Posted on by Danna Johnson

Rediscovering Your Voice After a Long Pause

It’s so quiet in here

I’ve been absent from my writing practice for a long time. And, as we know, the longer you step away from something the harder it is to step back in.

I stepped away for so long that I barely remember the woman who used to write regularly — the one who wrote from a place of pain and loneliness, of uncertainty and confusion. Writing when you’re lonely is easy, because you’re writing to connect. You’re throwing your words into the world in hopes that someone else will read them, and feel seen and understood. 

It’s why so many songs are written about heartbreak. It’s why so many books have tragic turning points and underdogs. It’s why Taylor Swift has a catalogue, and it’s why country music exists. 

Writing when you’re happy? Writing when you’re healthy? Writing when you have mental clarity, are securely attached with rich friendships, a good job, and well-adjusted children? 

Not only is that boring, it also seems boastful. Barf. Shut up, already.

Our appetite for disaster

Scrolling on Instagram the other night, I laughed as a content-creator mom detailed her social media wish list this holiday season: Keep your matching jammies and picture-perfect cookie-decorating reels, she said. Give us your disasters – nobody wants your curated Christmas perfection. 

Folks love a good disaster. As much as we say we want good news, I worked in the news business long enough to know that we don’t, really.

People want to watch us fail more than they want to see us succeed. And they want reassurance that that same disaster isn’t about to overtake them.

So I detailed my disaster. I shared my mess. And then the storm passed and I spent years quietly sweeping up debris and replacing broken windows.

Now my life is tidy, quiet and boring. 

Naming the grief

It turns out that while I was sweeping up, I was grieving, and it’s only lately that I’ve given myself permission to use that word.

It felt indulgent to call what I went through ‘grief.’ Nobody died. I have friends who lost their husbands forever; mine decided he wanted someone else, and now they live just down the road.

But it was grief. I grieved the life I thought I would have and the future I worked so hard for. I grieved the childhood my children wouldn’t get, the holidays and celebrations that were simple and are now complicated. And as much as I hate to admit it, I also grieved the loss of what had been at one point, my closest friend.

A story still worth telling

The other day, while out walking the dog and looking for a new podcast for my journey, Oprah’s name popped up. Her podcast was about the rise of the ‘grey divorce,’ the term given to those who divorce after the age of 50. The subjects being interviewed were mostly women. Some had initiated the divorce, while others were blindsided. 

The episode reminded me that I still have a story to tell and connections to make. That I remain a writer, even when my keyboard collects dust; even when I’m quiet. 

The words are still there, and lately they’ve been bubbling up, putting lumps in my throat that a cough simply won’t clear.

I was reminded that even if there’s a greater appetite for stories of heartbreak and disaster, there are still those who might wish to read about the boring bits. About remembering who you are when you come up for air. About the depth of friendships, about parenting teenagers who have a complicated relationship with their dad, and about accidentally falling in love again when you have every reason to steer clear. 

And even if there is no audience, that’s no reason to sit on my hands.

I have a story to tell.

Posted on by Danna Johnson · 3 Comments

Frozen Middleschoolers

My middle schooler wore a coat today 
So, maybe you think I won?
But the outerwear battle is many-layered
And winter’s only just begun.

My middle schooler wore a coat today,
But will he keep it on? 
Will he zip it? Who’s to say?
“It’s only -17 degrees outside, MOM!”

His pants are short, as are his socks
And his boots gather dust.
But I’ll fight shoe fights another day, 
No need to push my luck.

My middle schooler wore a coat today, 
But unzipped coats come off.
He trudges home, coat under arm,
Safe to say I lost.

Posted on by Danna Johnson

The ‘lasts’ of childhood

I’m afraid to write it down, as though by acknowledging it, drawing attention to it, making figurative eye contact with it, will make it disappear.

My children, my teenager and my pre-teen, still want me around. And not just around to provide snacks and drive them places. But actually around. And in public, too.

There’s a tweet that circulated a while ago that punches mothers in the belly by reminding us that there’s a last time you’ll pick up your child. And there are one million tear-jerking poems on the same subject. And what’s worse is that like so many finales that life throws at us, we won’t realize the last time is the last time, so we don’t even notice it. We’re not even given the option of holding the moment and etching it into our mind’s eye.

While I got a lump in my throat thinking about it, I refuse to cry. There are a lot of “last times” in motherhood. There’s a last time your child asks for help wiping his bum, and you don’t see anyone sobbing about that. 

And what’s so great about picking up a kid, anyway? They’re all sharp elbows and knees by the time we put them down for the last time.

No, not all ‘last times’ are sad. And while I can’t pick up my biggest child anymore, I can get him to help me reach the high shelves and move the living room furniture, so there’s a bright side.

But there are a couple of ‘last times’ I will cry over. One is the bedtime routine, including the tucking in. I get up way earlier than they do these days, and throughout the summer my youngest took to tucking me in occassionally as a result. The other is the last walk to school. I figured it was coming. In fact, I figured I’d gone on the last walk to school at the end of Grade 5. But last week when Grade 6 arrived there he was, my 11-year-old, waiting by the door telling me to hurry up or we’d be late.

“Oh! Yup, I’m coming,” I shouted as I raced down the stairs, afraid to make a big deal about it, afraid that he’d suddenly realize he’s too old to walk with me, or that I’m too embarrassing, or my shoes are too noisy, or that I talk too loudly and about the wrong things.

I tiptoed around him like I might a racoon that I’m trying to tame; desperate not to seem too eager, or to move too quickly, or to act too excited.

And so off we went, walking in the sunshine, chatting like a whole summer hadn’t just passed, as though he’s not the oldest kid in his school this year, as though I’m not having the best morning I’ve had in months and feeling slightly intoxicated and giddy at being unexpectedly included. 

They still want me around and I’m not sure why.

When I took them back to school shopping at the mall, I asked if they wanted me to leave them alone and show up later with my credit card. They looked at me sideways.

“No. We can shop with you.”

Certainly, kids still need their parents, but I expected them to drift away. I expected them to treat me like they treat their coats in winter and pretend I don’t exist.

Whatever is happening, it’s a surprise and a joy. I’m managing, somehow, to be both parent and friend and I’m clinging to it all while trying not to look too desperate, giving away my hand.

When this school year ends, when he stops about 100 metres from the field, turns, says, “goodbye mom, love you,” and runs toward his friends I’ll know it’s the last time.

I see it coming.

And I’ll cry the whole way home, gutted but grateful that I snuck another year in. 

Posted on by Danna Johnson

Lunch Break

What if

I just took my lunch break

If I sat down to eat

A bowl of soup

Or two scrambled eggs on toast

What if I opened a book

And with it propped against a pillow on my lap

I sipped a hot cup of tea

And disappeared for an hour

What if I just stopped

Trying to fit in a quick run

Or a trip to the grocery store

Or an unloaded dishwasher

What if I just quit

Prepping dinner

And folding laundry

And wiping toothpaste off mirrors

What would happen

Would it be OK

If I just took my lunch break?

Posted on by Danna Johnson · 3 Comments

Happiness is…

Just a little while ago I was helping a friend move and I stumbled upon the book, Happiness is a Warm Puppy, by Charles M. Schulz.

And it got me thinking (as all good books do), about what happiness looks like to me, and if it’s very different at all from what happiness looks like to you, or to anyone for that matter. 

Happiness is a warm blanket, and a warm puppy; happiness is finding someone you like at the front door.

But happiness is also the first sip of hot coffee after the kids have gone to school. 

Happiness is finding someone who looks really grouchy and making them laugh whether they like it or not.

Happiness is having some juicy news to share and a good friend to share it with.

Happiness is waking up, rolling over, and realizing you still have hours left to sleep.

Happiness is a concert ticket.

Happiness is realizing that you can have a crush on someone again after you thought for sure that part of you had been pummeled to smithereens.

Happiness is a hot lunch day.

Happiness is stepping on a barely frozen puddle on your morning walk and hearing that loud “crunch” under your boot.

Happiness is finding someone who looks really grouchy and making them laugh whether they like it or not.

Happiness is a really yummy bottle of wine that only costs $12.

Happiness is watching your clumsy dog catch the ball mid-air; extra happiness is when other people see it, too.

Happiness is when your son takes the garbage to the dumpster without being asked. 

Happiness is finding a song with the perfect beat that makes you run faster than usual. 

Happiness is watching snow fall for the first time all year knowing that you’ve got a warm blanket, a warm puppy, a cozy bed, and snow tires.

Happiness is overhearing someone say something nice about you when they don’t realize you’re in the room.

Happiness is being missed. 

Happiness is bravely telling someone how you feel and having them reply: “Me, too!”

Happiness is waving to the elderly lady in her kitchen window as you walk by with your dog every morning. 

Happiness is reading a good book and realizing it’s the first one in a series. 

And finally, happiness is a penis-shaped bookmark. 

Posted on by Danna Johnson

Giving thanks

Thanksgiving is my favourite holiday. Like most things, though, this year I’ll be celebrating slightly differently. 

Instead of piling into my childhood home with my brother and sister and their spouses and children, I’ll be spending the holiday with friends, hiking, laughing, and eating great food, while my kiddos spend the weekend with their dad and his girlfriend.

Funny, then, that change, growth, and the clarity that comes on the other side of it is what I’m most thankful for this year. 

A long list

I’m grateful for soul-filling moments that become frozen in time. Just a few nights ago I convinced my son to come for a run with me. It was a short run — hardly worth the effort from an exercise point of view — but at the end of our run he spotted a patch of dry leaves, grabbed a handful and let them crumble between his fingers. 

“You’ve got to try this, mom! It feels SO GOOD!” 

And so I did. And we stood there, four steps away from the car and for five solid minutes, crumbling leaves in our fingers and covering our shoes in leaf dust. Our cheeks were pink, our hands smelled like fall, and I’ll never drive by that spot without smiling. 

I am thankful for my body, for the way it moves without pain (most days), and for how strong and reliable it is. I’m thankful for the scars that remind me that yes, in fact, I heal.

I’m thankful for clean sheets, floral wallpaper, scented candles (like these amazing ones that my friend’s niece makes), and pink, faux rabbit-fur throw pillows.

I’m thankful for all of the things I didn’t say, the secrets I didn’t spill, and the gossip I didn’t repeat. I’m thankful for the texts I scripted in anger and deleted, and for the ones I received, read, and left ‘seen’ and unresponded to. 

I’m thankful for remote work and videoconferencing, and for the side conversations that go on behind the meetings.

I’m thankful for all of the times over the past year that I’ve screwed up. I know there will be so many more screw ups in future, but at least those ones are behind me.

I’m thankful for the relationships that haven’t worked out, for the roads not taken, and for the lessons that saying goodbye have taught me about myself and the kind of person I want to be. 

More than anything, though, I’m thankful for the relationships that have worked out. For the friendships that are richer now than they’ve ever been. I’m thankful for the life-long bonds, and also for the brand new folks that show up unexpectedly. I’m thankful for the relationships that start off as a few shared gifs in a work chat and an eye roll here or there, and then before you know it, you can’t imagine a day without that bit of connection.

Tell me, what are you thankful for?

Posted on by Danna Johnson

Good morning, beautiful

When grieving the end of a marriage people tell you that the evenings will be the hardest part, but that’s not true. Not for me, anyway.

When you’re a parent, mornings rage in like thunderstorms, startling you from sleep and smashing you over the head with needs, wants, demands and expectations. Mornings are noisy and frantic. Despite how prepared you feel the night before, each morning brings with it its own new catastrophe. Someone lost something. Someone forgot a spirit day. Someone finished the last of the favourite cereal. All of the favorite lunchbox treats are gone. There are seeds in the bread.

At the end of my marriage I expected to feel at lose ends in the evenings. But, as is often the case in life, reality serves up unexpected hurt, and for me (even a year later) that hurt comes in the morning.

Let’s just make it to bedtime without killing each other

Since becoming a parent, the evenings have always been my goal posts. Children are fed and bathed. Whatever happened that day, good or bad, is behind you and the next day brings a fresh new blank page. The little arguments we had have been resolved – or they haven’t – but either way those children are safe and softly snoring, and even if you didn’t earn a gold star for the day, you at least get a checkmark. You may not have exceeded expectations, but dammit, you met them.

Evenings have a charm and a lightness. The quiet of evenings has a peaceful quality to it. The sofa is softer because you know that you can sit for more than a moment. The tea tastes better because you know you’ll be able to drink it while it’s still hot. TV is funnier and more entertaining, complete with sex and swearwords.

I expected that the evenings would be the hardest because of the dark, but it’s the bright light of morning that takes my breath away.

The sound of silence

Every other week I languish in the mornings. I lay in bed and listen to the silence for a moment and I find no pleasure in it. I yearn for the chaos that I always thought I hated and now crave.

I’ve never not had a human to wake up to – whether it was a partner rolling toward me with a stretch and a groan, or a child with his knees shooting daggers into my back. I’ve also always had a morning soundtrack: A television, an argument, cupboards and drawers opening and closing, and of course the sound of that epic morning pee and subsequent (if I’m lucky) flush.

So often these days, I wake up to silence, and now (thanks to the pandemic), I shuffle into work in silence. I don’t greet the neighbour as I get into my car because working from home I have nowhere to go.

Hey. How you doin’?

But not so long ago I rolled over in bed, grabbed my phone and spotted a text that had been sent five minutes earlier, which read simply: “Good morning!”

That was all. That was it.

The “good morning!” asked for nothing. What it gave, however, was a reminder that just because it sounds as if I’m alone, I’m not.

It reminded me that I’m not the only one living so quietly these days, and that this pandemic solitude can be breached through intentional and thoughtful connection.

In other words, good mornings are now on the menu. When you receive a “good morning” from me, here’s what it means:

I care about you. I’m thinking about you. I am happy because I know you. I am grateful that you are in my life. It is a privilege to be your friend, your mom, your lover, your daughter, or your colleague.

And what I realized also is that good mornings don’t have to be quite so explicit. Maybe they’re just a funny meme, or a news story that you read that relates to a conversation you just had. Maybe a “good morning” is just a gif, a joke you heard, or maybe it’s an in depth retelling of a super weird dream.

That’s all. And that’s so much.  

I can’t always hear the folks who love me, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t there. 

So, good morning, beautiful.

Posted on by Danna Johnson

The mother of all guilt trips: Being happy being alone

This time tomorrow I’ll miss them.

Tonight, though, feels like a breakthrough; tonight feels like I’ve given myself permission to stop feeling guilty for a moment and breathe one big, deep soul replenishing breath.

Growing weary in a pandemic

Tonight they are at their dads. It’s been a long, busy week. There were bike rides and home reading battles. There were concurrent work deadlines and big conversations. There were so many dishes and there was, for some reason, an inordinate amount of dog vomit.

The weather was spectacular and every moment spent inside in front of a computer screen felt like punishment. Crystal clear blue skies and glorious wind lifted the flags in the schoolyard next door and cast shadows across the pooch often sleeping at my feet. I spent most of the week inside looking out; pandemic numbers have been steady but hospitalizations are at an all time high. The media assures us that we’re all doing everything wrong and that there is no guarantee of a reprieve this summer. I endeavour to always be kind and calm, but this week’s mandated kindness and calmness has come at a psychological cost. 

Blessed silence

Tonight, though, there’s no one watching and modeling my behaviour, and I can finally switch off. Tonight, instead of having to lay down the law at the dinner table demanding they eat and threatening some form of punishment, I ordered sushi and ate it slowly and quietly without background noises of YouTube or some weird anime.

Tonight the house is clean — there are no stray socks on the floor or toothbrush smears on the bathroom mirror— and it smells good in here. I lit scented candles knowing that I won’t have to stop my kids from blowing them out or dunking their fingertips into the wax and then peeling their waxy fingers all over the clean countertops.

Tonight I had a bath at 7 p.m., during which time I applied a face mask, read a little bit, and sipped a glass of wine. I ended my bath when I felt like it instead of when someone banged on the door announcing that they had to poo.

How can I be both a wonderful, loving, and attentive mother, and also a woman who craves space, time, and quiet freedom?

Tonight I am recharging and I am trying not to feel guilty about it. My children are growing up so quickly that it takes my breath away. When I stare at photos of them from a year ago, two years ago, or four, I catch my breath and sometimes sob. How can I be both a wonderful, loving, and attentive mother, and also a woman who craves space, time, and quiet freedom? 

Tomorrow morning I’ll miss them. I’ll miss the energy they wake up with, I’ll miss their laughter, and their odd pronouncements. I’ll miss making them pancakes, and I might even miss the sound of their weird cartoons, interrupted only by cries of pain as they wrestle each other for the remote.

Tonight, though, feels different; it feels as though I’m honouring myself. In giving myself permission to enjoy this solitude and shed the guilt associated with it, tonight feels like a gift.

Posted on by Danna Johnson · 2 Comments

Sobering thoughts about pandemic drinking

“I’m allergic to red wine,” a good friend once told me when I offered her a glass. “I once drank two litres of homemade red and became violently ill.”

By this logic, I’m allergic to Smirnoff Ice, my high school boyfriend was horrifically allergic to boilermakers, and my best friend is allergic to banana flavoured paralyzers.

Like many others, I’ve washed Smirnoff Ice-flavoured vomit out of my hair following a party held inside a faux spaceship in a small Alberta town, but that was a long, long time ago, and I honestly can’t remember the last time I had an “allergic” reaction to booze.

These days, a single glass of wine leaves me pleasantly warm and snoozy. My clothes fit better, snacks are more delicious, and Netflix comedy specials are funnier. More than a glass or two and I risk bed spins, so it’s a delicate and delightful balance.

sobering thoughts

I’m not a big drinker, but I think about drinking often, and this gleeful anticipation has caused me some consternation.

Let’s face it, the pandemic has changed all of our habits, and our alcohol consumption is only one. Last fall, researchers at York University discovered that parents of children under 18 are using alcohol to cope with pandemic-related stress. In December, Canada’s top public health officer warned Canadians to sober up, noting that by and large, we have increased our alcohol consumption over the past 10 months.

what even is a weekend?

During the pandemic I stopped going out, yet every night felt like Friday and my alcohol consumption reflected this. My uncommitted relationship with booze became monogamous. This spring, a glass of wine became the reward for getting through days filled with uncertainty and feelings of inadequacy.

I was signing into Google classrooms, checking homework, monitoring screens and ensuring tablets were charging as required, all while managing my own full-time job and struggling to complete graduate school, which I did in a corner of my children’s playroom while they were sleeping. I was hanging onto my sanity with the lightest of grips, and for the first time in my life I was underperforming in every single subject.

There was comfort in knowing that I wasn’t alone. Friends, colleagues, strangers — we were all drowning, but most of us were too busy to notice the water rushing up past our ears. And all the memes that normalize how moms drink to cope gave me encouragement. See all those wine memes? Everyone does it!

Booze played an integral supporting role in this drama. Nightly wine (or sometimes blueberry gin mixed with elderflower tonic because I’m fancy like that) became a bright light; it became the raft I was swimming toward. When the screens blinked off for the day, when the kitchen was tidied and the house had settled into a blissful quiet, I’d shuffle into the kitchen, reach for my favourite glass and fill it up. I’d carry it with me to the coziest chair and cup that chalice with both hands, breathing deeply for the first time all day. As that first delicious sip wound its way into my belly I’d heave a great sigh. I made it through another day. Cheers!

Meditating or medicating?

A few months of this and I probably wouldn’t have noticed, but the pandemic didn’t stop, and what began as a treat ended up feeling more like a prescription.

When the BC Cancer Foundation launched its Loose the Booze fundraising campaign, I opted to challenge myself and I begged a few friends to join. It’s been two weeks, and I’m fine. As I suspected, tea is delicious and much less expensive, and there are a billion flavours of carbonated water, which is nice. I’m also snacking less — it turns out I make much better food choices when I’m not a tiny bit tipsy.

There’s relief in knowing that I can stop, and that I’m not a problem drinker. Yet. But if you try and can’t, you’re not alone, and there are services available.

And by all means, support our Lose the Booze team by donating to cancer research. Already, I’m feeling great about my decision, but with your support I’ll feel even better.

Posted on by Danna Johnson · 2 Comments

The labels we give ourselves

I have been called a lot of things, and those labels have changed over time. I have always been “daughter,” “granddaughter,” and “sister,” and one of my fondest labels is “friend.” Don’t get me started on the labels that were placed on me in high school, though thankfully I didn’t hang my identity on “band geek.” 

I was “journalist” for many years, which was a label I loved and have yet to remove completely; and of course, I have been “mom” for the past 11 years, which is label that has threaded itself into my DNA. 

For 14 years I was “wife”. It was a label I wore nearly as proudly as “mother.”

But today I am an ex. The prefix is one I actively resisted. This is not a label I longed for, in fact, it is one I actively dodged for more than two years.  

I had no interest in being single, separated, divorced. And yet here I am — two of those things, and probably months away from being the third. 

Today, I am somebody’s “ex”, whereas moments ago I was the same person’s partner. Ex is a label I’ve used a hundred times to refer to other people and their former partners, but when attached to me it feels wrong. I wanted to brush it off like a cobweb that I walked through on my way to take out the garbage; I wanted to cut it off carefully so as not to tear the fabric of my favourite shirt.

In pirate adventures, an x marks the spot where an amazing treasure is hidden, but put an e in front of that x and all you’ve got is a person with baggage and several sad stories to tell. Now that’s me: Teller of sad stories; carrier of baggage.

I’d much prefer being treasure. 

Today, I am an ex, and instead of being “parent”, I am (legally-speaking) a co-parent, which is another label that will no doubt give me a rash. As I get used to wearing these scratchy tags, I busy myself by unpacking in my new home, setting up my new space, and ensuring my children have two of everything so they never feel like guests, or have to live out of suitcases. 

And when I look up from my busyness, I realize that it is now dark outside and so quiet in this house. I’m spending my first nights alone. I miss the taken-for-granted moments. I miss the every-day silliness at the dinner table, and the serious talks before bed. I have heard from other moms — other exes and co-parents — that I will come to appreciate these quiet moments. That when I wash these labels enough they’ll become soft and comfortable. That when I watch my children thrive, I will relax, and I will be grateful for those tags.

But I’m not there yet. In the quiet moments, these first ones, the labels chafe and are unbearable.

Yes, children are resilient creatures, and I take comfort in this. But when it comes to the resiliency of this mother, this co-parent, and this ex, we will just have to wait and see.