“So you’re studying at Algonquin?” asked the woman next to me, starting the small talk. It was time for a lunch break at a professional development seminar I was attending.

“Yep, for Professional Writing,” I told her. But, as usual, I struggled to articulate what “professional writing” is when the man across the table asked.

It was 2012. I had just finished high school and I wasn’t going to University or College because I was bad at math and I didn’t want to spend 40k of my parents’ hard-earned money getting some bullshit degree in a field I didn’t like so I could be stuck in some bullshit cubicle job for the rest of my life wondering when I was going to just put a gun in my mouth and end it all.

I decided I was going to move to Toronto, live with my aunt and uncle, and work at whatever minimum wage job I could find so that I could figure out what the fuck I was going to do with my life.

It was recess time, I was in sixth grade. I was hanging out with my friends and then something bad happened. I don’t remember everything, but I do remember that I had gotten into a fight with the friend of my best friend. We were screaming at each other, and we had asked our mutual friend to decide who was right. She didn’t take my side though. She was mad at me. I was crushed because we did so much together. We hung out all the time, and we had sleepovers almost every weekend. I didn’t even want her to have to choose, it didn’t feel right putting her in that situation—I just wanted her to stay neutral in the argument. I really thought we were going to be best friends forever, but I had no one after that. Nobody wanted to be friends with me, they all gravitated toward her instead. To this day, I don’t know the reason. Was I mean or selfish? Was I just not friend material?

My grandfather’s name was Leo. He was wiry, and at six feet towered over his grandchildren like a friendly, nearly hairless giant. He always greeted us the same way: he would lean back in his chair, making it hard to hug him without falling into his arms. When you finally were off balance, he would wrap his big hands around what felt like your entire head and give you wet kisses on both cheeks. It was a ritual I learned to both love and hate; love for the attention, but hate for how I always felt the need to wipe the wetness from my cheeks.

Not many people have someone in their life that’s a constant. Friends and acquaintances flit out of our lives like tiny hummingbirds, too fast to see or appreciate. Most people however, have one exception, and that’s family. Family will be with you through thick and thin. This is proven most when you move away for the first time, because you will not only realize how much you depend on your parents, but you will also realize that you know nothing.

Noura is the sweetest, funniest and warmest child I have ever met t in my life. Noura is this tiny little person with big, bright eyes and silky black hair who brightens my every single minute with her soft nature. Her curious innocence touched my heart in places I never knew existed. I cannot look back at any memory of Noura without a smile on my face. She has been my first and last thought of my every day for the past four years.

The door to my grandma’s house always signified comfort and tuna fish sandwiches. I only associated the place with good memories. When I was a kid, we used to go there every New Year’s Eve, and eat junk food until we passed out.

On a cool April afternoon when I was in grade 11, the door loomed menacingly over me.

Near the end of high school, my brother went behind my family’s back and got a tattoo. Being a creative 17-year-old, I had thought of tattoos before, and designed some for fun. When my artsy brother, Doug (I will change every name for privacy), came home one night with a tattoo, I thought, “Hey, that means I can get one.” Immediately after that, “I need to get it before prom.”