If you’re new, welcome!

Nice to meet you. There used to be a shiny bio here. I’ve outgrown it so I cut it loose.

In short? I’m a less-is-more Canadian mother raising four kids, penning postcards, and meeting deadlines beside my dashing husband, Steve. (He’s an Australian scholar with a pastoral heart and a rock & roll past. Very niche.) Vancouver, British Columbia is home but we currently reside in Atlantic Canada. It’s growing on me.

I use my words.

I played the role of corporate writer in my early/mid-twenties. When motherhood turned me inside out, I hit pause on professional pursuits. I started this online journal. Freelancing came knocking a little while later and I haven’t looked back.

You name it, I’ve probably done it. This quarterly publication kept me busy for years. I loved the editorial work but laid the job down recently to preserve my health, log important time with my kids, and chase down personal goals. Now I’m excavating memoir fodder like crazy. I recently launched a Substack community dedicated to making homes and moving on. The subject fascinates me. I named the project Pipeland Road. (It’s a fun story.)

Food is my native language.

Before writing paid the bills, I worked in hospitality. Before I turned twenty-one, my tastebuds convinced me to bail on conformity, ditch university, and run to culinary school. I traded my best laid plans for a chef’s hat and knife kit. The pivot remains one of my most glorious life decisions. I learned to bet on myself. I won.

After school, I held down a gig in high-volume corporate catering. It was….an adventure. Let’s just say I’m grateful for the car accident that derailed my plans after a brutal seven months. I left catering and took a part-time job managing a luxury B&B in Vancouver’s elite West Point Grey neighbourhood. The quieter pace healed me and highlighted why I fell in love with food in the first place: it fosters connection and fuels delight. Also: butter.

The sight of meticulously cut mirepoix makes me swoon. I get warm fuzzies when I read “bouquet garni” in a cookbook. I’m all for linens, candlelight, and fine dining. AND—I also believe in the ministry of Kraft Dinner. Motherhood took the edge off. I’m better for it.

Home is a confusing subject.

I was born in Vancouver but Scotland raised me right. We called St Andrews home so Steve could complete his Ph.D. We lived abroad for five glorious years. I became a new woman in the process. The rest, you could say, is history—medieval history, to be specific.

Except it’s not. It’s complicated. Life unravelled when we returned to Canada. We lived without a fixed address for over a year. The adventure took us all around Vancouver, south to Tennessee, up and down Australia’s east coast, back to BC and clear across to Toronto via an epic 12-day American road trip. We enjoyed the audacious hospitality of strangers. I joke that our dining room needs a world map, some push pins, and red string to chart our nomadic adventures. Conversations start with “Where’s home?” and end with some variation of “Was that before or after camping on Johnny Cash’s farm?” Dear reader: This is only the beginning.

Our tumultuous season (and the subsequent healing journey) shed light on how I want to live. I care deeply about what it means to locate pilgrims and provide home—shelter, comfort, encouragement, rest. I care about hospitalis, the core of hospitality, the nurturing presence that says “I see you. I care. Tell me your story.” I care about living with an open heart and parting with grace when moving day inevitably comes. I care about faithfully navigating life’s journey wherever it leads.

I like simple things.

Give me quality speakers, warm harmonies, and an open road. Give me strong black coffee and hot buttered toast with bitter marmalade. Give me sweatpants and an hour alone with my ballet barre.

Lipstick, berets, and gin—these are my calling cards. Friendship fuels my tank. I’m known to carry slippers in my purse and leave long-winded rambling voice memos. Nearly all my best stories begin with “So I emailed a stranger and the funniest thing happened…”

My default setting is faith, hope, and love.

God has taken me on a wild ride. His faithfulness is what keeps me alive. Some days I have more questions than answers. Most concerns are answered with “Yeah, but Jesus…” and a trip to the book of John. I now believe in four-letter prayers.

I don’t tolerate bullshit anymore.

Not from myself and not from the world. I crave candid conversations, sincerity in all forms, and a sense of humour. None of this filtered-living-small-talk business. Social media makes me want to pull my eyelashes out. Human beings were made for more than synthetic living. I want the real deal, decades woven like sturdy linen and fine silk. Life in all its brilliant and brittle glory.

The perfectionist in me is screaming.

She’s saying, “Elissa!! You can’t publish this yet.”

My weary soul is nodding and rolling her eyes. She’s pouring a drink and putting her feet up. She’s smiling. “All in time, Elissa. All in time.”

I write what I know.

Home is where you make it.

Joy thrives in the wilderness.

We are never, ever, ever alone.

Well-made shoes and spectacular coats are worth every penny. Coffee reigns but Love Gin comes to life with grapefruit so…tough call.

Writing is therapy.

Whether it’s work or play, I love what I do.

Thanks for lending your attention. Please don’t send an invoice.