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My sister and I continued to maneuver through this new world together, as my Dad's heart officially broke. My sister and my father had always shared a deep bond, so for him to lose one child to the outside world had been hard, but to lose a second one had been devastating. He blamed himself for Mom's suicide, for being too busy, and for not providing enough of a religious foundation so my sister and I were able to withstand the pressures and traumas we'd faced. And yet the on

My sister and I hadn't been very close growing up. But then I turned 15, and my parents decided to send me to live with my sister and her husband during summer vacations. While her husband worked, we'd gone to beaches, thrift shopped, went for long walks, and went to local community events. She wasn't the same sad or mad sister I'd remembered from my childhood, but a whimsical one, with each day feeling magical. She was energetic, creative, vibrant, and funny. However, what n

My sister hated dresses, fought with the boys, and chose toy cars over dolls. She wore her hair short and chose clothing that exuded little femininity. "Don't worry, she'll grow out of it," the religious community would say to my parents. So, they waited patiently, not wanting to fully acknowledge that perhaps her sexuality was something other than heterosexual, as they allowed her to pick Hot Wheels at the toy store, but still stuffed her into pink dress for church on Sunday

We were a small family of four, so being part of a large religious community had it perks. You had automatic friends, lots of social invites, a sense of belonging, and people seemed to genuinely trust and care about one another. And when we came together to worship, it was as if we were one beating heart, with us all studying the same bible and religious books, speaking the same way, believing the same thing, and following the exact same rules. As for my childhood, I had a st

I woke up in a pool of sweat, my mind jumping from one fear to another. I craved the comfort of familiarity, and that's when I remembered the manila envelope the leaders had given me. I switched on the light next to the couch and slid the articles out. The first one was all about women and their value in the eyes of God, as well as their role within the family. That wasn't so bad," I whispered under my breath. I then moved onto the next one, as my eyes settled on the words, "

I had left my husband on Saturday, and on the Sunday he'd so gone to church in order to tell everyone what I'd done, ensuring control over the narrative. I on the other hand, had no desire to see anyone, as I barricaded myself inside my sister's apartment. It was no surprise that I'd had a voicemail later that day from one of the leaders of the church, asking if we could meet. I quickly deleted it. "They just want to make sure you guys are okay," my dad said, "so make sure yo

I sat on the kitchen floor, screwing on the 20th light cover as my hands throbbed. It had been one of the few tasks my husband had been responsible for since starting our renovation , and he'd once again neglected his responsibilities. It was in that moment that I looked around our beautiful heritage house, and realized that no matter how pretty we made it, it would never be a home. In fact, no house would ever be a home as long as we were together. "No, go away, you're not w

I knew I should probably cry watching that sad movie, or feel angry when I thought about losing Mom, but at this point nothing mattered, other than digging myself out of this black hole of depression. I finally had clear thoughts, and for the first time in months I didn't want to die. But one thing I hadn't anticipated was a crippling exhaustion settling in, the type where I could barely lift my head off the pillow most days. I'd been the type that felt guilty for taking a na

I'd somehow bypassed the grief and pain that seemed to engulf my family, leaving me both confused and relieved at the same time. Sure, I'd grieved for a few days, the kind that soaked my pillow and made me gasp for air, but then one day I felt nothing at all. The one thing no one ever tells you is how personal grief is. Coming from a black-and-white world, I found myself searching for the right way to do it as Mom's f uneral approached. I was afraid of being judged—not only f

There are only a handful of people that I've really loved in my life, and my mother was one of them. As much as our relationship had been tumultuous at times, I knew she was extraordinary. Her bipolar disorder drove her creatively and intellectually, which was the part that drew everyone to her like a fragrant flower. She was beautiful, funny, deep, complex and compassionate. And when Mom was well, my life was bursting with colour, and when she wasn't, I found myself tiptoein

I grew up in a religion where you weren't allowed to leave, and you weren't allowed to do anything wrong. You also weren't allowed to lead your own life, as the church did that for you. And as for being a woman, we were told that Eve had ruined everything when she convinced Adam to bite into the forbidden apple, and because of this we hadn't just made mankind imperfect, but we'd made ourselves unequal to men. I hated being controlled by others, and in spite of our family bein

My marriage lasted 10 years, a commendable feat for someone who'd caged themselves the moment they'd said I do. I'd stayed eight years too long, fully aware of the mistake I'd made by year two. Sure, my husband was handsome, something that my mother had fixated on from the moment I brought him home, but there'd been no depth. And what I hadn't realized, due to our short dating period, was just how angry he was all the time. "Why do you always have to analyze everything?" he'd

I held the bouquet of silk flowers against the intricate lace of my dress, my body shaking uncontrollably. I wondered if it was the tightness of my bodice preventing me from breathing, or the fact that I was a child with a one in front of my age. "I'm so proud of you," my father said, his eyes filling with tears. "My little girl is getting married today." His words had perplexed me. Proud? Of all the things I could have accomplished, apparently being a virginal teenage bride