Musings - KINETIC MOTIONS

August 15, 2025August 15, 2025

He’s Growing Up. Part Two.

I remember the day I first dropped him off at daycare. It was a cold day, in February 2008. He was 11 months old, and he couldn’t even walk yet. He could say a few words and was in the early days of eating solid food. I handed over my baby to Liza, who ran a wonderful program out of her home, and I walked away.

Then I cried. What was I thinking? How could I let someone else spend these precious moments with my child? He was so young, and so vulnerable. He needed me for everything, and he was already on his own.

And yet, he thrived. Baby Matthew, aged 11 months, made his first friends, learned to eat all kinds of solid food and share his toys. He moved on to preschool, then elementary school, middle school and high school. Everywhere he went, Matthew was successful.

My little boy who loved Dora the Explorer, Thomas the Tank Engine and Lego, grew into a sports fan as a child and an accomplished student, with an ambition to succeed one day in the baseball business.

In part one, we were in Miami, Florida, as we traveled to yet another location to visit universities. In 2024, Matthew checked out a number of schools, all with programs that offered a major in Sports Administration, and he kept an open mind as to what would be the best fit for him.

On a very cold day in early 2025, he was accepted into the place that became his first choice: University of Miami, in sunny Florida. UM, as I’ve learned to call it, wasn’t even on Matthew’s radar a year ago. But it offered him the double major program he desired, a beautiful campus, a welcoming community and even a small scholarship!

If a career in baseball operations is what Matthew desires, then a university in south Florida, with a top-25 ranked NCAA team and a great sports administration program was the right choice. By early Spring, Matthew accepted the offer from the University of Miami.

Fast forward to this week. Time flew by too fast, as Matthew completed his final exams, graduated high school as an Ontario Scholar, and went to overnight camp as a counselor. On Friday, Aug. 9 he came home, and in less than 24 hours, we unpacked and washed (eew, everything from camp must be washed!) his clothes then repacked them.

By Saturday evening we were on a plane, headed south to Miami to move Matthew into school. Where did the time go? Didn’t I just drop off my little blond-haired toddler at daycare? Every first day he experienced raced across my mind as we sat on the plane

I remember how he proudly wore his little Thomas the Tank Engine backpack when he started preschool at age 2 ½. He waved good bye to me as he walked into his classroom on his first day of kindergarten. He didn’t want to show his nervousness as he went to the subway in grade 9, at the start of high school. He grew more independent every day, but I knew he still needed me. He lived with me and was part of our household.

Sept. 2009, on his first day of preschool

We landed in Miami Saturday night and walked out of the airport terminal to a wall of heat (although Toronto may have been hotter). By the time we left the airport, the skies had opened up, and we drove to our hotel in what seemed like a monsoon. Destination: Coral Gables.

College Dorm Prep

Not only is Matthew my oldest child, which makes me clueless about how to move a teenage boy into college, but we are Canadian, which made all of us even more clueless about what it’s like to move in to a US college dorm.

Matthew traveled with two huge duffle bags of clothes and basic supplies, including one set of Twin XL sheets (look it up, interesting size) that I had bought on Amazon. I had built a basic list of must-haves before the Monday move-in day, so off to Target we went.

It’s not that we don’t have big-box in Canada or that Canadian kids don’t go off to university, but I quickly saw how mega-sized the United States is. We wove our way through a multi-storey above-ground parking garage then walked into a Target that was so big you couldn’t see from one end to the other. The big signs for what to buy for a college dorm were everywhere. I was quickly overwhelmed.

People were running everywhere, filling up their carts with everything from towels and sheets to mini fridges and shelving units. Does Matthew want a grey quilt or blue? One or two pillows? Do we get him beach towels now or later? Should his laundry hamper be on wheels? Oh gosh, we need to buy him laundry detergent. Don’t forget to get a mini fridge! It was mayhem.

By the time we limped back to our hotel room on Sunday evening, after a day of shopping and great pizza in downtown Coral Gables, I was delirious. We all fell into bed quickly, exhausted and anxious for the coming day.

Off to campus we go

Car loaded with duffles, dozens of bags from Target and the mini-fridge, we made our way to the University of Miami campus. I will give them credit: Freshmen welcome, move-in and orientation is a well-oiled machine.

After we parked our car and made our way to the check-in area, I thought about the different words one can use to describe “hot.” Are there special words in South Florida, like sweltering, searing, roasting, blistering or boiling? They’re all accurate.

With his Cane Card in hand, we spent much of the day getting to know the campus better, dropping off forms, eating lunch at the Kosher deli (not really deli as we know it, but it was really good), and surviving the extraordinary heat. Everywhere I turned I saw 18-year-old kids with their parents, all looking a bit confused and overwhelmed. You could see that mix of excitement and joy but also anxiety and trepidation. We felt at home.

College dorm move in

They called it “Cruise Ship Move-In.” We were instructed to get in our car, drive up and get in line at Matthew’s residence. We pulled up front, when it was our turn, and a group of strong and energetic people, all dressed in fluorescent yellow t-shirts surrounded us. They removed everything in the car that wasn’t nailed down, put the stuff in giant rolling bins and whisked them off to Matthew’s room. We drove on and parked our car again. It was astounding.

When we arrived in Matthew’s dorm a little while later, everything had been delivered. Chatting with his roommate’s family, we all got to work putting the boys’ room together. I quickly realized I had to make new lists and that Matthew was clearly lacking in the comfort supplies necessary! I peeked into other rooms and giggled about how much stuff these teenage kids (or was it their parents?) were loading into these modest 13 x 13 foot rooms.

Should I be thankful I have a son who is semi-clueless about décor and would be happy sleeping on a semi-lumpy bed surrounded by blank walls? But I’m his mother. I can’t allow that! After his basic set-up was complete, we said good bye just for the night, and my husband and I returned to the stores to load up on more stuff.

This time we went to Walmart, and I went in armed with the knowledge of what Matthew really needed. I grabbed a soft rug, a nice big cushion for his bed, cleaning supplies for the bathroom (will those ever be used?), a mattress topper (I can’t let him sleep on that lumpy mattress), storage boxes, and more. I had arrived at Target a novice, but I left Walmart an expert!

Saying good bye

After a visit to yet another Target in the morning to get a few final items, we returned to the University of Miami campus on Tuesday to complete the dorm set up. The dorm isn’t fancy, and the building is showing its age. Pink tiles on the walls of the bathroom aren’t exactly what the guys in Matthew’s suite love, but it’s home this year. It’s comfortable, very convenient and I could see that Matthew is happy.

It’s University of Miami’s 100th anniversary.

After Matthew “treated us” to lunch (we used his meal plan that of course we had paid for) in the residence dining hall (fresh fruit and veggies, choices galore like pizza from a wood-burning oven, grill and pasta and oh my gosh unlimited soft-serve ice cream), we took another walk around campus.

I have never seen this kind of sign at a university campus in Canada.

Across the campus we were greeted with smiles and friendly faces. It was such a warm environment (and I don’t just mean the 34 degree heat). During the move-in process we didn’t even touch on the academic side of the school – it was all about the dorm, food, living expenses and student life.

The four-year university process ahead for Matthew is all encompassing, from academics and career planning to finding a comfortable and safe place to live and making life-long friends. It’s a lot, and it really hit me as I started to say good bye to Matthew.

His dorm was set up, tuition was paid, classes chosen and he’d already made a pile of new friends. He was going to be okay. But was I? The tears welled up as I gave him the last hug good bye. He was ready for me to leave. Matthew was ready for the next phase of life. Unlike the little baby who crawled across the floor at daycare, 18-year-old Matthew doesn’t just walk and talk, he’s a mature, smart, kind incredible young adult who is going places in life.

growing up — Set up is almost complete in the dorm.

And of course I miss him. Of course I can’t stop thinking of that day when I dropped him off at daycare. He thrived there, just like he will thrive in university. He’s growing up.

***

Below is the essay Matthew wrote for his US College applications. I admit I’m a bit biased, but it’s such an excellent piece of writing that I feel it deserves to be read by more people than his mother and the admissions teams of different universities:

I walked into Wrigley Field in awe of everything. The patterned grass, brick walls smothered with ivy, rust colored staircases that looked like they could collapse at any moment, all felt dream-like to me. But the smell stood out the most — the century-old atmosphere where thousands of games were played, with a fresh one starting. I’d followed my home team Blue Jays since 2015, but now in Chicago in 2017, I was breathing baseball history, a moment I’ll never forget.

The game was a back and forth, high scoring showdown. The Cubs came out on top, adding another loss in a miserable season for the Jays. Despite that, I remember the warm atmosphere I felt from Cubs fans. Their conversations, expressions, and kindness were a surprise, showing the communal nature of baseball. I’d seen a typical game but discovered a passion to carry through my life.

Since then, my desire to learn and engulf myself in baseball skyrocketed. I talked about it all the time, spent hours watching TV and even unsuccessfully tried out for a house-league team. But no regrets, as I always felt I connected best with baseball’s observational aspects, eventually leading to my next revelation.

In 2020, I spent a lot of time on a screen. It’s when I discovered baseball’s analytical side. With my knack for numbers, I understood the depth of baseball statistics but never took the time to explore them. Everything I thought I understood was the tip of the iceberg of the world I was about to delve into. I started with Youtube, watching countless videos with insights into players, teams, and stories that highlight hidden values. I learned the meaning behind the advanced numbers that power the engine behind player evaluations. I fell in love with all of it.

Baseball has a unique characteristic that separates it from other sports: it has the power of isolation. Every single pitch is a separate entity from the previous. On that pitch, so much can be calculated: spin rate, velocity, movement, shape, release point, and more, happening over 200 times a game. That ball then meets a bat where the exit velocity, launch angle, bat speed, barrel rate, all serve a purpose. Compare this to basketball, where alternatively, there are many variables within every play. Does a player score because of a good pass, was it bad defence, or maybe it was a great move? Maybe it was everything, but that’s the problem. Finding metrics to evaluate 10 players simultaneously moving at high speeds is difficult, an issue baseball simply just doesn’t have. It’s this perspective that has driven my mission to go as far as I can into baseball knowledge, where numbers and real life collide like no other sport.

With my appreciation of the sports world exponentially growing, I then discovered something else engaging: fantasy. It started with football, a sport that was relatively new to me. Building a team of real-life players, competing with others for precious points, and ultimately trying to win a championship, is something that fascinated me. I was soon watching 10 different games on Sundays, cheering on my players. I became quite good, upping the buy-ins for each league, and taking home my fair share of the profit. My favorite part is the managing aspect of it, when to buy low, sell high, find value where others don’t. This sparked something in me I hadn’t considered before: what if I could bring these skills together as the foundation of my career?

With my love of baseball – the sport, analytics and fantasy, I want to work in the real industry. There is endless opportunity in a game that is rapidly evolving and progressing, with new insights and methodologies appearing every year. I am aware of how little I truly know, and I strive to continue to learn, to eventually make my dream come true.

August 3, 2025August 4, 2025

In search of the perfect blueberry

When I close my eyes every night I see blue dots in the darkness. The blue dots are bright and round, and they seem so real, like in a 3D experience, as though they are jumping out at me. As I fall asleep, the blue dots disappear, and my dreams take me away. By daylight, as I look out the big picture window, I see the mountains far away, with the calm lake nearer, and even closer, the blueberry patch. The source of the blue dots.

This summer, I admit, I’m a little obsessed with blueberries. That’s not really new, as I have devoted significant time to the beautiful blueberry in recent years, but I think I’ve taken it even further in 2025. I have more free time this summer than I have in the past, but the main reason is that it’s quite a bumper crop.

I am surrounded by patches of different size and shape of wild blueberries. There’s no organized rows of fruit or scheduled sprays to keep the crop free of bugs and critters. There’s no professional intervention or advice that’s been sought to optimize the quality of each blueberry.

The blueberry just grows. Everywhere. There’s the bunches that seem to really love the two old tree stumps, the angled corridor down to the lake, or the shrubs near the wood pile. The plant grows like a weed here, and the more blueberries we pick, the faster and thicker they seem to return. Everyone is an expert, theorizing on what actions we can take to encourage growth in a future year.

Do we pull the ferns out by the root in the area near the lake? Should we pick every last blueberry so the plant “remembers” that it grew the luscious fruit? Do we get a larger blueberry in the shade or direct sun? Maybe it’s partial sun? When is the best time to pick the blueberry? Is there an optimal tinge of bluish purple, or size?

I’ve been taking mental notes throughout the month of July, as I seek the perfect blueberry, or maybe try to write a Wikipedia post, chalk full of my “expertise” on blueberries (!). I will settle on a post here, at Kinetic Motions, where I share some of the knowledge, most of it totally useless, on what I have gleaned, about the local, wonderful, wild blueberry.

Where does the blueberry grow best?

I walked around earlier today, to see where have the blueberries been growing most bountifully. What I see is that there seems to be great proliferation around dead, old tree stumps. Without the tree grabbing all the nutrients and the area offering up a mix of sun and shade, what began as a small patch of blueberries has developed into a thick growth of small, yet perfect fruit.

What was simply an area of flat grass back in May, became a high-yield crop of blueberries by July. Each season, the areas around the old tree stumps expand with more blueberries (unless someone mows over them with the electric lawnmower….)

What determines the size of a ripe blueberry?

This one is interesting, as a wild blueberry doesn’t follow any rules. It’s not engineered, and even a larger one is quite small. I have often wondered if a blueberry will continue to grow as it stays attached to the stem of its plant, or does it reach an optimum maturity, where its final size is determined by different factors.

For the most part, the blueberries that grow near the stump, while plentiful, are rather small. Even at their most mature blue colour, they never get to be too big (but not tiny). I also noticed that the various random patches across the lawn and other corners of the property that are mainly in the shade (from a tree or giant ferns) are even tinier (with some odd exceptions).

Just yesterday, as I wandered down to an area near the lake, I found clusters of rather large blueberries. They weren’t the size of a farmed berry, but I was most impressed by their size. This area was quite exposed to the sun (which means rain as well), had few ferns blocking them and because of their location, had barely been touched all summer. Until I arrived, of course, and picked them all. It was an exciting moment!

Is there an optimal colour?

An oft debated topic – is a blueberry blue? What shade of blue? Is it really just a deep shade of purple? Or if it’s really dark, does that mean it’s too ripe? And if it’s closer to a medium purple, is that too early to pick? From my research, the best time to pluck the blueberry from its bush is a short window from when it transitions from a medium purple to a gleaming medium blue. If the berry is pale purple, leave it alone. If it’s almost a navy blue, it’s past its prime. It’s still pick-able, and it will taste sweet, but it may be soft and even mushy.

How do I take only the ripe berries from the bush?

Anyone who has ventured into a patch to pick wild blueberries has faced this dilemma: there’s a fantastic cluster of say, 5 blueberries. There’s two that are ready to be eaten, one that is a pale shade of purple, and a couple of green ones. You want to let the green and purple develop and grow and you desperately want to grab the ripe ones. But how? Is there a delicate way to gently remove the ripe blue ones?

Yes. Carefully. One at a time. Slowly give it a try. Leave the others there. I feel such guilt every time I accidentally pull a green one and see it tumble to the ground. It’s too immature to be food for anyone, even a bug or a worm. Keep trying, be kind to the growing blueberry.

Does it matter how many I pick? Will it make a difference next year?

This one we debate every day. Are there so many blueberries this year because many of us spent hours last year picking? If we ignore the various blueberry patches this summer, will some wild zones disappear next year, or in future years? What role do we play in ensuring a continued bumper crop?

I am stumped on this one. I want to say that my obsessive (and not mine alone) hard work in 2025, to pick the blueberry patches clean, will help ensure just as good – or even a better – crop in 2026. But really, I’m clueless. I can’t explain why there are some years when I have to search hard to find a lone blueberry and others, like this one, where every morning a new mature group is there to greet me.

Does it need a hot summer? Cool spring? A lot of rain? Limited rain? My dog stomping around, as she chases her critters? Good vibes and prayers? Okay, maybe I could actually consult an expert who could guide me on how to grow the perfect blueberry. But, really that wouldn’t be much fun. I love to ponder, and as I ponder, I jump back in and pick more blueberries.

With all the people who have participated this summer, I think we have picked a record number of blueberries. I sometimes feel like I should hitch up a roadside stand to sell some. We have baked crisps, pies and muffins, and I have a huge container just feet from where I’m writing that will soon find its home in the freezer.

Once the final blueberry is picked for the season, I will close my eyes, as I see those blue dots light up, and dream of next year’s crop.

May 26, 2025May 26, 2025

Do you believe in miracles? I do, every day, especially today

The moment she was born, I cried. Okay, l cried when all three of my children were born. But when Nessa was born, the tears were different. For me, I witnessed a miracle the day she came into this world. It’s the reason we named her Nessa, which means “miracle” in Hebrew. Every day she reminds me that she was worth fighting for. She is my story about perseverance, positivity, and that great gifts are worth waiting for.

My children are all equally special to me. Each of them has their unique personality traits (the good, the bad and yes sometimes, the ugly), and they are the centre of my life. No matter where I am with my career or personal aspirations, my kids are what matter most.

I think, like many (but not all) women, I took it for granted that not only could I have children, but I could have as many, or as few as I wanted. In my late twenties, I didn’t think about all that nature has in store for women, all the steps that must happen, for a healthy baby to be born. Maybe I was blind, or maybe I chose to shield my eyes. My first two children came relatively easily, and by my mid-thirties, my husband and I had two healthy, active, wonderful children.

As I wrote right here, at Kinetic Motions,, everything changed when we decided to have a third child. I wrote in depth, on May 26^th, 2017, about our struggles, not just with infertility, but the emotional toll it took on me. I felt ashamed that I longed for a third child when I knew so many women could never even have one child. But I was blessed with a miracle.

I published that article on the day that Nessa turned one. I took a photo of her, wearing her one-year-old crown and one-year-old t-shirt, as she stared at me with her dark brown eyes and wispy blond hair. 365 days after she was born, I was still in awe of this special gift that had brought so much joy to everyone she touched.

Fast forward eight years. Today Nessa turns nine. That’s 3,287 days. Every morning when she wakes up, or when I pick her up at school, or kiss her good night, not a day goes by that I don’t think about the special gift of this miracle.

Nessa brings light to everything she touches (I know, I’m biased, I’m her mother, but anyone who knows her will probably agree!). She is excited about everything, she beams with confidence and has an inner strength well beyond her nine years. Her teachers describe her as kind, as a peace maker, and bright and bubbly. Nessa’s cousins put her somewhere between their favourite toy and the family pet (a dog, of course). Her older brother and sister adore her and love to smother her with hugs (or shoo her away too when she’s annoying!).

For me, Nessa is an inspiration. I think all three of my kids have inspired me in different ways. But today is Nessa’s birthday, so I will focus on her. I want to go back where I started: she has inspired me to persevere, to be positive, and that our greatest gifts are worth waiting for.

Perseverance

I learned this from Nessa well before she was born. I remember when I met with my doctor in the summer of 2015 and he looked at me kindly, to tell me there was nothing more he could do. With no concrete explanation, he felt that a third child for me and my husband was not in our future. I had to decide, do I choose to persevere? Was there any hope? Clearly something inside me said yes, and a short time later I sat in front of that same doctor, as we celebrated hearing Nessa’s early heartbeat, as an eight-week-old fetus.

It was at that moment when Nessa first inspired me to take on anything, no matter how hard. The first time I saw her, months later, she reminded me again. For every small and big milestone she reaches, she shows me what perseverance means. Nessa sings beautifully and proudly in her children’s chorus, she flies down the mountain on her snowboard, she wins the election for class rep. If Nessa wants something, she goes out and gets it. I want to be like Nessa.

Positivity

On first glance, I’m a typical extravert. But in reality, I’m a quiet home body. I sometimes hesitate before I act, which makes me tend towards a negative outlook. But not Nessa. She exudes positivity, and she brings me up if I’m feeling down.

We all need that person in our lives. For some, they find this person early in life, for others, it may take longer. It can be a best friend or colleague or a mentor at work. We need that person who is a positive force, who not only is an optimist, but they bring out the best version of us. For me, that’s Nessa. My youngest child is the most positive person I know, and it rubs off on me every day.

Whether she knows it or not, she pushes me to succeed in so many ways. Over the last nine years, with Nessa in my life, I’ve been open to new opportunities in my career, I tried a new sport (my own special version of snowboarding!) and learned to take the time to appreciate my family more. That’s a positive force.

Greatest gifts are worth waiting for

Not every gift is something tangible, something physical that you can hold in your hand. Some of the gifts we receive in life are not so concrete, and you don’t realize how great they are until you have them. There is some impatience associated with them, like you are so close but can’t get quite what you want.

And then you receive the gift and you appreciate it so much more because you had to wait to get it. The gift is so great that it was worth the wait. For me, that’s Nessa. She is the gift that has shown me that it may take longer than I think, or that I hope, to get what I want, but there is a great gift in the end. This particular reflection is important as it has helped guide me on what I want to achieve in my life. I need to be patient, but the reward will come.

So, do I believe in miracles? You bet I do. My miracle is still small in stature and young in years, but she is big in heart and strength. Happy birthday, Nessa!

April 29, 2025April 29, 2025

Practically Perfect in Every Way is not the Proper Path to Pursue

Perfect. Perfection. Flawless. Faultless. Absolute. Just right. There are so many ways to describe this term. I typed some prompts into my favourite GenAI tool, Claude, and here is some of what it described to me:

“A state of absolute or ideal condition where nothing can be improved upon.” If I pushed and offered some examples of context, I got everything from without flaws, like a perfect diamond, precisely accurate, like a perfect score, or something that is absolute like perfect silence.

But does a perfect solution or perfect technique ever exist? How much in life can really be absolute or flawless?

The concept of perfection has been in my mind a lot lately, and I’m very troubled by it. It represents an ideal that many people strive for, but do they ever achieve it? Is it even possible, or really is it something we think about, imagine, but we can’t get there?

We throw around the term, perfect, too easily. From the day we are born, we hear it spoken. How many newborns are described as perfect? Oh, the grandmother says, when she sees her new grandson for the first time, he’s perfect! How many little girls grow up to look up to a Disney princess or later a pop star, as these women are so often described as perfect?

When we encourage our kids to study for a test or complete an assignment, how often do you tell them (or how often were you ever told as a kid), to set a goal of 80-90%? Maybe you know they can’t achieve 100%, but unconsciously are you programmed to want them to get a perfect grade?

In our professional lives, the word perfect is bandied around all the time. Is there a perfect job you’d love to have? How many times have you tweaked your resume, hoping, that this time it will be perfect? Think about a presentation you have put together, with 10 drafts and hundreds of edits? Did you update it striving for a perfect deck?

Let’s talk about data and databases. It seems like life today is built on millions (okay probably more like billions or trillions) of pieces of data. We want the data to be accurate, right? You want the data to help you find patterns or tell a story. We know the saying, that garbage in means garbage out. That’s the other extreme. But can our data be perfect?

While I believe most of us understand that perfection is an abstract concept that pushes us to achieve a quality result, I know many people close to me – family and friends – whose obsession with achieving perfection means they have trouble realizing their goals and don’t accomplish what they set out to do.

Perfection may be abstract, but the work, or task, or project, that must be completed, is very concrete! The achievement of perfection, in most cases, is also quite subjective. How many times have you been asked, how would you measure success? Or you may be asked, what does success look like to you?

There is no single, absolute answer, and that’s due, in part, because, whether we admit it or not, so many people are striving for perfection. One person may accept that success is a measurable quality result, and the next person may perceive that unless they can achieve something absolute, they have failed.

Take a customer service call centre as an example, where many metrics are tracked, including NPS – net promoter scores. NPS measures a customer’s loyalty. It looks at how likely a customer is to recommend the business. The customer is surveyed with a question, and the response is reported from minus 100 to plus 100. But is a higher score desirable, or does a business really want their agents to achieve 100 as often as can be? Will any NPS survey realize a perfect score, of 100, across the board?

The scores will help guide the business on where it needs to improve or where it should continue doing great work. Realistically, it is not about achieving a perfect score. It’s about a focus on quality, which will lead to successful results.

But, what about the people who are stuck on perfection? From the interactions I have had with people like this, striving for perfection is not isolated. Time is usually abstract to them as well, as they miss or ignore deadlines. They may come across as stubborn or incredibly obstinate, as they feel success is measured by something absolute, and yes, flawless.

How do we work with a person (or report to, or manage) who wants perfection? When it’s a family member, how do we live them? Does it affect a friendship when one person is always seeking the perfect restaurant or activity?

I am not an expert, and clearly, I have more questions than answers. From my personal experience, here are some thoughts when interacting with the person who wants perfection:

Define what success looks like – find a happy medium, that is realistic. If the student thinks that only 100% on the test is what matters, then try to find a lower number (or series of numbers) where there can be reward and make them feel good. Make it measurable.
Structure – if they don’t understand time, then create rules. If your employee is pulling all-nighters, because they want to deliver you the perfect deck, you need to ask them to focus on completing a task, or series of tasks within a specific time frame. Create small, achievable goals, where the person can see how good quality builds on good quality.
Planning – I’ve been guilty of this one many times! If you want to help someone be successful, make a plan. If you want quality, then make a list of what it will take. Build a project plan with key milestones that should be achieved. Follow a recipe if you are baking a cake.
Patience – Take a deep breath. We are not all built the same way. What looks easy to you, may be incredibly hard for your friend. It’s easy for me to write almost anything, and I know what good work looks like. But I’ve worked with many people who spend hours poring over an email or speech, hoping if they make one more edit it will be perfect. Help them. Support them. Remind them they don’t have to be perfect!

Practically perfect in every way comes from the movie, Mary Poppins. Do you remember where she says this? It’s when she is “measuring” each child, and the tape measure shares this statement with her. Maybe she represents the ideal concept, and for sure she helped show the Banks family what a better, quality life is. But, really, is she perfect?

Is anything perfect?

April 17, 2025April 17, 2025

How do we keep our balance? Tradition.

How do we keep our balance? That I can tell you in a word….Tradition

Okay, maybe I’ve seen Fiddler on the Roof a few too many times (it’s a great book, play and movie. Suddenly I’m having flashbacks of playing Tzeitel as a teenager!). But it’s the key word, tradition, that I have been thinking about a lot lately. Maybe it’s the time of year, or maybe it’s the state of the world we live in.

As Tevye says in his opening monologue, “because of our traditions, we’ve kept our balance for many, many years.” Whether it’s a man speaking from his small village at the turn of the 20^th century, or me, living in Toronto in 2025, this statement is accurate. I think we all try to find balance in our lives, and embracing our traditions is important.

There are particular times of the year when many of the world’s religions celebrate holidays around the same time. In 2025, within a few weeks Muslims observed Ramadan, Christians will participate in Easter this coming weekend, and right now it is Passover for Jews. These are more than just religious events where people follow specific rituals. They are all steeped in tradition.

For me, over the past week, as I prepared for, then celebrated Passover, with my family and friends, so many memories flashed before my eyes. These memories gave me comfort, a lot of joy, and yes, even a bit of sadness.

Why do I turn my kitchen upside down? Did I really need to scrub that corner, of that drawer? What was I thinking when I decided to have a Passover set of everything from plates to cutlery to pots and pans? Does schlepping boxes up and down the stairs, over and over, count towards my daily fitness goals?

My Passover Seder table, set by my daughter and her friends this year, was covered in stories of our family and its history. There were papier mâché Seder plates, strangely constructed cups, matzo covers, placemats, something one could call art, plastic animals and more, scattered across the table.

The food was an eclectic mix of old and new. We had everything from my famous “mother-in-law” chicken soup, that my mother-in-law taught me how to make when I got married years ago, to a lemon roast chicken recipe I found using a Google search to sumptuous meatballs, from an Italian recipe! We dipped parsley in salt water, ate bitter herbs (I used endives this year!), and some people made a valiant effort to drink four cups of wine.

We went around the table and read, we hastily flew through some songs as we hungrily approached dinner, and we belted out, with assigned characters and silliness, the final song of the night.

Why did we do this? I can tell you in one word….

Tradition.

Okay, so that’s one very specific example. Holidays bring out some of our closest, and sometimes, craziest traditions. I’m not sure if singing about a goat who was eaten by a cat who was hit by a dog…. Or consuming inordinate amounts of “unleavened” bread helps us keep our balance, but I do believe that the essence of them does.

Whether it’s a tradition associated with a holiday, like Passover, Ramadan or Easter, or anything else in your life, it keeps you centered. It reminds you that there is more to life than getting ready for the big presentation at work, or maybe getting that job promotion.

Most of us lead very busy lives, in our modern and very demanding world. We rush from one task to another. We have welcomed tools like AI or automation to enable us. But our traditions – they make us slow down a bit. They help us reflect on where we came from, the people who have helped us along the way, and the memories of those we miss most.

Some of our best traditions don’t have to be connected to a religion or culture. They may exist amongst friends, family or even colleagues. For example, at a previous job, I built up a tradition with a colleague (who is now a very good friend!) of taking regular walking breaks and specifically circling the garbage cans to get extra steps.

After we had established our walking pattern, we just had to say, “are you ready for a garbage can break,” to know that one of us was stressed and needed the other person to come walking. I could call her right now and mention the garbage can break, and she will smile – and she will join me for a walk.

Maybe it’s a summer camp tradition, or a family vacation, or certain words you use that have a special meaning to specific people (my mother knows what Kogel is and my husband’s extended family will smile when someone mentions a fake-o sunset). Our traditions make us pause and think of the people with whom we are connected.

So, the next time you see a friend from university and sing the song you made up when you studied for that nasty physics final exam, or you are cooking the dish your grandmother taught you years ago, smile. Take a pause. Remember that your traditions have helped bring you balance.

April 7, 2025April 7, 2025

21 Degrees Celsius is Divine

Last Thursday it was 21 degrees Celsius in Toronto. If you live in a warm place, like Miami or Manila, you may be wondering what is so significant about this temperature? Why does 21 degrees Celsius, on April 3^rd, matter? This year, it meant a lot. Read on to find out why.

The weather, where I live, in Toronto, Ontario, Canada, may be the most popular topic of conversation – ahead of even traffic congestion, or gasp, hockey! It determines, whether you pay attention or not, so much of what you can do or how you live your life. It’s ever changing and often unpredictable. Especially in April.

In the last couple of weeks I’ve seen snow falling and accumulating, as the temperature dipped below freezing. Then there’s the freezing rain that turned the snow to slush (and north of the city left a destructive trail of power outages and downed trees). That was followed by the sunny day, at 21 degrees, followed by a huge temperature drop, down to below freezing, up and down again, and what, there’s snow in the forecast tomorrow?

We can make a joke about it, and yes, we can (and do), discuss our up and down roller coaster weather we experience in much of Canada. But I’m still stuck on the 21 degree day last week.

It was Thursday afternoon, around 4:30 pm, when, with my dog, I walked my daughter to her weekly piano lesson. It’s an 8 minute walk from our house, but during the cold and dark winter months it’s usually easier to drive. 21 degrees, blue sky and beautiful sunshine meant we had to walk.

The world had come alive outside my door. Again, if you live in a place that’s always hot, like Bangkok or Phoenix, you may be a bit confused. But let me explain. While we do enjoy some wonderful outdoor winter sports here, we don’t typically lounge on patios or take a leisurely stroll, in shorts, even in early April.

The winter can be harsh, dark and cold. This particular winter had it all, with the usual early darkness, that was followed by many grey days that were frigid and snowy. It can be cozy to stay indoors, but this winter, I found that days of darkness and bad weather really got to me. And I don’t think I’m alone to feel that.

Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD) is a real thing. While some people experience a deep clinical depression and need to seek mental health support, I believe that most of us are generally affected by the decrease in sunlight, coupled with the cold and snow.

I craved sunlight this winter. I desperately wanted the temperature to move up. By March, for sure I had enough of the snow. And I say this as someone who loves winter sports and semi successfully tried a new one this year (yes, I can snowboard now – not well, but I can do it!). A 21-degree day in early April, with a magnificent blue sky and loads of sunlight, was exactly what I needed.

And so did everyone else around me.

As we walked from my house to the piano lesson, I looked around at the people who were also enjoying the outdoors. The first thing I noticed was how many people were out. And the closer I walked towards the major street that we had to cross, the more people we passed.

It was almost like a scene from Pleasantville. Children were zooming around on their bikes, in shorts and t-shirts, dogs were happily smelling the grass (and each other), and adults strolled along the sidewalk, waving hello and stopping to chat.

The light breeze was warm and inviting. It just felt so good. Maybe I experience this every spring, on the first warm day. But somehow this one felt different. I didn’t realize just how much I needed the sun and warmer temperature. I wanted to stay outside and experience every moment.

As the sun went down Thursday evening, the temperature dropped back down to more seasonal levels. By the weekend the temperature hovered at about 0 degrees Celsius, with a constant drizzle. It was…. Depressing. It took all my energy to do anything this weekend. As I looked out my window on Saturday afternoon, my street was empty again and everyone hid indoors.

Would the sun come out again? Would we see another 20-degree day?

Many of us are fortunate in Canada to live a very high quality life. I never take for granted that I live in (while not perfect) a democracy, with decent (again not perfect) healthcare and educational system. My kids can grow up to be anything they want to be. But, it’s also cold and dark here for a good chunk of the year!

I don’t hate the climate I live in, but this winter, wow, it really challenged me. Maybe I’m getting older and crankier. Maybe my life has changed and I’m questioning things that I accepted before. Or maybe it was so dark and so cold this winter that I just had enough!

21 degrees, with brilliant sunshine, was divine. I’m ready for more of that.

March 13, 2025March 13, 2025

Reflections from a Gracie Abrams Concert

If you find yourself out, if there is a right time
Chances are I’ll be here, we could share a lifeline
If you feel like fallin’, catch me on the way down
Never been less empty, all I feel is free now
If you find yourself out, if there is a right time
Chances are I’ll be here, we could share a lifeline
If you feel like fallin’, catch me on the way down
Never been less empty, all I feel is free now

Do you recognize the song? Just reading the first words, are you already singing? Are you starting to move around wildly, belting out this chorus? Are you a fan?

If you are a regular reader here at Kinetic Motions, you may not know the song, or the artist, and that’s okay. It’s written and performed by Gracie Abrams, who arrived on the music scene the last few years. From posting video snippets on her Instagram account during a long COVID lockdown, to touring with Taylor Swift, she’s come a long way.

I went to my first Gracie Abrams concert a few weeks ago. As I stood there, surrounded by thousands of (mainly) young, screaming teenage girls, I knew I had to write about it!

I have been to my fair share of concerts over the years. I wouldn’t consider myself an aficionado at all, and my knowledge of the music industry and the most hip artists is definitely limited. Without hesitation, the best concert I ever attended (many years ago) was the Billy Joel and Elton John, Face to Face tour.

Their pianos, and their extraordinary talent, faced off on the stage of Toronto’s Skydome, and my friend and I sang and danced for hours. At a concert like that, you are supposed to stand up, sing, move around and have a great time. Right?

Okay, back to Gracie, as my daughter calls her…

I took my daughter, Julia, on a special trip, to Paris and Amsterdam, in the middle of February. There were so many reasons for this trip – spend quality time with my daughter, I needed to get away from life’s day-to-day demands, and to visit the most wonderful friends who live in Amsterdam.

The fact that Gracie Abrams was performing in Amsterdam, at the Ziggo Dome, on Monday, February 17^th, was a coincidence. Of course Julia wanted to go. Of course I said no. And yes, of course I gave in when she found “reasonably” priced tickets. And “in the Golden Circle” she told me.

Did I know what the Golden Circle was? Did I fully realize what I was getting myself into when I agreed to buy four tickets (so I could take our friends’ kids too) to this special section at the concert? Let me describe the evening….

But first, the preparation. We arrived in Amsterdam on Friday, February 14^th. By Saturday morning, the girls had to go downtown, to find yellow (or blue?) clothes, matching ribbons and other must-have accessories. I assume anyone in the know understands why, but I still have no idea. The girls were determined, and yes, they were successful.

By Monday afternoon, hours before the concert, the kids had to carefully get ready. Into the bedroom they went, shut the door and primped for the big night. Julia appeared first, paranoid that we had to arrive at the venue hours before the doors would open so we could get a good spot.

Good spot, I wondered. Why? It’s a concert. I have a ticket for an exclusive area. How many people could actually be in this area?

Oh, did I mention that the Golden Circle was a standing section? No chairs, no stools. I had some understanding these tickets gave us access to the area in front of the stage, but my ignorant (clearly not intelligent) adult self still, by Monday afternoon, did not realize what I got myself into.

Julia arrived at the venue ahead of us, to get in the specially designated line for the Golden Circle. Again, I had figured this was for maybe two hundred people, and we could arrive an hour before the doors opened to secure a good spot. Oh, was I wrong.

As we approached the sprawling Ziggo Dome complex, we saw a sea of people. Thousands and thousands of young Dutch girls, all dressed up, with ribbons in their hair, pushing their way into their designated lines.

Two hundred in our exclusive section? Try two thousand. It was a mob scene. Wall-to-wall people in the cordoned off Golden Circle line. When the doors finally opened, we made our way in, strapped on our special bracelets and found our spot in that exclusive section in front of the stage. Surrounded by the two thousand others, and thousands more behind us.

It was a great concert. I’m not 14 years old, or 18, or 22, but even at my age, I can appreciate good music. Gracie Abrams is a great performer. I felt she was even humble and thankful for her fans. She smiled and she connected with her audience.

A few weeks later, I can reflect and share a few of my takeaways:

The standing room section is not a good choice if you are over 40 years old

I am not designed to stand up like that, for hours, at a concert. I am also clearly not bright enough to have asked my daughter more questions when she discovered this – what she described as – well-priced section. Two thousand people crammed together standing for hours is a great choice if you are 14 or 22. Not my age!

Women in the Netherlands are tall

I am not going to win any height awards anytime soon, nor is my daughter. If I stand with good posture, I’m lucky if I’m even 5 feet, two inches. Julia may be able to say she’s five feet tall if she poofs up her hair.

Did you know that the Netherlands leads the world with, on average, the tallest women? The average height of an adult Dutch woman is about 5 feet 7 inches. From my very unscientific assessment, the average height of a Dutch woman in the Golden Circle at a Gracie Abrams concert is more like 6 feet. I have never felt so short in my life. I was only maybe 15 feet from the raised stage, but I could rarely see. I felt more like a toddler in a room full of adults. Wow, are they ever tall.

17,000 young females screaming all at once can break the sound barrier

When you attend most concerts, the music is loud. You know what to expect when you walk into a huge arena. The music is not going to be soft and gentle. It’s going to be cranked to the max. People are going to sing and cheer. Okay, I even expected some screaming.

And then, when Gracie came on stage, they all screamed at once. When over 17,000 people, most of whom are these tall, happy, excited young women, using their highest pitch possible, scream, all at once, it is deafening. My ear drums were ringing. The building shook. As each new song started, they screamed. During the chorus, they screamed. When each song ended, they screamed. Happy joyous screams, but wow. I didn’t know that was possible. Until that night.

The modern teen enjoys a concert through their smartphone

At one point during the concert I looked up, and I think I was the only person not holding up a smartphone to record the song Gracie was singing. Everyone around me held their phone high, focused, with the bright red record button going, to capture the moment – on video. I stood there, my arms folded, enjoying the music, and I started to laugh. I may have been the only person around me watching Gracie perform with my own eyes, not my smartphone.

Okay, I get it. They wanted to record the moment and play it back over and over. Or to post it to their social media feed. Or to show their friends later. I admit, there were a few times I pulled out my phone to record (or to FaceTime with Nessa in Toronto, so she could experience it too). It just seemed to me that so many of them missed out on experiencing the live music properly. I stood there and closed my eyes a few times, just to listen (or possibly to ponder how I was still standing after hours or hoping I could get my hearing back later).

I will probably do this again

Okay, so I was a bit crazy to go to this concert, or to sort of blindly buy tickets in the crowded standing-room only section. But did I have a great time? Yes. Did Julia have a night, with her friends, that she will remember forever? Definitely! Does the pitch of the excited shrieking girls still ring in my ears? Yep.

I don’t know how soon I want to attend another concert of that size or that kind of hype. The pressure, especially it seems for teens and young girls, to feel they have to get a ticket to a concert for the current superstars, seems overwhelming. Gracie Abrams, and for sure, Taylor Swift, are positive role models for my daughters. They are smart women who work hard and encourage their fans to do great things. But the price of a ticket to their shows? Gasp!

Julia and I have tickets to a much smaller-scale concert coming up in May – to a relatively newer guy on the scene, Alex Warren. I think this concert may be standing room only for everyone, but based on the venue, it should be tame. Or maybe it won’t be. It will definitely be an experience I can write about!

February 24, 2025February 24, 2025

Do Something: Please, Yarden Bibas is Asking

“Make sure the entire world knows how brutally my children were slaughtered.”

These are the words of Yarden Bibas, the father of Ariel and Kfir and husband of Shiri – may their memory be a blessing. Never mind that Yarden had to endure almost 500 days in captivity, held by terrorists and fearing for his own life every moment, this week he must bury his children and his wife.

I have started to write this post, then stop, then start again, then think about it, for almost one week. I knew I needed to do something. I needed to listen to Yarden Bibas, it’s the least I can do for him. He asked everyone – share his family’s story, through photos, words, videos, anything, so that the world knows what happened to his beautiful family – that they were murdered.

I reread the blog I wrote on November 5^th, 2023, after I learned the story of a mother who watched her 18-year-old daughter, Maayan, die in front of her eyes. Her daughter was shot and killed by terrorists, in their home, on October 7^th 2023. Her husband, Tsachi, was taken captive by Hamas terrorists, and it is believed, as of the writing of this post, that he is not alive. This family, like many others, is waiting for him to return from Gaza, in a coffin.

I will repeat now what I felt then and what I have always felt: it doesn’t matter what your politics are, your religion, or nationality, race, or ethnicity – intentionally murdering someone, especially a child – is revolting. It’s inhumane and repulsive and repugnant. Forensic reports from the Bibas children’s murders showed evidence of indescribable abuse, of killing these little children with a terrorist’s bare hands.

These children saw, with their own little eyes, their murderers. They first endured weeks of torture, before they were killed.

It is rare for me to use this space to share something like this, that is so disturbing. Your first thought may be to turn away and not read. You may disagree with me that what I am writing about is controversial, or is inappropriate. As you read this, you may ask yourself if you really know me at all, as a person, as a writer or as a professional.

I ask you to please keep reading. I strongly believe that it is through education, reading, and conversations that we can be better people, who respect our differences and celebrate our similarities.

I want to share a little bit about the Bibas family, who lived in a small, simple, one-story house in Kibbutz Nir Oz, near the border with Gaza. Shiri was a teacher and Yarden a welder, and they chose to marry and raise their family in this tight-knit special community, where Shiri grew up. Their elder son, Ariel, with his flaming red hair, was a typical active, bubbly four-year-old, who loved Batman. Their younger son, Kfir, was a laid back, smiley and wonderful baby, and he also had his mother’s beautiful red hair.

Look at this family. Look at their faces and their smiles. Every one of us can see ourselves in them – if you are a parent, an aunt or uncle, cousin, sibling or friend. Maybe it’s the red hair? Or you see brothers, or a young family? Their connection to a small community?

We need to connect with the Bibas family, and see the humanity – or lack of – in what happened to them. It does not mean we dismiss the stories of many other children who have been murdered or injured (physically or emotionally) in the last 16 plus months, but today, I’m asking you to think of, and like me, do something, to remember Ariel and Kfir.

I’m shaking as I write today. I have been listening to podcasts and reading various snippets of news or social media posts about the Bibas family. The images of their smiling faces are seared into my brain. The images were from another time, when maybe they thought they were safe. Or maybe Yarden and Shiri knew that maybe they weren’t safe, but still every day, like every parent, they brought joy and warmth to their home. They, like every parent, hoped to raise their children to be everything they wanted to be and live a successful life.

But that will not happen. Instead, Ariel and Kfir, along with their mother, Shiri, will be buried this week. So now, I’m asking you, please, do something. Share my post. Read or listen to a story about the Bibas family. Or just pause and think about them for a moment. Do something.

February 10, 2025February 10, 2025

Bagels, Balance and Baseball

Who am I? What are my interests? How do I define myself? These are questions we’ve all asked ourselves – or we’ve been asked in interviews or conferences or team meetings. Using a bit of alliteration, and maybe a bit of creativity, I thought about this recently and came up with: I’m all about bagels, balance and baseball. I hope I made you giggle a bit, or maybe you are thinking of a letter of the alphabet that you can choose to find words that describe you. Let me explain.

Sometimes, late at night, or I admit, even in the middle of the night, I have a sudden idea of a topic I want to write about. I have a notes folder in my phone where I jot down blog ideas, so that if something comes upon me I can note it before the idea fizzles away by the morning. When I read some of the notes the next day, some make perfect sense and others are pure nonsense.

Bagels, balance and baseball sits somewhere in between. I don’t know why these words came into my head late at night recently, but I jotted them down. Maybe I was listening to the news, or I read it on social media, or maybe my husband mentioned something to me. I jotted other notes after the three words, and those made no sense.

But I can’t get these three words out of my head. While I am not defined by bagels, balance or baseball, they do help tell my story. They are key words that help me share a bit about me as a person, beyond my professional persona.

Bagels

This single word says a lot about me. First of all, I love bagels – Montreal bagels to be exact. My parents and grandparents were all born and raised in Montreal, where the humble bagel is a staple of the diet. The bagel dates back, in many forms, to Poland, and it was brought to North America by Jewish immigrants – first to New York, but then beyond, to places like Montreal.

So, the bagel connects me with a humble food that I love, to my Jewish heritage, and my love of baking (and cooking too!). I love to explore my creativity in the kitchen. I like to take an interesting recipe and do my version of it – add an ingredient, take other ingredients away or play with the ratios. I love making challah, and lately, I’ve been experimenting with different kinds of muffins. The latest one I’m intrigued with is caramel swirl!

Balance

This one is a bit more abstract, but stay with me here – it will make sense. I have always wanted to find balance in my life – to make sure I prioritize what matters but to also find time and space to destress. Whether it was in school or my career, I was always all in. I have always taken responsibility seriously, pushing myself so hard sometimes that I either disregarded what else mattered or I tried to do too much that I was not successful.

I could lean on the clichés like “you can’t do it all” or everyone needs a “work-life balance,” but that doesn’t work for me. Right now I am focused on understanding how to honour and respect all the different parts of my life – professionally and personally. Too much of anything isn’t good for anyone. My family needs me more than ever. I need to pursue career ambitions and take some risk. There has to be time for me, to just be a person and do things I love. So, have I found balance yet? No. But I’m trying. I’m really trying.

Baseball

This one is easy. I have loved baseball since the first Blue Jays’ game I went to, at the old Exhibition stadium, when I was a kid. It’s the right pace for me, it has so many twists and turns, and as a mother, it’s one of the ways I’ve connected with my son.

I’m quite sure my love of baseball was one reason I stood up in grade 11 chemistry and announced I wanted to pursue a career in sports media. I even lived that dream for a short time in my first job in radio, when I filled in as the station’s baseball reporter.

I don’t play baseball (isn’t often said that those who can’t play… teach or write?!), but it’s a passion of mine, that connects my professional and personal life. It may, one day be the focus of my son’s professional life, and as a sport with its special twists and turns, maybe it will always be part of my life in ways I don’t even know yet.

So, maybe baseball isn’t so easy. Yes, I love this sport, but it also makes me think of my love of skiing, and now, yikes, even snowboarding (yes, I promise to write more on that journey soon!). I’ve even taken up yoga, which actually fits nicely into the “balance” area. Yoga forces me to slow down, to focus on my breathing, and sometimes on trying to stand on one foot. I highly recommend it.

Bagels, balance and baseball are not descriptive of everything about me. If you have read Kinetic Motions, you know there’s more to me than these three words. But it’s been a good exercise, to think a bit about who I am and what matters. Take a moment to do the same. I promise you, it’s worth it.

January 28, 2025January 28, 2025

Why January 27th Matters

On Sunday, January 27^th, 1946, my paternal grandparents got married. Born and raised in Montreal, they grew up in post-World War 1 Canada, with the highs of the early 1920’s and lows of the Depression in the 1930’s. My grandfather served in the military during World War 2, as a member of the Canadian Air Force to protect the coast of Newfoundland.

My grandparents shared many stories with me about life in Canada during World War 2, a little about their courtship and some details about their wedding on January 27^th, 1946. They were married mere months after the end of the war, when the world was recovering from such devastation.

I never asked my grandparents why they chose that specific date for their wedding. January 27^th, 1946, was the one-year anniversary of the liberation of Auschwitz, the Nazi death camp in Europe. In 1946, commemoration, memorialization, reflection for many, about the atrocities in Europe, wasn’t, for the most part, done.

For my grandparents, January 27^th, 1946 must have been a joyous day, with family, friends, music, dancing and celebration. The war was over and the future was bright for them, in their tight-knit community in Montreal.

Seventy-nine years later, my grandparents are no longer alive, but I quietly celebrate them every January 27^th. What they had was true love. I remember how my grandfather (we called him Poppy) always looked so lovingly at my grandmother (we called her Nanny). For my family, January 27^th is special.

But, also in my head is January 27^th, 1945. That was the day when Soviet forces liberated the Auschwitz death camp. Over 1.1 million people were murdered there, most (but not all) of them, Jews. Some people may feel that liberation is a reason to celebrate. Because the death camp was liberated, does it mean the people there were free? Did they feel they had a future? Were they excited about going home, or building a new life?

For those who survived after the Auschwitz liberation, it took many years for many of them to settle in a new home. While maybe January 27^th, 1945, was the start of their liberation, one year later, most of the survivors were still struggling to survive. Communities in Montreal, Canada were far away.

Is it fair of me to even ask, did my grandparents know? When they set their wedding date, did they know it was on the first anniversary of the liberation of what may be the most infamous of the Nazi death camps? Did they understand, in 1946, what happened to the Jews of Europe? Why does it matter what date they got married?

I’ve been asking myself these questions over the last 24 hours, as world leaders, educators, historians, and even some survivors, gathered together on January 27^th, 2025, at Auschwitz, to commemorate the 80^thanniversary of the death camp’s liberation. I have been poring through many news articles, from journalists pointing out hypocrisy to offering history lessons to stories of survival and renewal.

The thread across everything I read is: we must remember. We must talk. We must educate and share and learn and listen. January 27^th matters. Eighty years after the liberation, with so few people left to tell us what they experienced, we need to keep their stories alive. It is horrific to think that at one death camp, over 1.1 million people were brutally murdered. When it was liberated, on January 27^th, 1945, it is estimated that about 7,000 were found alive.

These are people, with names, families, and stories. Yesterday I read about Tova Friedman, who sees the liberation day as her birthday. Leon Weintraub spoke of still seeing the Nazi symbol in Europe today and how important it is to never let this kind of murder happen again. Learn about George Reinitz or Miriam Ziegler. Listen to 96-year-old Howard Chandler.

I have visited Auschwitz. I joined thousands of teenagers, when I was just 15 years old, on Holocaust Remembrance Day, as we walked between the labour and death camps of the massive complex. I walked under the gate that stated, “Work makes you free.” I saw huge mounds of hair, shoes, clothes, passports and more. I sat with survivors who told me their stories.

When I stood at Auschwitz, so many years ago, and I hugged survivors and cried with my friends, I remember thinking about my grandparents. I remember thinking how lucky they were to be born in Canada, that they didn’t have to experience this horror. I also remember thinking that I could never forget how I felt that day.

January 27^th matters. Maybe it is a day of celebration. Maybe the people liberated in 1945 didn’t know it at the time, but for many it was the start of a new life for them. One year later, on January 27^th, 1946, it was also the start of a new life for my grandparents. For all those no longer with us to tell their story, may their memory be for a blessing.