by Gail Heney | Aug 12, 2026 | Weekly Musings
I’m preoccupied with the notion that Ozempic and AI are the uncontrolled catalysts for our demise as humans. I alternate between anger, fear, and hopelessness. Until I notice my garden. There is a random six-foot-high sunflower plant smiling tall and strong in the midst of a jumble of creeping vines with beautiful gold flowers (I can’t remember what I planted; however, I have harvested 8 cucumbers and now there’s a large squash of sorts hanging over the chicken wire fence) and huge tomato plants drooping with red-orange bounty. I decided the sunflower is a sign of hope, reminding me to seek out small pleasures and have faith in the universe.
Sinking low again this morning after a glance at the headlines, I headed through our fields of barley and soybeans with the dogs. Both crops are solid dark green carpets, until I spot a lone tall stalk, with three tasselled ears of corn tucked neatly behind the large floating leaves. Not quite a miracle of nature, however, a sign of tenacity. We have never had corn in that field. Of course I stopped to talk to her, examine her beauty and sturdiness and thank her for being there.
My optimism and faith in humanity depend on these moments of joy and awe. Otherwise, I am left with my bewildered thoughts. Now that the GLP-1 medication is readily available for people wanting to lose weight, be it ten pounds or one hundred, millions are eating less, dining out infrequently, and posting pictures of their skinny selves on Instagram. Protein-rich cottage cheese is scarce, and no alcohol beer or wine is the norm. During a recent lunch with a friend, I noticed her nibbling on her salad and then boxing up more than half to take home for dinner. She had lost 30 pounds. I asked if she had changed her eating habits and started to exercise, the usual routine for long-term sustainable weight loss, pre-drugs. She is walking a bit more, though mainly relying on medication for weight management. She will be on it for the rest of her life.
A long time ago, I worked in psychiatry as an Occupational Therapist. My caseload included patients with eating disorders. Their weight, whether it was not enough or too much, was tied to their emotions and psychology. I wonder what will happen to those souls whose battle is not with food, but with themselves. To feel less afraid about the deluge and availability of these “miracle” drugs, I need to believe we will find our way to a healthy middle ground of medication and emotional recovery.
Beyond the billions of dollars and resources devoted to evolving artificial intelligence (AI) is its limitless potential to impact every aspect of our lives and our humanness. A gift to scientific research and medical diagnostics, AI now permeates every business and household. The warnings are real and prevalent. What becomes of problem-solving, critical thinking, and creativity when a bot can tell you the answer (not necessarily the best or most correct) in seconds? Or a scene can be acted without a real person, a piece of art produced without a human seed of inspiration. A book written, an essay submitted, a meeting conducted without engaging our brain and voice.
Sharing my concerns with a kindred spirit who, like me, is feeling existential threats from pharmacology and technology, along with the surreal political landscape, we committed to noticing the beauty around us, the people we care about, and the things we love to do. Celebrating simplicity and focusing on stretching our brains and bodies will keep us connected to reality and in touch with our humanity.
by Gail Heney | Jul 13, 2026 | Weekly Musings
I am again in a familiar state of creative yearning complicated by the convenience of summer social activities and chaotic clutter in my nest. It starts with invitations to golf, to the beach, or for coffee and some shopping. It spreads to a handful of clients that have somehow found me (could be my own fault), and my commitment to volunteering and my recovery program. On my own, I manage to add house guests, garden weeding, and obligatory dog walks and errands. There, another day filled up. Another day of my designated “author time” violated.
As I perch on a vinyl bucket chair with my laptop on the black Arborite table in a big city Starbucks, I am soaking in rare empty time. I am relishing the opportunity to accompany my daughter to a medical appointment and be told I would have to “wait” two hours. I have chosen not to explore the area, poke around shops, or otherwise avail myself of urban amenities.
I have the same wave of appreciation for activity voids when I am on a plane. The freedom of not being able to do anything is an elixir for me.
Many years ago, in a course on neuroscience and coaching, I was reminded of the duality of our brains. In simplistic terms, the right brain is our creative and emotional engine, the left brain the organizer and logistics co-ordinator. As I continue my journey of maturity and self-knowledge (aging), I am increasingly aware of the imbalance in my head. As I ventured behind my closet doors to the tangle of hangers, baskets puking t-shirts and jeans and single shoes spilling off an inadequate rack, I had a moment of clarity. Chaos in my closet leads to clutter in my mind. I needed to purge and organize to calm my brain. Clearing physical space has a way of disposing of my mental and emotional litter.
I filled three bags with clothing, some almost brand new. The pieces were either replicas of what I already owned, or whims that felt exciting in the moment and ridiculous when I took them out of the bag at home. The excess of consumption and waste is disturbing and disruptive to my urge for simplicity and social responsibility. Shame also sits close to the surface.
Like a soothing salve, tying up the bags and having empty space and neatly folded items I like removed me from the din of inertia I had been feeling. The next step was the calendar review. The audit of the coulds, shoulds, and want tos. Only with my left hemisphere clarity could I tackle the double booking, texts and emails taunting me and stealthily infiltrating protected time.
I am the victim and the perpetrator of my predicament. It is easier and safer to say yes, to feign interest and enthusiasm, to busy myself with activities and engagements deemed worthwhile and socially fulfilling. To admit that I am avoiding the hard work of building a book outline, writing chapters, and finding an editor is to acknowledge fear: of failure in all its forms.
Fear is the glue that keeps us stuck, small, avoiding, and otherwise limiting our experiences and potential. As I enter a new decade, I feel I have choice laced with a sense of urgency. Shifting from writing and posting short dispatches to sinking into a consuming and lengthy project is like learning a new dance step, with the goal of being put on stage in front of hundreds of people.
My next tattoo will likely be “if not now ~ when”.
by Gail Heney | Jul 8, 2026 | Intrepid Challenge, Weekly Musings
In mid-June, I joined an old friend and mental health advocate in an interview about my personal journey through alcoholism to my life in sobriety. His questions took me deep, quickly.
While we have known each other for many years, our paths rarely crossed, and our conversations were superficial. When our cursory chats turned to his work in raising awareness around mental health challenges, we found our common ground.
In my early career, I was an Occupational Therapist. I worked in both long-term and acute care psychiatric facilities. Witnessing the frailty and truth about mental illness in all its conditions, diseases and manifestations opened my mind and my heart. It is through my own addiction that I understand emotional death, the power of radical honesty and self-reflection, and the vital role of supportive relationships and community.
There has been societal progress in understanding and accepting the reality of mental illness. Not enough. I respect the traditions of 12 Step Recovery groups, and yet I choose to break my anonymity as a recovering alcoholic if I feel it will help someone or challenge the stigma that still exists.
Please take a few minutes to listen to the podcast – No Magic Bullet. Bobby K’s questions excavate radical honesty, personal growth lessons and the necessity of deep connections.
by Gail Heney | Jun 23, 2026 | Weekly Musings
The other day I had breakfast with a close friend of mine. We were celebrating her 40 – something birthday. I have known her for 10 years. She is one of my “people” – a term for those remarkable souls travelling with me in a twelve-step recovery program. Sobriety is a pilgrimage. I chose that word as it captures the leaving behind of habits and familiarity, and engaging in a process with elements of devotions and rituals to support a profound personal transformation.
As I sipped my latte and nibbled on a breakfast bowl of quinoa, greens and tofu, I was immersed in her becoming. She was not the woman who nervously asked me so many years ago to be her sponsor. That person had fragile sobriety and no tethers or support system that I could see. She, like all of us when we arrive, was lost.
During our early years together, the work we did was sporadic and often felt unproductive. When I moved out of the city, I suggested she might find someone local to work with. She flatly refused – you’re not getting rid of me that easily. Don’t you remember my fear of abandonment?
For many years, she held fast to a relationship that was undermining aspects of her recovery. In the midst of the harmful partnership, she decided to have two children. She wasn’t alone in wishing, hoping and believing that creating a family would fill in the cracks of a fractured relationship.
It turns out her path was my teacher. I couldn’t control her actions and decisions. I learned to be patient and supportive, letting her journey at her own pace – testing her willingness to change with gentle truths. I noticed I was being kinder to her in her struggles and foibles than I was to myself.
The phrase “A leopard can’t change its spots” is rooted in the Old Testament of the Bible, “Can the Ethiopian change his skin or the leopard its spots?” Thanks to medical discoveries and the business of beauty and vanity, skin can be changed. As a person who has witnessed the miracle of recovery from addiction, I know people can change. Rarely because they wish to, or want to, or think they should. It’s because they can’t stay as they are any longer. A quote from Anais Nin is how I think about personal change: “And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom.”
It’s painful and humbling to have a front row seat to an unravelling, knowing I have no control, praying for a safe passage to willingness and relief. It’s like waiting for the heavens to open and pour rain to wash away the spots.
Now she has no spots. Her eyes are bright, her voice is calm, her body is smooth and fluid as she moves across the room. She speaks of her creative energy, shows me pictures of amazing custom clothing pieces and artful installations of clouds and birds, and asks me to speak at a women’s event she has organized with a business partner. She reeks of gratitude, confidence and potential.
I am at the age and stage in my life where it is common to hear that we will sink deeper into our habits, fears, and narrow beliefs. That aging amplifies our flaws. What if we could all find the willingness to be expansive, find new potential, and live more truly to ourselves?
That’s another thing I learned from her.
by Gail Heney | Jun 11, 2026 | Weekly Musings
On the inside of my right forearm is a tattoo in precise cursive writing: “this too shall pass”. I can’t remember a specific prompt, circumstance or occasion; it was just something my mother used to say. I’m sure it was not comforting to me at the time. I didn’t think she knew enough about life, and certainly not about me, to grant such an assurance. Yet, it stayed in a file folder in my brain. Only after her death, and with some emotional insight and maturity on my part, did I understand the power and truth in the words.
While it originates from the medieval writings of a Persian Sufi poet, it is meant to comfort the suffering and provide humility for the exuberant. As a child, it landed upon my ears as a diminishment and dismissal.
Early in my life, I realized that I had Big feelings. I was sentenced to sensitivity, without an outlet or safety net to manage them. The black and white thinking of an adolescent convinced me that how I felt was powerful and permanent. Thankfully, I found alcohol and busyness. They were the tools that calmed, numbed and propelled me. For many, many years.
When numbing and avoidance stopped working, I crashed – found my bottom is a common phrase. I discovered that recovery is less about not drinking and more about living sober; learning how to manage feelings and the roller coaster of being alive.
It’s been a challenging, amazing, painful and inspiring ride into the depths of my mind, body and soul. When there are no other options, it’s comforting to know we can muster sources of courage and willingness.
Much has been written, podcasted, and Instagrammed about emotional well-being; about equanimity, maturity and intelligence as it relates to our temperaments. I have an unquenchable thirst to explore the mind/body connection. To understand how to live relatively contented rather than as a slave to my sentiment of the moment.
I recently came across a handful of individuals who have made the study of human nature, healing and spiritual growth their life’s work. It’s no coincidence that the teacher arrives when the student is ready. In their presence, reading their words, or participating in a guided process or ritual, has catapulted me into a realm of my own grounded truth. I have been taught to examine emotions as information, rather than a state or identity. The temporary nature of these flashes of cortisol and adrenaline is not cause for decision making or action . . . unless the house is on fire and you need to get out. More often, they’re a call to investigate. With my mouth closed and my hands by my side. None of this is new. Ancient eastern teachings tell us to sit with it, breathe into it, remember that each wave, rage or joy lasts about 90 seconds. It seems I need to be reminded, often.
As I count down to my next decade, I find myself collating the number of sharp turns in my life, the shifts in my perspective and thoughts, and what was once unfathomable, the sober truths that now guide me.
Rather than the Russian nesting dolls, called Matryoshka, that get smaller and smaller as you take them apart, I am becoming grander and more spacious, not to mention a valued collectible.
by Gail Heney | Jun 1, 2026 | Weekly Musings
If I didn’t know better, I would swear that today’s warm temperatures and blue sky are only an April teaser. I am still wearing my leggings and heavy sweatshirt to my early morning workouts at the gym. Two weeks ago, the doors were open, and the rowing machines were dragged outside. The next day we had frost. My newly planted peppers and tomatoes are continually struggling against cruel gusts and single-digit temperatures as they cling to the soil pressed firmly down around their young roots. The evening ritual includes a debate about which plants need to come indoors, whether we need the tarpaulin over the garden, and will the planters against the garage survive the never-ending assault from the northern gales.
Sipping coffee after a dog walk and garden inspection, confessing through my fingers to my laptop, I am confounded by the heat wave in Europe and our endless wind from the north. The dark green and brown squares of the rolling hills beyond our hedgerow confirm that the farmers believe it’s time to plant: no more frost, longer days, more sunshine. The apple blossoms are finally unfurled. The rain that has ruined several weekends, sent campers back to the city, and cottagers cursing Mother Nature, is welcomed by those who work the land.
During my university years, I did an internship at a hospital in Ottawa. It was spring, and I shared a student ghetto flat with four classmates, each of us working at a different healthcare facility. We slept on mattresses on the floor and stole milk crates from convenience stores for our clothes. One of our flatmates was a vegetarian, so we all decided to join her regimen. It was easier and cheaper.
My placement was at a rehabilitation hospital. A sprawl of red brick buildings set back from the busy street. I worked with stroke victims, a handsome young man who broke his neck diving into a pool, and a comical woman with advanced multiple sclerosis. I had my first viewing of a vasectomy scar as I taught my favourite stroke patient how to dress himself with one hand.
My supervisor, Rita, was a person governed by the barometer. She had tanned skin, a perfect dark brown shoulder-length bob, and always wore coral lipstick. Each day, she responded to my morning greeting by defining her mood and predictions for the day ahead according to the weather. She was happy and had lots of energy when the sun shone. She was impatient if it was too windy when she walked from her car to the entrance of the hospital. She felt gloomy if the skies were grey. She was tired when it rained. She counted down the weeks, then days, then hours, then minutes until she would be on the beach in Mexico. It was June. I hoped she already had a November booked. Now I wonder whether she was a plant, karmically recreated in a human body.
By now, I have lived through all kinds of weather. I have been horrified by pictures and headlines of earthquakes, typhoons, tsunamis, volcanoes, tornadoes and floods. We now have frequent apocalyptic forest fires and ice storms. There are mudslides, rockslides, atmospheric rivers, heat domes, and snowstorms that require military intervention. The winds that careen up the valley now tear the shingles from our roof.
I feel the weight of my years when I comment on the shift and ferocity of weather patterns. It challenges me to be resilient and tenacious instead of fading into a comfortable chair with a book and blanket on my lap. I am relieved to still feel joy in the change of the seasons, awe at Mother Nature’s aggression, and energy to be in the weather rather than an observer.
For now, I wish to be a warrior against the elements. There may come a time when I need to retreat to a more hospitable and blander climate ~ not yet.
