This vegan walnut parmesan is simple, savory, and seriously addictive! You only need 4 ingredients--walnuts, nutritional yeast, garlic powder, and salt—plus a food processor to bring it all together in under 5 minutes.
It’s the perfect plant-based substitute for dairy parmesan, with a nutty, cheesy flavor that works beautifully anywhere you’d normally sprinkle the real thing.

Why Choose Vegan Walnut Parmesan?

Traditional parmesan cheese is beloved for its salty, nutty flavor and crumbly texture, but for those following a plant-based diet, are lactose intolerant, or simply want to reduce dairy intake, finding a good substitute can be a challenge. This homemade walnut parmesan not only mimics the cheesy flavor but also adds a rich depth thanks to the natural oils and texture of walnuts.

Ingredients You’ll Need

• Walnuts: The base of this parmesan alternative, walnuts provide healthy fats, protein, and a satisfying crunch.
• Nutritional Yeast: This ingredient adds a cheesy, umami flavor and is packed with B-vitamins.
• Garlic Powder: A touch of garlic enhances the savory notes.
• Salt: Balances and elevates all the flavors.

How to Make Vegan Walnut Parmesan

1. Add walnuts, nutritional yeast, garlic powder, and salt to your food processor.
2. Pulse until the mixture reaches a coarse, crumbly texture — similar to grated parmesan.
3. Be careful not to over-process, or the nuts will turn into a paste.

How to Use It
This plant-based parmesan is incredibly versatile! Sprinkle it over:

• Pasta dishes
• Salads
• Roasted vegetables
• Pizza
• Soups and stews

Health Benefits
Besides being dairy-free, this walnut parmesan is also:

• Gluten-free (check your nutritional yeast label to be sure)
• Rich in healthy fats and antioxidants
• Free from preservatives and additives

Tips & Variations

• For a nuttier flavor, toast the walnuts lightly before processing.
• Substitute walnuts with blanched almonds or pine nuts. 
• Add a pinch of smoked paprika or chili flakes for a spicy kick.
• Store in an airtight container in the fridge for several weeks, or freeze for longer storage.

Final Thoughts
Whether you’re vegan, lactose intolerant, or just love experimenting with plant-based cooking, this easy walnut parmesan recipe is a delicious way to add depth and flavor to your meals. It’s quick, wholesome, and so satisfying you’ll forget about dairy cheese altogether!

If you're anything like me, you've probably been tempted by those artisan plant-based cheeses at the grocery store. But here's the good news—you won’t believe how easy (and affordable) it is to start making your own at home.

This blue cheese–inspired recipe tastes remarkably similar to one I’ve purchased before. Does it taste exactly like traditional dairy blue cheese? Not quite. Neither does the store-bought version. But it does have that funky depth I find both delicious and addictive. The recipe is from the cookbook Vegan Cheese by Jules Aron. I make a bigger batch than in the book. Feel free to halve the recipe if you want less.  

Unlike many vegan cheese recipes that rely on cashews or almonds, this one uses tofu as the base and is completely nut-free. I haven’t tested it extensively in recipes yet, but I do know I love it on crackers with grapes and other little nibbles—it looks beautiful on a charcuterie board. I also enjoyed it sprinkled over pasta salad (pictured below).
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While I personally follow a vegan lifestyle, I know many omnivores avoid dairy due to allergies or intolerances. If that’s you, you’ll be happy to discover there’s a whole world of flavorful, homemade alternatives that are surprisingly easy to make and enjoy.

Ingredients You will Need to Make this Plant - Based Blue Cheese

• extra firm tofu
• refined coconut oil 
• fresh lemon juice
• white wine vinegar
• white miso paste (shiro miso)
• sea salt
• onion powder
• garlic powder
• spirulina 

1. ​Refined Coconut Oil is ideal for vegan cheese because it has a neutral flavor and firms up when chilled, giving the cheese a creamy yet sliceable texture. Unlike virgin coconut oil, it’s deodorized using steam and filtered to remove the coconut taste and smell. Be sure to use refined, not virgin, so your cheese doesn’t end up tasting like coconut!​
2. White miso, also called shiro miso, is a fermented soybean paste that adds a subtle umami richness and a touch of natural sweetness. In vegan cheese recipes, it brings depth and complexity, mimicking the savory notes found in aged dairy cheese.
   
3. Spirulina powder is a nutrient-rich, blue-green algae often used in plant-based recipes for its natural color and umami flavor. In vegan blue cheese, it adds a subtle depth and mimics the blue veining found in traditional dairy versions. A little goes a long way - you only need 1/4 tsp to make this recipe!

Step by Step instructions 

1. Blend all ingredients in a blender EXCEPT for the spirulina powder. Scrape down sides as needed, blending until completely smooth. 
2. Transfer cheese mixture to a bowl.
3. Dot the spirulina powder overtop of the cheese. Use a spatula to fold it into the cheese until you have blue streaks throughout. 
4. Line a circular glass food storage dish with plastic wrap, with enough dangling over the edge to seal it. Scrape the cheese into the dish, smoothing out the top just to flatten.
5. Fold the over hanging plastic wrap over the cheese to seal, then cover with the food storage lid. 
6. Place in the fridge for 6 - 8 hours to set
7. Now it's ready to slice into wedges, or crumble into chunks, and enjoy. 

How should I store the vegan blue cheese?
Keep this blue cheese wrapped in plastic wrap and in a sealed container in the fridge for 1 - 2 weeks.

Can I freeze vegan blue cheese?
Freezing isn't ideal, as it may change the texture. It’s best enjoyed fresh or stored in the fridge.

What can I use vegan blue cheese for?
Try it on crackers, as part of a vegan charcuterie board, crumbled over salads, or stirred into pasta dishes. It’s also delicious with fresh fruit like grapes or figs.

​

I wake up to the sound of classical music set to my alarm and make a tired gesture to swipe the icon and turn it off as fast as possible.It’s a work morning. I worked last night too, and I can feel the light burn in my eyes from not getting enough rest as I try to pry them open. I slip one leg out from under my white bamboo sheets, then the next, gripping the edge of the bed with both hands to force myself upright.
I usually wake up with numbness moving down the entire right side of my arm. It’s accompanied by a cascading pain, and I can’t quite move my fingers yet. I chug the water on my bedside table, then sleepily shuffle toward the coffee machine.

“Thank you, coffee,” I mumble under my breath as I press the button, watching the hot stream of relief pour into my cup. I’m rooted in gratitude for this small daily pleasure.
The effort of having to wake before my body’s ready launches me into quiet resentment before the day even begins. My body is sweaty—not just from the hot summer night, but because I can’t seem to sleep without the full weight of the heaviest blankets. I also insist on wearing my thick gray fuzzy nightgown with a hood, even when it’s 25 degrees.
My mood isn’t quite sadness—something more wistful. I accept it easily now; there’s a well-worn familiarity between us. It’s that particular kind of longing for something you somehow know is on its way. You don’t know what or when exactly—but you can feel it.
I’ve felt like this for years—but it’s more heightened as of late. As if there’s something more, or something different, that I’m meant to be doing. And if I just have faith, and keep doing my best, it will arrive.
I think part of this wistfulness is tied to how much control I have over how my time is spent. When I have to pour energy into things that don’t carry enough meaning for me, it’s just a drag. That’s the artist in me - the part that craves depth, not just motion.
The closest I ever come to joy is in the midst of a poignant creative moment. Photographing a dish I’m proud of—while the light spills just right through the window. Or I’m on a photography trip, driving with no set plan, and suddenly I come upon a scene that stops me in my tracks. I’ll either slam on the brakes, or—more safely—find a place to turn around, because stopping so abruptly in a car isn’t always advisable.
I also feel joy when I connect with someone who not only gets me, but who inspires me—intellectually and artistically. Someone whose energy allows me to soften into myself. Two people who speak the same language, to me, is something rare and special. I don’t bother sharing with most people - they won’t get it, trust me I have tried. You just can’t translate your soul. The ones who get you respond differently.
But joy and melancholy are bedfellows and occasionally, my mood tips into the latter. Some days lately, it’s been more acute than others - It’s a familiar ache—the kind that follows connection when it fades too soon. I’m used to endings, but I can’t pretend that every time I let go of someone I care about, my spark doesn’t dim a little. I know it will return—but it takes time. My heart sinks into my stomach when I’m in the thick of it. And I suppose I am now.
By the time I publish this post, I’ll already be en route back to my power. I’ve been through hell and back emotionally—this is just another dip in the pool of growth.
I force myself to energetically detach. You’re allowed to care deeply for someone—to love them even—but no matter how much it aches, you still have to put yourself first.
I choose myself.

Work today will be a predictable blur of hundreds of tourists. From the moment we open at 11:30 until the last order comes in ten hours later, our tiny restaurant will be pumping out food.Maybe you’ve seen a restaurant kitchen on TV—those little white tickets that the orders are printed on are called chits. When the printer starts whirring and clicking (a sound that drives us mad by the end of the day) and the chits start piling up, it’s go time. You get one chance to get it right. Any major mistake is a setback—it costs time, money, and potentially customer satisfaction.
Luckily, attention to detail is what I’m best at, and in a lot of ways, this work suits me. I’ll be on grill today, which is the lead spot in the kitchen—juggling dozens of items at once between the oven, flat top, and pans. The lead keeps the train moving at the right speed. It requires thinking fast, moving fast, pairing orders and tables together when you can, pausing when it makes sense.

​I often talk about that mysterious pull of the heart.
It happened with him—for the first time in my almost 42 years of life. I’ve dated and connected with enough men to know when something feels different. Usually, men pursue me, and I either run like hell or slowly let them in. That didn’t happen this time.
​
He had a steady, reserved presence that I respected deeply. Without logic or understanding, my body, my mind, my heart all whispered him. There was a quiet magnetism between us—nothing performative, just something new. Maybe a little restrained and uncertain.

I was nervous as hell when we met.

​Before we open for lunch service, I most likely won’t get five minutes to myself—not to pee, refill my coffee/water or grab a snack. I can see people milling about outside the large kitchen window before we are officially open. It will be a fast start.
​When the orders start coming in I’ll likely (depending on the order) get my sandwich and burger buns in the oven, get the fries and salads queued up, press a few burger patties on the flat top—then do a mad dash out of the kitchen to get what I need. The blast of cool air as I walk into the air-conditioned space is instantly satisfying, but I don’t want to acclimate to it. If I do, the kitchen feels even hotter when I return.

I also keep a liter of coffee in the fridge under my station for emergency, along with whatever flavored oat creamer I can find at the store—caramel, hazelnut, or maple brown sugar. It’s a summer thing. A survival thing.
​
I’ll ask someone to bring me a glass of ice, then pour the coffee and creamer I’ve squirreled away over top. When my body starts to struggle and the brain fog creeps in, I drink it—quickly. It goes down cold, creamy, and sweet, and then suddenly I feel alive again, jolted back into motion just long enough to cook another string of orders.

I’m a textbook Leo. My personality is bold and bright, and in connection, I lead with passion, truth, and generosity. I’m never trying to outshine anyone—it’s more of an invitation for their light to rise with mine.
​
I know who I am. I love the person I’ve become, and I know I deserve to be met with the same kindness and presence I offer. I am unapologetically me, and I refuse to shrink into spaces too small to hold all that I am.

I’ve watched many men meet themselves in my presence—and the truth is, most people aren’t ready to confront their shadows. I’ve met some shadows so dark that I’m proud of myself simply for surviving and seeing them clearly. But luckily, I never have to push the wrong people away. What happens to shadows when they’re flooded with light? They disappear completely.
There’s a space where love isn’t about need or loneliness, but about devotion. To feel I don’t need him—but I love the person I become beside him—feels like a different kind of love. One not based on attachment or expectation.

This kind of devotion becomes a spiritual practice—something greater than ourselves. Turning toward love like this is turning toward God (Source). It’s a sacred becoming between two people.
But it takes two.
So, I choose myself.
​

​I reached 480 days of sobriety on Sunday, July 20th. Sunday is also the last day of my work week. By the time it arrives, my nervous system is completely shot. I just don’t have enough downtime to self-regulate throughout the week. I don’t just get tired like other people—my entire system gets overwhelmed.

I’m not sure why. Is it because I’m introverted?

Surely age has something to do with it. I’m not 35 anymore.

Sometimes I’ve wondered if I’m on some kind of spectrum. There was a running family joke at Christmas that I’m autistic. I can’t say for certain I’m not. Neurodivergent, for sure. Sensory overwhelm is a regular part of my life.

I resent that I have to take an Ativan just to get through this last day. By the time I reach the kitchen on Sunday, the bell we ring to alert front-of-house when food is ready feels like knives in my ears. The fast movements of people in and out of the space make me dizzy. The bright lights and heat trigger a low-grade headache. I need time to acclimate.

I shift into leadership mode. I let my coworkers know I’m having trouble audio processing and need focus—and less chatter. Sometimes kitchens get rowdy and loud. It’s not just about camaraderie; it’s survival.
​
I hate that this is where I’m at. But it’s not my fault.
​
The kitchen is full of neurodivergent weirdos, so they get it—and we all suffer differently, at different moments, from the heat, the noise, the intensity.

I didn’t tell him exactly how I felt—that it hurt when he put space between us. I didn’t want him to feel bad for being where he was. I wanted him to know it was okay. That I would never judge him for the things he found hard—because there are plenty of things I find hard too. We all need space sometimes.
​I knew there was a lot he didn’t tell me. I knew he was reserved, and I could feel that he and I had both never been loved correctly before. But that part didn’t scare me. I never wanted perfection—only presence.

There was closeness, but still somehow at arm’s length.
It hurt because it felt real—but was rooted in confusion and lacked clarity.
It hurt because I felt slowly, politely erased.
​
I choose myself.

The front-of-house staff always arrives a bit later in the morning. I love them all, but I’m always glad to see Maria. She’s in her mid-twenties, and while we’re completely different in many ways—she’s young, loves to party and adventure with lots of friends; I’m introverted, sober, and my adventures are mostly solo—we share a similar disposition and a dark sense of humor that bonds us.

When we cross paths mid-day, we’ll lock eyes, give each other an intense deadpan stare, and keep moving toward our respective tasks. I remember one time our boss noticed and asked her, “What’s that about?” She just laughed and said, “Nothing.” It wasn’t a lie. It’s not about anything in particular—more like an overarching statement about life itself, communicated in the span of five seconds.

The other day, when I left work, she followed me partway to the door.

“Take me with you!!!” she pleaded, as she always does.

“Yes, come to the beach with me. We can go swimming in the ocean together,” I said.

With a giant smile, she replied, “Yes! We can drown ourselves.”
​
We both laughed as she went back inside and I continued to my car—grateful for this moment that let me embrace the darker parts of myself, rather than shroud them in toxic positivity.

​I can’t help it—I see people through the lens of compassion. Their good qualities, yes, but always--always—their unspoken pain. I understand people even when they don’t speak the words.
​
Sometimes, I can’t help but pour love into a man I care about. When I see his humanity. When I see his brilliance. When I see God in him. I can see the version of him he won’t allow anyone to bear witness to. The gaps in his healing.

It becomes painful—heartbreaking—when the walls stay up, and the person I want to be close to won’t let me in.

The thing is, I loved how his gaps held up a mirror to my own. How I could see myself more clearly—the edges I needed to soften, or break through. I felt, deeply, that this was a gift we could give each other… if we had both chosen to say yes to that growth.

But make no mistake—if someone I care about can’t meet me where I’m at, I might get hurt. I might break for a while.

But I always come back to myself.

Sometimes, I think I rise out of sheer spite.
My softness is built on strength.

​I choose myself.

When I’m sure the evening crew is set up for success, my shift ends.

When I arrive home, I strip off my sweat-soaked work clothes, toss them into the laundry bin, and head straight to the shower. I can still smell fryer grease as I soap up. I welcome the stream of hot water as it washes the day from my skin.
​
If it’s hot outside, I’ll throw on my bathing suit and dry off on the deck, giving my body time to decompress from the labor of the day. I pick modest goals if I have a couple of hours before bed—fold some laundry, wipe down a surface or two, water my garden. I put on music and move slowly through the downtime.

What do you do; when you suddenly have a long “weekend” in mid July? I have a rare mini break from my insanely busy and intense chef job. Staying at home and catching some rest would be the logical choice. I can assure you I need more of it. We feed hundreds of tourists a day out of our tiny restaurant in a small town that 20 years ago, I would have told you wasn’t worth visiting. It’s also strawberry season for a very short time during this mini break; and those perfectly ripe berries bursting with the juice of summer won’t preserve themselves. Working on food things, resting in my garden and reading a good book is typically how I would choose to spend some extra free time this time of year. Closing for one extra day might not seem like much, but trust me it makes an astounding difference in how I feel and what can possibly unfold.
Yet, I chose not to stay home for my long weekend. I chose not to follow my typical comfortable routine of rest, gardening, preserving or reading books. Instead, I followed that mysterious pull of my heart. That little voice that slips through the noise, whispering “this way.”

​The last couple of months have felt like walking through thick fog. When energy grows heavy and dense, it doesn’t just cloud the mind—it sinks into the body. It becomes exhaustion you can’t shake. This weight may be invisible but it feels as real as bricks tied around your neck.
It’s helpful to think of the thoughts that aren’t serving you, as a script. One you didn’t write. So much of the heaviness we carry isn’t even ours. Passed down through blood lines and generations; stories and beliefs that keep us stuck in survival. We weren’t created to carry the grief and pain of our ancestors.

Parts of me are always being rewritten, old stories, beliefs, tendencies, things I thought I had already overcome, come up to be released so that I can embody a better version of myself. Rewritten with each breath. This is a choice, of course. No matter how hard it gets, no matter how many times I break, I mend. We are here to remember and embody the original source; the original soulprint; and that is love. I wish I could say I have been able to embody this philosophy as a rule, but it’s more like something that ebbs and flows like the oceans tide. These death and rebirth cycles will exist as long as I do, yet they are something you have to say yes to. Will you accept things as they are or will you choose differently?
Most recently, after a full year of keeping to myself, moving mostly between work and home, I started to feel a shift. I noticed myself starting to crave more. I didn’t want distraction—just change. A different rhythm. New space. New light. New air.
I started perching myself at a local vegetarian café and kombucha bar a couple of times a week — it suits my sober vegan vibe, and there’s usually someone to chat with about like-minded things. And if not, I’m just as happy with my book, soaking in the presence of new faces.
I also started attending mass. There’s a gorgeous basilica just around the corner from the kombucha bar. The original stone structure was built in 1907, then reconstructed in 1919 after a devastating fire in 1913.
​
This isn’t a story where I dive deeply into faith or spiritual beliefs — partly because mine are still forming, evolving alongside my own becoming. But I do find meaning in the symbolism of where I’m at mentally and spiritually, and how that intersects with showing up at mass.
I wouldn’t say I’m tethered to any one tradition, but I do find something meaningful in the ritual, in the mysticism — in the quiet reverence for something larger than ourselves. I believe there’s wisdom to be found across all faiths, even if I don’t fully understand it yet. And I’m not interested in boxing myself in with fixed beliefs about things I’ve only just begun to explore.
What I do know is this: the church is stunning. And it feels good to sit in a beautiful space, take a deep breath, and offer a moment of prayer for the people and things that matter to me. Including myself.

​These little rituals became a comfort to me. They grounded me in a way that made me feel part of something again. Sometimes, we have to work within the confines of where we are — not forcing change, but softening into it. My soul is craving expansion, but I know it doesn’t come through force or escape. It comes through presence. Through honoring exactly where I am. I want to be in a headspace where I can more readily say yes to things that I feel are in alignment; which is exactly what happened one afternoon, while daydreaming about this much-needed break from my busy summer schedule. Without a moment’s hesitation, I booked a two-night getaway just a few hours off-island, in the scenic towns of Mahone Bay and Lunenburg, Nova Scotia.
​
The plan, a quiet photography trip — just me, my thoughts, and the scenery of a new place. I intended to keep things simple and spend as little money as possible, so I packed a cooler with food I’d prepared in advance. Smashed chickpea and jackfruit sandwiches with arugula and streaky “bacon”, home made plant based cheese and crackers, hummus and veggies. I figured I’d check out a few coffee spots and maybe grab a sweet treat at breakfast, but honestly, I didn’t want my focus to be about food while I was there.

The week before I left, every spare moment outside of the restaurant where I work was spent cleaning and trying to get my place in order. At some point, I also realized I had to preserve strawberries or miss the window completely — and I knew I’d be annoyed (and slightly heartbroken) if I let that pass me by. So one night after work, I stayed up until 10 p.m., slicing berries and making jelly and strawberry-rhubarb compote.
I’m both rolling my eyes at myself for overdoing it, energy-wise — and also really pleased that I now have a shelf full of lovely jars to enjoy or gift later in the year. And, of course, midway between the slicing, I got inspired and pulled out my camera and tripod. I was utterly exhausted in this photo which was taken on my little back deck in the garden, but determined.

​Despite the beauty of the area, my feeling was exhaustion and craving to be back home in my space, my sanctuary. My room was beautiful and pristine - so much so I wasn’t sure I could get comfortable. I like nice things, I’m no stranger to experiencing some of the finer things life has to offer, but this initial feeling confirmed how much I’ve changed. There is elegance in simplicity and beauty in the ordinary. I noticed and allowed the feeling but didn’t let it alter my course. I’ve gotten better at observing my thoughts with curiosity and then just getting on with it. This was a photography trip and I was going to make the most of it. After closing my eyes for a quick recharge, I packed up my gear and headed to my car. I opened the back trunk, and sat on the edge, changing out of my slip - ons into my sneakers. I needed something sturdier for wandering around. Gravel shifted beneath me as I balanced on one foot, then the other. I decided I’d drive around the area where I was staying, but also head to Lunenburg to scout some photography spots. As I was lacing up, the man from the inn passed through the gravel driveway on his way to do something. “What kind of camera do you have?” he asked.
“Oh, it’s an older one — a Nikon D5300. I’ve had it for ages. I remember reading once about a guy who had a whole photo series published in a magazine — all taken on his iPhone.”
“Yes,” he smiled, “it’s all about the artist.” Then he carried on to whatever task he was heading toward.

The buildings in Lunenburg are as I imagined after reading about them before my trip. Colorful and historical. Lunenburg was founded in 1753 as part of Britain’s colonial expansion. It was meticulously planned in a classic British grid pattern and remains one of the best-preserved colonial settlements in North America. One of the most jarring features? The intensity of the incline. Some of the streets are steep. I watched a few people slow their pace and struggle up the hills, and couldn’t help but think about how dreadful it must be in the winter. I briefly imagined my car sliding right into the bay.

Heading down to the waterfront is a must — the views of the architecture and sailboats are even better up close. Naturally, there are plenty of dining options. If seafood and cocktails are your thing, you’ll have no shortage of choices.
I thought about how, not too long ago, dining out was the main focus of my travels — always paired with beer or wine. I didn’t feel out of place, exactly, but I noticed how I don’t quite fit the typical mold most places I go.
​
Still, I felt quietly glad for my sobriety. Glad for the healthy food I packed in the cooler. Glad I wasn’t spending more than I needed to. Grateful, really, that I’ve found a way to take in land and cityscapes that feed my creative life — and that it’s more than enough.
(To capture the iconic view of Old Town’s waterfront (image below), you can head to the popular photography spot from across Lunenburg Harbour - specifically on Golf View Drive.)

​Back in my room, I got ready to turn in for the night. I tucked myself under the cloud-like duvet and sank into the bed — instantly wondering what the hell I’ve been sleeping on for the past decade. I ate the complimentary snacks: chips and chocolate. My period started the moment I arrived. Naturally. So I said fuck it and gave in to the small temptations. Perfect timing, really.
I woke a couple of times in the early morning — from the deepest sleep and vivid dreams. I felt tired. It's strange how things I’m long past still surface in my dreams. But trauma lives in the body.
In waking hours, I don’t think much about past relationships or the difficult things I’ve gone through. They feel like ancient history. Still, I knew these dreams were rising to be released — maybe on a deeper level this time. Being in a new space can help with that. It lets you see more clearly, or at least through a different lens.
Lying there, I started thinking about what I really want in life. The things that bring me peace and a sense of contentment. I thought about the long list of creative and intellectual pursuits that light me up — and the quiet fear that maybe I’ll never do anything with them. What if I run out of time? What if work drains so much of my energy that I’m too tired to follow through?
Then I remembered something I wrote to someone the other day in an email. They told me they were feeling behind in their writing. I replied with: what if we’re right on time?
I think when you’re a high achiever — in any sense — the weight of what you want to accomplish can press heavily on you. But the truth has to be this: even if I never create another thing again... if I came all this way for a photography trip and the weather was terrible, and I didn’t get a single photo I was proud of — I would still be enough.
Thoughts like this surfaced often during my trip — quiet reminders that I don’t need to earn my worth. Not through my career. Not in my creative pursuits. Not in any relationship.
The love I want to cultivate isn’t something to fall into; it’s something you choose and create. I’ve got it wrong before — let the wrong people in. It’s easy, sometimes, to believe that the love I believe in doesn’t exist.
But I have faith that it does. And that it starts with the love I pour into myself — a love without condition, perfection, or judgment. A love that invites growth and sets each other free.
Connection isn’t always easy for me. I often feel like I’m doing it wrong — sharing too much, being too vulnerable. I’m a sensitive human, and I don’t really know how to be anything else. The right person won’t need me to be.
Even when I think I’ve made a real connection, I still feel slightly on edge — like something meaningful can’t possibly last. My body says be careful, even when my mind tries to override it with positive thinking. Sometimes, my body reacts. I feel the physical symptoms of anxiety before I even understand what I’m afraid of.
Still, I always try to leave room for belief.
But it’s hard when your mind was wrong and your body was right — when you realize you’re doing it again: over giving. Because that’s what you do. Not out of expectation, but because you genuinely care. It’s a fine line, though. Without the right amount of of reciprocity, even the most sincere connections can start to unravel.
And while I may sometimes feel like I’m too much, or not quite built for this world, I know this much is true: my softness is not a flaw. It’s a strength. And it deserves to be met, not managed.
I carried these thoughts with me into the early morning quiet — that in-between space where night hadn’t fully let go, and the day hadn’t fully arrived. This was a photography trip, and part of me had felt compelled to get up and catch the sunrise — but a thick fog hovered along the street below. I don’t think I would’ve had the energy to rise regardless, but the fog felt like permission to rest a little longer.
I woke slowly and reached for the coffee in my room. It was fine. Just okay. But still, it helped. I’ll never understand how people function without it. Coffee gives me life.
I went to take a shower and was immediately struck by the indulgence — the perfect pressure and hot water flowing from a massive gold-adorned showerhead, easily five times the size of the one in my apartment. First wetting my hair, then running down the rest of my body.

Eventually, I sat down on the tile and let myself soak in the feeling. I didn’t know a shower could feel so good — like it was washing away sins that weren’t even mine. The hot water poured over me in a steady, warm stream, easing into every muscle and knot. Something in me softened. One month from now, I’d be 42. I could feel the fatigue lingering, and my body — surrounded by such luxury — wondered, “What the hell is this?” The contrast made the exhaustion feel sharper — like luxury had illuminated just how depleted I really was.
In that moment, it hit me: this level of indulgence isn’t the norm. It’s a rare privilege. And it made me think, not for the first time, about how capitalism has trained us to override our needs entirely. Sitting there, I felt how brutal that system really is — and I’m one of the privileged ones.
I wrapped myself in the cotton bathrobe, dried my hair, and took a few photos in the room.

​I normally fast on my days off until dinner, but I decided my first stop would be the Barn Café. I’d grab a coffee for the road and maybe a bite, if they had any vegan options — then figure out my photography plan from there. I’m easily seduced by a great cup of coffee and a café with a bit of character.
Exploring cafés has become even more enjoyable since becoming sober. There’s no pressure to order alcohol — even if it’s on the menu — and most spots seem to have at least a few vegan offerings. The Barn Café didn’t disappoint. If my trip had been longer, I would’ve happily spent the entire day there, sipping an oat misto, writing, and editing photos.
I ordered a chocolate-covered oat cake and a coffee to go. With all the tables full, I asked two elderly ladies if I could join them. One of them smiled warmly and said, “Absolutely!” I ate quietly, noting the flavor and texture in case I wanted to recreate it at home. Then I took my coffee for the road.

I decided to take a drive to a village called Blue Rocks — a tiny fishing community I’d read was especially picturesque, and only a short distance from Mahone Bay. Once a traditional fishing village, it’s also known for its long-standing artistic legacy — discovered by painters and photographers as far back as the 1940s, drawn to its moody coastline and quiet charm.

The drive took me past stretches of lush green, calm and open. But as the road began to drop in altitude heading into Blue Rocks, the light began to change. I could see a thickening fog ahead. It grew darker, visibility shrinking with every turn. It had cleared up in both Mahone Bay and Lunenburg — but this was a different kind of fog. Heavy. Still. A little eerie. I felt like I was driving into a movie scene.

​It was hard to believe that just five minutes in the other direction, the air was clear.
Then I came upon a small inlet of water that stopped me in my tracks. There was just enough visibility to make out a few docks and weathered structures — maybe sheds or old fish shacks — but they looked like they were floating in midair, suspended in a curtain of fog. I kept driving but gave up as the visibility was terrible at the furthest tip. I could have felt a twinge of disappointment to not get the photograph I was hoping for, but I just didn’t care. I had already let go of all expectations.

​I decided to revisit some of the spots I’d seen the evening before. The lighting was better, so I captured similar images in different light, giving me more options to play with later. I wandered into a few shops without any intention to buy—just browsing to pass the time.

Eventually, I found myself back at a local health food store selling supplements and some groceries. I struck up a conversation with the man working there. He was German and, interestingly, a classically trained chef through an apprenticeship program back home.

Checking out the refrigerated section, I asked about some beverages I spotted. I told him I’m addicted to kombucha and mentioned the locally brewed stuff I love from the Island. He pointed me toward a selection of locally crafted kombucha in wine-shaped bottles. The word “kombucha” was printed in fine print on the back, so I hadn’t noticed them at first. Intrigued—and eager to try anything kombucha-related since I eventually want to make it myself—I grabbed a couple of bottles and headed back to my room just before 7 p.m.
​
The sun was hot and the air hazy—a good excuse to rest and not stress about chasing golden hour before sunset. I felt happy with what I’d captured over the past couple of days.
Back at my room, I indulged in a second shower—wanted to wash the sunscreen off and decided to enjoy the pampering while it lasted. I dressed in my long nightgown and wrapped myself in the soft bathrobe, I took an Advil to ease the dull ache from my cycle.

I poured some kombucha into a wine glass. The fizzy bubbles tickled my wrist as the drink splashed up the side. I took a sip—delightful and refreshing. Drinking from a wine glass feels a little elevated; I still enjoy the ritual, even though I don’t miss the alcohol.
I quickly fixed myself some dinner from the food I brought and plopped onto the bed. The rest of the evening passed in a gentle blur of photo editing, journaling, and the smooth voice of Billie Holiday playing through the YouTube channel on the TV.
I was grateful to be resting, knowing I’d fall asleep early. Tomorrow, I’d be on the road early, eager to ease back into my routine at home in PEI.

The trip to Mahone Bay felt like another new beginning. I explored with ease and without pressure to achieve. I left feeling both inspired and a little more ready to meet life.
I daydreamed about doing creative work like this whenever and wherever I wanted. One thing I’ve learned: starting never hurts — and it usually leads somewhere, even if it isn’t where you expected.
No matter how hard life gets, I’ll keep throwing as much grace toward myself and others as I can. Even when I go through low periods, there’s something in me that doesn’t give up — even when, at times, I’ve wanted to.
I quite literally emerged from the fog in Mahone Bay with a clearer sense of what was healing within me, and what still needed to be expressed.
I’m a highly sensitive being, perceiving the world through the lens of art and poetry — though I sometimes hesitate to call myself an artist. Still, this delicate vision shapes the way I see, feel, and create. Some people see sensitivity as weakness. But I know — it’s the artist’s way of surviving. To stay soft in a hard world is its own kind of quiet rebellion.