Woven into most of our childhoods were expectations and routines, and often, small comforts of family quirks. The sayings we heard so often became part of our identity. I’m talking about catchphrases.

My parents had a whole arsenal of them. Back in the day, it felt like everyone did—those little sayings passed around like candy. My mom had a sharp, no-nonsense way of barking, “March!” when we were being sent to our rooms—no long speeches—just one word, and you knew what to do. My dad’s go-to lines were “Gull
darnit!” and “For gosh sakes!”— muttered under his breath with equal parts frustration and affection. And then there were the classics: “Don’t take any wooden nickels” or “That’ll put hair on your chest,” which my mom would say even if you were a little girl with absolutely no interest in growing any.

These phrases were the background music of our days. They made us laugh, comforted us, and offered bits of old-school wisdom when life felt uncertain. And even now, they still show up—slipping out of my mouth when I least expect it. When they do, I can almost feel my parents beside me again—my mom’s gentle laugh, my dad’s wide, gregarious smile.

People don’t seem to use catchphrases as much anymore. Maybe it’s the pace of life, or maybe our language has changed. But for me, they still hold a kind of magic. A reminder of who I am, and memories of a time when everything felt a little more certain—even if it never really was.

“Whoa, we’re halfway there… whoa-oh! Livin’ on a prayer.” — Bon Jovi

I believe in the power of prayer.
I believe that a power greater than myself can restore me to sanity.
I believe in manifesting good things for my future.
I believe in therapy, counselling, and crying over old wounds.
I believe the glass is half full, that tomorrow holds promise, and that if I had to choose between a paycheck and the people I love, I’d choose the people—every time.

Have I covered all my bases?

Or are they just coping mechanisms?

I’ve worked hard over the years, really hard. I’ve raised kids, taught fitness classes, gone to college (later in life), poured my heart into writing, and somehow, I’ve written five books in just seven years. That still surprises me when I say it out loud.

I started late—in my fifties—and now I find myself cheering on other writers, offering tips and encouragement, hoping to pass the torch to anyone who’s ever thought, “Maybe I could write my story too.”

Writing memoirs helped me sift through the pain and beauty of my past. It connected me with others who’d felt alone in theirs. And fiction? That’s been pure joy—an unexpected freedom found in made-up stories that somehow still ring true.

I laugh a lot. I live with purpose. I’m even turning one of my books into a screenplay—something I once thought only real writers got to do. And after a successful hip replacement surgery (with another one on the way), I’m extra grateful for our healthcare system.

But even with all these meaningful milestones, there’s one thing I still get stuck on—something that nags at me more than I’d like to admit:

I’ve never owned a home.

For a generation raised to believe that homeownership was the natural next step—that it was part of “making it”—this still stings. It wasn’t even a dream; it was an expectation.

And yet, it continues to hover just out of reach.

That dream lingers—not for the status or white-picket-fence fantasy—but for stability, security, and the quiet joy of planting roots in something that’s mine. I’ve longed to paint a wall without asking permission, to stay put without fearing the next rent hike or a damage deposit not returned because the fifty-year-old carpets were not clean enough.

I’d love a place big enough to host dinner parties and invite many of YOU.

People try to comfort me:

“The bank owns our house anyway.” “Upkeep is exhausting.” “You’re better off renting.”

Maybe they’re right. Maybe they’re not. But the dream flickers on like a pilot light that refuses to go out.

And I know I’m not alone.

According to Statistics Canada, nearly half of Canadians worry about affording housing. Among young adults, that jumps to 59%. About one-third of households have faced severe financial strain just to keep up with rent or mortgage payments. And with two-thirds of young Canadians still renting, saving for a down payment often feels like chasing a mirage.

Renters—especially young families—are twice as likely to live in unaffordable conditions as homeowners. Inflation and rising costs have made homeownership feel more like a distant fantasy than a milestone.

When I was growing up, there was a general expectation that life would follow a particular rhythm. You’d finish school, get a steady job, get married, buy a house, raise a family, and retire with enough savings to visit your grandchildren. It was expected we’d all one day own our own home, following suit with how we were raised. That was the roadmap. And for many of us, it seemed simple enough—until it wasn’t.

Getting “stuck” is more common than we think.

HOWEVER

Most of us climb back on that horse—or bicycle. We put one foot in front of the other. Or we take a different path up the hill, then slide down the other side with a laugh. We adapt. We pivot. We learn.

But there are certain things—some might call them demons—that keep rising back up. These are the deeper disappointments, the ones rooted in identity, family, self-worth, or trauma. They don’t vanish after a good night’s sleep or a motivational quote. They linger—sometimes resurfacing just when we thought we’d finally moved on.

Recognizing that doesn’t make us weak. It makes us human.

The key isn’t pretending we’re untouched by disappointment. It’s gently loosening its grip. Whether through therapy, journaling, spiritual practices, community, or creativity, we find new ways to keep going.

For me, it’s been writing books.

So if you’re still here reading, thank you.

Thank you for being part of this big, messy, beautiful human experience with me.

Now I’d love to hear from you:
What’s your version of “the dream that hasn’t come true yet”?
What are you holding onto while still living your life fully?

Drop a comment, send a message, or share your story below.
Because I truly believe—we’re all just trying to make sense of things together.
And together is the best place to be.