"Time sure flies when you are having fun." Dad whispers in a faint voice, his frail arms steady against mine as we dance slowly to "My Girl" on the back porch deck that last summer.

He loved pranks. Anything that would make his family laugh was game on. While I pulled saran wrap over the toilet seat before heading off to school, he would hide his sweaty gym clothes next to my notebooks in my backpack. The sensation of wet material sure messes with your mind when you are expecting to pull out a binder during English class.

"Hey I'm bad to the bone" dad teases after putting on his black leather jacket for the umpteenth time. He never tires of that song, or more specifically, that one lyric. His obvious dad joke makes mom and I laugh, his endearing presence easing the tension between a PMS induced teenager and a raging menopausal 50 year old.

Jeopardy was our nightly ritual, and while dad and my sister dominated the science, history and geography categories, I nailed pop culture and literature. I will take "At the movies" for $200 Alex.

Party board games and trivia was our holiday staple, the addition of my brother in law ushering in a competition of boys vs. girls. The age old question to whether women are smarter then men is brought to the forefront with dad and I going head to head on who can pretend to lick a popsicle better, while my sister, mom and brother in law watch on in hysterical laughter.

"Come home" would be his mainstay phrase every time he greeted me with a hug at the train station, and "you must have a strong heart" was his parting words on the front porch swing the last month of his life.

________________________________________________________________________________

October 2020

Two weeks after the wedding

"I have a question. I'm writing quarantine and chill right now and I'm including a little bit from the wedding. I want to make sure you are ok with it. I can send you an audio clip of what I have."

I make it a point to ask permission from friends and family if I'm including a significant private moment or conversation. The secondary characters of my life are just as important to my growth and journey, because reality won't have it any other way.

I anxiously await her response.

Five minutes turn into ten and finally three dots appear in the messenger box.

"Aw that's so beautiful!!!" B says.

A sigh of relief floods over me.

I get back to editing my story, when B messages with another comment.

"You honestly seem really strong and happy single!"

Her words echo truth, even when society tells me otherwise.

"I am! But even the strongest of us can have moments of self-doubt and loneliness. Because of the lack of social connection due to this pandemic, I definitely feel the gravity of isolation. And for someone in a healthy relationship, housed with their best friend, that would be a lifesaver."

B sends two words back; two words that should be made into a bumper sticker.

"Don't settle!"

________________________________________________________________________________

August 2013

"Hey sunshine, how's it going?"

His words immediately break me and tears stream down my cheeks, heavy gasps exude from the reception desk. Normally I would look forward to Mark and I's flirty banter, but this day I am in no mood for light and fun, greeting everyone with a look so sad that you would think that I was a little girl that lost her puppy.

Using our production office to hold casting sessions for an upcoming feature film, Mark is goofy and charming. I instantly gravitate to his white peppered hair and big salesman smile (I assume that smile is required for every casting assistant). Because of my bubbly personable demeanor, the feature asks me to assist with some photocopying and light administrative labor, much to the chagrin of the factual and scripted divisions. Today coworkers can immediately see the change in my demeanor as the look of pain and heartbreak is evident on my face.

Taking three days off of work to mourn rejection, I spent most of the day in my bachelor apartment in my pajamas binging reruns of Friends. Bottling up my emotions proves to serve useless as all it took was a how are you from Mark to break down into a slobbering bucket of tears.

I always do this. A mentally healthy coping mechanism would be to take those three days and experience my emotions by confiding in friends and letting the tears flow. But repression makes me bottle it up in my body, where it sits idle in the back of my throat and pit of my stomach.

I'm strong. I can handle rejection. It's not like I'm dying or anything. I say to myself as I make mac and cheese and open up my laptop to numb my emotions with Chandler Bing. But with anything you repress, it will eventually come out. How are you is that breaking point.

Embarrassment consumes my emotional outburst and I immediately hide my head behind the computer screen, trying my best to gasp slowly and breathe through my trembling lips.

I'm not going to look at Mark's face. I'm sure he's seen many actors break down in front of him.

Walking past me, Mark sits down on the lobby couch across the reception desk. I'm grateful in this moment that the desk barrier perches over my computer screen, perfectly hiding my face; the only way to see my mascara smudged eyes would be if someone directly leaned over the reception barrier.

A notification pops up in my outlook.

It's from Mark.

The subject line reads: Whatever it is, you got this.

He gets up from the couch and retreats to the boardroom for the day, making sure to greet actors at the lobby so I don't have to.

I've never felt the pang of heartbreak before. I guess because I've never put my heart out there for it to be possibly broken. At 28 years old, I've always gone for the fun no strings attached route; taking fun filled risks was my middle name. Vulnerability is not my strong suit, until I took that leap and asked out a guy whose smile and embrace made me weak. What I got back was avoidance and radio silence.

Rejection breaks me in a way I had never imagined. There's a void in my heart that used to be filled with adventure, laughter, spontaneity and guilt free sex. And now that feels empty. I've lost my zest and sparkle that so many would comment on and I don't know how to get it back.

If this is even a mere glimpse into what love and heartbreak is, I don't want it.

I need a vacation so I can star in my own version of how Stella, ahem Hezbo got her groove back. Who's going to be my Taye Diggs?

At 4:50pm I start packing up for the day. I'm anxious to leave. My breakdown makes me feel embarrassed and ashamed, and I just want to go home and retreat underneath the covers.

Mark walks up to my desk.

"Why don't you come to my friends place tonight. She is hosting a little house warming party, and I think it would be a great distraction for you."

While the broken hearted introvert in me wanted to decline, the extroverted me screamed for a distraction. With one look at my phone to check for the umpteenth time if there are any notifications (hot tip: there are none), I agree to Mark's invitation.

He shoots me over the address to meet at 7pm.

At 6:50pm, I stand outside the apartment complex waiting for Mark. I pride myself on being early. I hate being late. I inherited that from my dad.

At 7pm on the dot I can see Mark walking from a distance. He's holding a bottle of wine, and wearing a grey peacoat. There is something about men wearing those peacoats. Classy and handsome all rolled into one.

We enter into the lobby together and press the elevator for the 12th floor.

"How are you feeling?" He asks with a look of concern.

"I'm alright. I'm sorry I cried."

A $180 therapy session would later reveal that I should never apologize for crying.

"Don't be silly. We all have those days darling." He rubs my back as the elevator doors open, and the gesture feels comforting.

"You'll love Stacey. She's a go-getter," he says, knocking on the white apartment door marked 1201. A dark brunette woman opens the door. She immediately flashes her pearly whites, it's the same smile that Mark has when he greets actors.

"Hi! Welcome to my humble abode!" She says, greeting me with a formal handshake and then embracing Mark with a hug. I look around her very clean, pristine place and I am taken aback with how stylish and grown up it is. She can't be more than 23 years old, and her apartment looks like something you would see out of a House & Home magazine.

It definitely beats my basement bachelor.

Escorting me to her cream sofa, there is a twenty something Asian man already sitting to the right of the couch, slouched over holding a Heineken in his hands. I sit on the left side, and an awkward silence commences while Mark and Stacey retreat to the kitchen to open a bottle of wine. I take it upon myself to start the conversation and make the couch a less awkward place.

"How do you know Stacey?" I ask the man, whose name is Joe from Ryerson.

"We had a class together a few years ago and she messaged me on Facebook asking if I would be interested in learning more about entrepreneurship."

As Joe says this, it dawns on me that there are only three people at Stacey's housewarming, two of whom are acquaintances at best. Before I can prode Joe further, Mark and Stacey walk out of the kitchen towards the couch.

"Drink?" Mark asks, holding out a stemmed wine glass.

"Sure, why not." I grab the glass from his hand and set it on the table in front of me.

Mark sits on the love seat across from Joe, while Stacey remains standing.

This is weird.

"Thank you so much for taking the time to join me. My life couldn't be more perfect right now, and I want to share how you two can transform your life like I did!"

Joe takes a big sip from his Heineken.

I try not to laugh.

Picking up a big metal briefcase beside the couch, the silence is ominous. Am I on Deal or No Deal?

"These products I'm about to show you truly made my dreams come true," she says with THAT smile.

That smile makes me shudder.

She opens up the briefcase and pulls out a small bottle of lotion. The symbol on the bottle looks familiar. I had seen this product before. A couple of ago, I attended a west end hipster house party, where a bunch of women assembled in the family room to sell their handmade jewelry, soaps and other side hustle ventures. Free cocktails were offered in the kitchen along with bowls of pretzels and chips.

Joining a kumbaya type circle in the basement, a woman by the name of Stephanie presented this same product that Stacey was so enthusiastically sharing now, but it was less psychological manipulation and more direct sale to buyer tactics.

"These products are life-changing." Stacey dramatically says with her big brown Bambie eyes, interrupting my flashback.

Unless this product can give me an orgasm, I'm definitely not convinced. But I do remember watching a 20/20 episode on cults and Stacey is on the fast track to check marking off all those boxes.

"They are not only safe and environmentally clean, but they also open up doors to so many amazing opportunities. There is a whole community of change makers that are paving their own path in life. Many of them have left their full time jobs because they were making their dreams come true with this business."

Despite Stacey's pretty shiny hair, and big round earnest eyes, and her beautiful spacious apartment, her attempts at persuasion leave me unconvinced. A side hustle of selling beauty and lifestyle products is not my idea of making my dreams come true.

But, conditioned to fly under the radar as nice, waspy and non-confrontational, I nod; counting down until she's done so I can bolt out of 1201's door.

"Here, open up your hand." Stacy gestures to me, holding out the lotion.

Before I can react, she pulls my wrist towards her and pumps some of the product onto my hand. Massaging the lotion onto my palms, she looks into my eyes, her fingers and thumbs moving back and forth on my skin. "Doesn't that feel great?"

Is this supposed to be sexual?

"Sure." I say in a soft uncomfortable voice.

She turns her eyes to Joe on the couch, "your fairly new to Canada, this can open up a whole network of marketing opportunities and contacts."

Earnestness is scratched on her face as she darts her eyes between the both of us.

Stacey is now clutching my hands.

"You can be your own boss, and take control of your life. Who wants to work for the man when you can work for yourself and own your own business."

"Ahhh I work at Sportchek." Joe says.

Unleashing my hands, she pulls out two pieces of paper from the briefcase, along with two pens, and places them on the table in front of us.

"The starter kit is only $69. It's a steal! You can get all these amazing samples for under $100."

Stacey towers over us, leaning against the couch arm, an anxious look marked on her face.

I haven't even taken a sip of my wine.

I look over to Mark who's sitting on the loveseat looking like a parent proudly watching their child act in the school play.

I haven't felt this much pressure since I was 15 years old, when my very first boyfriend tried to convince me to give him a blowjob while we made out in the park beside his parents place. We would break up shortly after over ICQ.

I pick up the pen, and regrettably checkmark off the box. Joe follows suit.

"Perfect! The starter kit is an excellent choice. I'm excited for you to host and continue this fabulous legacy! You guys are going to love it!"

Confusion immediately floods over me.

"Oh, I just thought I was buying a product. I'm not interested in hosting."

Stacey sighs, before flashing those pearly whites.

"Hun, hosting is one of the benefits of buying into this product. You must have five friends. Create a list, buy some wine, and make a night out of it! They will sell like hot cakes, trust me."

Already disappointed that I gave into pressure, I backtrack my decision, putting my foot down onto Stacey's pipe dream. This will be my first time, a beginner lesson if you will, on saying no to a pyramid scheme.

"No I'm good thank you. The wine is great though," I say, giggling to cover up the awkwardness.

My sternness is a work in progress.

Stacey's expression turns sour.

"This is your chance to become a boss babe. There is a whole community of love and support to reach your fullest self. There are dream trips, a car; you can pick and choose your hours. This opportunity gives you absolute freedom!"

I can't say the words she's using aren't tempting. She makes it seem that this product is the key to my happiness, a doorway to a whole world of possibilities, and for a mere second, I believe her. I don't know what my dream is, but I know it doesn't involve lies and manipulation, and the heartbreak that I ache for, will not go away by buying into a fantasy.

"No!" I firmly say to her as tears form underneath my eyes.

I march over to the door, ignoring Mark, Joe and Stacey's reaction and walk out of apartment 1201 irritated, disturbed but proud that I stood up for myself.

I facestalk Stacey later that night. Her bright polished profile picture looks like an ad to be a realtor, with THAT product name stamped underneath her pearly white smile. Her status updates are littered with photos of that lotion she so vigorously massaged on me, with inspiration quotes and #bossbabe ending after each caption.

I never spoke to Mark after that night. But I often wonder if he still talks to Stacey, if she still has that apartment, and if they still both carry that salesman smile.

And as for my broken heart? That would take a lot longer to heal...

_______________________________________________________________________________

August 2015

I talked to the editor and she thinks it's best the articles be pulled for the time being. Sorry about that. We love the series and I would have liked to keep them up.

The email sits heavy in my heart. For a story that was meant to be cathartic, my heart sure is breaking all over again.

I'm fine. It sucks but I'm fine. I say to myself.

I pour a glass of wine.

I'm not fine.

How can someone else take away my words?

I reread part four of my series, the last chapter that would not go public.

"You're a good writer, but its just not a good idea to continue the series for the time being," the editor's note says in our email chain.

I break down in tears.

"You're a good writer, but..." rings in my ear.

No one can take away my words but me.

Five stages of grief and two glasses of wine later, I search Google to purchase a website domain.

What name would you like? The registration asks.

Mulling over titles in a word document, I write Single in the city, A Female Writers guide to finding herself and Authentic Voice Happy Hour.

All are shit. All don't fit.

Remaining true to who I am is key. Just like Bridget Jones' Diary, I want my authentic flawed vulnerable exposed voice to shine through.

With an array of nicknames at my disposal, Auntie Bo, Hez, Heath and Hezbo to name a few, I go with my gut, my intuition, my favorite.

And with a click of a button, Hezbodiaries is born.

My groove, my mojo and my spark not only resurges, it shines.

I break out of that box that so many want me to fit in, paving my own path in this life and it feels damn good.

Because I am worth the goddamn space I'm taking up.

My voice matters. My story matters.

And as I press publish to part four of my series, the heartbreak that I struggled to heal from now fills with liberation and pride. My self-doubt turns into courage and my resistance to vulnerability paves the way for my growth.

Everyone has a story. This is mine.

________________________________________________________________________________

...Back to my conversation with B

"I won't. I never will." I say to B with conviction.

Closing our chat, I login to eHarmony.

Ten unread messages, I click on the top one.

"Your profile looks good but why no picture? Your picture has got to be better than me freezing up for my selfie and looking like a total moron. Your writing occupation sounds interesting! Hope you have a good day."

I close the message and delete my profile.

_______________________________________________________________________________

November 11th 2020

I watch Kamala walk on stage, the first black woman to serve as Vice President, and for the first time in four years, I feel hope. Because that stage in history is usually only shared by one person, the president-elect. Ego and tradition wouldn't have it any other way.

But Biden knows the significance that Kamala's victory represents to the American people, to democracy, to all of us watching! He threw away tradition to make way for progress. He threw away his ego in favor of celebrating another's win. He graciously shares the stage with her, by her and for her, cause that's what good leaders do.

Civility is back on the table and I don't ever want it to see it disappear again.

Canada lost one of the greatest leaders of our time in 2011. As The Toronto Star headline quoted, "he was the best prime minister we never had." Writing a poignant and beautiful note to Canadians before he lost his battle with cancer, Jack Leyton's last words became a staple of hope that I have gone back to repeatedly in the last four years.

"My friends, love is better than anger, hope is better than fear, optimism is better than despair."

And as Kamala finishes her victory speech and Biden shuffles onstage, I silently add:

"Truth is better then lies. Progress is better then stagnancy. Education is better than ignorance. And the future WILL be better than the past."

I will ALWAYS choose hope.

________________________________________________________________________________

November 12th 2020

Weeks leading up to December 25th, I binge my favorite holiday films: National Lampoons Christmas Vacation, While you were sleeping, Look who's talking now, The Santa Clause, Home Alone, The Holiday, Love Actually, Serendipity, Elf and last but not least Diiiieee Hard!

Two Christmas trees adorn mom's house, one she bought with dad, and the other I brought from Toronto. I bought that tree six years ago, in the beginning of November, at Canadian Tire. "Jesus, its too early!" a couple remarks to me as I lug the box through the Eaton Centre. I ignore their remark and stop by Starbucks to order a white hot chocolate.

The LCBO is packed with people, as I excitedly pick up my food and wine magazine and browse various cocktail and food recipes. There is a salted caramel crown royal? I'm not a whisky drinker but hell sign me up!

Oh you can buy a reindeer designed dress? A onesie with a butt flap? Facebook marketing sure is nailing my interests.

With the borders still closed and restrictions still in place, the realization that it will just be mom and me for Christmas sinks in. No niece and nephew to down eggnog in a shot glass, no annual Christmas trivia games to show off my charade and drawing skills, no drunken glasses of wine to share with my sister and brother in law, Christmas 2020 will mirror that of Christmas 2017.

________________________________________________________________________________

December 16th 2017

"I'm sorry sir, your cancer has spread."

Tired and wired from my overnight bus from Toronto to London, the devastating news sits heavy in my head as I tower over dad's hospital bed. Golden Christmas lights and tinsel decorate the nurses station while I grasp his bed handle, taking deep breaths to prevent the vomit from rising from the back of my throat.

"Do you have high blood pressure?" The pre op nurse asks before they wheel him in to emergency surgery. "I do now" he jokingly responds, his face turning bright red, wiping tears from his eyes with a tissue. The surgery team giggles at his joke, humor masking fear as they wheel him into the surgery room.

My eyes wrought with bags, I pick up two coffees from the cafeteria.

Five hours never felt so long.

Usually getting my annual Christmas photo with Santa at Dufferin Mall, listening to festive tunes while wearing my elf costume and sending sexy lingerie snaps, I now only wanted one thing for the Holiday season. A simple request that seems daunting in this moment: to get dad home for Christmas.

Sixteen hours and three coffees later, dad is wheeled into the recovery room high on drugs. He is marked with an ileostomy on the left side of his abdomen, an effort by the chief surgeon to give him more time. Big snowflakes fall gently from his private hospital window onto Commissioners Road while a palliative social worker asks us end of life options.

"Come home" dad asks, while we walk through the recovery wing of the hospital at a rapid speed. Walking Molly for two hours every morning serves dad well for his recovery and six days later, he's released from the hospital.

Three days shy of Christmas, dad enters our foyer and bolts downstairs towards Molly. A week must have felt like an eternity to see her master. Picking her up, her tail wags at a rapid speed, my phone catching the sweet moment between canine and human. Silence consumes the room as we watch them embrace.

Five, four, three, two, one, mom and dad kiss through their trembling lips.

My zest, my sparkle, my joy, shatters as we ring in 2018 in heartbreak.

________________________________________________________________________________

December 11th 2020

A plethora of administration positions fill Indeed's job search engine. Each post describes an "opportunity to grow within their company", along with the promise of a great health and dental package and a $25 an hour pay rate (perhaps to offset the risk of contracting covid).

Highly skilled in administration, the logical part of my brain tells me to apply; after all it's the path of least resistance.

I navigate my cursor to the application when my little voice screams with hesitation.

We all have that voice.

Its that same voice that tells you to not get into that elevator alone with that strange man, or when you already have the answer to the Final Jeopardy question but your brain hesitates to vocalize and you end up shouting out Who is Ryan Seacrest instead of Who is Dick Clark.

I open up another search tab and type in Shedoesthecity. Even though I technically don't live in Toronto anymore, I still feel like a Torontonian.

Just Apply, reads the headline at the top of their site.

"Are you a writer? Do you know someone who writes? You have until December 18th to submit your application for the Global Access Writers Program. 'We want people in the industry who want to level up in any way, in a storytelling capacity, to apply.'

A spark lights up inside of me. My little voice is rumbling.

I switch the tab back to indeed, trying my best to focus.

If dad were alive he would tell me to act smart and apply.

But my mind and eyes trail back to Shedoesthecity.

I don't have any writing credits to my name and this program is looking for underrepresented female writers, so I wouldn't even qualify.

But something about that article excites me. I can't ignore that feeling.

Don't think. Just do.

I open up Facebook and message a former work colleague for advice.

In the past I've struggled to ask for help. Ego and self-doubt can do wonders for limiting your potential. We all need help at some point, and funnily enough most are happy and willing to provide assistance, because at our core, humans are pretty damn amazing.

S messages back within five minutes.

"Hey! I'm not sure about that program but check out wattpad platform! It's a website and app for writers to publish new user-generated stories."

I immediately Google wattpad and browse their website.

This would be a great way to get more readers.

The white Facebook bubble pops up again, with S sending me a list of TV fellowship programs.

"I've never written a spec script before." I reply back as I feel my confidence waning.

I'm a good writer. And I'm a good storyteller. But am I good enough to write someone else's story?

"Just try" S encouragingly types back.

Don't think. Just do.

_______________________________________________________________________________

December 20th 2020

I open up Hezbodiares Facebook page and begin to write:

With limitations on public gatherings as the second wave moves into full force, cabin fever sets in. My brains feels like a fog of numbness from a lack of stimulation, conversations with Molly have turned more dramatic with each passing day. The roof that I'm so grateful to live under starts to cave in the more I sit with my thoughts, boredom combined with scrolling through social media for the umpteenth time giving me 2020 angst.

I open up my word document to part two of my quarantine chapter; a looming deadline I gave myself to finish and release by Christmas day; only to have writers block get in the way. Ha, should I be a writer for Dr. Seuss?

With inspiration at my fingertips, I create a list, a mental health checklist as you will, for anyone who is struggling to get through this pandemic. This list I will so aptly title:

The 21st Century Guide to Surviving and Thriving the Plague of 2020.

________________________________________________________________________________

December 21st 2020

Rule #1: Exercise

I have a love hate relationship with exercise. I go through spurts where I'm intensely motivated to work out, and then months where sloth mode kicks in. I envy/hate Jlo and Jennifer Aniston's instagram feed. But since the pandemic hit, exercise has been my lifeline. Not only does it boost my endorphins and hopefully stave off an impending heart attack with the copious amounts of wine and meat induced meals I have consumed since March, but it also make me feel better about wearing my week old "daywear" sweats. I am very lucky that I have a house that offers space to workout and a kidfree environment gives me a lot more freedom in terms of time. And I know a lot of people that can't say the same. But whatever you can do to get your heart pumping and blood flowing is key to boosting your mood and sparking some new brain cells in the process! Hey, if you have a partner, a good sex romp can do the trick too! The only workout I'm getting in the sex department is from my hand. I just hope I don't walk out of quarantine with carpal tunnel.

________________________________________________________________________________

December 22nd 2020

Rule #2: Never Stop learning. Stimulate those brain cells!

Upon browsing creative things that can be done while at home I came across classcentral.com, a website that offers a plethora of FREE courses from Ivy League Universities. I'm talking Yale, Princeton, Harvard, Columbia, etc. The list of courses is pretty impressive and all you need is a working computer and internet connection to register. A lot of them are offered at your own pace which is perfect for anyone juggling family and work duties from home. It also gives you full bragging rights to write on your Facebook that you took a class at Harvard. I'm currently enrolled in the Science and Cooking class. I may as well up my chef game while in quarantine! The algebra section is really throwing me but heck, Ontario is going into a second lockdown so I have all the time to figure out math equations while our province figures out how to negotiate with the crumbling economy and hospitalizations.

Where can I find dry ice?

________________________________________________________________________________

December 25th 2020

I wake up to a blanket of snow on Christmas morning. It's a beautiful sight for a significantly different holiday. The forecast calls for a blizzard; the weather sure is incentivizing the stay at home order.

I turn on the oven and pop my homemade garlic and cheese scones on the top rack, setting the timer for 20 minutes.

I plug in both Christmas trees and wait for mom to wake up.

As the smell of bread and garlic fill the house, a shuffling of feet indicates she's on the move.

Coffee and scone in hand, we walk downstairs to the family room. Normally my niece and nephew would take charge for distributing gifts, this time I would be the Dwight Shrute of gift giving.

I put on my reindeer antlers and slide two boxes to mom.

While the sentiment of gifts is unimportant, especially in this time where so many are suffering, its still fun and heartwarming to watch a person you adore rip open their gift in genuine surprise and joy.

Surprises, in whatever form, are fun.

I put Molly in her onesie, much to her chagrin, and set up the tripod to take the token Christmas family photo that I will post to Facebook. With two competing trees as the backdrop, I insist on a photo with each.

While mother's tree is classy, decorated in all white bulbs and garland, my tree is the real winner. Who wouldn't want a singing Santa hat as the tree topper?

And as we sit infront of the TV and watch National Lampoons Christmas vacation, we sit with our gratitude that we have eachother for a second Christmas we will never forget.

________________________________________________________________________________

December 31st 2020

I wake up on New Years Eve to a plethora of posts on Instagram and Facebook, each follower and friend reflecting on the insanity of the last year. Some take the pandemic as a lesson in slowing down; while others reflect on the importance of family, and a surprisingly high percentage celebrate engagements, marriages and baby announcements.

While a lay off from my job and cancelled Hawaii trip could be my focus, I instead choose perspective as the key to my reflection.

Rule #3: Listen to someone else's story

I think what has been remarkable about this pandemic is that everyone around the world has been affected. It isn't targeted to just one race or gender. Where we would normally shield our vulnerability to only those closest to us, or alternatively, to our social media circle, the pandemic opened our hearts and our fears for the entire world to collectively commiserate and bond over. I think that says something about how profoundly human we all are, and when it comes down to it, how very connected we all are.

We are vulnerable and scared. But we are also kind and generous. And we need love and connection no matter where we live in the world; our brains and hearts are wired for it.

We each carry a story during this time. Stories that we can all empathize with. We are way more alike then we are different.

I'm going to spend my last night in 2020 sabering a champagne bottle in my basement. I've always wanted to learn that party trick ever since I saw Cameron Diaz do it in the subpar romantic comedy What Happens in Vegas. Then I'm going to proceed to lounge on the couch, consuming my takeout order from a local restaurant, and drink a fancy bottle of Napa Valley wine, and watch the ball drop with my mom.

Happy New Year to everyone around the world. Let's listen to eachother's stories and change the world for the better. And get back to hugging; I miss hugs.

P.S. Binge watch John Krasinki's Some Good News YouTube series. It will honestly warm even the worst of pessimists. #jimandpamforever

I close Facebook down and put on my runners.

"Mom are you ready?" I ask her with a mixture of excitement and nerves.

"Yes" she says with a slight annoyance.

With a broom and dustpan in one hand and the cold bottle of sparkling wine in the other, I hand mom the dull kitchen knife as we march down to the basement.

My stomach is flipping.

Despite attempts from M to mess with my confidence by sending videos of champagne saber fails, I feel fairly confident at least attempting the party trick after binge watching various YouTube tutorials on the art of safely sabering.

I peel the gold foil off the bottle and unravel the cage from the head, lifting it slightly above the top of the cork and twisting it back on. Handing my phone over to mom, I press record and tell her to aim for my face.

Holding the $30 Brut that I had chilled overnight in the fridge, I tilt it on a 40-degree angle. Using my left non-dominant hand, I place my thumb in the punt (a fancy word for the indentation of the bottom of the bottle), and place my four fingers along the base, seam side up.

Nerves flood over me as I hold the cold bottle in my hands, and for a mere second, I question my sanity.

What happens if glass shatters in my eye?

Don't think. Just do.

I run the back of the blade slowly up the seam twice, steadying the knife's edge on the neck. On the third thrust I move the blade swiftly up the neck and hit the bottom of the lip, where a beautiful pop rings in my ears and foam appears at the top of the clean cut bottle.

"I did it!" I exclaim in shock and euphoria.

"It's still going. Is that it?" Mom says in an irritated voice.

I think she's happy we didn't have to take a trip to the emergency room.

I ignore her irritation and soak in my accomplishment.

Because self-doubt could have won tonight.

But instead I tried, and succeeded, ringing in the New Year with a small win behind my belt.

Don't think. Just do.

Because you may end up surprising yourself, and walk out with a perfectly cut bottle.