But we are about to find out how affordable emptiness can be.

The Try Hard

On a recent drive to Martock, somewhere between Mahone Bay and a stretch of black ice, I was called a “try hard.”

It was not delivered as a compliment. It was delivered as fact. It hung in the car like the air freshener you didn’t consent to.

Try hard.

I considered my options. Push the passenger out? Dramatic. Veer gently into the ditch? Also dramatic. Instead, I turned up the heated seats and chose evolution. That’s growth. I checked.

Because here’s the inconvenient truth.

I am a try hard.

But I wasn’t always.

There was a version of me that coasted. Didn’t try much at all, if we’re being honest. I tolerated less in some ways and took more in others. I blamed easily. I sulked professionally. I accepted anger as proof of passion. I mistook volatility for depth. I believed communication was optional and simply a scenic route to winning an argument. That man stuck his head in the sand and called it stability. He thought if he didn’t lean in too much, he couldn’t be disappointed. He thought detachment was strength. He thought caring less would hurt less.

He was wrong.

And here’s the part that’s almost funny.

Back then, I barely tried and it still leaned. That’s when it clicked , effort isn’t what creates imbalance. It’s the absence of it on the other side.

That’s where the shift happened.

Was it neurological? Possibly. The stroke didn’t take my voice. It took my patience for people who choose not to use theirs.

Was it existential? Also possible. When I was met with my own mortality ,what I call “the fire” , I stopped performing indifference. I stopped living a lukewarm life.

My tolerance isn’t infinite, neither is my time here on earth.

So now I try. Not just harder. Intentionally. Deliberately. Not to earn love. Not to compensate for someone else’s inertia. Not to audition for “Most Accommodating Man in Nova Scotia.”

I try because I care how things feel.

I will ask for the first date.
I will make the drive.
I will make the reservation.
I will ask the first question.

And if your answer has substance, I will meet it with substance.

What I no longer do is try alone.

There’s a culture right now that confuses detachment with value. The less you say, the cooler you appear. Emotional minimalism that passes for depth. Monosyllables that are apparently mysterious.

You ask something thoughtful.
You receive: “Yep.”
You offer nuance.
You receive: “Cool” or worse ”Neat”

That’s not mystery. That’s just conversational lint.

But ,nothing makes me dip faster than a “YEP”.

Not because I “deserve” paragraphs. Side bar.. I don’t love that word “deserve.” It smells faintly of entitlement.

It’s not about what I deserve.

It’s about what I’m willing to accept.

And I am not willing to accept asymmetry disguised as acceptable masculinity. Or silence disguised as confidence. Or indifference disguised as strength.

Some men seem  to confuse their  ignorance with their confidence and are deeply offended when asked to prove the difference.

Reciprocity is not dramatic. It’s not grand. It’s a current. You lean forward; I lean forward. You invest; I invest. You drive halfway; I drive halfway.

It is astonishingly simple.

If that makes me intense, so be it. I’ve been called “pretty intense,” which I find curious. Why does everything become more attractive when you’re camping? Is it the stars, or simply the lowered expectations?

If that intensity makes me incompatible with a culture that prizes low effort as a personality trait, I can survive that . I have survived worse than someone typing “Yep.”

So yes … I am a try hard.

Because I am awake. Because I am alive.

And if that feels like pressure, it’s probably because you weren’t planning to try at all.

“Raised eyebrow.” Both of them actually.

I Wanted the Story. I Accepted a Draft.

There have been relationships in my life where it is very clear now that my self-esteem was at a low. Not invisible. Not destroyed. Just low enough that I believed I deserved less than.

At the time, I would not have said that. I would have said I was being patient. I would have said I was being generous. I might have even said I was being understanding. Looking back, those were flattering words for what was really happening.

Low self-esteem changes what you tolerate.
You stop asking for much. Then you stop expecting it.

I stayed in a relationship where I gave consistency, care, and effort, while quietly accepting very little in return. I told myself this was maturity. It turns out it was self-doubt.

There is a cost to this.
Time spent trying to build someone else up is time not spent rebuilding yourself. Energy spent managing someone else’s limitations slowly teaches you that your own needs are optional.

Some people sense this. They do not always do it consciously, but they notice. Low self-esteem looks like generosity without boundaries. It looks like someone who will wait. Someone who will accept imbalance and call it love.

I also wanted a story.
Like everyone else, I watched Schitt’s Creek and wanted my own Patrick Brewer. I wanted that kind of love. Easy. Steady. Chosen. I wanted to be met, not managed. I wanted the version where someone shows up without being convinced.

Instead, I stayed where wanting that felt unreasonable. I settled for less while telling myself I was being reasonable.

It takes time to see this clearly. Usually longer than I would like. And yes, there is a quiet anger that comes with realizing how much time I gave away. That anger is not bitterness. It is awareness arriving late but still welcome.

I do not judge myself for that relationship anymore. I understand it. It reflects where I was, not what I am capable of.

My self-esteem did not return dramatically. It returned the moment I stopped negotiating my worth. The moment I realized that less was never all I deserved.

It was simply all I believed I could ask for at the time.

Of Brushstrokes, And Sledgehammers

Lighting is the top hat on Fred Astaire.
You don’t need it to dance, but without it, something feels unfinished.
A little underdressed.
A little… pedestrian.

I’ve spent nearly twenty years designing and fabricating lighting.
Residential.
Commercial.
Custom work that had to perform, last, and still look right years later.

I’ve watched clients spend hundreds of thousands of dollars on sofas.
Italian fabrics.
Hand-stitched seams.
Cushions stuffed with something ethically harvested and emotionally reassuring.

Then they hang a $39 ceiling light and call it done.

That’s not design.
That’s quitting at the shoes.

Here’s the thing about lighting.
It doesn’t care how expensive your furniture is.

The right lighting can make a thrift-store chair look deliberate.
Thoughtful.
Almost smug.

The wrong lighting can make a $20,000 sofa look tired, flat, and vaguely regretful.

Notice I didn’t say good lighting.
I said the right lighting.

Good lighting is bright.
The right lighting is controlled, selective, and a little manipulative.

Which brings me to dimming.

If your lights don’t dim, they’re not finished.
They’re just on or off.
That’s not atmosphere.
That’s a warehouse.

Dimmers aren’t an upgrade.
They’re the point.

Lighting without control is a blunt instrument.
Like painting your walls with a sledgehammer.

Lighting with control edits the room.
Like brushstrokes from an artist’s hand.

And while we’re here, let’s talk about the big light.

The ceiling-mounted interrogation lamp.
The single switch that floods everything at once and forgives nothing.

No room needs to be lit all at the same time.
That’s not living.
That’s processing.

Good rooms aren’t lit.
They’re layered.

A lamp here.
A glow there.
Nothing shouting.
Everything in a quiet conversation.

LED RGB lighting gets misunderstood a lot.

It feels like mood, but most of the time it’s a shortcut.
Materials don’t know how to behave under purple.
Skin looks tired.
Wood looks confused.
Everything starts to feel like a nightclub that should have closed an hour ago.

If color is doing all the work, the lighting probably isn’t.

The right lighting hides imperfections.
It forgives seams.
It softens edges.
It decides what deserves attention and what gets to stay quietly in the background.

But when the light does expose flaws, you’d better pay attention early.
Because those flaws don’t go away.

They scatter.

Like roaches, they scatter when the light turns on.
And if your solution is darkness instead of fixing the problem, congratulations.
You didn’t solve anything.

You just taught the roach where to hide.
Fucking roach.

Lighting is rarely neutral.
It either flatters or tells the truth.

That’s why people cheap out on it, they overlook it.
Not because they don’t understand lighting.
But because they don’t always want to see what it reveals.

You don’t need designer furniture to have a beautiful space.
You need intention.
Restraint.
And lighting that knows when to speak up and when to shut up.

Put the top hat on.
Finish the thought.

The room will thank you.

The Top Hat Matters

This is a noticeable shift from what I usually post.
No existential wandering.
No cultural post-mortem.

As we move into 2026, I’m going to start using my design education for something simple: small, useful observations about how we live, and why our spaces quietly tell on us.

I was trained as an interior designer, though I never really practiced.
I couldn’t handle the therapy sessions disguised as conversations about pull handles and door knobs.
If your relationship is collapsing, brushed nickel isn’t the villain.

So I moved into lighting instead.
Lighting made sense.
It was the top hat on Fred Astaire.
The final move that said, this works.

Lately, I’ve been thinking less about design and more about unfinished business.
Literal and metaphorical.

Most homes don’t look bad because they’re poorly designed.
They look bad because they’re full of things that were never quite finished.

A towel not hung.
A jacket living on the back of a chair.
A hat on a stool, pretending it belongs there.
A charger still plugged into the wall, doing nothing, like an idea you never followed through on.

One or two of these is fine.
A whole house full of them starts to feel heavy.

They’re visual reminders of things you meant to deal with.
Tiny open loops.
And living surrounded by open loops is exhausting.

It’s the same feeling as having forty browser tabs open.
Nothing is on fire.
But nothing feels settled either.

Your house knows this. You know this.

Unfinished thoughts create drag.
They make a space feel tired.
And, if we’re being honest, they often mirror how we’re living.

Before anyone gets defensive, yes.
I make my bed every morning.
I do my dishes before I go to bed.

Do they always get put away immediately? Does the laundry?
Of course not.

Sometimes there’s a YouTube tutorial on Idiots At work that deserves my full attention.
I am not a monster.

But even small completions matter.
They tell a space and all who enter , that someone here is paying attention.
That someone finishes things.

You don’t need to be a designer to do this.
You just need to finish the thought.

Hang the towel.
Put the jacket away.
Unplug the charger.
Give the hat a home.

And here’s where it cuts closer.

Homes cluttered with unfinished tasks often belong to people surrounded by unfinished conversations.
Unsaid things.
Texts not answered.
Closures postponed.

We tell ourselves we’ll get to it later.
But later has a way of piling up. Doing it later is a choice.

Completion isn’t about control or perfection.
It’s about not living inside reminders of things you avoided.

When things are finished, a space relaxes.
It looks cleaner.
Quieter.
More intentional.

The top hat fits. Luxury is quiet

And when you realize that, everything looks like it was meant to be there.

CLOSETS

Closets

I have a complicated relationship with closets.

When I came out at fourteen, I did not step gently into the light. I burned the doors down. There was no going back in after that, even if I had wanted to. Closets, for me, have never been about hiding. They have always been about deciding what stays in and what comes out.

At the end of every year, I clean out my closets.
Figuratively and literally.

Everything comes out.
I dust off a few skeletons. I shove a couple more back in.
Some things get folded neatly. Some things finally get admitted to the trash pile.

It is one of my favorite rituals. Not because I love organizing, I do not. But because it forces me to decide, what still fits, what never did and what I have been keeping simply because I paid good money for it, emotionally or otherwise. However, the methodical, sometimes obsessive placement of things in my home tells a more honest story.

Clearing space, physically and mentally, is how I reset for a new year. It is a quiet accomplishment layered on top of whatever chaos, progress, or sheer endurance the year required.

And this year required a lot.

Together with the board at ALCHEMIA Art Workshop, I helped turn something fragile into something real. After nearly twenty years in custom fabrication, building other people’s visions, I am now building my own work. That alone still feels like a plot twist I did not see coming.

Then there was Ottawa.

In November, I made a trip that resulted in an invitation to present my work at a Senate event. The focus will be on IPV and GBV prevention, focusing on the art and activism of Transformation of Dangerous Spaces. This was not a ceremonial nod. It was serious. It was considered. In my line of work, that matters.

By any reasonable metric, it is a grand achievement.

But here is the thing.
Grand has never been rare in my life.

I live big. I always have. Broad strokes, big life, big ideas, big feelings, big messes. And because I live like that, I accumulate things. Stories. Grief. Old versions of myself. Relationships that mattered once and now sit quietly, judging me from the back shelf.

I keep them because they were important. Because they shaped me. Because maybe, someday, they might be useful again.

Until they are not.

This year, one of the most important closets I opened was grief itself.

I joined a grief therapy program.

Not because something new had happened, but because too much old grief had never been properly dealt with. Loss layered on loss. Abandonments filed away instead of felt. Experiences that shaped me quietly, while I pretended they were under control.

What I did not expect was how directly that work has fed into my art.

Transformation of Dangerous Spaces did not come from theory or policy language. It came from lived grief. From understanding what happens when pain has nowhere to go. When it gets stored in the body. When it calcifies into silence, avoidance, or violence.

That grief is not mine alone. It is shared. And that is what mattered in Ottawa.

I did not walk into those meetings with a pitch deck and a performance. I walked in with truth. I spoke plainly about loss, responsibility, and the quiet failures that happen when we avoid hard emotional work. The MPs and Senators I met with did not respond to polish. They responded to recognition. To their own grief reflected back at them, without accusation.

That shared grief did the heavy lifting.

Back to the moral of the story…at some point, storage turns into clutter. And clutter turns into weight. And weight turns into an exhaustion I can no longer explain away.

So I am opening every door.

I look at the grief I keep revisiting like it might change. The misery I drag along out of loyalty. The past love I already mourned but refuse to stop inventorying. The letters left unanswered. The unanswered questions.

None of it is recyclable.
None of it is waiting to be repurposed.
It is detritus.

And detritus belongs in the trash. Not out of bitterness. Out of clarity.

So I clean out my closets.

I keep what still works.
I thank what once did.
And I let the rest go without a dramatic goodbye.

That is how we make room for what comes next.

ON CAPACITY OR WHY I DON’T TAKE SILENCE PERSONALLY

ON CAPACITY OR WHY I DON’T TAKE SILENCE PERSONALLY

Lately, as I’ve been throwing myself back into dating, apps, and my own ridiculous and delusional optimism, I’ve learned something important: capacity.

Not destiny.
Not soulmates.
Just… how much room someone actually has for communication, basic effort, and emotional adulting.

I figured this out the hard way recently when I wrote someone I still deeply care about a handwritten letter , yes, handwritten, because apparently I enjoy suffering , and got absolutely nothing back. Not a text. Not a “thanks.” Not even an accidental emoji.

And honestly?
I didn’t take it personally.

Why?
Because it wasn’t about me.
It was about their capacity , or, let’s be honest, their lack of it.

Some people just don’t have the emotional muscles to lift a response that weighs more than a grocery list. And that’s fine. Disappointing, but fine.

I see the same thing on dating apps.
I reach out, I say hello, I’m direct, and I’m “normal” enough for someone who’s survived two strokes and still thinks connection is possible.

Sometimes I get a reply right away , and it is thrilling.
Most of the time people take ages.
Fair. I’m not glued to my phone either, and I’ve been yelled at more than once for not responding instantly. Men love to treat unread messages like a national emergency.

My straightforward approach ends up being a test:
How fast do you crumble?
How weird do you get?
How long does it take before you show me the internal scaffolding of your life ,  sturdy, wobbly, or built from damp cardboard?

I’m always going to be first to suggest meeting for coffee or a beer because there’s no pressure. It’s not a proposal. It’s not a hookup. It’s literally a beverage. A chemistry check. Two humans seeing if they can survive an hour in public together.

If there’s no spark? Fine.
If they chicken out? Also fine.
If they disappear completely?

Still not about me.

And if I’m “not their type”?
Yeah, still okay, sure,  and totally possible.
I can be… a lot.
But come on …

Not only is about attraction , It’s about their capacity: their nerves, their comfort level, their emotional maturity, and whatever unfinished wiring they’ve got going on.

What I’m not going to do , is turn someone else’s limits into my self-doubt.

Because I know my capacity.
It’s solid. ( mostly)
It’s warm. ( with time)
It’s got room for someone who can show up, drink a coffee, and be a human being for an hour.

No fireworks needed.
Just capacity.

The Architecture of Kink

The Architecture of Kink

by Christopher W. Quigley

I was riding my motorcycle home, and somewhere between Exit 11 and the smell of impending rain, a large bug hit my visor with a sharp thud. The splatter was brief and startling, but it stayed in view, blurring everything ahead. I kept riding, adjusting my focus through the smear, and thought … stay with me here … maybe that’s what kink is: the beauty of control inside the mess.
Maybe it isn’t about being broken.
Maybe it isn’t pathology.
Maybe it’s about design.
Maybe it’s architecture.

Heteronormative vanilla relationships , or HVRs, if you like labels , have always been a bit like mass-produced IKEA furniture without assembly instructions. Everything looks fine and easy on the box, but once you start assembling, you realize the screws don’t fit, the wood’s warped, and you’re missing an Allen key. Like IKEA furniture, HVRs are built on assumptions nobody wants to admit they’re making.

Am I the mentor because I’m older?
The provider because I can afford decent wine?
The equal because we say the word “partner” out loud even though the dynamic is anything but?

Each relationship ends up like a house cobbled together by enthusiasm and denial, walls tacked up with emotional duct tape, plumbing done by amateurs, and an unspoken rule that no one’s allowed to mention the leaks.

Then, when it collapses, everyone looks surprised. This happens Again, and Again ,and Again.

But kink doesn’t lie about its structure.

It drafts blueprints in triplicate, signs them in pen, and pins them to the wall before a single thing happens.

It requires discussion, and negotiation.

It insists on it.

Everything is “No” until agreed as “Yes”
Boundaries are declared, not guessed at.
Roles are chosen, not implied.
The power dynamic isn’t something to politely pretend doesn’t exist. It’s the headline act.

That’s what fascinates me.

In vanilla relationships, I’ve been punished for the very qualities kink rewards.
I’ve been called intense more times than a lifeguard has yelled “no running.” It’s never a compliment.

But I’ve started to think “intense” is just what people call you when they’re lazy communicators.

Clarity? Too intense.
Intensity? Too much.
Reciprocity? Too demanding.

In kink, those are the prerequisites. You can’t even show up without them.

It’s a relief, really. Maybe I’ve spent too long letting people walk through me like a gallery on free admission day. I’ve mistaken curiosity for commitment. I’ve let men wander through my halls and treat a masterpiece like a cheap reproduction. Of course they didn’t know what to do with me. They didn’t have the architecture for it. And when confronted with that, they did what most people do when the ground starts a seismic rumble. They run.

Kink doesn’t allow for running.

Silence is not an option… when trust is the scaffolding holding everything up.

If you can’t talk, you can’t play.

If you can’t name your limits, the show never starts.

And yes, the language doubles as instruction. The same blueprints that keep a structure standing keep a relationship from caving in. Call it communication, call it foreplay , its the same foundation, different materials.

Maybe that’s why it feels familiar to me, this need for precision. My art lives there too. I build things that are designed to erode , like societal structures themselves. Salt blocks that dissolve, steel that rusts, light that fades. They test what holds and what falls apart. Maybe I’ve been doing the same thing with people, building structures meant to collapse, just to see what remains standing afterward.

It’s like desire, really. Leave it unspoken long enough and it rots. Hide it, and it grows mold. In kink, we drag desire into the light and give it a name. We decide what it is before it decides for us.

Maybe being too much or too grand all these years is actually just too structured for the flimsy architecture of vanilla love. I don’t want coyness or mystery or people who vanish mid-sentence.

I want to build something with real load-bearing walls.

I’m not broken. I’m not asking for too much. I’ve just been building on the wrong foundations.

What I want … clarity, intensity, reciprocity … was never meant for drywall hearts and styrofoam façades.

The architecture of kink isn’t about whips or chains or sex and latex at all. It’s about finally finding a structure that doesn’t collapse under truth. A space where consent is concrete, communication is steel, and vulnerability is the view.

Maybe that’s what I’ve been doing all along, designing myself for earthquakes, and then being surprised when the wrong kind of men couldn’t stand a simple tremor.

A place where a masterpiece is finally recognized as one and not mistaken for a paper poster on a bedroom wall.

Author’s Note
Written after a late ride home on the 103, visor streaked and thoughts louder than the engine.

Sometimes clarity arrives covered in bug guts.

a failure to communicate

This one’s about irony, language, and the kind of heartbreak that teaches you who you are when words stop working.

I’ve always believed that words could fix anything , that if you said it clearly enough, kindly enough, and truthfully enough, someone would understand.

But lately, I’m not so sure.

I’m telling you, this did my head in and it took a 17-year-old named Izzy to see the irony before I did. I’m a writer, a storyteller, an artist, an effective communicator , my entire career has been about giving shape to thought. He’s an ASL translator. His work is to bring sound from silence, to make the unheard heard, to translate the unspoken into something understood. We’re both people who take the implicit and make it explicit.

And yet, somehow, we failed to communicate.

Maybe that’s why what Izzy saw undid me the most , that two people whose work depends on understanding couldn’t understand each other. It’s a humbling kind of truth, the sort that strips away the performance of connection and leaves only the ache of recognition.

Maybe the hardest language to translate is the one between two people who stopped listening long before they stopped talking.

I’m still trying to find peace in the silence ,it tells truths words never could.

Funny how silence has a way of getting the last word.

Needs vs. Needy

A Chrismissive by Christopher W. Quigley

There’s a store in Nova Scotia called Needs. The name is almost too perfect. It doesn’t promise wants, delights, or everything you ever dreamed of. It promises what you need , and even then, just the basics. A liter of milk. Some eggs. A bottle of ginger ale and a vaguely stale hotdog you convince yourself is still good. It’s not where you go for an extravagant charcuterie board. It’s where you go in sweatpants at 10:47 p.m. to patch a minor hole in your evening.

Relationships should be like Needs. They don’t have to be everything. No one is suggesting your partner needs to be your therapist, your cheerleader, and your emotional support animal. But they should carry the essentials. The metaphorical milk and eggs of human connection. That really shouldn’t be too much to ask.

I was in a relationship where the basics slowly went out of stock. Not in the cute “we just sold out” way, but in the “this location hasn’t carried that in years” kind of way. I adapted. I tried diplomacy. Long winded letters. I rephrased my emotional needs in lighter tones, in smaller portions, hoping they’d go down easier. Sometimes, I’d float a hopeful treaty disguised as a joke. But it didn’t work ,not when the person across from me made it clear they weren’t interested in negotiating. I wasn’t in a relationship. I was in a cold war. A border dispute with someone who thought compromise was weakness.

So began the war of attrition. Each side entrenched. No movement. No flexibility. Just the slow erosion of connection. I was not asking for anything extravagant. Just basics, a little tender time, maybe a Slurpee's worth of closeness. When that was denied long enough, I stopped requesting, and desire slowly eroded. I started pleading silently. And pleading outloud, but no matter how well dressed the plead, I felt like I was going to labeled as being needy.

But here’s the truth: when your needs go unmet, you become needy.

Not because you’re flawed. Not because you’re dramatic or too grand. But because you’re human. And humans , like plants , will stretch toward the light, even if it’s faint and flickering. We ration our expectations, root ourselves in thinner and thinner soil, and call it resilience. But there comes a point when you have to stop blaming the plant for wilting and start asking why it was planted in such poor conditions to begin with.

But know this, being called or thinking you’re needy is a deflection. It’s how people avoid admitting they’ve let you down or admit you’ve been let down. They reframe your deprivation as your dysfunction. They’ll say things like, “I can’t be everything to you,” or flat out say, “I am not able or willing to meet all your needs”, when you weren’t even asking for that. You just wanted them to care a bit more about the request. To try. To be present and know their needs are not the only ones to be considered.

Needs are not luxuries. They are not excess. They are the foundation on which relationships are built. And if someone treats your needs like burdens, it might be time to find a new store.

Preferably one that’s open 24 hours.

It took me longer than I’d like to admit to understand that asking for what I need isn’t needy. It’s honest. And honesty, I’ve learned, is non negotiable.

What are your basics?
And when did you last ask for them out loud?

How to Spot the RV Pricing Bubble Before It Bursts (And Why It’s About To)

How to Spot the RV Pricing Bubble Before It Bursts (And Why It’s About To)

By Christopher Quigley

I’ve wanted a Class B camper van for most of my adult life. The kind built on a Mercedes Sprinter chassis with a front lounge and a proper wet bath. A little rolling refuge where I could write, travel, and shower without needing to ask for a key from a gas station. But recently, when I started looking in earnest, something felt off. The prices weren’t just high—they were absurd. $120,000 for a 10-year-old van with 160,000 miles and a composting toilet wedged beside a microwave? No, thank you.

That sense of skepticism led me down a path of research, and what I discovered is something worth sharing: the RV market, particularly the used market, is in a bubble. A real one. And it’s already beginning to burst.

During the pandemic, RV sales soared. People fled airports and cruise ships for the safety of the open road. With soaring demand and constrained supply, prices skyrocketed. Manufacturers couldn’t build fast enough, and used models were selling for more than they were worth—often more than they cost new. Add in social media-fueled "vanlife" fantasies, and suddenly, a plywood box with a faucet became a six-figure aspiration.

But 2023 marked a turning point. According to the RV Industry Association, shipments of new RVs dropped nearly 49% year-over-year. That’s not a market correction; that’s a collapse. Companies like Thor and Winnebago posted substantial losses. The reason? People simply stopped buying. Interest rates rose, and the romance wore off. Just as quickly as the trend began, reality set in.

The used market is now bloated with overpriced inventory. Listings for ten- or fifteen-year-old vans with questionable plumbing and aesthetic rust are still commanding six-figure prices—and sitting unsold. Dealers have begun offering incentives. Financing has become more difficult. Meanwhile, a flood of DIY builds with poor insulation and no certification has created an oversupply of what I can only describe as “tiny home optimism on wheels.”

To make matters worse, trade tensions between Canada and the U.S. have led to new tariffs, making it even more expensive to import RVs across the border. Canadian dealers, once dependent on U.S. manufacturing, are pulling back and cancelling orders. Combined with currency fluctuations, this has made an already overpriced sector even more precarious.

This is how bubbles pop. Slowly, then all at once. And the signs are everywhere: declining shipments, softening demand, rising costs, and mounting seller frustration. If you're considering buying a used RV , my advice is simple: wait. Prices are on the way down. The fever is breaking. The bubble is deflating.

I still want my RV.

I still believe in the road trip dream.

But I’m not willing to mortgage my future for what amounts to a rolling bathroom with throw pillows. I’ll wait until the prices make sense. And when they do, I’ll be ready—with a towel, a toothbrush, and a perfectly reasonable offer.

Selling Dreams Like Lemons

Selling Dreams Like Lemons

by Christopher W. Quigley

Let’s not sugarcoat this: the RV industry has a sales problem.

Not a pricing problem (although, let’s face it, that’s its own issue). Not a product problem , per se .(though I’ll get to that). But a sales strategy problem so deeply embedded in the culture of dealerships that it borders on the absurd—especially when you consider that these vehicles now rival the price of modest homes in half of North America.

As someone who’s driven high-performance luxury vehicles for most of his adult life, I know what good salesmanship looks like. It looks like a suit. It sounds like someone who knows their product, their customer, and their worth. It feels like you're buying something that deserves reverence—and that you, as the buyer, do too.

But walk into an RV dealership today, and what you’ll often encounter is something that more closely resembles a discount mattress warehouse. The sales pitch is laced with smarm and urgency. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead. And the guy telling you that the $428,000 diesel pusher you're eyeing is a “steal” is wearing worn out khakis, an ill-fitting polo t shirt and a Bluetooth headset, and the faint scent of Axe body spray.

It's not just aesthetically offensive. It’s insulting.

These aren't $15,000 fifth-hand Fords. These are hundred-thousand-dollar plus, sometimes multi-million-dollar machines, designed for people who want to take their lives on the road—comfortably, luxuriously, and with a bit of swagger. These are vehicles you plan memories in. Bucket-list dreams, not bargain-bin leftovers.

So why is the sales experience often so beneath the product?

I recently inquired about a gently used beautiful Prevost coach—a dream rig for many—and dared to ask some basic, rational questions: How old are the tires and rims? What should I expect to fix first, based on your experience with this unit? Could I see the service records, or better yet, the manual? You would’ve thought I’d accused someone’s grandmother of larceny. The atmosphere went from “Can I get you a coffee?” to “Why are you even here?” in 3 seconds flat.

And this isn’t an isolated experience. This is a pattern. The moment you begin asking questions that reveal a working brain, you’re treated like a nuisance. Like you’re “difficult.” No, friend. I’m not difficult. I’m informed—and that should be celebrated, not met with aggression.

It’s time the RV industry wakes up and realizes it’s not hawking cheap thrills anymore. It’s selling lifestyle, legacy, and in many cases, someone’s lifelong dream. And yet, it clings to sales tactics more suitable for a used car lot in 1986.

Let’s talk numbers for a second: the average Class B van can now run between $130,000–$350,000. Class A diesel rigs can soar well past $500,000. You wouldn’t buy a house—or hell, even a mid-range SUV—without expecting a concierge-level experience. But the RV industry? It still thinks it can dazzle you with a free keychain and an “act fast before it’s gone” pitch.

Worse still, it has cultivated a hostile resistance to third-party inspectors—especially those brought in by buyers to review not just used RVs but brand-new units coming directly from the manufacturer!! The very fact that third-party inspection services are now a booming micro-industry is damning. These inspectors are finding leaks, missing parts, poor craftsmanship, and structural flaws in units with fewer miles on them than your last Instacart delivery.

That’s not just embarrassing—it’s criminal negligence wrapped in fake leather and bad caulking.

Now, to be fair—not all dealerships are guilty of this. There are a growing number of retailers stepping into the luxury space with the grace and professionalism the market demands. They’re upgrading their showrooms, training their staff to engage like brand ambassadors instead of wheeler-dealers, and working in concert with third-party inspectors rather than treating them like trespassers. Some even welcome inspectors as a show of confidence in their product. To those dealerships: bravo. You are the exception, but you shouldn't be. You are the model, and the industry should be emulating you.

But the rest of the industry? It’s coasting on the ignorance—or worse, the willful denial—of an entire new generation of RV buyers who don’t want to ask too many questions because it ruins the fantasy. And let’s be honest: buying an RV is a fantasy. It’s a glorious, rolling, freedom-soaked fantasy of life on the open road. But fantasies shouldn’t have delamination, or cracked welds, or warped cabinetry straight from the assembly line.

This is not a small expense. This is not an impulse buy. This is, for many, the most expensive, most rapidly depreciating asset they’ll ever purchase—and it is one of the most emotionally loaded. People sell their homes, retire early, plan entire seasons of their lives around an RV purchase. The least that can be done is give them a sales experience that honors the gravity of that choice.

So here’s my call to action:

• RV manufacturers: Do better. If third-party inspectors are catching what your QA team should have, you’ve failed.

• Dealerships: Elevate. Put on a damn suit. Train your staff. Create environments that reflect the quality you claim to be selling.

• Buyers: ALWAYS Get an inspector. Every time, no exceptions. Especially on a new rig. Demand transparency. You deserve better.

• The industry: Stop panicking when someone lifts the curtain. That moment of discomfort is the first step toward actual evolution.

Because at the end of the day, selling dreams like lemons is bad business. And the only thing worse than a poorly built RV is an industry too proud—or too lazy—to fix its own foundation.

—

Christopher W. Quigley

Consumer. Critic. Occasional camper. Always impeccably dressed.

The Void That Waited

by Christopher W. Quigley

Long ago, before stars knew how to shine and before time dared to tick there was only The Void.

It had no name, because nothing had ever been said.

It had no edges, because there was no thing to press against it.

It had no temperature, because warmth requires touch, and there was no thing to touch it.

The Void simply was, is.

Silent. Still. Infinite.

And in that perfect, endless nothing, something happened.

A rupture, a tiny tear.

No louder than a whisper.

No larger than a sigh.

A tremble, perhaps, or a flaw in the stillness.

From this shiver, a small bubble formed— not a clean or polished sphere, but a dirty bubble, a scum of hot matter and light clinging to itself in the way foam clings to filth.

It burst outward, violently, into the infinitely frictionless, infinitely cold, infinite vacuum of nothingness.

And so, It began. At first, It didn’t know what It was. But quickly, It realized it was full of things: light, heat, atoms, gravity, motion, life.

It wriggled and rolled and roared, giddy with its newness.

It called itself Something. It called itself The Universe.

The Universe danced in delight, unaware that it had intruded.

The Void watched, patient and unchanged.

It did not mind. It had no opinion.

But as time passed, The Universe grew uneasy.

It was stretching, expanding—not from ambition, or desire or hunger but because it was falling outward.

There was no thing to stop it. No walls to contain it. No friction to slow it down. It screamed into The Void, “Who is pushing me? What force is driving me apart?”

But the Void was silent.

It had no voice.

Scholars and the stars gathered to argue. “There must be something!” they said.

“A great energy! A pressure! A force we do not see!”

So they gave The Void a name: Dark Energy.

They treated it like a god, or a ghost, or a trick.

But still, the Universe stretched.

Eventually, an old beam of light—one of the first created—approached the edge where The Universe dissolved into The Void.

“What are you?” the beam of light asked. “Why do you unmake us?”

The Void did not answer.

It simply received the question, and in doing so, dissolved it.

Because the Void is not cruel. It is not kind. It is nothing.

The Void is the absence of all things.

The canvas before the painting.

The silence before the song.

The nothing before something.

As the Universe spread wider and wider and thinner and colder, chasing the illusion of meaning…

The Void waited. As It always had. As It always would. As It always will.

For in the end, all things return to nothing.

And nothing, unlike everything else, is patient.

All I Wanted Was a Toilet on Wheels: A Descent into Vanlife Madness

It started, as most midlife crises do, with a memory.

I've been obsessed with RVs and motorhomes since I was a little kid. Some kids went to theme parks; I went to the local RV retailer the Portage Leisure Centre to walk through trailers on a gravel lot. That was a fun Sunday in our house—just me, a sea of motorhomes, and dreams of indoor plumbing on wheels. I didn't say I was cultured. I said I was classy.

And now, as an adult with money (ish), taste (arguable), and a deep-rooted desire to poop in privacy while parked oceanside, I thought—why not finally do it? Buy the camper van. Live the dream. Journal at dawn in a robe. Sprinter chassis. Front lounge. Wet bath.

I was so young. So innocent. So… not ready.

Welcome to Plywood and Delusion

Apparently, the moment you type "Class B camper van with bathroom" into Google, you enter a world where logic goes to die.

I've seen "bathrooms" that are:

• A bucket tucked under a plywood bench.

• A "shower" that's really just a garden hose that spews spiritual defeat.

• A composting toilet wedged beside the stovetop, which truly challenges one's sense of mealtime.

It seems everyone's flipping vans now. They insulate with Styrofoam, glue down some floor tiles, toss in a hotplate, and call it "Scandinavian modern." Then list it for $105,000, no questions asked.

I'm not kidding—one of them had the toilet facing the side door. For the full al fresco experience, I guess.

Mercedes Sprinter: The Devil Wears Diesel

Here's the thing: I want the Sprinter chassis. It's classy, smooth, and frankly, it's always been the dream. But the second that three-pointed star shows up, it's like someone added two extra zeros to the price for vibes.

I found a 2008 Airstream Interstate with 180,000 miles and rust that looks contagious. The listing says "needs some TLC" and then casually asks $89,900. I assume TLC stands for "This Limo's Cursed."

I'm not looking for luxury, but I am looking for basic human dignity.

All I Want Is a Toilet with a Door

Let's be clear. I want:

• A diesel engine that doesn't hyperventilate on inclines.

• A front lounge so I don't have to sit cross-legged on my bed like a Victorian invalid.

• A proper wet bath. With walls. A door. Maybe even a fan.

• And a price that doesn't require I sell plasma or take up interpretive busking.

Is that too much to ask?

Because right now, for $150,000, you get a "kitchenette" that looks like a high school shop project, a "bed" made of three uneven cushions, and a composting toilet that you have to empty yourself … with you own hands!! Which I believe is the final boss in the game of "Vanlife: Expectations vs. Reality."

The Bubble Is Bursting, and So Are My Dreams

Turns out, this van life craze is a bubble teetering on the edge of a pin. RV shipments have plummeted nearly 50% year over year. Even rental startups are folding faster than I do during a yoga class. ​

Remember Chris Farley's iconic "van down by the river" sketch? Well, these days, living in a van down by the river is a remarkably expensive proposition. If you dream big like this, that bubble's gonna burst too—right along with your bank account.​

Current Status: Hopelessly Hopeful

I'm trolling RepoDepo like it owes me money. I've got Craigslist saved searches in three time zones. I've bookmarked U.S. vans from 2008 and 2009 that are just barely legal to import into Canada.

I know more about Roadtrek models than I do about my own medical history.

And yet, the dream persists. Somewhere out there, I know there's a Sprinter van—diesel, certified, and just janky enough to fit my budget—waiting for me. And when I find it, I will name it. And I will christen the wet bath like the queen it was always meant to be.

Because I didn't grow up cultured. I grew up classy.

Permission to be lost

A close friend recently asked me a question that stopped me in my tracks: Why are you doing this? The "this" in question was an initiative I’m spearheading to convert an old nursing home property into housing for market rental units—a daunting project requiring time, energy, and a certain kind of madness. At first, I fumbled for an answer.

Why was I doing it?

Because I could? Because no one else would? Because I’m too stubborn to accept “it’s not possible” as an excuse? All true, but not quite it. The answer, I realized later, was much simpler: I want to create space.

Not just physical space—a roof and four walls—but a kind of emotional and communal space. A place where someone could breathe, settle, and thrive. I’ve been lucky enough to find that in this community, a place where I’ve rebuilt myself, stumbled into clarity, and crafted my own path forward. It’s only right to try and leave that door open for someone else. That’s the "why."

Still, if I’m being honest, I feel a bit lost. I’ve been chasing different projects—producing a play, writing missives, creating public art, and yes, dreaming up housing solutions. Each idea feels like a thread leading somewhere, but the tapestry isn’t quite coming together. Yet.

And you know what? That’s okay. We’re so conditioned to believe that every step we take must be purposeful, that every move must lead to the next big thing. But maybe life isn’t about chasing a singular purpose. Maybe it’s about experimenting, creating, and letting the pieces find their own rhythm.

I’ve learned (and am still learning) to give myself permission to be lost. To let go of the need for immediate answers and embrace the exploration. It’s not comfortable—being lost rarely is—but it’s where the real magic happens.

This initiative, this effort to create homes, feels like one piece of the puzzle. It’s rooted in empathy, in gratitude, and in wanting to pay forward the inspiration and belonging I’ve found here in Mahone Bay. It’s not about saving the world. It’s about creating one small, meaningful ripple in the place I call home.

So, here’s a thought: Being lost isn’t a failure. It’s the first step to finding something better, deeper, and more authentic. The "why" doesn’t have to come first but reveals itself along the way?

For now, I’ll keep moving forward, one experiment at a time. After all, isn’t that how we find ourselves? By giving ourselves permission to wander?

The Things I Lost in the Fire

There’s a strange kind of discipline in knowing the precise second your energy will abandon you. I didn’t have this particular skill before. Before the fire—or my stroke(s)—I didn’t clock the mileage it took to shower, to walk from the bedroom to the coffee maker, to actually drink the coffee before it gets cold. But now, it’s an expertise, a checklist of “how much.” How much standing, how much sitting, how much pretending that I’m good. Some days, I feel like I’m riding my motorcycle along the edge of my limits, savoring the thrill of pushing forward, even as I know the “fun gap”—that place where exhilaration meets restraint—is closer than ever.

Masking comes easily; it’s a gift, really. “How are you?” takes only one word—“Fine.” And in truth, I am fine, except in all the ways I’m not. Fine, except the sudden need to lie down, which can eclipse the most ironclad plans. Fine, except the limitations that shadow everything. The sound of the world itself, sometimes even my own voice, feels like an endless echo bouncing through my brain. It’s as though post-stroke, I’ve inherited an internal misophonia, a heightened sensitivity not just to sound but to life’s demands, big and small.

Some mornings, I’m ambitious, like really ambitious. There’s something about a morning, after all, that fools us into believing anything can happen. I’ll think, “Today, I’m going to accomplish something big” I’ll pick out my best outfit—something black of course—give myself a pep talk in the bathroom mirror, and make my way to the door. Then it hits. The fatigue. A wall that’s not brick and mortar but feels just as immovable , like a solid debris filled tsunami. The outfit goes back on the hanger, and I’m reminded that my dreams have to wait a bit . This feels a little like entropy—desire itself suffering a slow fade, erode not by lack of will but by pure, relentless limitation.

The Dr’s and Neurologists call it “post-stroke fatigue,” but that phrase doesn’t quite do it justice. Fatigue sounds polite, like something that shows up on a Sunday afternoon after a busy weekend or after a long road trip. This is something different. It’s an uninvited guest that takes up space, demands my silence, and forces me to recalibrate everything I thought I knew about myself. It’s not just tiredness; it’s as if parts of me are simply missing, as if the things I lost in the fire took more than I initially realized.

My work—well, I don’t work in the way people understand. That’s the part that’s hardest to explain. But if I try to imagine myself in an office, a “real job,” with a “mediocre middle aged boss,” all I see is the inevitable—the fatigue setting in, the need to lie down after an hour, the constant battle between what I can do and what’s expected of me. I feel fortunate, in a way, to have spent most of my 40s self-employed. It’s made me the kind of boss I’d want to work for. My workdays are shaped by my own terms, with flexibility to adapt to whatever the fire left behind. I’m accountable to myself, and if I need to lie down or step away, there’s no guilt, no one to explain it to. This has taught me that success isn’t just about productivity; it’s about meeting my own needs with grace and understanding.

One unexpected change has been the clarity that came from removing myself from people and projects where I couldn’t be fully present, or where an attitude—whether of arrogance, insincerity, or indifference—seemed to linger. I can sense these attitudes quickly now, and I avoid them at all costs. I suppose I could say I’m principled, though I did have to look it up to be sure. Let’s just say I have some principles, without risking insult to those with far more established inventories.

So, I focus on what I can create. It’s ironic; the fire took so much, but here I am, lighting my own small sparks where I can. Writing a line or two, sketching an idea, shaping a project that’s mine, wholly mine. The need to work this way makes me think of my project Ephemeral Monolith— a public art piece designed to transform over time, altered but still standing. The fatigue has taken something similar from me, changing me in ways that aren’t fully visible but are unmistakable to me. But just as that sculpture will erode with the elements, I’ve decided that my own evolution is part of the story, too. This life isn’t what I pictured, but I’m alive and it’s still mine, and like the monolith, it’s shaped by forces I can’t control but can still stand alongside.

Maybe the things I lost in the fire weren’t things at all. Maybe they were the parts of myself that no longer fit, that never fit. Now, what’s left is rawer, quieter, and yes, a bit more fragile. But here, with no fantasies or fictions to hide behind, I am exactly who I need to be—unmasked and honest, with all the things I’ve lost and all the things I’m still learning to find again.

From Whips to Watts

Growing up, I spent some of my youth elbow-deep in grease, helping my Aunt Wendy wrench on her ‘66 Pontiac Parisienne—an absolute beauty of a machine. Fast forward to today, and I’m driving a BMW with over 300 horsepower, offering that familiar throaty growl we all love, my cars name is “Growly”. And let's not forget my latest toy, a 900cc Yamaha from Shore Cycle that I absolutely adore. Now, I’m not exactly eager to part with my collection of horsepower, but even I can see the future barreling down the road, inevitable as a thirsty horse being led to water.

But this whole electric vehicle (EV) thing? It's not the first-time humanity has resisted change. We’ve been here before—think back to the early 1900s when horse-drawn carriages were king. There was a certain intimacy with your horse back then, wasn’t there? It was more than just transportation; it was a relationship. So, when the first "horseless carriage" sputtered onto the scene, people didn’t just question it—they raged against it.

A 1900 New York Times article called the automobile “clumsy, costly, and dangerous.” Critics warned that gas-powered engines would never replace the horse, citing lack of infrastructure and, of course, the job loss in industries like carriage-making and blacksmithing. Buggy whip makers were shaking in their boots! Meanwhile, newspapers warned of the automobile as a menace to society, predicting doom if people abandoned their beloved horses. What they didn’t realize is that people adapt—and those same naysayers were soon hopping into their own Model Ts.

Now, in 2024, we hear the same old song but with new lyrics. The critics of EVs sound eerily like the ones who protested gas engines more than a century ago. No infrastructure! Too expensive! What about all the jobs? People act like they’ve never seen technological progress before. But if we look at history, we know how this goes. Just like the gas-powered revolution, the EV revolution will create new industries, jobs, and, yes, infrastructure. It just takes time, just like getting those gas stations built all over the country did back in the day.

There’s a certain comfort in that old-school combustion engine—trust me, I get it. That’s why I still enjoy the thrill of my rocket roaring underneath me. But this shift toward electric is inevitable, just like when people traded in their reins for steering wheels. Whether we like it or not, history is driving us forward.

Back in 1917, one man wrote to The Washington Post fuming that the "horseless carriage" would be the downfall of society, claiming we’d lose our connection with the world by abandoning horses. He wasn’t entirely wrong—our relationship with transportation changed forever. But instead of losing something, we gained more than we could have imagined: faster travel, more convenience, and eventually, the ability to cross continents in hours.

Today, it’s not about the loss of the combustion engine; it’s about embracing a new future. Much like those early 20th-century folks who saw their way of life changing, we’re at a turning point. The gas engine isn’t dying—it’s evolving. And if history is any guide, those who resist this evolution are, once again, on the wrong side of progress.

So while I may not be ready to part with my toys just yet, I know where this road leads. The critics may cry foul, just like they did when Henry Ford started rolling out the Model T, but the rest of us? We’re already looking ahead. Because, as they say, you can lead a horse to water—but eventually, even that horse will be replaced by something with a little more horsepower

Do I just need better lighting?

You ever get that feeling, like you’re a backup singer in your own life? You’re there, giving it your all, but somehow, people only seem to notice when you trip over the mic stand. It’s a wild ride when you realize the world isn't waiting for your grand debut with a spotlight ready to catch every twirl and pirouette. Nope. Sometimes, you're just standing under a flickering fluorescent bulb, trying to get anyone to even glance in your direction.

Let’s be honest—there’s this bizarre pressure to be enough for people. As if your worth depends on their ability to see you, validate you, and give you a hearty thumbs-up like you're a product on a shelf at Costco. But what if you’re not in the mood to hand out free samples of yourself? What if you’d like to be noticed without having to perform some metaphorical cartwheel every time?

Here’s the thing: sometimes, being “enough” means being enough for yourself first. It’s like when you make a sandwich and halfway through, you’re like, “You know what, this is good. This is my sandwich. I don’t care if anyone else approves of my choice of bread or whether I smeared the mayo correctly. I’m going to eat this, and I’m going to enjoy it.” (Or in my case, probably throw it at someone if they’re chewing too loud, but that’s another story.)

The point is, we get so tangled up in wanting to be seen—really seen—that we forget to appreciate the person staring back at us in the mirror. And maybe, just maybe, that person’s enough.

Now, I’m not saying I don’t enjoy a little attention here and there. We all love a good audience. But if no one’s applauding, maybe it’s time to clap for yourself. Or better yet, find a better crowd.

Because, darling, sometimes it’s not about being “enough” for them—it’s about being more than enough for you. And when you get that down, the rest of the world? They’ll either catch up or be left blinking in your glow.

So yes, go out there, shine—whether it’s under the spotlight or a dim, flickering bulb. Just make sure you see you. That’s enough.

-Christopher W Quigley (still looking for better lighting)

Guide to Loving Fiercely

Growing up as a gay kid in the early '90s, I always had this nagging feeling that my time on earth was on a countdown. Maybe it was all the doom and gloom in the media about AIDS, or just a gut feeling, but I lived like there was no tomorrow. As a young g man I drank, I smoked, I did drugs, and I partied like there was no end in sight. And honestly, I had a blast. I figured something was going to take me away sooner rather than later, and I thought I’d rather be in control of it, be the perpetrator.

This feeling wasn’t just paranoia. I had spent many years cleaning myself up, getting clean and sober, getting married, and living a really good life. Yet, several family members and friends were diagnosed with cancer and died. Watching them go through that reinforced my belief that life is fragile and fleeting. It was like a constant reminder that my time was limited too.

Jump ahead a few years and conveniently forgetting how life goes …Then came the stroke when I was 50. It was like a slap in the face from the universe, confirming my suspicions that my time here was indeed limited. But it didn't kill me. It knocked me down hard, really hard , but it also made me realize something important: I have a lot of love to give, and there are a lot of people who need to know that I love them.

It's one of those things that not everyone gets to experience . When you face your own mortality over and over, you kind of get numb to it. But when something concrete, something completely out of your control, hits you, it’s terrifying in a whole new way. Suddenly, all those brushes with death feel like dress rehearsals for the real thing.

I've got a lot of people in my life who need to know that I care about them. And if the worst ever happens, I want the last thing they know to be how much I love them. So, I’m putting it out there, making sure my friends and family hear it loud and clear. I love you all, deeply and fiercely. Life is too short to keep it bottled up, and I'm not taking any chances…well I did buy a motorcycle recently … so there’s that .

So here's to living, loving, and making sure those we care about know exactly how much they mean to us. Because if there's one thing I've learned, it's that you never know how much time you really have. Should you ?