Leaving While Wanting to Stay
place as muse, stark landscapes, belonging elsewhere, dishwasher drama
There is a laundry hamper slowly being filled with items to donate. The teapot I never use. A button-up linen shirt I wore during one vacation. The little things one collects over the years. Every day, I pick a new nook in the house to sort through: Keep. Donate. Sell. Give to a friend. The process of moving has begun.
I feel like an old pro at it. Over the past five years, we've moved three times—across the country and back: from Edmonton to Ottawa, then to Nelson, and finally to Courtenay. A small town on Vancouver Island that was never on our radar, chosen in a kind of trust fall. We needed housing, and I happened to see a rental listing as we drove through town. We were still paying rent in Nelson when we pulled over and decided, on the spot, that this would be home.
And for three years, it really was.
What I knew at the time was that I loved the forests and beaches of Vancouver Island. What I didn’t expect was the impact on my creativity and connection to my work—how stepping into the forests here put me at ease, allowing me to see differently. I’ve always understood the impact of space on a person, on myself. What I hadn’t considered was that I would become a different person here. After three years, my creativity is now entwined with this landscape. And in just a few months, we’ll be trading this for Edmonton.
Edmonton is a winter city. My rainy walks through mossy forests will be replaced by bright white snow and piercing blue skies. I’m trading beaches for canola fields and hot summers. Alberta is a place of extremes, and stark in my mind. I can’t help but wonder how that will shape the kind of work I make.
For the first time, I feel like I understand who I am as an artist. I don’t feel the pressure of outside influence. I’m just connected to the work—and the reason I do it.
And now, we are leaving it all.
It’s for a good reason. Corey was accepted into the medical program at the University of Alberta. I won’t lie—when I heard the news, the tears came quickly, a pressure rising in my face while joy bloomed in my chest.
It felt like an airport goodbye—the kind where you cry while smiling, full of gratitude and grief at once.
It’s strange to admit that the right choice is to move back to Edmonton. I’m proud of him. But I also need to mourn the loss of the forests, moss, and ferns I’ve fallen so deeply in love with. It feels like a pair of scissors hovering—ready to snip the quiet tether that’s slowly thickened between the land and myself.
This place marked a turning point. It set me on a path of creative maturity—a deeper connection to the why of my work. I began to see that photography didn’t have to be about output—it could be quiet, repetitive, connected to place.
And now I’m leaving it.
I know I need to find a way to stay connected to that growth. Going back to the place where I grew up—where I became an adult—brings with it the temptation to slip into old patterns. To default to what feels familiar. I’ll need to carve out a new version of myself in an old place.
When I think back on who I was as a photographer in Edmonton, I see someone without direction—easily influenced by others. In that buoyant, untethered phase of my work, Edmonton became a place of longing. I created a monthly ritual: drive three hours to the mountains, just to feel surrounded by something that felt right.
I wasn’t fully embracing photography then—not the way I do now, especially in relation to place.
Here, what I need is immediate and within reach. I feel content walking the same woods over and over. Day trips are fun and joyful, not necessary or urgent.
I don’t have a perfect plan for how things will evolve. And somewhere in the back of my mind, I worry.
Maybe I’ll travel more—visit a friend in London, take short escapes. I don’t know. I’m still in an emotional state: excited for Corey, sad that we’re leaving. Because he loves it here too. We live walking distance from salmon fishing. He took up spearfishing. He has a kayak. He’ll be moving back to be a student. Everything is changing.
I don’t know yet what it means to be an artist in a place I once wanted to leave. But I’m about to find out.
If you liked this, you can read the next in this chaotic series now:
Personal Work
Now, I don’t want you to think I’ll stop taking photos in Alberta. The province is beautiful—there’s a lot to see, and plenty to explore. What I find difficult about Edmonton is how remote it feels. It really is in the prairies, surrounded by farmland, and I spent a lot of time and money on weekend trips just to get out of the city.
Corey grew up in southern Alberta, so we’ve taken road trips to visit his family. That landscape is a different kind of extreme: cacti, rattlesnakes, small streams cutting through valleys while the ridges stay dry and dusted with heat.
Related: Belonging, Elsewhere
Shortly after we decided to accept Corey’s admission to the University of Alberta, I watched this talk by comedian Atsuko Okatsuka. It’s not about moving cities—but it is about dislocation, identity, and how we make sense of ourselves in unfamiliar places.
Her story is different from mine, but something in her honesty about trying to belong while feeling misaligned stayed with me. Maybe you’ll see something in it too.
👀 Hey, you made it to the end. I have a little secret for you!
I’m currently obsessing about where we’re going to live. One thing I’ve learned from our moves across provinces and time zones is this: when you find the place, you just snap it up.
But we’re in a weird limbo right now. We don’t want to leave too soon—Corey has the summer off, and we want to stretch our time here. (Yay for me.) But at the same time, we need to find a place that works for both of us.
Also, I’ve declared—non-negotiable—I will not rent another place without a dishwasher. I just can’t do it. For the past five years (aside from two dishwasher-blessed months in Nelson), we’ve lived in older homes. Beautiful locations, great space—but I swear we spend at least an hour a day washing dishes. I’m done.
Right now, we’re walking distance from a famous salmon fishing spot and a coffee shop I love to write from. The compromise? A house built in the '40s or '50s with inexplicable quirks, dubious construction, and definitely not the convenience of a dishwasher.
So while we’re trying to soak up our final weeks on the Island, my planner-Virgo brain is in overdrive. I have a list of potential rentals. We’ve contacted the top two. We also have a list of places to potentially buy.
Now it’s just... waiting.
Do we rent sight unseen?
Do we fly back to house-hunt?
Do we rent now and buy later?
My brain is trying to solve every scenario at once. I really had to force myself to sit down and write this week. I knew it would help me process everything—and it did.
Writing this was a gift to myself. Because in limbo times like this, the first things to go are sanity, peace, and the time to create.