You know, Winnipeg’s been good to me. Really, it has. I look around this apartment—my little sanctuary—and I feel a kind of warmth that’s hard to explain. The way the radiator hums just so, the way my bookshelf is stuffed with novels and trinkets from years of adventures, the way the city’s skyline twinkles through my window at night. It’s home, you know? I’ve got my routine down pat—coffee at Thom Bargen on Saturday mornings, catching up with Lisa and Sarah over brunch, those long walks along the Assiniboine River when the leaves turn gold in the fall. There’s something about this city, the way it’s tough but tender, that just gets under your skin.
I’ve got friends who’d drop everything if I needed them. Like last summer, when my car broke down on the way to Folklorama, and Mike showed up with his toolbox and a grin, like it was no big deal. We laughed about it later over pierogies and beer at the festival, the music swirling around us, the air thick with summer and possibility. Those moments, they’re what make life here rich. The Fringe Festival, cheering for the Jets at a packed bar, even just grabbing a donut at Oh Doughnuts after a long week—it’s a good life, isn’t it? I mean, I’ve built something here, something solid.
But then… there’s this quiet ache, like a bruise you don’t notice until you press it. I’m 45, and I’m sitting here wondering where the time went. This apartment, as cozy as it is, feels a little too still sometimes. I always thought by now I’d have someone to share it with, you know? Not just friends, but… someone. A partner. Someone to argue over who gets the bigger half of the quilt or who forgot to buy milk. I’ve dated, sure, but it’s like trying to catch snowflakes in July—nothing sticks. I see couples walking hand-in-hand down Osborne Street, and I wonder if I missed some turn along the way. Did I focus too much on making this life look good from the outside? Or maybe I just haven’t met the right person yet. Winnipeg’s not exactly a small town, but sometimes it feels like I’ve seen every face there is to see.
And then there’s work. God, work. I’m grateful for the paycheck, don’t get me wrong, but sitting in that cubicle, pushing papers, answering emails that could’ve been a two-second phone call—it’s like I’m sleepwalking through half my day. I used to dream about doing something that lit me up, something that made me feel like I was leaving a mark. Maybe writing, maybe teaching, maybe something creative. But at 45, it’s hard to know where to start. The idea of switching careers feels like standing at the edge of the Red River in January—daunting, cold, and a little reckless. Yet, I can’t shake this feeling that there’s more out there for me, something that’d make me excited to get out of bed instead of hitting snooze three times.
I don’t know. Maybe this is just what 45 looks like—half grateful, half restless. Winnipeg’s given me so much, but there’s this space, this quiet corner of my heart, that’s still waiting to be filled. I keep thinking, maybe tomorrow I’ll sign up for that writing class, or maybe I’ll try one of those dating apps again. Maybe I’ll figure out what’s next. For now, though, I’ve got this city, these friends, this cozy little apartment. And that’s not nothing. That’s a lot.