Haliburton: A Sea of Memories

I’ve been sifting through parts of myself lately—fragments of who I once was and maybe still am, buried somewhere beneath the weight of responsibility and time.

The other day, someone asked me a serious question—one of those cliché icebreakers you laugh off in most settings: “Where do you see yourself in five years?”

I answered honestly, blankly: “Stuck.”

We laughed. I didn’t.

The truth is, I feel it deeply. I wish the answer weren’t true. But sometimes, life feels like it’s paused in a place you can’t name.

I’ve returned to Haliburton—this little town tucked in Ontario’s cottage country, where my younger self once wandered in a very different kind of fog. After high school, when I had no clue what path to take, I came here and took the most unexpected leap I could find: an art course in a college buried in the boonies.

It turned out to be one of the best choices I ever made.

Back then, I was timid, uncertain, and raw. Leaving home was the first shock. I had always drawn comfort and identity from my family. But when I arrived here, I discovered a new kind of connection—one rooted in creativity, openness, and the shared vulnerability of people trying to find themselves through their work. The arts community became a second home.

I remember painting late into the evenings, and to my surprise, being accepted to display those paintings in a local gallery. Looking back, I think the work was awful—but that’s the beauty of evolution, isn’t it?

Now, years later, I’m here again. This time, I’m the teacher. I just finished teaching 12 people how to carve stone. It went incredibly well. They enjoyed it. I enjoyed it. It felt meaningful.

And yet, as I sit alone at the same friendly bar where I had my first drink, sipping what might be the best craft beer I’ve ever tasted, I can’t shake the feeling. Stuck.

The roles I carry—as a husband, a father, an artist—are heavy and rich with purpose. But they also stretch me thin. Progress in this life of art feels hard-won, and I wonder: how far can I go? Can this really grow into something more?

Sometimes, I just want to help others see what they can’t yet see in themselves. But then I turn the mirror inward and ask, what is it in me that can’t come out? And is it worth seeing?

Today, I visited the cabin where I once stayed as a student. It’s boarded up now, but the forest surrounding it still sings the same soft, green song. I startled a deer as I stepped onto the deck, the leaves rustling underfoot.

The place felt broken—but still beautiful. And maybe that’s the metaphor I needed.

Maybe that’s my future: something a little broken, a little weathered, but still beautiful. Held together by memory, fueled by the hope of passing something down to those who want to know it. Maybe my daughter will come here one day and live her own version of this story.

That thought makes me happy.

So here I am, sitting with the past and present in both hands. Teaching others, creating again, and holding out hope that somehow this all leads to something more. And maybe—even if I feel stuck now—I’m still moving.