Year in Review

Terrace House makes reality TV engrossing, ensuring a long-maligned medium and its most maligned genre are streaming their way into hearts around the world.

Should we not be talking more openly about the desperate need for black and brown mothers to be included in the conversation about what motherhood looks like in 2018?

I’ve been trying to scrape something free and nothing’s budged. It’s possible I’ve scraped out all there is to give. What is the thing I was looking to salvage?

There comes a moment, and perhaps it has come in 2017, when I need to believe something better is coming.

Being a woman in male spaces is a gradual, embedded process of disloyalty. When it makes you uncomfortable and sad, that, you are told, is the price of safety.

Radical self-care in a randomized order to match all the curveballs coming at us in this new Thunderdome where we are all trapped.

By twenty-seven I was supposed to be well on my way to stability, or at least the illusion of such. Instead, my life had increasingly taken on a scrappy plainness.

Canadians want to focus on Gord Downie, on anniversaries, on the prime minister's photo-ops, on giant rubber ducks—on anything, it seems, but Indigenous people.

This year, this prolonged unraveling, is what survival looks like.