welcome to my (mis)adventures


The last 2 years have taught me how much I don’t know about things I thought I knew.

One of those things is endurance. In the past I ran ultra marathons, skied loppets, and climbed mountains. In 2015 alone I ran the Trail de Petit Ballon, swam 2kms across a lake in 15 degree water temperatures (no wetsuit!), slept with red ants, trekked the 300km East Coast Trail in 10 days and finished the West Coast Trail in less than 48 hours. I even did Kundalini yoga, for like 5 minutes. Looking at these it might seem like I’m trying to make a big deal of it, but I’m not – it 100% feels like another person did those things now. I’m definitely not any condition to do those things at present. For better or worse, that is absolutely not me anymore.

My point is – I thought I knew what endurance was about.

But then I became a mom.

Flash to present day: it’s 1am in a house full of Covid, a sick toddler, a sick me, puke on my pants and hair, not quite able to see straight, and I’m tired. Tired from a hard and sad year, tired from nighttime waking, tired from transient insomnia. I’ve got an inflamed rotator cuff, my back hurts, and I have neck pain. I’ve taken to seeing a chiropractor and a naturopath, in addition to finding a GP, in a recent wakeup call to the necessity of taking care of myself.

I know all the right things to do now. I know how to settle my nervous system, to release tension, to bring mind and body together. Really, as much as the wellness industry makes it seem like a science, I think everyone knows for themselves (for everyone in the wellness industry, to which I belong, who tells a mom to do better self care, I suggest they be prepared to pick up a broom, make dinner or hold a baby. Otherwise, shhh). What’s different now is that I realise perhaps the issue is that not everyone can. It takes time to take care of oneself. Things that have always worked for me in the past include writing, yoga, meditation, and yes – endurance activities. None of these are particularly toddler friendly – at least not in a way that is nourishing for me. Sure, it’s fun to see Hutch in a downward dog and I love that he copies what he sees Sean and I do, but when my own down dog á la toddler has Hutch pantsing me, well…. I just can’t say the experience is the same as pre-kiddo.

We’ve also hit the age of tantrums. A time which has made me all the more grateful to have the time and space in our lives to move slowly and not rush. It’s also has instilled an even greater gratitude for my wonderful husband and for our neighbour Meg who hangs out with Hutchy one morning a week. We decided against putting Hutchy into daycare/early learning of any sort until he is at least 3 years old. While it can be tough to get respite with 24/7 toddler, I can only imagine what it’s like for families trying to get out the door on time in the morning when the kids really don’t feel like wearing pants. My hat is off to any single parents trying to get a bracing toddler into a car seat when their meeting started 20 minutes ago. So while I might be tired, I have to say it’s wonderful to not often be on strict deadlines, and to have most of our work requiring no or little travel, and I get it – we are very fortunate. It’s a lot different for most people.

Gosh, building a life is really the little things, isn’t it? I could have spent a lifetime prancing around the world enjoying the view from the top of mountains and feeling pretty good about myself. But I’d have known nothing about endurance and what the “long haul” actually is (not saying I know now, just that I know a bit more! Seriously Life, I’m not egging you on here). For me, touring around solo wouldn’t have made me a better person. It was appropriate to that chapter, but I was pretty selfish about my pursuits, loved being in the wilderness, alone, in solitude. Life now is so much more mundane, but so much richer. I feel I have less to write about (well, less time to write it at least), but more life material. As my dear friend Edwin once said “I was happier before kids, but more wholly satisfied after kids”. (I’m generally happier now than I’ve ever been, but when I’m at an unhappy low point I think of that and have to agree).

My fitness isn’t what it once was, and I’m not going to climb a mountain tomorrow, but I’ve got the hardest, most intense trainer I’ve ever had. He’s relentless. He’s got the cutest dimples though, and the best hugs, so I’m keeping him.

Taxi Driver Stories

My dad sent me this photo a few years back with the line “Would you get into a car with this man?” The photo was his taxi license from the ’70s.

Of course, my answer now would be “Yes!!” There’s nothing more I’d rather do now than drive around with my dad and listen to his stories. I think as a child it’s natural to have a somewhat one-dimensional view of your parents. They are irrevocably in that role, and it’s a bit of a stretch to see them in any other light. Of course, as a parent now myself I realise that I’ve got over 3 decades of life before my son was here, and while being his mom is my primary role now, I have a whole lot of life before and outside of him. My dad, obviously, was the same way. Half of his life he lived before my existence, and most of it I know little to nothing of. Much of his life even when I was alive and somewhat cognisant, I know little of.

So this is a call for stories please. I’d love to hear about my dad in the way that others knew him. When my dad passed, several people said Dad had been their best friend. He was known and loved by so many, and was a man of mystery (like who IS that guy in the photo? Anyone who knows that guy – tell me stories!). Censorship not required.

Seriously, if you knew my dad and wouldn’t mind telling me about him, please do reach out. I’d love to know you, and know a bit more of him. My email is: darylahiebert @ (no spaces).

Hug your loved ones close, and ask your taxi driver about themselves.

A Dedication.

19 days ago my dear dad passed on from this life. He was a ‘best friend’ to several people, and to me he was a big hug at the airport, a mischievous and fun grandpa to my son, and words of encouragement and softness at the most surprising times. That encouragement, perhaps most unexpected for me, came largely in the form of support for this humble blog. To my enormous surprise, he loved reading it and would almost always email me after a post to tell me what he thought (often saying something along the lines of “I loved reading it – but be careful!”). I’ve always been self conscious about writing publicly, but if my tough guy dad thought it was alright, my efforts were validated. His support, generosity and love made his obituary and eulogy sadly easy to write.

And so, this blog is for you, Daddio. I should have said it sooner, but it’s always been for you.

Silently Starting

Lose yourself,
Lose yourself.
Escape from the black cloud that surrounds you.
Then you will see your own light as radiant as the full moon.

Now enter that silence.
This is the surest way to lose yourself…

What is your life about, anyway?
Northing but a struggle to be someone,
Northing but a running from your own silence.


Starting a new year always gets me thinking of what I need to do. What to make, what to learn, where to go, which skill to hone, how to give. My tendency is to make lists, write goals, reflect on what I did the previous year(s) and how to do more, be more, in the next few hundred days.

Many years of shameless ‘self improvement’ have led me here. That search was fulfilling, in a way, at the time, but I don’t think goal setting and chasing more has done me all that much good, despite whatever New Years resolution self-help articles might say. To me, I’ve come to understand there’s a difference between being organised and ruthless goal setting and chasing. Being organised to me means general preparedness: a physical, mental and emotional tidiness for what might come. In contrast to goals, it’s not outcome specific. It appreciates the unfolding, as opposed to being obsessed about the bloom.

Those beautiful words above, attributed to Rumi, land well with me this year. So much of life since becoming a wife, a mother, a gardener, a landowner, a committed community member, has been about efficiency. Making sure the laundry gets hung up, the dishes done, the floor vacuumed before my son wakes up. Every trip to town must include a shop at the grocer, visit to the library, stop at the market, playdate for the little one, and (of course), some pushes on the swings. Cramming the most into the shortest amounts of time make things, well, crammed and cramped. Often I admire the doers, the overachievers, the workaholics, but more and more I understand they’re often not people at peace.

This year, like Rumi says, I wish to stop running. Sure, many of the activities that fill my days now will continue in the new year, but I wish to find space in them. To recommit to the practices that have created such a beautiful life in the first place: silence, mediation, contemplation, connection, prayer, writing, reading words with substance. Sometimes it feels unfeasible, but it is entirely possible to live a ‘busy’ life that is still calm and expansive, to bring silence with me into communication. This is what I hope for myself for 2022, and what I wish for our beautiful crazy world.

Being Here Now

2020 was a beautiful year.

I know I’m not really supposed to say that given the current social climate. It’s like admitting you know all the lyrics to a cheeseball song or the dance moves to a Spice Girls music video (shut up, Megan).

But it was really good for us.

Sean and I started the year cross country skiing in the Kootenays, Hutchy showed up at the end of February, we left the big smoke for the coast soon after, and have been busy making a lovely life. Volunteering at local market garden farms has been a highlight, as has starting our own radio show on community radio (107.5, 2EARfm on Fridays between 10-1pm if you want to tune in). We’ve been so busy making our current situation a dream that we have almost forgotten how annoying lockdowns and face masks can be. As much as we are citizens of the world, it’s been wonderful to be citizens within this 5km radius. We’re incredibly lucky to live where we want to be, but also to have the energy, interest and time to make this place the kind of world we want to live in.

Willingly Awake

It’s nearly 1am and I haven’t yet gone to sleep from yesterday. This is, hands down, the longest I’ve willingly stayed awake since Hutchy was born. This late, long night has been spent prepping for Canadian Thanksgiving tomorrow. Last year, with me pregnant and tired, Sean stayed up till 2am making pies. This year, he was exhausted and after much persuasion, I put him into a restorative yoga pose which he hasn’t yet arisen from. This year, it’s my turn to plan Thanksgiving.

I’ve been making pumpkin pies from scratch, a veggie chilli, a kangaroo chilli, a pot of rice, quinoa-black bean “salad”, and some experimental pumpkin squares. (We over-roasted pumpkin this year… Not that I’m complaining).

As much as I know that I’ll be tired tomorrow, it has been nice to putter around the kitchen in silence on my own. Thanksgiving was always my favourite holiday growing up – no fuss with expectation or gifts, a (fairly) low stress feast with friends. As tainted as the concept of Thanksgiving is by the actual practice of it by colonialists, I believe modern-day Thanksgivings are one of the most beautiful ways to get together with neighbours.

As I cooked tonight I thought back to the Thanksgivings of my life, and to the people who have been a part of them. Of course, Shell Lake, Saskatchewan with Art & Judy up the hill. Those were my favourite Thanksgivings – huge smorgasbords of homemade dishes thrown together by a warm, eclectic, caring group of people that filled in as pseudo-grandparents. Judy passed earlier this year, but I’ll set a spot for her at our table tomorrow.

Later there were the Thanksgivings with friend’s families when I lived in Toronto in my early 20s. A decade later I appreciate being included more now that I did then.

In Belgium I hosted my first Canadian Thanksgivings at my beautiful apartment in an 18th century grand maison, inviting coworkers. Reflecting on it now, I feel it was a bit sad that my only guests were people from work. However, I likely only have that awareness now that I’ve landed in a place I call home, so maybe – when everything is taken into account – it isn’t that sad.

Then there was the Thanksgiving with Sean in Canada the first year we were together. Pumpkin pie hooked him – he asked me to marry him a few days later.

Returning to Sydney, we hosted the next few at our place in Bronte, bringing together a varied crowd. They didn’t all have a lot in common except for being really good, really interesting people. Something about feeding other people is so nourishing.

And now, here we are. Canadian Thanksgiving 2020 in Congo. Hutchy’s first. I hope he’ll grow to love it as much as I have, and to look back on his childhood Thanksgivings with fondness. I don’t think he could feel otherwise. Pumpkin pie is in his blood.

Thanksgiving 2018
Thanksgiving 2018 (best homemade pie to date – Classic filling with vegan crust)

We Need A Hero

The Australian government has just announced WWII hero, Teddy Sheean, will (poshumously) receive the Victoria Cross for valour in combat. His story is amazing. Having been commanded to abandon ship after being torpedoed by Japanese bombers and coming under fire from fighter jets, he returned to his anti-aircraft gun in an effort to protect his crewmates who were in the water, strafed by the fighter planes. Teddy went down with his ship, only 18 years old.

At the time Teddy was not awarded the Victoria Cross, and had been denied again in 2019, but seeing that the Australian government has fumbled the Coronavirus response and needs something new for the news cycles, Teddy is now making headlines as the newest recipient recommended for a VC.

Reading about Teddy while looking at my sleeping son, I reflect on how it seems we truly don’t appreciate how fortunate we are until we’ve lost something. In Australia, the area we have been living in have suffered droughts, incomprehensibly catastrophic bushfires, a global pandemic, and now flooding. And still, this country continues to pillage, granting coal mining rights under Sydney’s water reservoirs, post-bushfire logging, giving approvals to blow up 46,000 year old cultural sites of inestimable value to humanity. The idea of war is especially barbaric to me now that I am a mother. Wars waged against people and wars waged against our environment… both are incredibly destructive, but the second may worst. As we continue to drain the Earth of resources to quench our insatiable thirst for consumption, the options for future generations are becoming increasingly limited. I look at my baby and wonder what the world will look like for him in only a decade or two.

North American indigenous culture examines an individual’s capacity to affect 7 generations behind them, and 7 generations ahead. The Iroquois made decisions thinking of the world 7 generations ahead of them. Our leaders could not be further from this kind of thinking now, even when we have more than ever at risk. Individuals are still voting in governments which destroy natural wonders for short term gains in investment portfolios that they intend to pass down to their children and grandchildren. But what use is money when their world is gone? And these are the lucky ones… we don’t speak of what will happen to people in places like Bangladesh, or speak of climate refugees with no protection and no options. While this coming generation has incredible capacity to change the ways of our society, we need to stop stacking the deck against them.

Sea Change

For as long as Sean and I have known each other we’ve talked about the leaving Sydney for somewhere closer to nature. It’s been hard to decide where to land – Canada or Australia? Mountains or ocean? Bush or beach? As always, the answer came when we least expected it – with a newborn baby and a global pandemic.

Leading up to HB’s birth, Sean and I agreed to a period of “confinement” (translated from the Chinese, Zuò yuè zi). This meant that for 40 days after his arrival, I didn’t leave the house much. No grocery shopping, no groups of people, no computers. However, within 2 weeks of Hutchy’s birth, lockdown measures were looming in Australia. The infamous toilet paper brawl that made international news happened not far from where we live. One Tuesday night Sean went out to get a few essentials. He returned home with traumatised eyes, and suggested it was a good time for a trip down the coast. Oh, and I should bring whatever I might need for the next month. Just in case.

We drove 5 hours south of Sydney, and sure enough lockdown measures were introduced. Instead of going back to the city we decided we’d stay put and changed our address. We stayed for 6 weeks of bliss, taking short walks on the beach, hanging out with our new little family. It was so good we decided to find a house of our own nearby. After lockdown lifted we returned to Sydney, rented our apartment and then drove south to our new permanent home on the coast.

So, here we are. In paradise. Miles of empty beach north and south. The Great Divding Range to the west. The Tasman Sea to the east. 120 steps to the bush. 200 metres to the ocean. Surrounded by national park. Wallabies and kangaroos milling about. Pods of dolphins play in the surf.

It’s been a good move.

Golden Son

Hutchinson Balou Barker. Happy, healthy, hearty.

Life is forever changed. The three of us are embarking on something brand new.

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