Sami Martin

Category: Wellness

  • Veggie Birria Meal Prep: 1 Smoky Sauce and Several Completely Different Meals

    Veggie Birria Meal Prep: 1 Smoky Sauce and Several Completely Different Meals

    The idea started practically. One Saturday afternoon, a big pot of guajillo-ancho sauce on the stove, the apartment smelling like toasted chiles and caramelised onion, and the realisation that this sauce was good enough to make the entire week interesting.

    Birria as a concept is so much more than a taco filling. The sauce itself, that deeply smoky, slightly sweet, chile-forward liquid that coats everything it touches, is a foundation. It has enough character to carry noodles, glaze root vegetables, deepen a cheese sauce, and hold eggs. You just have to understand what it needs from dish to dish: sometimes thinner, sometimes reduced and sticky, sometimes folded in gently so it deepens rather than takes over.

    This vegetarian version borrows the structural logic of birria without trying to replicate the braised meat version. The chiles are the star. Guajillo gives you that clean, fruity heat. Ancho brings body and a dark, almost chocolatey earthiness. Soy sauce adds umami depth where the meat would normally contribute it. Brown sugar keeps everything from tilting too bitter. Optional ginger gives the whole thing a faint warmth that lingers without being identifiable.

    What follows is the mother birria sauce first, in full detail. Then six completely different recipes and an updated hollendaise. Each use it in different ways Throughout the week The sauce keeps well, it freezes even better, and it makes the kind of cooking week where you actually look forward to dinner.

    The Mother Sauce: Smoky Vegetarian Birria

    Flavour profile: Fruity guajillo heat, dark ancho earthiness, soy umami, quiet sweetness, smoke that builds slowly at the back of the throat.

    The first time you make this sauce, give it your full attention. Not because it’s difficult, but because you’ll want to understand what’s happening at each stage. Toasting the dried chiles is the most important step and also the one most often rushed. You’re looking for a change in aroma, a deepening from dusty dried pepper to something roasted and alive. The moment you smell that shift, it’s done.

    Soaking the chiles afterward softens them completely and draws out their colour. The soaking liquid is deeply flavoured and absolutely goes into the blender with everything else.

    Ingredients:

    • 5 dried guajillo chiles, stems and seeds removed
    • 3 dried ancho chiles, stems and seeds removed
    • 6 garlic cloves, unpeeled
    • 1 medium white onion, roughly chopped
    • 400g canned whole tomatoes, drained
    • 3 tbsp soy sauce (not low-sodium)
    • 2 tbsp brown sugar, packed
    • 1 tsp smoked paprika
    • 1 tsp ground cumin
    • 1/2 tsp dried oregano (Mexican if you have it)
    • 1/2 tsp chili flakes, or to heat preference
    • 1/4 tsp cinnamon
    • 1 tbsp neutral oil
    • Salt to finish
    • Optional: 1 tsp fresh ginger, grated
    • Optional: 1/2 tsp black pepper

    Method:

    1. Place a dry skillet over medium heat. Add the guajillo and ancho chiles in a single layer and toast for about 30 to 40 seconds per side. Press them lightly with a spatula. You want them fragrant and slightly puffed but not blackened. Remove and cover with 2 cups of just-boiled water. Weigh them down with a small plate if they float. Soak for 20 minutes until fully soft.
    2. In the same dry skillet, add the unpeeled garlic cloves and toast over medium heat, turning occasionally, until the skins are blistered and the garlic is soft inside, about 8 to 10 minutes. Cool briefly, then peel. The garlic should be golden and jammy inside.
    3. In a saucepan with a splash of oil, sauté the chopped onion over medium-high heat until it begins to colour at the edges, about 10 minutes. You want some browning here. Add the garlic and cook another 2 minutes.
    4. Drain the soaked chiles, reserving the soaking liquid. Add the chiles, onion and garlic mixture, drained tomatoes, soy sauce, brown sugar, smoked paprika, cumin, oregano, chili flakes, cinnamon, and ginger if using to a blender. Add 1 cup of the reserved soaking liquid. Blend on high until very smooth, at least 2 minutes.
    5. Pass the sauce through a fine mesh strainer, pressing firmly to extract all the liquid. Discard the solids. Return the strained sauce to a medium saucepan over medium heat and simmer for 15 to 20 minutes, stirring occasionally, until it deepens in colour and coats a spoon. Season with salt. The sauce should be savoury, slightly sweet, smoky, and complex.

    Tips: Taste the sauce after simmering. If it reads flat, it needs salt. If it reads too bitter, add another half teaspoon of brown sugar. If the heat is too much, a small spoon of tomato paste smoothed in will round it out without losing the depth.

    Storage: Keeps in the refrigerator for up to 7 days in a sealed jar. The flavour improves noticeably on day two. Freeze in 1-cup portions in zip-lock bags laid flat for up to 3 months. Thaw overnight in the fridge.

    For recipes that call for birria broth, dilute 1 cup of sauce with 2 cups of good vegetable stock and taste. For recipes calling for a thick glaze, reduce the sauce in a small pan until it coats a spoon thickly and turns slightly sticky at the edges.

    Meal One: Crispy Veggie Birria Tacos

    The taco version was the first thing made with this sauce, and it took a few rounds to get right. The initial instinct was to treat it like traditional birria, dunking the tortillas fully into the sauce before hitting the pan. The result was soggy, heavy, falling apart before they reached the plate. Good flavour, bad structure. The second attempt was better: a light brush of sauce on the tortilla instead of a full dip, crispy tofu inside rather than saucy braised anything, and a hard commitment to cooking the taco long enough that the cheese actually fused to the shell.

    The tortilla question matters more here than it might seem. Corn tortillas absorb sauce differently than flour. Corn holds its structure better with moisture but chars faster at the edges, which actually looks excellent and adds a slightly bitter, smoky note that works with the birria. Flour tortillas are more forgiving for beginners and crisp up into something almost flaky if you cook them long enough. Both work. Corn gives you a more traditional result. Flour gives you more crust.

    Ingredients (serves 2, makes 4 to 6 tacos):

    • 4 to 6 small flour or corn tortillas
    • 200g firm tofu, pressed and cubed or crumbled
    • 1/2 cup birria mother sauce, divided
    • 100g mozzarella or Oaxaca-style cheese, grated or pulled into strands
    • Half a white onion, finely diced
    • 3 green onion stalks, sliced
    • 1 tbsp neutral oil for frying tofu
    • 1 tbsp cornstarch
    • Salt, black pepper

    To serve: extra birria sauce on the side for dipping, lime wedges, optional sour cream

    Instructions:

    1. Press the tofu very dry between paper towels. Cut or crumble into small pieces, roughly 1 to 2cm. Toss with the cornstarch, salt, and black pepper. Heat the oil in a non-stick pan over medium-high heat and fry the tofu undisturbed for 3 to 4 minutes until deeply golden on the base, then toss and crisp the remaining sides. The tofu needs to be properly crispy before any sauce goes near it, otherwise it softens and becomes spongy inside the taco.
    2. Once the tofu is crispy, reduce the heat to medium-low and add 3 tablespoons of the birria sauce directly to the pan. Toss quickly to coat, cooking for just 60 seconds. You want the sauce to cling and caramelise slightly around the tofu without steaming it soft. Remove from heat immediately and set aside.
    3. Lay the tortillas on a flat surface. Using a pastry brush or the back of a spoon, brush a thin, even layer of birria sauce across one side of each tortilla. Don’t soak them. You want flavour and a slight stain of colour, not wet dough.
    4. Heat a dry skillet over medium heat. Place a tortilla sauce-side down in the pan. Add a small handful of cheese to one half of the tortilla, spreading it close to the edges. Add a spoonful of the birria tofu on top of the cheese. Fold the tortilla closed and press lightly. Cook for 2 to 3 minutes until the underside is deeply golden, then flip carefully and cook for another 2 minutes. The cheese should be fully melted and visible at the seam.
    5. Scatter the diced white onion and green onion over each taco immediately after cooking. Serve with extra birria sauce alongside for dipping and lime wedges.

    On the common mistakes: Too much sauce on the tortilla is the main one. It seems like it should make the taco taste more like birria, but what it actually does is create a steaming effect inside the fold that softens the tortilla completely. A thin brush is enough. The dipping sauce on the side handles the rest. The other one is pulling the tacos off the heat too early. The cheese needs time to fully melt and the tortilla needs time to genuinely crisp. A taco that’s pale and pliable when it comes off the heat will be soft and slightly greasy by the time it reaches the table.

    Variations: A spoonful of sour cream or labne inside before folding adds a cooling layer. Pickled jalapeños or thinly sliced fresh serrano for more heat. The leftover birria tofu from this recipe also works well on top of the ramen later in the week.

    Meal Two: Birria Rice Noodle Ramen

    This is what you make the first or second night, when the sauce is fresh and you want something that uses it as a broth rather than a glaze. The idea was simple: thin the birria sauce significantly, add crispy tofu and roasted sweet potato, and serve it over rice noodles. What came out was a bowl that sits somewhere between a Mexican and East Asian pantry, in the best possible way.

    The sweet potato is essential. Roasted until caramelised at the edges, it brings a natural sweetness that softens the smokiness of the birria and gives the broth somewhere to go texturally. Crispy tofu pressed and pan-fried before any sauce touches it holds its structure in the broth, giving you bite contrast against the soft noodles. And the rice noodles should be cooked separately, always. Cooked directly in the broth they turn gummy within minutes, absorbing the broth in a way that’s unappealing and leaves nothing for the bowl.

    Ingredients (serves 2):

    • 1 cup birria mother sauce
    • 2 cups vegetable stock
    • 200g firm tofu, pressed and cubed
    • 1 medium sweet potato, peeled and diced 2cm
    • 180g dried rice noodles (medium thickness)
    • Half a white onion, thinly sliced
    • 3 green onion stalks, sliced
    • 2 tbsp neutral oil for frying
    • 1 tbsp cornstarch
    • Salt, white pepper
    • Optional: chile crunch oil to finish
    • Optional: lime wedges

    Instructions:

    1. Preheat the oven to 210C. Toss the sweet potato cubes in a little oil, season with salt, and roast on a lined tray for 25 to 30 minutes until golden at the edges and tender inside. You want actual caramelisation on at least one side of each cube, not just soft steaming.
    2. Press the tofu dry between paper towels, really pressing hard for a couple of minutes. Cut into 2cm cubes and toss with the cornstarch, salt, and a pinch of white pepper. Heat the 2 tablespoons of oil in a non-stick pan over medium-high heat. Fry the tofu undisturbed for 3 to 4 minutes per side until deeply golden and crisp. Resist moving it. Set aside on paper towels.
    3. In a medium saucepan, combine the birria sauce with the vegetable stock. Bring to a simmer and taste. The broth should be smoky and savoury but not thick. If it reads too intense, add a splash more stock. Add the sliced onion and simmer gently for 5 minutes until slightly softened but still with a little structure.
    4. Cook the rice noodles in a separate pot of boiling salted water according to the package directions, then drain and rinse briefly under cool water to stop them sticking. Divide into two bowls immediately.
    5. Ladle the hot birria broth and onions over the noodles. Top with the crispy tofu and roasted sweet potato cubes. Finish with sliced green onion, a drizzle of chile crunch if using, and a squeeze of lime.

    Variations: A soft-boiled egg marinated in soy sauce and mirin adds richness if you want more protein. A spoonful of white miso whisked into the broth before serving adds another layer of depth without changing the profile dramatically. Thin rice vermicelli works well here too, though medium noodles hold up better against the bold broth.

    Meal Three: Whole Roasted Potatoes with Birria Glaze

    This recipe came out of having small yellow potatoes sitting on the counter and not wanting to smash or slice them. The whole-potato approach demands patience but it repays it completely. You parboil them first until just tender, then let them steam-dry completely before coating them in a reduced birria glaze and roasting until the skins blister and char slightly at the edges.

    crispy birria roasted potatoes

    The interior of a small potato roasted this way stays dense and creamy, almost like roasted garlic in texture, while the outside takes on this lacquered, slightly sticky quality from the birria reduction. The sugars in the sauce caramelise against the potato skin and create a layer of deep flavour that smashing or halving would scatter and lose. Goat cheese crumbled on at the end is optional but genuinely excellent, the tang cutting against the sweetness of the glaze.

    Ingredients (serves 2 as a side, 1 as a main):

    • 500g small yellow potatoes, similar in size
    • 3 tbsp birria mother sauce
    • 1 tbsp neutral oil
    • Salt
    • 3 green onion stalks, sliced thin
    • Optional: 50g soft goat cheese
    • Optional: flaky sea salt to finish

    Instructions:

    1. Place the whole potatoes in a pot of cold salted water. Bring to a boil and cook until a skewer or fork passes through with just a little resistance, about 15 minutes depending on size. They should not be completely soft. Drain and spread on a wire rack or a clean towel. Let them steam-dry completely, at least 15 minutes. This step is not negotiable if you want good skin.
    2. While the potatoes dry, reduce the birria sauce in a small pan over medium heat with a teaspoon of oil, stirring occasionally, until it thickens noticeably and pulls away from the pan’s edges slightly. You want it thick enough to coat a spoon completely and turn a little sticky. Remove from heat and cool for a few minutes.
    3. Preheat the oven to 220C. Toss the dry potatoes gently with the reduced birria glaze until each one is coated. Use your hands or a spoon, being careful not to break the skins. Arrange on a lined baking tray with a little space between each one.
    4. Roast for 25 to 30 minutes, turning once halfway, until the skins are blistered and dark in spots and the glaze has set and caramelised against the surface. The potatoes should look lacquered and slightly charred at the contact points.
    5. Transfer to a plate. If using goat cheese, crumble it over immediately while the potatoes are hot so it softens slightly against them. Scatter with green onion and flaky salt.

    Tip: Small uniform potatoes matter here because they’ll all finish roasting at the same time. If your potatoes vary significantly in size, halve the largest ones before parboiling so everything cooks evenly.

    Serving suggestions: Works well alongside a simple green salad dressed with nothing more than lemon and olive oil. A drizzle of sour cream or labne after plating adds cooling creaminess against the heat of the glaze.

    Meal Four: Smoky Birria BBQ Cauliflower Steak

    Cauliflower steak has a credibility problem that mostly comes from people not cooking it long enough or hot enough. Done correctly, roasted with enough fat and high enough heat, the cross-sections caramelise into something almost meaty in texture, with crispy florets at the edges and a denser interior. What the birria glaze does here is transform the sauce from something Latin-inflected into something that reads more like a smoky BBQ finish.

    steak with birria sauce

    The addition of extra brown sugar and soy sauce to reduce the birria concentrates its smokiness and creates that sticky, thick BBQ-adjacent glaze. Apply it in layers during roasting rather than all at once. The first layer sets and caramelises. The second layer applied near the end glazes on top of that, creating depth. A final hit under the broiler or grill gets you that slightly charred, lacquered surface that makes this recipe worth making for guests.

    Ingredients (serves 2):

    • 1 large cauliflower head
    • 4 tbsp birria mother sauce
    • 1 tsp additional brown sugar
    • 1 tsp additional soy sauce
    • 2 tbsp olive oil
    • Salt, black pepper
    • Optional: 50g soft goat cheese
    • Optional: green onion, pomegranate seeds

    Instructions:

    1. Remove the outer leaves from the cauliflower. Place it stem-side down and slice two 3 to 4cm thick steaks from the centre. You’ll have florets left over from the sides; save them for another purpose. Pat the steaks dry with paper towels.
    2. In a small bowl, mix the birria sauce with the additional brown sugar and soy sauce until combined. Taste it. It should be very thick, very smoky, and aggressively flavoured. This concentration is intentional because it’ll spread thinly and the cauliflower will absorb it during roasting.
    3. Preheat the oven to 220C. Heat an oven-safe skillet or heavy pan over high heat with the olive oil until it just begins to smoke. Sear the cauliflower steaks for 2 minutes per side until golden brown on the flat surfaces. Season with salt and pepper.
    4. Brush the top surface of each steak generously with the birria BBQ glaze. Transfer the pan directly to the hot oven and roast for 15 minutes.
    5. Pull out the pan, flip each steak, brush the new top surface again with glaze, and return to the oven for another 10 minutes. The glaze should look sticky and deeply coloured. For the final 2 to 3 minutes, switch to the broiler or grill setting to char the surface slightly and set the glaze.
    6. Remove from the oven and rest for 3 minutes. The glaze will firm up slightly as it cools. If using goat cheese, crumble it over now so it softens against the heat. Finish with green onion and pomegranate seeds if using.

    Meal Five: Birria Mac and Cheese

    This is the recipe that surprised people most when I first made it. Mac and cheese with a birria sauce in it sounds like it should be confused, like two strong flavours fighting for dominance. What actually happens is that the birria acts as a flavour deepener rather than a lead note. You add it carefully and in proportion, and what it does is give the cheese sauce a smokiness and a slight complexity that a plain béchamel can never achieve.

    The cheese structure is important here. Cheddar is the anchor and should make up the bulk of your cheese weight, sharp and tangy and the primary flavour. Mozzarella contributes stretch and melt without a strong flavour of its own. Goat cheese, added last in small amounts, introduces an acidic brightness that prevents the whole dish from reading as flat or too rich. The drained stewed tomatoes folded through the pasta add little pockets of acidity and fruitiness that cut through the fat of the sauce in a way that fresh tomatoes simply wouldn’t.

    And then the onions on top. Thinly sliced, laid over the whole surface before the dish goes into the oven, they crisp up beautifully as the mac bakes, turning from pungent to sweet to almost caramelised at their edges. It sounds like a small detail. It isn’t. The contrast between the crispy onion surface and the creamy, smoky cheese underneath is what makes the whole dish feel finished.

    Ingredients (serves 4):

    • 350g macaroni or short pasta
    • 3 tbsp unsalted butter
    • 3 tbsp plain flour
    • 2.5 cups whole milk, warm
    • 200g sharp cheddar, grated
    • 100g mozzarella, grated
    • 75g soft goat cheese, crumbled
    • 3 tbsp birria mother sauce
    • 200g canned stewed tomatoes, drained well
    • 1 large white onion, halved and very thinly sliced
    • 1 tsp Dijon mustard
    • Salt, black pepper, white pepper
    • Optional: breadcrumbs for extra crust

    Instructions:

    1. Cook the pasta in heavily salted boiling water for 2 minutes less than the package directions. You want it undercooked and still slightly chalky at the centre. Drain and toss with a little oil to stop sticking. Set aside.
    2. Preheat the oven to 190C. Melt the butter in a medium heavy saucepan over medium heat. Add the flour and whisk constantly for 90 seconds until it smells slightly nutty and looks pale golden. Add the warm milk a third at a time, whisking vigorously between each addition to prevent lumps. Cook for 5 to 6 minutes total, whisking regularly, until it coats the back of a spoon.
    3. Remove from heat. Add the Dijon, then the cheddar and mozzarella in two batches, stirring until each addition is completely melted before adding the next. Season generously with salt and both peppers.
    4. Stir in the birria sauce one tablespoon at a time, tasting between each addition. You’re looking for the sauce to deepen and take on smokiness without the chile flavour becoming the primary note. For most palates, 2 to 3 tablespoons is right. Stir in the goat cheese last, allowing it to melt partially but not completely. Some small pockets of tang should remain.
    5. Fold the cooked pasta into the cheese sauce, then gently fold in the drained stewed tomatoes, trying to keep some of them intact rather than crushing them completely. Transfer to a baking dish.
    6. Arrange the thinly sliced onion evenly over the entire surface of the mac, covering it generously. Scatter breadcrumbs over if using. Bake for 25 to 30 minutes until the edges are bubbling, the cheese is visibly set, and the onions on top have coloured, softened, and crisped at their thinner edges.
    7. Rest for 10 minutes before serving. The dish needs this time to set into something that holds its shape rather than running immediately when you serve it.

    Tip: Drain the canned tomatoes very thoroughly, pressing gently in a strainer. Excess liquid will thin the cheese sauce as the mac bakes. If you want more pronounced tomato flavour, a light squeeze of tomato paste into the cheese sauce before the birria works well.

    Variations: Gruyère in place of half the cheddar makes the sauce more complex and slightly nuttier, though the birria flavour becomes less distinct. This reheats well the next day from cold; add a splash of milk to the portion before microwaving to bring the sauce back.

    Meal Six: Birria Shakshuka

    Shakshuka is already a strong-flavoured egg dish, tomato and spice and olive oil. Adding birria sauce to the base transforms it into something darker and smokier while keeping the same fundamental logic: eggs poached directly in a thick, deeply seasoned sauce, served with bread for mopping. This version leans into that smokiness and adds goat cheese at the end, the tang cutting against the heat of the birria in a way that feels genuinely considered.

    birria shakshuka

    The key to this dish is the sauce consistency before the eggs go in. It needs to be thick, thick enough that you can make a hollow in it with a spoon and the hollow holds its shape for a few seconds before the sauce slowly fills back in. Too thin and the egg whites spread everywhere, taking too long to set, leaving you with hard yolks by the time the whites are cooked. A thick sauce creates the ideal environment: the eggs nestle into it, the whites set from the surrounding heat, and the yolks stay just barely set, still with that orange, jammy quality.

    This is a breakfast or brunch dish that takes about 20 minutes from cold sauce to table, which puts it firmly in the category of things worth making on a slow weekend morning. The birria base made earlier in the week means the flavour work is already done.

    Ingredients (serves 2):

    • 1 cup birria mother sauce
    • 200g canned stewed tomatoes, drained and roughly chopped
    • Half a white onion, finely diced
    • 4 large eggs
    • 1 tbsp olive oil
    • 60g soft goat cheese, crumbled
    • 3 green onion stalks, thinly sliced
    • Salt, black pepper
    • Optional: pinch of chili flakes
    • Flatbread, sourdough, or good crusty bread to serve

    Instructions:

    1. In a medium oven-safe skillet, heat the olive oil over medium heat. Add the diced onion and cook for 6 to 8 minutes until soft, translucent, and starting to look golden at the edges. Season with a pinch of salt.
    2. Add the birria sauce and the drained, chopped stewed tomatoes. Stir to combine. Simmer over medium heat for 8 to 10 minutes, stirring occasionally, until the sauce has thickened and darkened. If you drag a spoon through the sauce, the line should hold for 2 to 3 seconds before filling back in. If it fills immediately, keep cooking. Add chili flakes now if you want more heat.
    3. Use the back of a spoon to make four shallow hollows in the sauce, spacing them apart. Crack one egg into each hollow carefully. Season the eggs lightly with salt and pepper.
    4. Cover the pan with a lid and cook over low heat for 5 to 7 minutes, checking frequently. You want the whites completely set and opaque, and the yolks still slightly soft and dark orange at the centre. Every stove runs differently, so check at 4 minutes and every 30 seconds after.
    5. Remove from heat. Crumble the goat cheese over the eggs and sauce immediately. Scatter green onion generously over everything. Serve directly from the pan with plenty of bread on the side.

    Tip: If you prefer firmer yolks, transfer the pan to a 180C oven after adding the eggs instead of covering it on the stovetop. The ambient heat sets the yolks more gently and evenly without drying out the sauce surface. Check at 6 minutes.

    Variations: Feta works in place of goat cheese if that’s what you have, though it brings more salt, so taste the sauce before seasoning the eggs. A handful of baby spinach wilted into the sauce just before the eggs go in adds colour and a mild bitterness that works well against the smokiness. For two hungry people, five eggs rather than four is the right call. Warm the flatbread or toast directly over the gas flame for 20 seconds per side for a little char that matches the mood of the dish.

    Meal Seven: Sunday Brunch Eggs and Biscuits with Smoky Birria Hollandaise

    Hollandaise is one of those sauces that feels more intimidating than it actually is, and once you understand its logic it becomes something you can pull together in about ten minutes with a bowl over simmering water and a whisk. The classic version gets its heat from cayenne, a clean, sharp spike at the finish. Swapping that out for birria sauce changes the character of the whole thing. The heat is still there but it’s layered now, smokier and more complex, with that ancho earthiness sitting underneath the richness of the butter and yolk.

    birria eggs benedict

    The key is adding the birria carefully and in small amounts. Hollandaise is an emulsion and it’s delicate. Too much liquid of any kind and it breaks. A teaspoon at a time, whisked in after the sauce has formed, is the right approach. You’re seasoning with it more than building the flavour from it. The result reads as hollandaise first, smoky and slightly mysterious second.

    This is a Sunday thing. It requires a little patience and the willingness to stand at the stove and whisk. It rewards both.

    Ingredients (serves 2):

    • 3 large egg yolks
    • 115g unsalted butter, clarified or just melted and skimmed
    • 1 tbsp cold water
    • 1 tbsp lemon juice, plus more to taste
    • 1 to 2 tsp birria mother sauce, or to taste
    • Salt, white pepper
    • 4 eggs, for poaching
    • 4 biscuits or buttermilk scones, halved and toasted
    • Optional: green onion, flaky salt, extra birria sauce to drizzle

    Instructions:

    1. Clarify the butter by melting it gently in a small saucepan and skimming the white foam from the surface. Set aside somewhere warm. It should be liquid but not hot when it goes into the hollandaise.
    2. Set a heatproof bowl over a saucepan of barely simmering water, making sure the bowl doesn’t touch the water. Add the egg yolks and cold water to the bowl and whisk continuously for 3 to 4 minutes until the mixture thickens, turns pale, and holds a ribbon when the whisk is lifted. The yolks should roughly double in volume and look like a thick, airy custard. If the bowl feels very hot to the touch, pull it off the heat and keep whisking. Scrambled eggs are not hollandaise.
    3. Remove the bowl from the heat. Begin adding the warm clarified butter in a very slow, thin stream, whisking constantly. Start with just drops, then increase to a thin trickle as the emulsion builds. The sauce should thicken steadily as the butter goes in. If it starts looking greasy or separating, stop adding butter and whisk harder before continuing.
    4. Once all the butter is incorporated and the sauce is thick and glossy, whisk in the lemon juice and season with salt and white pepper. Now add the birria sauce one teaspoon at a time, whisking after each addition and tasting as you go. You’re looking for the hollandaise to take on a warmth and smokiness without losing its richness or breaking its texture. One teaspoon is subtle. Two is present and noticeable. More than that risks thinning the emulsion, so stop where it tastes right to you. Keep the bowl in a warm spot while you poach the eggs.
    5. Bring a wide saucepan of water to a gentle simmer. Add a splash of white vinegar. Crack each egg into a small cup first, then slide it into the water near the surface. Poach for 3 minutes for soft yolks. Remove with a slotted spoon and rest briefly on a folded paper towel.
    6. Toast the biscuit halves until golden and slightly crisp at the cut surface. Place two halves on each plate, top each with a poached egg, and spoon the birria hollandaise generously over everything. Finish with sliced green onion, a pinch of flaky salt, and a thin drizzle of extra birria sauce if you want the smokiness more visible on the plate.

    On the hollandaise: If it breaks, don’t discard it. Start with a fresh egg yolk and a teaspoon of cold water in a clean bowl, whisk it over heat until it thickens slightly, then slowly whisk the broken sauce into it as if it were butter. It usually comes back together. This is good information to have before you need it.

    Variations: A slice of ripe avocado between the biscuit and the egg adds creaminess that works well against the acidity of the hollandaise. Smoked paprika dusted lightly over the finished plate reinforces the smoky note without adding heat. The birria hollandaise also works well over roasted asparagus or on a simple vegetable hash if you want to take the brunch in a different direction.

    A Week From One Pot

    What a week of cooking from one sauce teaches you is mostly about restraint and proportion. The birria doesn’t work in every dish because it’s overpowering, but because it’s strong enough to hold itself as a background note when you use it correctly. In the mac and cheese, it’s a deepener. In the ramen, it’s a broth base. In the shakshuka, it’s the primary flavour vehicle. In the cauliflower and potatoes, it becomes a glaze with a character entirely its own. In the tacos, it’s both the seasoning and the dipping sauce, doing two different jobs at different intensities. And in the hollandaise, it replaces a single ingredient and quietly changes the personality of the whole sauce.

    The exercise also clarifies something useful: a good mother sauce should be assertive and almost too flavourful on its own, because it’ll be diluted or shared with other strong ingredients in every application. If the sauce tastes balanced and mild straight from the pot, it’ll disappear in every dish you put it in. You want it to taste slightly intense, slightly complex, slightly like too much, because that’s exactly what you need once it meets everything else in the pan.

    There’s a version of this for every season. Summer calls for the cauliflower steak served room temperature with something sharp and bright on top. Winter calls for the mac and cheese, eaten out of the baking dish on the couch. Autumn calls for the whole potatoes, earthy and sweet and lacquered in that dark glaze. The ramen works at any temperature, any time, when you want something brothy and warm and complicated without any real effort. The tacos are a Friday night thing, something to stand over the pan and eat immediately while the cheese is still pulling. The shakshuka is a quiet weekend ritual that starts to feel like something you own after the second or third time you make it. And the hollandaise is the Sunday send-off, a little more effort than the rest, and worth every minute of it.

    Make the sauce on a Saturday. See where it takes you.s project. Note all these recipes are vegetarian! The sauce comes from Nickskitchen.com

    NOTE: There are also a few other dishes you can make but I wanted to get this article in while the food was fresh in my mind. Here is a bonus chili recipe because why not!

    Black Bean Birria Chili

    Black bean chili has a tendency to taste like it’s trying to be something else. Too much cumin and it reads like taco seasoning. Too many tomatoes and it becomes a soup. The birria sauce fixes both of those problems at once because it already has the complexity built in. What you’re doing here is using it as the spice base rather than building a spice blend from scratch, which means the chili has depth from the first simmer instead of needing an hour to develop it.

    Canned black beans work well here and there’s no shame in using them. Drained, rinsed, and added at the right stage they hold their shape and absorb the birria without turning to paste. If you do have the time and inclination to cook dried beans from scratch, the texture is noticeably better, firmer and creamier at the same time, and the cooking liquid adds another layer to the broth. But this is a chili, not a project, and the canned version is genuinely good.

    The jalapeños are important. They bring a fresh, grassy heat that the dried chile birria base doesn’t have on its own. Add them early for heat without sharpness, or late for that bright, raw edge. Both are correct depending on your preference.

    Ingredients (serves 4):

    • 2 x 400g cans black beans, drained and rinsed (or 400g dried black beans, soaked overnight and cooked until just tender)
    • 1/2 cup birria mother sauce
    • 400g canned whole tomatoes, crushed by hand
    • 2 jalapeños, finely diced (seeds in for more heat, seeds removed for less)
    • 1 medium white onion, diced
    • 4 garlic cloves, minced
    • 1 cup vegetable stock
    • 1 tbsp neutral oil
    • 1 tsp ground cumin
    • 1 tsp smoked paprika
    • Salt, black pepper

    To serve: sour cream, sliced green onion, lime wedges, warm tortillas or cornbread, optional extra fresh jalapeño. I like fresh sliced avocado on mine and sometimes grated cheddar cheese.

    Instructions:

    1. Heat the oil in a heavy-bottomed pot or Dutch oven over medium-high heat. Add the diced onion and cook for 8 to 10 minutes, stirring occasionally, until softened and starting to colour at the edges. You want some browning here. Add the garlic and jalapeños and cook for another 2 minutes until fragrant. If you want the jalapeño heat to mellow and integrate, this is the moment to add them. If you want them to stay bright and sharp, hold them back until step 3.
    2. Add the cumin and smoked paprika directly to the onion mixture and stir for 30 seconds until the spices are toasted and coating everything in the pot. This is a short step but it matters. Raw ground spices added to liquid taste flat. Thirty seconds of dry heat changes them.
    3. Add the crushed tomatoes with their juice and stir to combine, scraping up anything stuck to the base of the pot. Simmer for 5 minutes until the tomatoes have darkened slightly and the mixture looks jammy rather than wet.
    4. Add the birria sauce and vegetable stock. Stir well and bring to a simmer. Taste the base before the beans go in. It should be smoky, slightly spicy, and savoury. If it reads thin or one-dimensional, let it reduce for another 5 minutes uncovered before moving on. If you held back the jalapeños, add them now.
    5. Add the drained black beans. Stir gently to combine without breaking them up. Reduce the heat to medium-low and simmer uncovered for 20 to 25 minutes, stirring occasionally, until the chili has thickened and the beans have absorbed the colour and flavour of the birria base. The consistency should be thick enough that a spoon dragged through the pot leaves a trail that fills in slowly, not immediately.
    6. Taste and adjust. More salt if it reads flat. A small squeeze of lime if it needs brightness. Another teaspoon of birria sauce if you want more smoke. A pinch of chili flakes if the heat has faded more than you’d like.
    7. Serve in deep bowls with a spoonful of sour cream, sliced green onion, and lime wedges alongside. Warm tortillas or a wedge of cornbread on the side for the broth at the bottom of the bowl.

    On the beans: If cooking dried beans from scratch, cook them in well-salted water with a halved onion and a couple of garlic cloves until just tender but not falling apart. Reserve a cup of the cooking liquid and add it in place of some of the vegetable stock. It thickens the chili naturally and adds a quiet earthiness that canned bean liquid can’t replicate.

    On the jalapeños: One jalapeño gives you noticeable warmth. Two gives you genuine heat. If you’re serving people with different heat tolerances, dice one jalapeño in at step 1 and keep the second one sliced fresh on the table as a topping.

    Leftovers: This chili is better the next day without exception. The birria flavour deepens overnight and the beans absorb more of the base. Reheat gently with a splash of stock if it’s thickened too much in the fridge. It also freezes well in portions for up to three months.

    Variations: A small square of dark chocolate, around 70 percent, stirred in during the last five minutes of cooking adds a faint bitterness that rounds out the sweetness of the tomatoes without tasting like dessert. A drained can of fire-roasted tomatoes in place of the plain whole tomatoes pushes the smokiness further if your birria sauce has mellowed slightly from sitting in the fridge.

    If you try any of these recipes, please comment below and let me know what you thought.

    Watch for a full YouTube video to be released soon.

  • The Realities of Living With Knee Pain

    The Realities of Living With Knee Pain

    Let’s Start With Honesty, Not Inspiration

    I’m not going to open this with a transformation story. I don’t have one yet. What I have is a body I haven’t been easy on, two knees that are letting me know it, and the decision—made recently, quietly, without fanfare—that something has to shift.

    Knee pain

    This is the beginning of an ongoing series about rebuilding mobility and physical health in midlife, specifically from home, specifically without the kind of pretend-enthusiasm that fills most wellness content. I’m a gender-queer person in my fifties living on Isla Mujeres in Mexico, and I’ve spent years loving this island’s ocean while increasingly struggling to move around it the way I want to.

    That has to change. So let’s talk about where I actually am before we talk about where I’m going.

    The State of the Knees: Full Accountability

    Both knees are bad. The left one is worse.

    This is a combination of things. Old hockey damage from years ago that healed improperly or just wore in ways that compound over time. The natural deterioration that happens when you’re aging and you’ve put your body through its paces. And—and this is the part I’m not going to hedge around—weight. Carrying more weight than my frame and these joints handle well, for longer than I should have.

    I’d say weight is contributing to maybe seventy-five percent of the current problem. The rest is injury history and age. Both of those I can’t change. The weight situation is more complicated, more gradual, and more within my influence than the other factors.

    Walking is difficult on bad days. Some mornings I get up and I can feel exactly what kind of day it’s going to be from the moment my feet hit the floor. There’s stiffness that doesn’t resolve quickly. Discomfort that changes the way I move through space—shorter steps, more careful navigation of stairs, a hesitation before anything that requires impact.

    I’ve lived with this long enough that some of it stopped registering as abnormal. That’s what chronic discomfort does—it normalizes itself. You adapt your life around it without fully acknowledging that you’ve adapted. You stop walking places you used to walk. You sit when you used to stand. You find workarounds until the workarounds become the default.

    I’m naming this clearly because I think a lot of people reading this know exactly what I mean—and I don’t see it described honestly very often. Most content about knee pain and mobility is either clinical and detached or aggressively optimistic. Neither of those is where I am. I’m somewhere in between: clear-eyed about the problem, realistic about the work required, and tired of the status quo.

    What I’ve Been Doing (Nothing)

    Right now, my movement routine is: nothing.

    No formal exercise. No structured stretching. No deliberate low-impact activity. Walking when I need to walk. Sitting more than is good for me. This is what years of chronic discomfort and a lifestyle that got progressively more sedentary produces.

    This is not a proud admission. It’s also not a shameful one. It’s just where I am, and naming it accurately is the first step toward changing it.

    I’ve had periods in my life of being more active. I’ve had periods where I was more conscious of movement and strength. I know the difference it makes. I’ve let those periods end and not reinitiated them, which is the pattern I’m looking at now.

    The reasons are real: pain creates a disincentive to move. When movement hurts, the rational response is to move less. But less movement leads to weaker supporting muscles, which leads to more pain, which leads to less movement. It’s a loop that tightens quietly until you’re much further from functional than you realized you’d gotten.

    I’m further from functional than I’d like to be. That’s the truth.

    Why Low-Impact Movement Is the Only Realistic Starting Point

    Here’s what I know about starting over with mobility when you have damaged joints: you don’t start where you think you should. You start where you actually are.

    For me, that means low-impact. That means nothing that loads the knees with impact—no running, no jumping, no anything that requires landing on a hard surface with your full weight moving through already-compromised joints. That’s not defeatist. That’s physics.

    What I can do:

    Walking—carefully, gradually, on surfaces that aren’t punishing. The island has good surfaces for this. I have access to beach, which is softer, and to relatively flat streets. Short distances. Consistent frequency. Not intensity—frequency.

    Water movement. I have the Caribbean. I have access to some of the most beautiful snorkeling water in the world, and moving in water takes significant load off the joints while still engaging the body. This is something I already love. This is something I’m going to use deliberately.

    Chair-based and floor-based mobility work. Stretching. Strengthening the muscles around the knees—specifically the quads, hamstrings, and hip stabilizers—which takes pressure off the joint itself. This is foundational work that doesn’t require equipment and doesn’t require impact.

    That’s the beginning. Modest. Deliberate. Consistent.

    Weight, Honestly

    This is the part I want to get through without either glossing over it or turning it into a self-flagellation exercise.

    Weight is a significant factor in knee joint health. This is not opinion—it’s mechanics. Every pound of body weight exerts multiple pounds of force on the knee joint under load. For someone who is significantly overweight with already damaged joints, this is not a minor consideration. It’s central.

    I’m not going to give you numbers because the numbers aren’t the point. The point is that I know—I have known for a long time—that my weight is contributing heavily to this problem and I’ve done very little about it consistently.

    Part of this is the loop I already described: pain reducing movement, reduced movement contributing to weight, weight contributing to pain. Part of it is emotional eating that I understand intellectually but haven’t always managed well in practice. Part of it is living somewhere where food is social and joyful and the local cuisine is genuinely wonderful and moderation has not always been where I’ve landed.

    I’m not starting a dramatic dietary overhaul. I’ve done that enough times to know that dramatic overhauls produce dramatic short-term results and then relapse. What I’m doing instead is starting to eat more deliberately. More consciously. Less reactively.

    Less food that serves an emotional function and more food that serves a physical one. Not deprivation—I’m not built for deprivation and I don’t believe in it—but consciousness. Attention. Choosing what I put in my body the way I’m trying to choose everything else: with some awareness of what it’s actually doing for me.

    What Rebuilding Actually Looks Like in Practice

    Let me be concrete about what the beginning of this looks like, because I think concrete is more useful than aspirational.

    Week one: Getting up from sitting at least every hour. Walking to the water at least once a day—not fast, not far. Starting. Just starting.

    The first movement routine: Fifteen to twenty minutes in the morning before the heat sets in. Seated stretches for the hips and hamstrings. Slow knee extensions. Gentle quad sets—contracting the muscle, holding, releasing. This is not a workout. This is a conversation with a body I’ve been neglecting.

    Water movement: At least two swims per week. The Caribbean is right there. Using it. Not just as background to my life—as active therapy.

    Daily tracking: I’m going to track pain levels, movement, and what I ate—not obsessively but honestly. If I can’t see the baseline I can’t measure the change.

    None of this is impressive. None of this is Instagram-worthy. But this is what rebuilding looks like when you’re starting from zero: not the progress photos and the before-and-after, but the moment before any of that, when you decide to actually show up for yourself in the least glamorous possible way.

    What I’m Not Going to Do

    I’m not going to pretend I’m twenty-five.

    I see a lot of midlife wellness content that sort of winks at aging while actually presenting a fantasy of defeating it. People in their fifties doing CrossFit and hot yoga and triathlons with the implication that if you just try hard enough you can operate like a thirty-year-old with a thirty-year-old’s joints.

    That’s not the game I’m playing. My knees are what they are. My age is what it is. The goal is not to reverse time—the goal is to function well in the time I have. To walk without wincing. To snorkel without dreading the getting-in and getting-out. To move through my days on this island with more ease than I currently have.

    Functional. Not impressive. Functional.

    I think that’s an honest and useful bar for a lot of us in midlife—especially those of us carrying old injuries or dealing with the real physical reality of aging bodies. We’re not competing with anyone. We’re trying to live well. Those are different projects with different metrics.

    The Ongoing Series: What’s Coming

    This is the first post in what’s going to be an ongoing series. I’ll be checking in on Patreon with more frequent updates—real ones, including the days when I don’t move and the days when moving hurt and the days when something shifts and I can feel it. The actual record, not the curated highlight.

    Saturday Morning Coffee is where this will get discussed live. I show up every week with coffee and whoever wants to be there, and we talk about whatever’s real. Mobility and health and aging are going to be part of that conversation regularly from here forward.

    The YouTube content is coming too—short pieces about specific exercises I’m trying, what’s working and what isn’t, honest check-ins on progress. Nothing polished. Just real.

    What I’m building here—across all these platforms—is a record of someone in midlife doing the actual work of rebuilding. Not the inspirational version. The honest version.

    If you’re somewhere similar, I hope it’s useful to see someone else in it with you.

    Why This Matters Beyond Just Knees

    Here’s the thing I want to say before I close this out.

    Physical health and emotional health are not separate systems running on parallel tracks. They’re the same system. When I’ve been in relationships that depleted me emotionally, my physical health has suffered. When I’ve been sedentary and in pain, my mood and my mental clarity have suffered. When I’m not sleeping well because my joints are uncomfortable, everything else degrades.

    This isn’t a metaphor. It’s literally how bodies work.

    What I’m starting here—with knees, with movement, with deliberate attention to what I’m eating and how I’m moving—is not separate from everything else I’m rebuilding. It’s the same project. The same decision to stop waiting to feel better before I do the things that will make me feel better.

    You can’t always wait for the right conditions. Sometimes you have to create them, imperfectly, starting from wherever you actually are.

    I’m starting from here. From real. From the beginning.

    Let’s see where it goes.

    I’m tracking this whole process on Patreon—pain levels, movement logs, what’s actually helping, and what isn’t. If you want the honest ongoing record and not just the blog highlights, that’s where it lives. And join me for Saturday Morning Coffee every week—live, unscripted, and always real. Links below.

  • Murphy Riding Shotgun!

    Murphy Riding Shotgun!

    I’ve known about Murphy’s Law most of my adult life. Long before I ever named it, called it out, I felt it. That quiet, familiar sense that when things start to line up in life, something will eventually lean in and knock it all sideways, just to see how we handle it.

    Murphy didn’t arrive suddenly. He was there early on, before I had language for patterns or nervous systems or self-protection. He showed up when I was young enough to think my only real power was withdrawal.

    I was in grade five or six when my parents started talking about divorce. It was always explosive. My mother did not like my dads drinking, he did not like her controlling. Hard adult conversations vibrating through walls, half-heard sentences that carried more weight than they were meant to. I remember being angry. I wanted my school letter. I had worked hard, soccer volleyball choir, librarian. I wanted to stay on my teams, stay inside the rhythm of what I knew. And instead, adults talked, hesitated, changed their minds.

    So I made mine.

    I pulled myself out of everything. Sports. Groups. Anything that required commitment or a future version of me. I didn’t make a scene. I didn’t explain myself. I just quietly disappeared from places where I felt exposed. I don’t think anyone noticed but me.

    At the time it felt like control. Like fairness, almost. If the ground was going to move, I’d move first. Protection from the storm.

    The thing is my parents never divorced. They stayed together until they both passed. I prepared for something that never happened. I lost things I didn’t actually have to lose. And I didn’t understand then that anticipating pain can quietly cost you real experiences, not just imagined ones.

    Water mattered even then. Not pools. Never pools. I stepped on a thumbtack at the YMCA once and that was enough for a lifetime. It was always natural bodies of water. Lakes. Rivers. The ocean when I could finally reach it. Places where sound softened and thoughts slowed. In the water, my body didn’t brace. It just existed.

    Then came the move. From Stroud to Toronto.

    I felt that loss immediately. There was no easing into it. No slow adjustment. It landed hard and stayed. I knew, even then, that I was forever changed. That move cracked something open and started the deepest insecurity I’ve ever known. Everything familiar was gone at once. The town. The identity. The sense of being known without explanation.

    No hockey. No school sports. No structure I understood. I was left without the things I knew how to be inside of. That loss mattered more than I admitted at the time.

    Sam and Dad

    Somewhere in there, I also knew something else about myself. I was queer. I didn’t have the word yet, but I had the knowing. And I knew just as clearly that it wasn’t something I could share. Not there. Not then. So I learned how to compartmentalize early. To hide one truth while trying to survive another.

    I would be nearly 26 when I finally came out. Finally admitted to those who cared who would stand by me or spit in my face. I am not the first and likely not the worst story, but that was a shame I felt before I saw it differently. I still feel a sense of shame around the difference.

    That’s why the rockers made sense to me in high school. Music. The edges. A place where I could stay hidden and still belong. Music let me feel without explaining. It gave me a way to exist without being interrogated. I could disappear into it and still be seen enough. Plus words and music I mean come on. You can vicariously live there. Finf the words to describe feelings you did not know you were having. I found an identity in music.

    When I was eighteen, Murphy made himself known again. Smoking hash at the exhibition. Getting caught. A notice to appear. On paper, it was minor. I even enjoyed the community service. I appreciated the experience. But something settled in after that. The understanding that one moment, one decision, could echo longer than expected. Especially when records, authority, and borders are involved.

    I don’t think it made me vigilant. I don’t experience myself that way. It made me accepting. Accepting that things can go sideways. That life doesn’t always reward intention. That sometimes momentum carries consequences whether you like it or not.

    Then came 2012.

    That was the year Murphy screamed so loud I lost it all.

    Trying to secure a TN1 visa in the U.S., one stark decision upended my life. My apartment in Woodland Hills. A relationship that was just blossoming. A version of myself that felt settled, even if imperfect. Gone. Not slowly. Abruptly. I had a cushion in Toronto., its always going to be where I am from. I could land there. But Los Angeles was gone. The life I had built there vanished in a way that didn’t feel proportional to the moment that triggered it.

    I didn’t dramatize it, but I don’t minimize it either. That kind of loss doesn’t come with a clean ending. There’s no neat chapter break. It doesn’t wrap itself up in meaning right away. It just changes the direction of your life and asks you to keep moving, even when you’re not ready, even when part of you is still standing in the doorway of what you thought you had.

    That experience taught me something dangerous. That stability can disappear without warning. That preparation might be the only leverage you have. Or so I told myself.

    And still, water kept pulling me forward. Natural water. Beaches. The ocean whenever I could reach it. In the water, I wasn’t replaying decisions or scanning for what might go wrong. I was just breathing. Floating. Letting the noise settle. I didn’t know it then, but that was regulation. That was my nervous system finding neutral. It is there I discovered Mexico and Isla Mujeres.

    Which is why I’m writing this now.

    I’m in Mexico, working toward permanent residency, and the process stirred something familiar. Not panic. Recognition, and potential preparation. The last two years haven’t been easy. Not because everything has gone wrong, but because I haven’t always felt connected to life in meaningful ways. I cocooned. Built protection around myself. Avoided instead of engaging. Blocked things out until they hit hard enough that I couldn’t anymore.

    I followed the steps. I did what I could. And still that old sense crept in. The feeling that if something can wobble, it will. Not because I expect failure, but because experience taught me not to be surprised by it.

    This is where I had to stop and ask myself something uncomfortable.

    Why do I catalogue disasters but gloss over proof that things can — and do — work out?

    I have evidence. Real evidence. Not motivational quotes. Lived proof.

    Temporary residency here went through with barely a ripple. Minor hiccups. Human moments. Nothing catastrophic. No doors slammed shut. And yet my mind barely archived it. It didn’t linger. It didn’t soften the story I default to when I assess risk.

    Why does my brain highlight the moments that broke me and fast-forward past the ones that carried me?

    I’ve always flown by the seat of my pants. And honestly, I’ve had an incredible life. I’ve seen and done things I never imagined I would. I’ve moved cities, countries, identities, careers. I learned to move forward even when I was terrified, trusting that momentum itself might carry me somewhere solid.

    I remember landing in Los Angeles with no housing lined up. Incorrectly booked flights. Delays. Nowhere to go. Murphy in full form. And then — people. Someone opening their door. Someone saying, “You’ll be okay. Stay here tonight.” A hotel. A room. A life slowly assembling itself out of chaos.

    Those moments didn’t just save logistics. They saved me.

    They matter. They deserve as much weight as the ones that broke me.

    So here it is, without irony or deflection. Thank you.

    To the people who stepped in when I was untethered.

    To the ones who offered help without explanation or expectation.

    To the friendships and connections that came from chaos instead of despite it.

    I wouldn’t be here without you. And I don’t forget that, even when fear tries to rewrite the story.

    I found my groove in LA. A social side of myself I didn’t know how much I needed. Sunday fundays. A tribe. I was home there in a way I didn’t recognize until it was gone. Losing it felt like being cheated, not just out of a place, but out of a version of myself that trusted life more than I do now.

    Work was always there. For most of my career, I could find it wherever I landed. I built something portable. Remote before it was normal. Capable. Independent. I learned I could rely on myself. That I always had myself.

    But time changes the rules. This isn’t twenty years ago. And somewhere in that shift, my confidence softened. Still there, but quieter. More reflective. Less certain.

    I don’t know what I tie my worth to anymore. I know I have a good heart. I believe in equality. I try to support people when their hearts are good, even if I don’t fully understand their path. I’ve created Sam and lost Sam more times than I can count.

    In relationships, I lose myself. I want to be who they see. I forget they liked who I was when we met. I want people to be happy. I want to be liked. And somewhere in that effort, I disappear.

    Being left feels like rejection. Being fully seen feels terrifying too. Both live in me.

    Mexico gives me something nowhere else does. Proximity to marine life. To the ocean. It excites and intrigues me as much as it scares me. Seeing it gives me genuine pleasure. And still, somehow, I took it from myself by pulling away.

    I stopped early swims. Long walks. Headphones and salt water. Paddleboarding. I isolated myself. I don’t have a good excuse. I miss it. And I know that’s where I center myself emotionally. It always has been.

    There’s also my body in all of this, and I haven’t talked about that enough yet.

    I’m not young anymore, and I don’t say that with bitterness. I say it with awareness. My body holds history now. Injuries. Fatigue. Recovery that takes longer than it used to. But it also holds memory — ocean memory, balance memory, the knowing of how to float and how to read water without fighting it.

    When I stopped going into the ocean regularly, something in me dulled. It happened slowly. Fewer early mornings. More staying in. More isolation disguised as rest. I told myself I was protecting my energy, but what I was really doing was disconnecting from the one place that reliably brought me back to myself.

    Safety and aliveness are not the same thing.

    The ocean has never asked me to perform. It doesn’t care about my past decisions, my paperwork, my income, or my productivity. It responds to presence. To attention. To respect.

    That’s the relationship I want with the rest of my life now.

    There’s a feeling I’ve carried for years. Hands steady. Eyes forward. Knowing you can’t control the road but refusing to let go of the wheel. And another feeling just as real that says not every moment requires bracing. Sometimes you ride what comes. Sometimes you stop fighting the current and let it move through you.

    Those two states live side by side in me. They always have.

    Residency is pending now. Paperwork. Timelines. Decisions that exist outside my control. In the past, this is where my mind would start running scenarios. If this happens, then that. If that falls through, then I lose everything. The sky is always falling somewhere in those versions of the future.

    But this time feels different.

    I’m not pretending nothing could go wrong. That wouldn’t be honest. What’s different is that I’m not assigning catastrophe to uncertainty anymore. I’ve done the work. I’ve shown up. I’ve followed the steps. I’ve been honest, consistent, and clear about what I want and how I live.

    If this works — and I believe it will — Baja feels like the next natural shoreline.

    Not an escape. Not a reset. A continuation.

    Two oceans. Completely different energies. Marine mammals moving through ancient routes that have nothing to do with me. Mornings dictated by tide and light instead of screens and schedules. Learning to surf properly, not to conquer anything, just to understand timing and patience. Paddleboarding when the water allows it. Letting my body get stronger without forcing it.

    I see myself documenting instead of chasing. Observing instead of consuming. Living close enough to the water that I don’t forget who I am when I’m away from it too long. Earning through work that feels aligned — creative projects, clients I actually connect with, content that respects the places it comes from. Less noise. Less proving. More continuity.

    And if it doesn’t work — if Murphy clears his throat and reminds me that nothing is guaranteed — then what?

    Then I adapt.

    I don’t disappear. I don’t lose myself. I don’t start from zero. I adjust course and land somewhere that still makes sense for who I am now, not who I was twenty years ago. I’ve done it before, even when I didn’t believe I could. Even when I thought I’d lost everything.

    That’s the truth Murphy can’t rewrite.

    I’m not asking for a life without disruption. I’m asking for a life where disruption doesn’t erase me. Where change doesn’t mean collapse. Where uncertainty doesn’t automatically translate into loss.

    Water taught me that.

    You don’t fight it. You read it. You move with it. You trust that staying present matters more than predicting the next wave.

    That’s where I am now.

    Pending residency. Pending future. Grounded anyway.

    Murphy can still ride shotgun if he wants.He wont be narrating any longer. And that feels like freedom!

  • Island Life Without a Tribe

    Island Life Without a Tribe

    The Emptiness of Not Connecting

    There’s a kind of isolation that doesn’t come from being alone — it comes from being somewhere you chose, living a life you worked for, and still feeling like you’re standing just outside the firelight.

    It’s not dramatic. It’s not cinematic. It’s quieter, heavier, more personal.

    It’s waking up in paradise and wondering why your soul feels like it’s sitting one seat away from the table.

    The sun hits the ocean right. Salt on skin feels familiar. The wind carries laughter, engines, music from passing golf carts. Life here is alive.

    And yet there’s a part of me hovering — almost like my spirit hasn’t fully landed where my body is.

    That’s where I am.

    I’m on a Caribbean island. Warm water, trade winds, sunsets most people would pay to see once in their life. A place that should be connection-rich, community-forward, magnetic and alive.

    And I’m grateful — I truly am. I know beauty when I see it. I know privilege when I live it. Yet here I am… feeling more disconnected than I ever have.

    Not lonely because I don’t like people. Not isolated because I shut myself off. But because somewhere along the road — I stopped fitting into the world the way I used to. It feels like nobody wants to be my friend.

    There’s no moment I can point to. No dramatic pivot. No big loss of identity. It was slower — subtle — like erosion. Like the tide pulling sand from underfoot until the earth beneath you changes shape.

    And the truth is, I don’t know when that happened. But I feel it every single day — in my heart, in my soul.

    I Chose This Distance — and It Still Surprises Me

    The truth is, I’m not a victim of circumstance here. I chose this life.

    I left my tribe — not because I didn’t love them, not because I didn’t want their companionship, but because adventure felt necessary. Growth felt necessary. Freedom called louder than familiarity ever did. From an early age.

    First Toronto to LA. Then LA back to Canada. Then here to Isla.

    Each move a leap. Each chapter a reinvention. Each goodbye a little tear in the fabric, even if I didn’t feel it fully at the time.

    Some relationships held — the lifers, the ones who know my layers. Shannon, Renee, Gina, Shann and Erica.

    Some became friendly digital echoes — Facebook updates and “miss you” messages that keep history alive without ever touching the present.

    And others stayed behind in memory… chapters closed, not bitter, just finished. Life’s just foolish like that.

    I’ve slowly realized that choosing a bigger life sometimes means choosing solitude as well.

    And for the most part, I’ve embraced that and sought out new tribe mates. I like being different. I like that I built my world on my terms.

    But this loneliness? This quiet? This sense of being emotionally unmoored? This territory feels new — and I won’t pretend it doesn’t sting.

    Coming back to Isla after COVID, after the isolation of Toronto’s lockdown still stuck to my bones — heartache imminent on the horizon and grief in my pockets —

    I wanted to fall back into something familiar here. To reconnect with the spark I once felt on this island. Maybe even save the relationship.

    But life doesn’t rewind just because we remember the past fondly. People change. Places shift. Energies evolve.

    Maybe the version of me who fit here before belonged to a world that doesn’t exist anymore — not on this island, and not inside me. Though I clung to it.

    And so I’m learning what it means to choose solitude, only to realise solitude chose me right back.

    That’s the part no one warns you about — that even intention has consequences. Even courage can echo.

    Isolation That Doesn’t Ask Permission

    This wasn’t chosen solitude. I wasn’t seeking stillness. I wasn’t craving quiet. I needed something different — and yet here it is.

    It isn’t dramatic. It isn’t glamorous. It doesn’t feel like the “hero wandering alone” trope.

    It feels like waking up and thinking, I used to know where I fit. I used to feel tethered. What changed?

    It feels like trying — really trying — to connect and realizing intention doesn’t always equal connection.

    It feels like being seen, but not met. A gentle ache, not a wound. An awareness, not despair. A pause, not a collapse. But real nonetheless.

    There’s a humility in admitting that. A soft surrender. Not to defeat — but to truth.

    A Storm No One Saw

    People talk about COVID like a logistics event. Masks. Travel rules. Supply chains. But the real pandemic happened inside people — in the fault lines we didn’t know existed.

    During those early months, my relationship unraveled slowly — not with explosions, but with quiet erosion. A year of dissolving, piece by piece, understanding that love doesn’t always equal longevity.

    There was pain, yes, but also truth in letting go. She never loved me, never wanted our connection — our friendship — the relationship I felt in my heart.

    And then — in the middle of that emotional exhaustion — my brother passed away.

    Not a distant loss. Not a chapter you can close politely. A loss that leaves you feeling more alone despite the complicated lack of knowing each other deeply.

    I carried those losses into everything that came next. Living here, what I wanted for my life, and how my heart shut down.

    There is a version of grief where you don’t collapse — you keep moving because stillness is too sharp.

    You build. You distract. You plan. You try to outpace the ache. Grief waits. It always does.

    And when borders opened and flights resumed and I stepped back onto Isla, I didn’t just arrive with luggage —

    I arrived with heartbreak and absence stitched into my bones. I thought the ocean would hold me. I thought sunlight could knit me back together. I thought the place that once felt right would feel right again. I thought I’d find her again and she would save me.

    I was wrong.

    Grief doesn’t obey geography. And belonging doesn’t always come back just because we remember it fondly.

    Some pain follows you. Some lessons unpack slowly.

    Some seasons don’t end where you expect them to.

    The Return That Didn’t Click

    I expected to reconnect with the rhythm I once had here. To fall back into easy friendships, new creative energy, conversations that felt like possibility.

    Instead, I walked back into a familiar room where all the furniture had been moved. Same walls, same sky, same ocean. Different frequency….

    The island didn’t reject me. But it didn’t catch me either.

    There’s a particular ache in being somewhere beautiful and feeling a step removed from it. Not ungrateful — just unanchored. Not unhappy — just unheld.

    I tried. I showed up. I invited, reached out, joined in, stepped forward.

    I didn’t hide. I didn’t isolate. Connection just… didn’t land. The energy that once found me here didn’t recognize me this time. Or maybe I didn’t recognize myself enough to be found.

    Sometimes we outgrow spaces before we realize we’ve evolved.

    The Work Is Still Here, Even If the Noise Isn’t

    Here’s the thing — I haven’t stopped working. I won’t. I’ve just shifted focus.

    I’m building: ShiverMedia. Salty Blue. My personal brand. Projects. Templates. Content. Helping Tammy build her platform. Client work when it comes. New systems. New strategies.

    Foundation work. Deep work. Work people don’t see until it blooms. I don’t resist effort. Effort built me. Discipline never intimidated me — silence does.

    Because work fills time, but connection fuels spirit. And right now, the work is happening — but the world around it feels thin. That’s not failure. That’s… in-between.

    The season where seeds grow roots before they break the surface. The quiet phase. The internal muscle building before momentum arrives.

    Distance in Love, Distance in Life

    Two years ago, I met Tammy, from Indiana, travels regularly to a Isla. Tammy live currently in Vegas.

    Life placed her there — responsibility, family, health, timing. Not conflict — circumstance. Loss. Duty.

    We are solid. We are committed. We are building in parallel. But distance changes the sound of days.

    When your life already feels a bit unanchored, being physically apart from the person who sees you most clearly sharpens the quiet.

    Love holds. But distance leaves room. And the room echoes.Not doubt — just longing. Stretched across time, flight routes, and ocean. I don’t resent it. I just feel it.

    Maybe this island was meant to be a sacred pause — a place to grieve, to shed, to face truth, and then to launch toward the next horizon.

    Sometimes stillness is not stagnation — it’s alignment gathering strength.

    When Solitude Stops Feeling Like Strength

    I’m good alone — Solo Sam, always have been. I don’t need crowds or chaos or constant stimulation. I don’t chase noise.

    But this isn’t chosen quiet — it’s quiet that lingers even when I reach for connection.

    I’ve tried here. I’ve opened doors. I’ve said yes when I didn’t feel like it. I’ve shown up.

    Yet connection… floats. Conversation lands politely but not deeply. People are kind; sometimes they feel performative — but ultimately, the fit simply isn’t here.

    It’s like tuning a radio station that’s a half-second off the rhythm of your heartbeat.

    And acknowledging that stings as much as it steadies me.

    It’s not that I can’t belong. It’s that I won’t force belonging where resonance doesn’t live.

    When Life Isn’t Aligned, It Lets You Know

    I’ve lived long enough to know this: When I’m not on the right path, life resists. Not violently. Not as punishment. Just subtly, steadily — slightly off-axis.

    Momentum stalls. Opportunities slip by. Energy drains. Even small tasks feel uphill.

    Confidence flickers in ways it never did before.

    That’s where I am — not broken, just out of sync with the life that fits me best.

    This isn’t weakness. It’s awareness. 

    I am not fully where I’m meant to be — yet.

    And when I’m off-path, I feel it in my bones. The world becomes friction instead of flow.

    That’s why the search for work has been harder — not because I don’t have value or skill or drive, but because the right fit hasn’t appeared. I refuse to contort myself into misalignment just to ease discomfort.

    Same with love.

    No doubt, no regret — just the ache of knowing we belong together, just not like this, not here, not yet.

    We aren’t broken.

    We’re waiting for the right door to open — and building until it does.

    I don’t force belonging — not in geography, not in career, not in love.

    Out of sorts doesn’t mean off track — it means recalibrating.

    This season isn’t collapse.

    It’s compass-work.

    The uncomfortable clarity that comes before the shift.

    And when truth arrives, I don’t ignore it — I move.

    Quiet Resolve

    This isn’t a goodbye letter to the island. Though I am seeking other destinations, there is no resentment or regret. Just truth.

    I expected belonging. Instead, I found introspection. TAnd maybe that’s exactly what this chapter needed to be.

    I’m here. I’m breathing ocean air. I’m working. I’m healing. I’m relearning myself after grief, disruption, and loss.

    And when the tide turns — whether here or elsewhere — I’ll move with it.

    Not out of desperation, but alignment.

    Because I trust myself. I trust the seasons. I trust truth. And I trust the ocean enough to know: the tide always returns something.

    Until then — I will stand where I am, grounded and honest, eyes on the horizon, heart open, work steady, and spirit intact.

    Trust in the tide while I find my bearings and my tribe.

  • Hate is an Ugly Thing

    Hate is an Ugly Thing

    By Someone Who’s Had Enough of It

    I. The Ugliness of Hate

    Hate isn’t just loud. It’s corrosive. It latches on to the fearful, the insecure, the lazy-minded, and festers until it becomes part of their identity. It’s not born out of righteousness. It’s born out of weakness—a desperate scramble for superiority in a world where their relevance feels threatened.

    I’ve experienced hate as a gender queer member of the LGBTQ+ community. Not for anything I’ve done, but for who I am. For existing outside of someone else’s fragile definition of “normal.” This is not a sob story. It’s a statement of fact. Sadly, Im not the only one and it’s far from the first or the last time.

    hate is ugly

    This time, the hate has a face. A name. A social media account. A man clinging to his bitterness like a shield, lobbing lies and slurs my way to make sense of his own failure as a human being.

    But zoom out—and you see this isn’t about him. It’s about the world we’ve built that lets people like him thrive. Loud, hateful people are getting elected, applauded, and platformed. And while they rant about morals and freedom, they actively work to dismantle both while dehumanizing those they hate so much.

    II. One Example in a Long Line

    The man I’m referencing doesn’t know me. He never has. We’ve never shared a meal, never had a conversation, never exchanged anything real. Never met! And yet, I’ve become a character in his personal fiction—a villain that helps explain why his life isn’t where he wants it to be.

    He throws slurs at my identity, my appearance, my ethics—none of which he understands. None of which are any of his business. What little he does know is filtered through the lens of resentment and ego. His narrative isn’t truth; it’s a weapon.

    This isn’t the first time I’ve been someone else’s scapegoat. When you live openly, unapologetically—gender queer, tattooed, liberal, independent—you become a target. That’s the truth. The more visible you are, the more vulnerable you are to people who hate what they don’t understand.

    III. Hate Isn’t New—But It’s Louder Now

    There’s something different about today’s hate, though. It’s louder. Bolder. Less ashamed. Once whispered in private, it’s now screamed on social media, into school boards, at Pride parades, and through legislation.

    We live in a time where truth is optional, but outrage is mandatory.

    People with no real education or experience in public policy are getting elected because they’re “angry like us.” They don’t campaign on solutions. They campaign on enemies. And people cheer.

    Once “We the People” meant collective responsibility. Now it’s devolved into “Me the Electee”—a new breed of politician that governs with revenge, not representation. They’re not civil servants. They’re petty kings, ruling over social media empires and local town halls with cruelty disguised as conviction.

    IV. When Hate Is on the Ballot

    When people vote based on who they hate rather than who they hope for, democracy suffers. We see it in the banning of books, the rollback of rights, the silencing of teachers, journalists, doctors and the way the media clings to views/sensationalism. We see it in states where healthcare is denied based on gender identity, where protesting is criminalized but bigotry is cheered

    We see it when grown adults obsess over children’s chosen pronouns but ignore their access to food or safety. When political campaigns run on ignoring climate change, demonizing immigrants, queer kids, and public workers while handing tax cuts to corporations that underpay/outsorce workers.

    Hate isn’t just ugly. It’s policy now.

    who is on the ballot

    And the architects of that hate—men like the one attacking me—don’t feel shame. They feel empowered. Because we’ve stopped rewarding empathy and started electing resentment. The problem lies with the voter. They can chose or not chose hate.

    V. The Cost of Being Different

    To be different in this world is to be seen as a threat. Not because you are—but because your existence forces others to confront their smallness.

    When you are queer, or Black, or trans, or immigrant, or poor, or follow a different spititual belief—or any combination of the above—your body becomes a battleground for someone else’s insecurities.

    You get questioned, policed, misgendered, harassed, fired, in some instances, even killed—not for doing something wrong, but for being “other.”

    I’ve lived it. I’ve felt the subtle slights and the blatant insults. I’ve been the target of online comments and whispered rumors. I’ve had my work dismissed, my character attacked, my humanity debated.

    And yet, I’m still here. Still creating. Still loving. Still building something real. Because I and all others who are the targets of hate, we have the exact same rights as you. We are all equal.

    VI. A Culture of Excuses

    The man harassing me isn’t alone. He’s just one of many. A symptom, not the disease.

    We’ve created a culture where people are more comfortable excusing their failures by blaming others than owning their choices. It’s easier to say “the world’s gone woke” than it is to say “I didn’t do the work.” It’s easier to blame immigrants than to ask why healthcare is so expensive. Easier to scapegoat trans kids than to admit the education system is underfunded.

    The lie is easier than the truth when the truth requires effort.

    And so people fall into tribes. MAGA hats become armour. Conspiracy theories become gospel. And empathy? Empathy becomes weakness.

    But here’s the thing—“woke” is not the insult they think it is. If being woke means being aware that injustice exists and caring enough to want it to change, why is that bad? Since when did paying attention to suffering become something to sneer at? Isn’t the whole point of community—of humanity—to look out for each other?

    The same people throwing “woke” around as a slur often claim to be good Christians. Yet wasn’t it Jesus who said, love thy neighbour? Who taught compassion, humility, and kindness as cornerstones of faith? How does mocking the vulnerable, cutting social programs, or demonizing entire groups of people fit with treat others as you wish to be treated?

    The hypocrisy is staggering. Helping others isn’t weakness; it’s strength. Empathy isn’t some liberal agenda—it’s supposed to be a human instinct. But somewhere along the way, caring got rebranded as weakness, and cruelty got mistaken for honesty.

    And that’s the real sickness. Not just the hate, but the pride people take in wearing it like a badge.

    VII. The Quiet Resistance

    Gratefully, for all the noise, the hate, the lies—there are still people quietly building a better world.

    resistance

    Teachers who risk their jobs to support LGBTQ+ kids. Nurses who care for every patient regardless of politics. Artists, creators, organizers, thinkers—those who refuse to let cruelty define us.

    And it’s not just individuals working in quiet corners. There are entire movements and leaders dedicating their lives to pushing back against hate.

    • The Southern Poverty Law Center (splcenter.org) tracks and exposes hate groups while advocating for civil rights across the U.S.
    • The Trevor Project (thetrevorproject.org) provides crisis support and suicide prevention for LGBTQ+ youth, often becoming literally life-saving.
    • The Human Rights Campaign (hrc.org) fights discriminatory legislation and pushes for equality in workplaces, schools, and communities.

    In Canada:

    • Egale Canada (egale.ca) works globally and nationally to improve lives of LGBTQI2S people, running initiatives like youth shelters, legal challenges against harmful policies, and school education programs 
    • Canadian Anti-Hate Network (antihate.ca) monitors hate and far‑right groups, provides resources to law enforcement and media, and is rated high for factual reporting and credibility  .

    Public figures choosing integrity over applause:

    • Vice President Kamala Harris (kamalaharris.org) uses her platform to defend voting rights, reproductive rights, and marginalized communities—often at personal political risk.
    • Rachel Maddow (msnbc.com/rachel-maddow-show) pursues fact-based journalism, resisting division-driven media trends.
    • Jagmeet Singh (ndp.ca/jagmeet), leader of Canada’s NDP, speaks out against racism, Islamophobia, and inequality.
    • Geraldine Charette, co-founder of Black Lives Matter Toronto, advocates for systemic reform and racial justice.

    These organizations and leaders are firmly committed to equality, justice, and inclusion. They operate transparently, have strong public track records, and are focused on broad human rights—not narrow causes or divisive rhetoric. No credible ties to extremist or nefarious agendas were found in reliable sources during vetting.

    We don’t always make headlines. We don’t always win. But we endure. We stay human in a world that begs us to dehumanize each other.

    We choose facts over fiction. Connection over chaos. Truth over tribalism.

    Because the alternative—the one chosen by those who fuel hate—is nothing but rot. Choosing to attack, demean, and devalue others doesn’t just show ugliness; it spreads it. It poisons communities, erodes trust, and leaves nothing but bitterness in its wake. Every time someone spits a slur instead of offering understanding, every time they lash out instead of listening, they are part of the very thing they claim to despise.

    So yes, we choose to live fully, even when others try to reduce us to a slur. Because to do otherwise would be to let them win. And the world is still full of people willing to fight for better, even if they don’t always shout about it.

    VIII. A Final Word to the Haters

    To the man who thinks his words will break me: they won’t. Others before have tried and failed.

    To the system that rewards cruelty: I see you. We all see you.

    To anyone reading this and nodding in silence because you, too, have been targeted just for existing—I’m with you. May others are with you. Stand strong. Hate cant win.

    And to those who keep showing up, who fight for equality, peace, and love when it would be easier to stay quiet—I stand with you. To the teachers who protect every child, no matter who they are. To the nurses who treat everyone with dignity. To the activists who march, the lawyers who defend, the journalists who tell the truth, and the neighbours who simply choose kindness—you are proof that humanity isn’t lost.

    This isn’t about being the bigger person. It’s about being the real one. The whole one. The one who doesn’t need to invent enemies to feel valid.

    I’m not a victim. I’m a mirror. And what you see in me that you hate—that’s your own reflection, not mine.

    You can lie, scream, and posture all you want. However, HATE IS AN UGLY THING. And no matter how loudly you wear it, it will never make you beautiful.

    Here’s to everyone who refuses to wear it at all. Here’s to those who keep choosing empathy, truth, and love even when it’s hard. You are the future, and you are what’s worth fighting for.

    Sources

    ✅ Egale Canada
    • Canada’s leading 2SLGBTQI advocacy group, involved in research, legal challenges, education, and supporting LGBTQ+ youth safety—recently pulled participation from U.S. events due to anti-trans policies  .
    • Recognized by Charity Intelligence Canada; while spending transparency is rated average, their scope and longevity affirm legitimacy  .
    ✅ Canadian Anti‑Hate Network
    • Founded in 2018, non-partisan, antifascist nonprofit; surveys and reports on hate groups, supports law enforcement and educators  .
    • Rated “High” for factual reporting, no failed fact checks in 5 years  .
    ✅ Jagmeet Singh
     — Leader of Canada’s NDP
    • Globally recognized for confronting racism and Islamophobia; called Canada’s recent London, ON attack “our Canada” and proclaimed “We don’t need that kind of racism in Canada”  .
    • Announced federal NDP plans to combat hate and increase measures against Islamophobia and racism  .
    ✅ Geraldine Charette, BLM Toronto
    • Co-founded Black Lives Matter Toronto; long-standing advocacy for systemic reform and racial justice in Canada (I couldn’t find a direct media profile, but her public work as illustrator and activist confirms her credibility) ().
  • This Isn’t How I Thought It Would Be

    This Isn’t How I Thought It Would Be

    This isn’t the version of my life I imagined I’d be writing about.

    Not at this age. Not after everything I’ve learned, everything I’ve done.

    But here we are—at the backline of midlife, neck-deep in a career pivot with a wallet that’s lighter than it should be, a heart still full of fire, and a head that won’t stop asking:

    “Why the hell is this so hard?”

    Let’s just call it what it is: rebuilding a life, a career, a lifetime of experience—after spending years doing work that I was good at but not always proud of—is complicated.

    I’m not new to this game. I’ve helped companies rake in more than six figures a day. I’ve built email programs that converted cold leads into memberships faster than most people could write a subject line. I’ve seen the inside of success. I’ve tasted it. I’ve run with it.

    And I’ve also attempted to walk away from it. Always returning for the ALMIGHTY DOLLAR

    The Industry I Left Behind

    Here’s the truth, and I’m not here to sugar-coat it:

    I built my skill set, developed my experience in the online adult industry at one of the companiesthat pioneered affiliate marketing programs and online processing for credit cards. I was behind the screen—running marketing and affiliate programs, dialing in email sequences, and making numbers move.

    I made my name with a product called Psychicrealm—over 30 paid conversions a day from cold traffic. That landed me the opportunity to take over Naughty Mail, an email product the company had just bought. That’s where I really learned the craft—building high-volume, high-conversion email systems that made $150k a month for one product alone.

    I’m proud of the work I did, but not proud of the industry I did it in. That tension sat in my gut for years. I knew I had the skills. I just didn’t want to keep using them for someone else’s bottom line—especially when the product wasn’t something I could stand behind.

    The Pull to Do Something of My Own

    That’s been the throughline for years.
    That ache to build something real. Something mine.

    And if I’m honest, the first time I really followed that pull was when I started a project called Sliding Glass.

    SlidingGlass.com

    I didn’t know what I was doing technically—I just grabbed a camera and went. I shot surf, I shot wakeboarding, I followed my instincts. I’m a water sports junky and a rock and roll junky, and that project brought both together in a way that made me feel completely alive.

    The content I created. The relationships I built.
    That was mine. And I was so damn proud of it.

    Sliding Glass was a moment of clarity—proof that I could build something I believed in. That I could tell stories that mattered to me. That I didn’t need anyone’s permission to just start.

    The Moment I Almost Jumped—and Didn’t

    In January 2023, I was in Playa del Carmen. I’d just been let go—three months earlier than planned. It should have been the moment I went all in.

    I took a trip to El Cuyo, sat with it all, and knew I had the means to make the leap.

    And then I didn’t.

    Not fully. I told myself I would. But instead, I floated. I enjoyed the freedom. Maybe a little too much.

    But that moment planted something. And slowly, it grew into what I’m building now.

    Building Something Real (Across Three Brands)

    I didn’t just want ShiverMedia, the agency.
    I realized I’ve always needed more than just a single lane.

    So I started building three distinct spaces:
    • ShiverMedia – digital marketing and design, grounded in strategy and storytelling for small businesses
    • SamiMartin – personal brand: stories, wellness, growth, midlife pivots in the backline, and saltwater truths
    • Salty Blue Mexico – documenting ocean adventures, reef conservation, travel stories rooted in place and purpose

    These brands let me bring all of me to the table—creative, strategic, personal, and passionate. Each one fuels the work I actually want to do. Not just for income, but for impact.

    What I’m Doing Now (And What Lights Me Up)

    These days, I’m offering what I know how to do best:
    • Brand development and logo design
    • Email marketing and lifecycle campaigns
    • Social media strategy and content planning
    • Real estate photo and video here on the island
    • Teaching tools and digital downloads
    • AI prompting and visual content creation—because I’ve always stayed ahead of the tech

    And for the first time in a long time, I feel like I’m doing work that matters.

    The Puerta al Cielo shoot? Climbing up to shoot a rooftop trampoline install? That’s the stuff I live for.
    Planning and executing the Izla Hotel content strategy? Right in my flow.
    Branding work and storytelling with Turquoise Tides Travel? Deeply fulfilling.

    Even covering the Island Time Music Festival felt like everything I care about—music, visuals, storytelling—colliding in the best way.

    This is the kind of work that makes me feel useful. Grounded. Alive.

    The Brutal Truth: The Money Sucks Right Now

    Let’s be real. I’m in debt.
    One of my anchor clients is on pause.
    I’m living gig to gig, holding my breath, and hoping the tide shifts soon.

    And still—I’ve never been clearer about what I’m here to do.

    I’m grateful for the people who have shown up for me. The ones who’ve reminded me that support doesn’t always come with fanfare—it just shows up.

    Because yeah, it’s hard.
    But I’m not lost.
    I’m just rebuilding slower, with more intention.

    What Giving Up Would Look Like—and Why I’m Not

    There are moments I think about quitting.

    Getting a job that pays just to get out of debt.
    Leaving Mexico.
    Starting over again.

    But quitting has never meant rest to me—it’s always meant regret.
    And I’m not ready to trade my dreams for someone else’s routine.

    I don’t want to be the person who walked away right before it all clicked.
    I’ve done that before.
    I’m not doing it again.

    What Semi-Retirement Looks Like to Me

    I’m not trying to buy a house in the suburbs.
    I’m not chasing six figures for bragging rights.

    Semi-retirement, to me, means this:
    • I’ve paid off the debt
    • I’ve got consistent income from what I’ve built
    • I’m able to travel when I want
    • I’m living in beach towns, working from my laptop
    • I’m documenting surf, reef life, and salty living
    • I’ve got a partner who rides alongside me
    • I feel healthy, strong, free—and finally me

    That’s the plan. And I know it’s possible.

    Success has never been a corner office.
    It’s only ever been a means to an end.

    What Success Looks Like Now

    Success is:
    • Creating with heart
    • Earning from my skills without selling out
    • Supporting myself while doing work I believe in
    • Teaching, mentoring, telling stories that matter
    • Contributing, not just consuming
    • Feeling proud of what I leave behind

    It’s not about the numbers.
    It’s about the alignment.

    backline of midlife success

    ⸻

    Final Word: The Tide Is Turning

    I don’t have it all figured out.
    But I’m still in the water.
    Still paddling.
    Still chasing the set I know is coming.

    This isn’t how I thought it would be.
    But maybe this is the version I needed all along.
    Not polished. Not easy.
    But mine.

  • Starting From Here

    Starting From Here

    The Backline of Midlife

    Some beginnings don’t come with fireworks.
    No declarations.
    No big reveal.

    Just the quiet drag of a box across the floor, the hum of a fan in a new space, and the kind of silence that finally feels like possibility instead of loss.

    This is where I’m starting from.

    Starting From Here

    The Year That Broke Me a Bit

    I spent the last year feeling like I was on the outside of my own life, watching it from somewhere slightly removed.
    Work dried up. Not all at once, but enough to make me question everything I’d built. I’ve always made it work—pieced things together, freelanced, created—but this time was different. The financial stress cracked open everything else: my health, my mindset, my ability to keep pretending I was okay.

    My body followed.
    Weight gain—again.Ive talked about the roller coaster. Its exhausting and my fault.
    Knees giving out. I should have listened to Dr Armstrong so many moons ago. Hockey was hard on my knees.
    Stomach wrecked. Tammy says it’s likely IBS… I just want it to stop
    Eyes are deteriorating, especially the left one with BRVO, like my body was trying to say what I wouldn’t admit: something has to change..

    Backline of Midlife

    This isn’t some victim arc.
    I’ve had incredible accomplishments.
    Graduated in graphic design and advertising back when it meant sketch pads, markers, typesetting by hand.
    I cut my teeth in the early days of the internet—when websites were built line by line, when communities were carved out in forums and chatrooms, before social media ruled the world.

    Payment processing, digital communities, early social platforms, media creation—been there, built that.
    I’ve worked with big clients, hungry startups, small dreamers chasing something real.
    Earned my stripes in the digital trenches when it wasn’t glamorous, just necessary.

    But even with all that under my belt, I’ve often coward in the presence of my own fears.
    I let perfectionism box me in.
    I let pain pull me sideways.
    I let plain old panic shut down the bigger parts of me that wanted to show up in the world.

    Now, at the backline of midlife, I feel the edges of time pressing in.
    Not crushing, but undeniable.
    There are fewer chances left to squander, and I don’t want to waste another one.
    It’s time I got the most from my life.
    Starting from here.

    Leaving the Old Life (and the Old Me)

    I left a senior marketing role in 2015—interim director of marketing, with the steady paycheck, the corporate ladder stretched out before me like a conveyor belt to retirement. I could see exactly where it was all going.
    And I didn’t want any part of it.

    I wanted sun on my skin, salt in my hair, dirt under my nails from building something of my own.
    Not just marketing other people’s stories—but living mine.

    I wasn’t new to travel. I had seen pieces of the world already—London, Amsterdam, Scotland, Mexico.
    Everywhere I went, something stirred.
    A deep, stubborn longing for more.

    When I was in my teens, I dreamed of moving to a small beach town in Mexico.
    I pictured it vividly: a little cabin steps from the ocean, days spent surfing, swimming at dawn, shaping sculptures and creating art under the slow spin of a ceiling fan.
    No internet. No emails. No urgency.
    Just life, raw and real.

    Of course, life doesn’t bend so easily.
    We need money.
    We need structure.
    We get pulled into jobs, into deadlines, into expectations.

    But that dream never really left me.
    And in 2015, when I landed in Isla Mujeres, it felt like maybe, finally, I could build something close to it.

    I thought Isla would be my hub.
    A place to launch more adventures, to travel, to explore, to live light and free.

    But it wasn’t meant to be.
    Life had other plans.

    I fell into a relationship.
    Six years deep, and complicated in every direction.

    It ended in late 2021, maybe early 2022, though honestly, endings like that don’t stick neatly to a calendar.

    The healing wasn’t clean either.
    The loss wasn’t just about someone else—it was the loss of a part of myself I had finally found.

    During those years, I had glimpsed a version of me that was more real than I had ever known.
    I believed in myself, in what I could create, in what I deserved.
    I saw my own strength in ways I never had before.
    When it ended, I didn’t just grieve the relationship—I grieved the clarity it had given me.

    At first, I tried to merge what I had found with who I had always been.
    It was messy, hopeful work.
    I lost nearly 50 pounds.
    I trained, hard.
    I moved my body with purpose again.
    I dug deep.

    I was starting to find a groove—a rhythm that felt like mine.

    a vusion of mt desk

    And then, mid-2023, I met Tammy.
    The woman I share my life with now.

    Tammy didn’t fix anything.
    She didn’t rescue me.
    She simply saw me—fully—and gave me room to stand in my own skin again.
    Flawed, creative, saltwater-wired, and endlessly curious.

    With Tammy, I found permission to be the Sam I had worked so hard to rediscover.

    But even with love in my life, something still wasn’t clicking.
    The rest of my world was out of alignment.

    I was still clocking hours on work that drained me.
    Still hustling for survival instead of reaching for meaning.
    Still waking up with a weight in my chest that said, “this isn’t it.”

    I wasn’t living.
    I was surviving.

    And no matter how much love surrounded me, I knew—deep down—that I had to make a change.
    Not for anyone else.
    Not for validation.
    For me.

    To honour the dreams I planted when I was young.
    To finish the journey I started when I walked away from that safe marketing desk ten years ago.

    Starting from here.
    Starting with me.

    The Move That Mattered

    The move wasn’t filmed.
    Too real.
    Too heavy.
    Too damn exhausting.

    But that’s part of the story too.
    Maybe the most honest part.

    There’s a version of moving that looks good on camera—timelapses of boxes stacked neatly, friends laughing while carrying a couch, the golden light of “new beginnings” shining through spotless windows.

    This wasn’t that.

    This was sweat and swollen fingers.
    This was three solo golf cart trips across cracked streets, leaking oil the whole way, knees burning and begging for relief.
    This was loading and unloading until my hands cramped, wondering if I’d even make it through the day.
    Then my buddy Cosne showed up—steady, no questions asked—and for a while, the weight felt a little lighter, the grind a little less brutal.
    But the real shift? That still had to happen on my own.

    I can show you glimpses—cardboard bruised from the weight, clothes stuffed hastily into bins, plants buckled under the heat, the last sad pizza box from the final night in the old place.

    I can show the boxes, the unpacking, the little pieces of “before” making their way into “after.”
    The random receipts from a version of my life that doesn’t quite fit anymore.
    The notebooks half-filled with plans I outgrew without even noticing.

    But the real shift?
    That didn’t happen in the packing.
    It didn’t happen in the lifting or the sorting or the swearing under my breath.

    It happened after.

    It happened when the last box hit the ground and the echo in the new apartment was mine alone to hear.
    It happened sitting outside on the new patio—bare feet on cool concrete, sweat still drying on my skin, heart still hammering from the weight of it all.

    It happened when I realized I wasn’t running anymore.
    I wasn’t clinging to what had been lost.
    I wasn’t trapped by what hadn’t worked.

    I was breathing.
    For the first time in what felt like forever, I was breathing on my own terms.

    And that’s when I knew.

    This wasn’t just a move.
    This was a reset.

    Not loud.
    Not polished.
    Not pretty.

    But real.

    And real is enough.

    packed boxes

    This space has a garden.
    It’s not big or flashy, but it’s enough.

    Enough to feel the sun stretch across my skin first thing in the morning.
    Enough to sit outside with a coffee, barefoot, letting my mind settle before the noise of the day creeps in.
    Enough to watch the tiny anole lizards dart through the foliage, their quick green flashes a reminder that even in stillness, life moves.

    I arranged the plants myself—pots dragged from old places, new greens picked out carefully, a mix of old soul and fresh start.
    There’s something about setting them down, shifting them, making a space feel claimed and alive again.
    It’s not a manicured garden; it’s more of a living patchwork—wild in places, quiet in others, breathing around me.

    Some mornings I catch the sun just right, slanting through the leaves, casting soft shadows across the patio.
    Sometimes there’s just the sound of the wind clipping through the palms, the low hum of the island waking up.
    No headlines.
    No rush.

    Enough to remind me that peace doesn’t come from having more—it comes from creating room for what matters.
    Enough to remember that beginnings don’t always shout.
    Sometimes they whisper through the cracks and the roots and the quiet corners we make for ourselves.

    And here, in this small garden, in this small beginning, I’m learning to listen again.

    Starting From Here

    So this is it.
    No rebrand.
    No reinvention.
    Just a return.
    A return to someone I may have known once upon a time, in flashes and fragments.
    A person I desire—with all my heart, all my stubborn will, and all my worn-out soul—to rediscover again.
    To pull forward the pieces of myself I once trusted, and to find new things still worth learning, worth fighting for.
    To face my fears not with shame, but with a new-found perspective carved out on the backline of midlife, where the waves are slower but heavier, where every choice feels sharper because there’s less time to waste.

    I’m not looking for some dramatic arc.
    No reinvention worthy of headlines or hashtags.
    No curated story of triumph tied up in a bow.
    I’m looking for something simpler.
    I’m looking for truth—raw, unfiltered, mine alone.
    For health—not just in muscle or weight, but in spirit, in breath, in presence.
    For balance—between the hunger for more and the grace to stand still.
    For creativity that feels like oxygen, not obligation.
    For clarity strong enough to quiet the noise when the doubts come calling.

    I’m looking for the version of Sam that’s been there all along—
    quiet beneath the stress, steady beneath the stories, stubborn beneath the scars.
    The version of me who didn’t quit, even when it would have been easier.
    The version who still knows how to trust salt air, deep water, and the messy, beautiful business of trying again.

    This year, I choose to move with intention.
    Not to rush.
    Not to prove.
    But to build slowly, piece by piece, a life and work that reflect who I am—not who I think I should be, or who the world told me I was supposed to become.
    I choose to honour my body, even in its brokenness, even in its betrayals.
    To feed it.
    To listen to it.
    To stop punishing it for being human.

    I choose to tell real stories.
    Stories that don’t need a filter.
    Stories that don’t have a clean ending yet.

    I choose to live the dream I set out to chase ten years ago—even if it looks different now.
    Even if the edges are worn and the road is not the one I mapped out when I started.

    Because it’s still my dream.
    Because I’m still here.
    Because the ocean’s still out there waiting.

    This is my reset.
    This is my backline.
    This is my hand on the board, eyes on the horizon, ready for the next wave.

    And I’m starting from here.

  • Fresh Morning Greens

    Nutrition

    Written By Sam Martin

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    Do You Struggle to Get Your Fresh Greens?

    You’re not alone. Eating an abundance of fresh greens every day can be challenging, especially when processed foods seem to be everywhere. But incorporating more greens into your diet doesn’t have to feel like a chore. One of the easiest and most refreshing ways I’ve found to start my day with a boost of nutrients and energy is with a super green apple smoothie.

    This smoothie is packed with vitamins, minerals, and antioxidants, making it an excellent choice for those looking to fuel their mornings with fresh, raw greens. Lately, I’ve been experimenting with different smoothie combinations to create the perfect balance of flavour, texture, and nutrition, and this one has quickly become a favourite.

    The key to making this smoothie both nutritious and delicious is using whole, natural ingredients that provide a variety of essential nutrients. The crisp, tartness of a granny smith apple, blended with hydrating coconut water, frozen baby spinach, and fresh mint leaves, creates an invigorating and refreshing drink that wakes up your taste buds and gives your body what it needs.

    Why Green Smoothies?

    Greens are packed with essential nutrients, yet they are often missing from the average diet. Leafy greens like spinach provide a rich source of iron, calcium, vitamin K, and fiber, while spirulina (a nutrient-dense blue-green algae) is a natural source of protein, B vitamins, and antioxidants. Adding mint not only enhances the flavour but also supports digestion and gut health.

    One of the biggest benefits of drinking a green smoothie in the morning is that it helps alkalize the body, keeping your pH balanced and giving you natural, sustained energy throughout the day. When you start the day with fresh, raw greens, you’re giving your body an immediate dose of vitamins and minerals without relying on processed foods or artificial ingredients.

    How to Make the Super Green Apple Smoothie

    The best part about this smoothie is that it requires minimal ingredients, all sourced from plants and trees—nature’s perfect food. Everything in this recipe is designed to nourish and fuel the body.

    Take your blender of choice (I personally use the Ninja Blender) and combine the following:

    Ingredients (Serves 1)

    ✅ 1/2 cup frozen green apple slices – Tart, refreshing, and packed with fiber and vitamin C
    ✅ 1/2 cup frozen baby spinach – Rich in iron, folate, and antioxidants
    ✅ 1/2 teaspoon spirulina – A powerful superfood packed with protein and B vitamins
    ✅ 5-10 fresh mint leaves – Adds a cooling flavour and aids digestion
    ✅ 1/2 to 1 cup coconut water – Hydrating and full of electrolytes (coconut milk or plain water are also great options)

    Optional Add-Ins:

    • 1/4 avocado – For extra creaminess and healthy fats
    • 1 tablespoon almond or cashew butter – Adds protein and a smooth texture
    • 1 teaspoon chia or flax seeds – A great source of fiber and omega-3s

    The Method

    1. Chop the granny smith apple into bite-sized pieces. If you don’t have frozen apple slices, you can use fresh, but frozen will help make the smoothie colder and thicker.
    2. Add all ingredients to your blender. Start with 1/2 cup of coconut water and add more if needed for your desired consistency.
    3. Blend until smooth and creamy. If you prefer a thinner consistency, add a little more coconut water.
    4. Pour into a chilled glass and enjoy immediately.

    Eat What the Earth Provides

    What I love most about this smoothie is that it’s made entirely from foods grown from the earth—fresh fruits, leafy greens, and plant-based superfoods. I’ve made it a goal to consume more of what nature naturally provides, learning from the earth and the sun to fuel my body with real, whole foods.

    Greens don’t have to be boring or difficult to incorporate into your diet. Start your morning with a super green smoothie, and you’ll be giving your body a powerful boost of nutrients, hydration, and energy—all in one delicious glass.

    If you’ve been struggling to get your greens in, this is one of the easiest ways to start! Try it and let me know what you think.

    “You know me, I think there ought to be a big old tree right there. And let’s give him a friend. Everybody needs a friend.”

    — Bob Ross

    green smoothiesuper greensspinachgreen apples

  • PB&J Hearty Breakfast Oatmeal

    PB&J Hearty Breakfast Oatmeal

    Written By Sam Martin

    Make a delicious hearty Oatmeal for Breakfast!

    On chilly winter mornings, there’s nothing better than starting the day with a hearty, stick-to-your-ribs oatmeal breakfast. One of our favourites is what we call PB & J Oatmeal—inspired by the classic peanut butter and jam sandwich but packed with nutrient-dense ingredients. This warm, satisfying bowl combines creamy peanut butter, sweet fruit preserves, and wholesome oats for a deliciously comforting and energy-boosting start to the day.

    This PB & J Oatmeal is incredibly simple to make, requiring just a handful of pantry and freezer staples. In under 20 minutes, you can whip up a warm, hearty bowl that’s not only delicious but also packed with essential nutrients to fuel your morning. The combination of creamy peanut butter, naturally sweet fruit preserves, and wholesome oats provides a perfect balance of protein, healthy fats, and fiber, keeping you full and energized for hours. Whether you’re looking for a quick weekday breakfast or a cozy weekend treat, this easy-to-make meal is a satisfying way to start your day on a nutritious note.

    Ingredients:
    Rolled Oats – Use whole oats and not quick oats.
    Blueberries & Strawberries – Get them fresh and in season when possible. Otherwise use frozen.
    Cinnamon & Vanilla – Our vanilla is pure from Mexico. Artificial vanilla lacks nutrients and the real flavours.
    Plant Milk – I love coconut, she loves soy. You can choose your own.
    Organic Peanut Butter – We buy ours from the bulk food store, you can really use any you like.

    THE RECIPE

    • 1/3 cup Oatmeal – large plain dry
    • 1/2 cup Water – removed nut milk
    • 1/2 cup blueberries
    • 1/2 cup strawberries
    • 1 teaspoon each – hemp seeds, sunflower seeds and pumpkin seeds
    • 1 tablespoon Natural Creamy Peanut Butter
    • 1 teaspoon amber honey
    • 1 /2 teaspoon each – pure vanilla / cinnamon
    The PB&J Oatmeal Ingredients!
    The PB&J Oatmeal Ingredients!

    Create the Berry Compote
    Place a pan to preheat on medium. Once the pan is hot add in the blueberries and cut strawberries. Start stirring them and soon they will start to breakdown and become like a jam.

    Add in the lemon juice and a 1/2 portion of the cinnamon and vanilla. Continue to cook until the liquid is minimal.Cooking will take about 5 – 7 minutes

    Prepare the Oatmeal
    First heat up the water in the pot. Stir in the oats just before the water comers to a boil. Cool the oats until all the liquid has been absorbed. Stir in the remaining vanilla and cinnamon. Cooking will take about 5-6 minutes.

    A serving of this will put you at about 370 calories without the nut milk. Below is a breakdown of the nutrients.

    Basic Nutritional Info for 1 serving

    View Oatmeal Gallery

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    Once the oatmeal is cooked you can assemble in the bowl to eat. Start with the oats adding on top of that that your warm berry compote, sprinkling the seeds across the top and drizzling with the honey!

    Please let us know if you have any recipes ideas or questions about changing your diet to include more whole food plant based options that are nutrient dense.

    Looking for more great recipes, check out the Minimalist Baker

    oatmeal peanut butter jelly oatmeal recipes food breakfast nutrient dense meals

  • How to Hug a Lion – Confrontation Management

    I. Introduction

    How do you hug a lion? I know what you’re thinking… it’s not exactly something the average person would attempt, right? Lions are fierce, majestic creatures that command respect, and approaching them is no simple feat. Unfortunately life sometimes places us face-to-face with human “lions”— fiercely intimidating figures with strong personalities that can leave you feeling small and uncertain?

    That was my mother! The first “lion” encounter I ever had!  My mother, a staunch family woman who loved to sing and laugh with friends and family was also incredibly controlling and abusive. She taught me early on that dealing with powerful personalities was about more than just survival. It was about learning how to approach them—maybe not to cuddle, but to stand your ground without getting metaphorically mauled. It was a long lesson that had far reaching ramifications on my ability to love myself.

    Growing up under her roof, I learned to fear people’s judgments and to never feel quite good enough. This feeling became an undercurrent in my life, shaping how I approached other “lions” in various aspects of life—in business, friendships, and beyond. Although my childhood wasn’t horrible, the lessons I took from those early years stayed with me, influencing how I navigated intimidating personalities well into adulthood.

    This isn’t just a story of survival; it’s about taming the challenge and finding your way to approach the “lions” in your life with confidence, even if it means getting close enough to give them a metaphorical cuddle—without losing an arm in the process.

    II. Characteristics of the Lion: The Nature of Intimidating People

    Understanding the behavior of “lions” is essential to learning how to approach them without getting hurt. Just like real lions in the wild, human “lions” often exhibit certain traits that make them intimidating. They thrive on control, needing to dictate the course of events to feel secure. This can manifest as a stubborn insistence on having their way and an intolerance for anything that challenges their authority.

    Mood swings are also a common trait. One moment, they may be playful and charming, lulling you into a sense of safety, and the next, they can become critical or demanding. It’s a cycle that keeps those around them on edge, unsure of what version of the “lion” they’ll face.

    Perhaps most notably, boundaries often do not exist for these individuals. They may disregard personal limits and push others into uncomfortable situations to maintain control and assert dominance. This lack of respect for boundaries can make interactions particularly exhausting, as you’re left constantly trying to protect your own space while navigating their demands.

    Learning to spot these characteristics is crucial in developing strategies to interact with them—strategies that ensure you maintain your sense of self without provoking unnecessary conflict.

    III. Why They Act This Way: Unpacking the Lion’s Roar

    So, why do these human lions behave the way they do? What makes them roar, bare their teeth, and sometimes forget that the people around them aren’t prey? It’s not always about malice—it’s about instinct. Just like a lion’s actions are driven by survival, intimidating people often act from a place of protection, insecurity, or unhealed experiences.

    Insecurity Disguised as Strength

    Some of the fiercest lions I’ve encountered have been the most terrified. They just hide it better. What looks like bravado—commanding every room they walk into, speaking like they own the world—is often a fragile shield for a deep fear of vulnerability. For these lions, control isn’t just a preference; it’s a safety net that keeps them from falling into the chaos of their own self-doubt.

    And then there’s the baggage. People don’t become intimidating overnight. Maybe they grew up in a world where weakness wasn’t an option, or they’ve been hurt so many times they’ve built an armor of sharp words and hard edges to keep others at bay. Every roar, every show of dominance, comes with a story you might never hear but that still shapes how they behave.

    Instincts in Action

    Think about how lions act in the wild. They roar to claim territory, protect their pride, and warn off threats. It’s not about being mean—it’s about survival. Human lions? Same idea. Their instinct might be to dominate a conversation or push boundaries to assert control, not because they’re monsters, but because it’s how they keep their emotional world in check. If they let their guard down, they risk losing the control they crave, and for them, that feels like danger.

    The playful-to-ferocious mood swings? Classic lion behavior. It’s the emotional equivalent of a pounce. One second, everything’s relaxed, and the next, you’re blindsided by a sharp remark or unreasonable demand. It’s not personal. It’s instinctual, a reaction to perceived threats or shifts in their comfort zone.

    Seeing the Fear Behind the Roar

    Here’s the thing: understanding why a lion roars doesn’t mean you have to get close enough to lose a limb. But it does help you see past the teeth. You can learn to hold your ground while recognizing that their aggression often comes from fear, not strength. That doesn’t excuse bad behavior—but it can change how you approach the situation, with your own confidence intact.

    IV. Turning Lion Behavior: Timing Is Everything

    If you’ve ever watched a lion lounge under the sun, you know they’re not always fierce. There are moments of calm—trust, even—when they seem approachable, peaceful. But move too quickly, too close, or at the wrong time, and that serenity turns to danger before you know what hit you. People with lion-like personalities are no different. Timing and approach are everything when it comes to engaging with them.

    Recognize the Calm Before the Roar

    Intimidating personalities aren’t on high alert 24/7. They have moments of openness when their guard lowers just enough for genuine connection. The trick is learning to spot these windows. Growing up, I learned this lesson early with my mother, my first and fiercest lion. Some mornings, you just knew. The moment her feet hit the floor, the air would shift. Her face would be set, her movements sharp. Those were the days when the lion prowled, eyes searching for anything to pounce on. There was no approaching her—no matter how carefully you tiptoed—without risking a confrontation that left you wounded.

    But there were other mornings too. Mornings when the sun seemed to rise a little softer, and her mood followed suit. She’d sing (badly) as she made her breakfast, or playfully make jokes, inviting me into her good graces. On those rare days, her laughter came easily, and her eyes sparkled instead of cutting like knives. It wasn’t that the lion was gone—oh no, she was still there. But her need for control had momentarily retreated, replaced by something softer and less guarded.

    The trick to navigating a lion’s moods is learning to read these signs. Timing matters. When my mother was in her playful state, I could engage her without fear of being swatted down. In these moments, connection felt possible. But if I misjudged her mood, stepping too close when her claws were out, I’d feel the sting of her criticism or temper.

    Human lions, like my mother, often have patterns to their behavior. Sometimes it’s predictable, like how stress at work or an unresolved conflict would set her off for days. Other times, it felt like a roll of the dice. The key was paying attention—learning when the storm clouds were gathering and when the skies were clear enough to risk a conversation. Recognizing these shifts is essential for navigating intimidating personalities. Timing your approach during moments of calm can increase your chances of having a meaningful, non-combative interaction, even if that calm is fleeting.

    Timing Your Approach

    Approaching a lion mid-roar—whether it’s a person ranting, throwing orders, or clearly overwhelmed—is a guaranteed way to get hurt. It’s the same with human lions. Growing up, my mother’s roars could come out of nowhere, or so it seemed to me as a kid. I didn’t always recognize the warning signs, those subtle shifts in her mood that signaled danger. Something as simple as asking the wrong question or making too much noise could set her off when her lion was at full charge. One moment I’d be a kid just trying to exist, and the next, I’d feel the sharp sting of a wooden spoon across my face.

    But it wasn’t just the physical pain—it was what came after that left me hurt and confused. Missing hockey practice? That was brutal. Hockey wasn’t just a sport; it was my escape. It was where I felt free, where the cold air of the rink and the sound of blades on ice drowned out everything else. Being denied that? It cut deeper than any slap.

    My mother didn’t roar for no reason, though I didn’t understand it at the time. Her own stresses and battles were hidden behind that fierce exterior, and her outbursts were instinctual—a way of protecting her own fragile sense of control. But for me, the child caught in her path, those roars felt unpredictable, like a storm you couldn’t outrun.

    That’s why learning to recognize patterns and timing your approach is so important. Some lions are more grounded in the morning, before the weight of the day settles on their shoulders. Others are calm after accomplishing something that feeds their sense of pride or control. Everyone has a rhythm, even the fiercest personalities. Paying attention to when the storm has passed—or when it’s gathering—is the difference between engaging safely and walking straight into the roar.

    The Power of Patience

    Patience is your greatest tool. It’s easy to react when you feel cornered or attacked, but lions can smell fear and aggression. Instead of rushing in, hold your ground, keep your calm, and wait. Let their mood shift. Let the tension settle. When you engage with steadiness and confidence—without matching their intensity—you defuse the situation.

    I learned this lesson early on with my mother. When her lion was angry and prowling, my survival instinct kicked in, teaching me how to protect myself. Sometimes that meant staying out late, playing street hockey with the boys in the neighborhood. The slap of the ball on the asphalt and the clatter of sticks were my armor—my way of staying out of range of her roar.

    Other times, it was retreating into my “cave.” My bedroom became a sanctuary where I could escape her fury. I’d close the door, turn up the music, and sing at the top of my lungs—off-key, probably, but it didn’t matter. In those moments, I wasn’t afraid of the lion. I was a kid reclaiming some control over my world. Drawing was another refuge. I’d sketch for hours, pouring my feelings onto the page, using art as a way to process what I couldn’t say out loud.

    These moments of retreat weren’t about weakness; they were about patience—letting the storm pass while I found small ways to keep my sense of self intact. Understanding lion behavior isn’t about taming the beast; it’s about knowing when to move, when to pause, and when to walk away entirely. Recognize the rhythm of their moods, and you’ll be better equipped to navigate interactions on your own terms—without becoming their next casualty.

    The Impact on Others

    Dealing with intimidating individuals takes a heavy toll, emotionally and mentally. It’s exhausting, like living with an ever-present weight on your chest. The constant need to anticipate their mood and tread carefully around their triggers creates stress that seeps into every part of your being. Anxiety becomes a familiar companion. You question yourself—Did I say the wrong thing? Was my tone off? Should I have done more, or less?—and before long, self-doubt becomes second nature.

    Growing up with my mother, I felt it all. Her roars could trigger my fight-or-flight response in an instant. My heart would race, my breath would quicken, and I’d feel trapped—no safe place to stand. As a young kid, I escaped however I could. I played street hockey with the neighbourhood boys, hid in my room with music blaring, or lost myself in drawing. But as I got older, those escapes weren’t enough. The fear was always there, a constant hum beneath the surface.

    When I was about 13, I hit my breaking point. One day, as her anger turned physical, I grabbed her hand and insisted—never again. No more wooden spoons across my face, no more sharp scratches from her nails when she grabbed me. It ended right there.

    I remember my father telling me, If you ever hit her, that would be the end of it. I never hit her. I didn’t need to. But I stood my ground and warned them both—if she hit me again, I would hit back. She never laid a hand on me after that.

    The physical blows stopped, but her roars became louder, fiercer, and crueler throughout my teens and early 20s. Words, sharp and unrelenting, replaced the scratches and bruises. She wielded them like weapons, cutting deep, finding every insecurity and pressing hard. That’s the thing about lions: even when you stop their claws, the roar can still leave you shaken.

    It’s not so different from encountering a lion in the wild. That primal fear kicks in, driven by instinct and survival. Every muscle tenses as your mind races through the limited options: fight, flee, or freeze. But just as lions can be approached with caution and respect, intimidating people can be engaged in ways that minimize conflict and create common ground. It’s not about taming the lion—that’s a fool’s errand. It’s about understanding what drives their behavior and using that knowledge to protect yourself while navigating interactions with more clarity and control.

    Learning to recognize your own emotional responses is part of the process. Naming the fear, the anxiety, and the self-doubt gives you the power to step outside the grip of those feelings. You can pause, breathe, and remember that while the lion may roar, you still have a choice in how you respond. Respect their power, but don’t give up your own.

    V. Equipping Yourself

    Recognize Your Own Boundaries
    Before you can navigate interactions with intimidating individuals, it’s essential to know what you’re willing to tolerate and where you’ll draw the line. The lines aren’t always clear at first—especially when someone’s presence feels overwhelming—but the more you practice self-awareness, the easier it becomes. Identifying your limits means protecting your peace and avoiding situations that put you at risk of emotional harm. If you’re clear on what is non-negotiable for you, it’s easier to stand firm when those boundaries are tested.

    Build Your Confidence
    Dealing with strong personalities requires inner strength. It’s not just about surviving; it’s about thriving in the face of it. You need confidence—not arrogance, but genuine belief in yourself. Positive affirmations, rehearsed responses, and being mentally prepared can go a long way. Take time before tough interactions to remind yourself of your value, your strengths, and your right to stand up for yourself. When you walk into a room with confidence, people feel it, and the lion in the room will take notice.

    Gather Allies and Support
    No one should face these interactions alone. Building a network of allies—people who have your back, who understand the dynamics at play—is invaluable. Whether it’s a trusted friend, colleague, or therapist, having someone to talk through situations with can give you perspective and emotional relief. A strong support system helps you stay grounded and reinforces your boundaries when someone tries to push them.

    Understanding Lion Body Language
    Just as a lion’s body language can tell you when it’s calm or about to pounce, so too can an intimidating person’s signals give you vital clues about their state. Are they making direct eye contact, or are their eyes darting around? Is their posture tense or open? Just like with animals, paying attention to subtle cues can help you read the situation and decide when to step closer or hold your ground. Timing matters. Learn to recognize when someone’s about to roar, and you’ll be better prepared to navigate their moods effectively.

    V. Effective Strategies for Handling Intimidating People

    Stay Calm and Collected

    When you’re dealing with a lion—or any intimidating person—the key is staying grounded. Easier said than done, right? But the truth is, lions (and strong personalities) can sense fear. If you react with panic or defensiveness, it only feeds the tension. To maintain control, try emotional regulation techniques like deep breathing, pausing before responding, or mentally grounding yourself in the present. I learned early on that staying calm around my mother, especially when she was in one of her moods, was crucial. I would often retreat to my room—where music became my sanctuary. It was a place I could disappear into, shutting out the chaos, much like when I’d go out to avoid the tension at home. By staying calm, you reduce the chances of escalating the situation, and they lose the upper hand. Remember, confidence isn’t about being loud or aggressive; it’s about keeping your cool when the storm rages around you.

    Communicate with Clarity and Firmness

    When you’re faced with an intimidating figure, it’s important to communicate clearly and firmly, but without confrontation. Use “I” statements to express your needs without sounding accusatory. For example, instead of saying, “You’re being unreasonable,” try “I need a moment to process before I respond.” This shifts the focus from a challenge to your own experience, which can defuse tension. You can’t control their behavior, but you can control how you engage. When my mom was at her fiercest, I didn’t always have the words, but I learned to avoid direct confrontation. I’d retreat, either to my room or out of the house altogether, until things calmed down. I wasn’t trying to win an argument—I was just trying to survive, and sometimes silence was the best answer.

    Avoid Power Struggles

    Trying to “win” against someone whose goal is to dominate is a losing game. If you’re engaging with a lion, the goal isn’t to overpower them—it’s to coexist, on your terms. Power struggles will only lead to unnecessary conflict. Accept that you’re not going to change their behavior, but you can change how you respond. I got to the point where, as a teenager, I’d lock my door and avoid her as much as possible. School became an escape, and I would stay out of the house until after she had gone to bed, hoping that when I returned, the storm would have passed. Fighting to be “right” or “better” only fuels their need to assert control. It’s about knowing when to engage and when to step back.

    Reinforce Boundaries

    To deal with intimidating individuals effectively, you need to reinforce your boundaries. This isn’t about being rigid or harsh; it’s about being clear and consistent. Use assertive language like, “I’m not comfortable with that,” or “I need you to respect my space.” Just like lions learn to trust those who give them their space, setting and reinforcing boundaries teaches intimidating people that you’re not someone to be bulldozed. With my mom, I reached a point where I had to stop the physical abuse. I was probably 13 when I finally stood up and said, “No more.” I grabbed her hand, forcing her to stop hitting me with the wooden spoon or leaving scratches from her nails. After that moment, I reinforced my boundary by refusing to be physically harmed again. That was a turning point, but it didn’t end the emotional roars. Her outbursts became more cruel, but I knew that by setting a firm boundary, I had taken back some control.

    VI. When to Step Away: Knowing When Cuddling Isn’t Worth It

    Recognize the Signs of Harm
    There comes a time in every interaction with an intimidating person when you realize that engagement is no longer productive—it’s harmful. It could be emotional manipulation, verbal abuse, or simply draining your energy without any resolution. Knowing when to stop fighting the fight is critical. Just like a lion, whose behavior might seem unpredictable or unsafe at times, there are moments when continuing the encounter could result in harm. With my mother, as I grew older, I started recognizing the signs early on. The physical outbursts stopped, but the emotional tension was still there. I began understanding when to step back, when I was no longer emotionally equipped to deal with her, and when I had to protect myself from the lingering storm.

    Choosing to Disengage
    Sometimes the best choice is to simply walk away. Disengaging doesn’t always mean shutting the door completely—it means stepping away from a situation that has become toxic or harmful to your well-being. I learned to disengage as an adult, especially when I had my own space to retreat to. When my mother would try to pull me back into a confrontation or manipulation, I found it easier to recognize when it was time to leave the conversation or situation. Withholding my emotional investment was a way to regain control. As difficult as it was, walking away was necessary for my own peace of mind. When she’d reach out after, it was often an attempt to mend fences, but it was on my terms, not hers.

    Protecting Your Well-Being
    Once you’ve disengaged from an emotionally draining person, the next step is to restore your well-being. Self-care becomes vital, especially when you’re processing a difficult encounter. After walking away from my mother’s roars—whether physical or emotional—I’d focus on regaining my balance. Time away, music, or retreating into my space helped me recalibrate. Emotional recovery isn’t a quick fix, but it’s essential to make time for it. For me, self-care meant finding comfort in my own rhythm, without the constant noise of someone else’s needs or demands.

    Reflection on Lions
    Even after a close encounter with a lion, it often retreats back into its territory, settling into calm. Similarly, once I’d made the decision to step away, I’d allow myself the time to return to peace. And, eventually, my mother did the same. In my 30s, she apologized for the years of emotional and physical pain she’d caused. She admitted that she didn’t know any better, didn’t understand the impact of her actions at the time. It wasn’t an easy apology to accept, but it marked a turning point. She recognized the harm, and I realized that sometimes the lion can come to understand, but only after enough space has been given to heal.

    VII. Conclusion

    Dealing with intimidating individuals is an art that requires preparation, boundary-setting, and self-care. The key takeaways are simple but powerful: understand the person’s behavior patterns, recognize when to engage and when to step away, and, above all, prioritize your own well-being. Setting clear boundaries is essential to protecting your peace, and knowing when to hold firm or walk away can make all the difference. Self-care isn’t just about recovering from difficult encounters—it’s about maintaining the energy and strength to keep moving forward.

    While we may never have the power to change others, we can control how we react and protect ourselves. Understanding how to engage with challenging personalities, like the lion’s roar, is all about preparation and knowing your limits. Protecting your peace and prioritizing your own needs isn’t selfish—it’s necessary for your emotional well-being.

    Approach your “lions” with confidence and strength, armed with the knowledge that preparation and self-respect are your most powerful tools. You don’t need to tame the lion; you just need to understand when to stay calm, when to assert yourself, and when to walk away. Trust your instincts and keep your boundaries intact.

    I am not a therapist—these are just my experiences. Everyone’s journey is different, and each person needs to find their own path to dealing with difficult individuals.









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    Sam Martinhttp://www.samimartin.com

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