This week marks three years since I moved to PEI, and two years since I last posted in this blog.

A lot can happen in two years.

A lot did.  

In the past 24 months, I’ve:

• written and performed a new semi-autobiographical play (Six Songs About Six Men I’ve Dated)
• started two new jobs including one I’ve thought about doing since my 20s
• found my person, got engaged, and got a puppy
• bought a big ‘ol house and moved to a blink-and-you-miss-it town (population 450),
• and, as of this week, been diagnosed with low grade depression

It’s been exhilarating and stressful and joyful and boring and hopeful and frustrating and challenging in ways that I didn’t foresee. 

Moving to Charlottetown from Toronto three years ago was a big step.  Moving from Charlottetown to a rural community and getting a dog has felt like a seismic shift.

I’m still adjusting.

Just over a year ago, the landlord of the property I’d been renting in Charlottetown informed me they were selling. Both my boyfriend (now fiancé) and I had lost homes before in similar situations. We were determined not to let this happen again.

So, at the ages of 54 and 57 respectively, we bought our first house in the tiny village of Murray River – an hour outside of the city… and an hour away from the theatre community, open mics, dance classes and other social supports I’d built in my first two years on PEI.

We had good reasons for the move:

1. Our new home is gorgeous and offered amazing value for the price (three bedrooms, two garages, one and half bathrooms for $295,000! In Ontario, that gets you a bus shelter.)
2. It’s close to the town of Montague where my fiancé now works. And,
3. We couldn’t afford anything like it in the city, near the city, or anywhere else on the Island to be frank.

Although I had reservations about its distance from the city, I repeatedly told myself, “It’ll be fine.” I was working 99% remote at the time, and the occasional drive to Charlottetown – up and down rolling hills – was gorgeous… in the summer.  

And then we got the dog.

It started when my fiancé’s friend’s rottweiler had a litter.

“Hell no,” I said when the offer to take one of the puppies came up. There was no way I would feel safe controlling that big of a dog. Plus, it would need way more exercise than either of us could provide.  

So instead, we adopted an eight-week old Jack Russell Boston Terrier mix because, those are chill dogs, right?

Uh… nope.

Angus was adorable and, like all puppies, required constant supervision during the first four months of his life. Not only were we potty training him, we were constantly trying to keep him from chewing the furniture, carpets, electrical cords, razor blades, old rusty nails, you name it.

We still are.

To date, Angus has destroyed (in no particular order):

• A library book
• My Fitbit
• Two pairs of glasses
• Three pairs of shoes
• The legs to our coffee table
• A bra and countless pairs of underwear

Even now we can’t leave anything on a counter or he’s running off with it in his month with a proud little wag of the tail. 

Angus requires lots of things to chew. Angus requires lots of exercise. Angus is adorable but a bitch to train.

But so am I.

When we bought the house, I remember thinking,  “Sure, it might be challenging in the winter but we’ll just hunker down and write music and use all that solitude as creative time.”

Instead,  we spent it on the couch, eyeballs glued to Netflix, Disney and Prime. If I picked up my guitar, the dog would try to eat it. If I picked up my laptop, the dog would try to eat it. If I picked up my notebook… you get the picture.

It was exhausting.

I started a new job in January that required I spend half my week in Charlottetown. I love the work (I’m a learning and development consultant for the provincial health authority), but adjusting to the workload and management style was exhausting. Commuting two hours a day, three days a week, down dark snowy roads was exhausting.  Just keeping the driveway ploughed and the dog walked, and the food on the table was exhausting.

And the things that normally pick me up – being a part of a creative community – were no longer as readily available.  

I tried joining a local church but quit when homophobia and transphobia reared its ugly head in a bible study. I tried offering a course at a local community hall but no one signed up. I joined a theatre group but they imploded and the play was cancelled (much to my relief, as I’d been cast in one of the lead roles and was struggling to memorize lines while adjusting to the new job. Also, I wasn’t a huge fan of the play itself.)

In a few short months, I’d gone from living in a city where I could walk to and from work, social activities and entertainment that inspired me, to needing a car to go anywhere, only feeling safe using it between 8 a.m. and 4 p.m. from November to February, and numbing my loneliness with overworking, junk food and episodic TV.

I’d gone from being responsible for no one but myself, to having to answer to a life-partner and more so a four-legged bundle of neediness.  

And for the first time since moving to Prince Edward Island, I was missing Toronto.

I was missing performing. I was missing being inspired by others performances.  I was missing my freedom. I was missing me.  

Careful what you wish for

When I started this blog in February 2022, I wrote “I want to plant roots and watch them grow.”

I was looking for more stability, consistency and deeper relationships than I’d experienced over my last semi-turbulant decade in Toronto.

I’ve found my man, but I haven’t found my community.  I’ve found stability, but I’ve lost my freedom.  I’m still trying to find consistency. And the stress from all of this non-stop change has depleted my serotonin.

I saw a counsellor this week who told me I had low grade depression. I think he may be right.  I’m bummed. I cry a lot. I sometimes fantasize on my way from work about turning the other way, crossing the bridge to the mainland, and just driving south.   

But where would I go? The U.S.? Let’s not go there.  (Like many people I know, I’ve started limiting my news consumption.)

Plus, wherever you go, there you are. One thing I’ve learned from all these moves is there is no escaping yourself. My partner needs me. My dog needs me. Future me who has made it through to the other side of all this needs me.  

And all of this is just a call to another life lesson. What that is I have yet to find out. But I’m blogging again and that’s a good start.

I moved to PEI to plant roots. Now the Universe is calling my bluff.  

A dog, a house, a husband, a good job – these are long-term commitments.

These are roots.

So instead of running away, I’m turning toward them.

The question I now have to answer is how can I learn to be patient enough to let those roots grow?