Costal Portal - a quiet arrival in Mahone Bay, Nova Scotia

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.
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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.
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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.

I left PEI late Sunday morning and arrived in Mahone Bay just before dinner. As you come into town, the road curves around a bend, hugging the edge of the coastline — and then the view opens up. The bay stretches out, dotted with tiny sailboats, and in the distance, a row of quaint, brightly painted buildings and iconic churches come into view. The architecture is distinct — timeless and full of character — giving the town a charm that feels both coastal and storied

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The Magnolia Inn where I stayed is centrally located. A young eccentric man with a head full of thick lightly colored curls, who I’d guess to be in his 20s, greeted me with an earnestly excited energy. He referred to himself as the man of the house and let me know that if I needed anything after I was settled, he was usually out and around the yard gardening. He showed me into the foyer, an elegant seating area and dining room, with a tiny lounge around the corner full of books and art. After instructing me to take off my shoes (pointing out the original wooden floors and the nature of it being a heritage building) he lead me to my room on the second floor, over looking the ocean. The inn, built in 1879, is a historic landmark in Mahone Bay. It was originally constructed for Dr. Donald Bruce Keddy, who lived there with his family and practiced medicine on-site before later relocating his practice to Lunenburg.

​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.
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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.
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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.