Warming Our Hands at Our Own Fire

On inhabiting our lives, choosing presence, and letting the light do its work

Yesterday, I was walking with Buddy on the snow-covered streets near my new home in Québec City. It was around four in the afternoon, and it was the day of the solstice — the shortest day of the year. Few people were out; it was windy and cold. But as I passed beautiful homes lit up for Christmas, those whose paths crossed mine, all bundled up, were cheerful. We nodded to each other — a quiet acknowledgment that we were a little badass for being out, and that we knew, without speaking, how magical it was.

Snow has a quiet quality to it. It muffles sound so that what’s magnified is breath, boots crunching, and children playing and talking further down the street.

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about how good it feels to have stepped into my own freedom. At 55, I have let go. I have raised my girls. I have mentored and coached thousands of young people over the years — and still do. But this year, something shifted. A long-held sense of responsibility loosened. I noticed the space it left behind.

This was a year of turning inward for sustenance. Of asking where and how I can honour my own life inside this noisy, demanding world. Of creating goodness that shines outward — not through urgency, but through steadiness. A shift away from reactivity and toward creativity. An understanding that meaningful change comes from the inside out: by feeding the flame and letting it burn quietly but persistently. Those who want to warm themselves by my fire can come and go as they please. I will not chase.

When I first imagined The Leeça Podcast, I was operating from urgency. Something must be said. Something must be done. Purpose has shaped my life, and I still believe deeply in it. But urgency can exhaust us, especially when our voices feel like just another sound in the wind.

This summer, I wrote 37 podcast scripts from Newfoundland. They were thoughtful, human, and deeply relevant — written with the hope of bridging divides and speaking honestly about difficult things. I’m proud of that work. But when I began using my voice to record some of them, I realized I was missing something essential: a home. A container. A place to stretch, decorate, and inhabit fully.

That realization led to The Leeça Space — not as a brand, but as a house. A place to hold my writing, art, photography, voice, and long-form projects. Creating it grounded me in a way I didn’t expect.

At the same time, life asked me to move — again — for the third time in five years. Trust carried me to a new physical home: a beautiful old house that mirrors where I am now, mentally and emotionally. The outer reflecting the inner.

I’ve also become more discerning about who I invite to my table — physical or emotional. Who we allow into our inner world matters. Clarity requires quiet. Purpose requires boundaries. We are responsible for tending our own inner gardens. That is enough.

It is not always easy for women. Power and authority are still coded as male, and when women claim their voices, they are judged — for tone, for presence, for appearance. It’s no wonder so many hesitate to speak. This year, choosing to use my voice — through words, art, and presence — has been an act of courage and care.

I am slowing things down. Much of my life was spent in action mode, sometimes survival. Now is a time for depth. For trust. For inhabiting my life rather than proving it.

I am inhabiting my own house now. I am decorating its rooms carefully. Some people will be welcomed inside. Some will remain on the porch.

The light is on. Inside, there is calm.