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  • Fool’s Spring

    The air is doing something it has no business doing in March. I notice it before I’m fully awake to noticing—something in the chest, a small release, the jaw unclenching in a way I didn’t realize it had been clenched. I’m already on the route when it registers. The cold that’s been structural for months,…

  • The Body as First Register

    My body has been the first place where things gather. A pressure sits in my back—a low bracing that has begun to feel structural, the kind of tightness that doesn’t shift with stretching or rest. It moves without ever fully leaving. Some days it settles between my shoulder blades; other days it spreads into my…

  • Time, Held

    Time arrives before anything happens. It shows up early, settles in, rearranges the day around itself. You learn it through how the body prepares. Through the way the chest stays slightly lifted, like it’s waiting for a tap on the shoulder. Through how often the jaw tightens when the phone lights up. Through the reflex…

  • Structures of Warmth and Violence

    The sun is warm on my face at the port, and I don’t trust it.Midwinter light has no business feeling this gentle.The river is frozen hard enough to refuse reflection, to hold its surface without depth.Ice tightens everything into place.And still, the sun presses against my skin, insistent, intimate, as if it has selected me…

  • Unmoored

    The morning after the election, the city looks the same. Dry streets, brittle air, leaves pressed flat against the pavement. A jogger passes, breath clouding the cold, and somewhere, a car alarm starts and stops. Montréal continues its routine with the precision of muscle memory, a city that knows how to disguise grief. Inside, the…

  • There Is No Word for This Grief: On Gaza, Famine, and the World That Watches

    I wasn’t supposed to be writing this. I’m supposed to be writing a comprehensive exam about temporality and health. About how Black queer people live and care for one another in timeframes not designed for our survival. I’m supposed to be providing therapy tomorrow—offering calm, presence, holding—for clients navigating their own overwhelm, grief, burnout. I’m…

  • How to Exit Without Offering Your Body as Proof

    for the ones who leave before they’re broken There are days when showing up costs more than it gives.You feel it before you can name it.In the jaw that tightens.In the breath that skips.In the way your screen feels brighter than usual,and your voice feels like it’s echoing back to no one. We are taught…

  • The Wrong Kind of Grief

    Who’s Allowed to Mourn in Public—and Who’s Not It was quiet at first. Just a few of us lying on the cold concrete outside of McGill University. Keffiyehs folded. Bodies arranged—not for spectacle, but for mourning.The die-in wasn’t meant to go viral. It was meant to say what the system refuses to name:Gaza is being…

  • What Whiteness Mourns When a Plantation Burns

    When the Nottoway Plantation burned down, it wasn’t just a building that went up in flames—it was a monument to white fantasy. And in the ashes, what surfaced was telling: white grief, not for the enslaved, but for the venue. For the photo ops. For the imagined innocence of a land that was never innocent.…

  • Independence Fantasies, Colonial Truths

    Alberta wants to leave. Again. And this time, it’s louder than usual. Calls for Western separatism—what some are now trying to brand as a serious referendum campaign—are gaining traction. Politicians are testing the waters. The Premier hasn’t ruled it out. And, predictably, they’re invoking Quebec’s sovereignty movements as a model. But let me be clear…