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Have I completely and utterly fucked up? I can’t tell you how many times I’ve asked myself this question. It’s usually late at night, the witching hour, as I lie in bed staring at shadows on my ceiling.

I haven’t been sleeping well lately. I don’t know why – I traditionally think of myself as a pretty good sleeper – but now that I think of it, maybe I haven’t slept well in years. Maybe part of this is being a single parent to a newborn/baby/toddler, the only one to get up every night when needed (which, until he was about one, was every hour on the hour). Maybe part of this might be perimenopause, something I’ve been researching a bit more as I turned 40 (oh right. I turned 40. I’m sure I’ll write about that one day).

But a big part? A really, really big part of the reason I can’t sleep? It’s because I feel like I’ve thrown all of this away. I feel like I’ve fucked up one of the things I’ve loved the most in my life, one of the only constants in my life over the past two decades.

Yep, I’m talking about this blog.

It doesn’t matter if you were together for 30 years, five years, or even a few months, let’s face it: breakups are terrible. In fact, a tough breakup is often cited as one of the most stressful things you’ll ever go through in life. And as someone who has suffered her fair share of difficult breakups – my last serious relationship ended when my then-partner dumped me while I was pregnant with his child – I can tell you that there are few things in the world that are as energy-draining, as mind-numbing, or as hard to get through. What I’d love to do right now is give you a big hug and tell you it’s going to be OK. Barring that, here are a few things you can do to help yourself through a difficult breakup.

As I’ve made pretty clear in the past couple of years, I love Winnipeg. Born and raised here, I moved away at 18 only to return at 33. For the past three years, I’ve fallen harder for this prairie city than I ever thought possible. One of the reasons I love it so much? The unbelievable wealth of local makers. This year, more than ever before, I’m trying to support local businesses. With that in mind, I thought I’d put together a guide of the best local Winnipeg gifts for Christmas and beyond.

I met Dylan in a sandwich shop on a snowy afternoon in Toronto. With a charming accent and a mop of brown curls, I was instantly smitten. Lunch after lunch, even though it cost a fortune, I visited the sandwich shop for a chance to speak to the handsome man who worked there.

After six weeks, he finally asked me out. From then on, things happened fast: we became boyfriend and girlfriend, moved in together, and planned a future living in another country, all within the span of six months or so. It was my first truly serious relationship – I was 22 – and I was so excited to finally have someone to introduce to friends and family, to plan out holidays with, and to share my life and all its ups and downs.

And although Dylan and I stayed together for nearly three years, lived in three countries together, and even discussed marriage and children, I always had a worrying thought lingering the back of my mind: I don’t think Dylan is very nice to me. In fact… I think Dylan is really, really mean to me.

The first time I was ghosted, I didn’t understand what I had done wrong.

I met Chris in a little cocktail bar one rainy night in London (sidenote: my best friend has demanded that I never again date a guy called Chris… I’m cursed with guys called Chris). We had a fantastic date, one of my best ever, and it culminated with both a passionate kiss and an invitation to a second date. He texted me on the way home.

“I can’t stop smiling…,” he wrote, and oh my god, there is no better feeling than getting that text after making out with a ridiculously hot, ridiculously intelligent journalist named Chris, let me tell you.

Over the next couple of days, we texted back and forth and made plans for our upcoming dinner date. And then, the day before, I texted him to confirm what time we were meeting. No response. That seemed a bit strange, but I tried not to let it bother me until the next day. By lunchtime – I would assume we were meeting only a few hours later – I texted again. Yes, oh yes, the dreaded double-text. But I was kind of worried, and very confused.

“Hey,” I texted. “Are we still on for tonight?”

And that, dear friends, is when I encountered my first ghost.

I once met a girl named Courtney while I was travelling through Nicaragua. She was tall and rail thin, her body covered in tattoos. From Seattle originally, we met on a volcano-boarding tour just outside of Léon, a small colonial city where all the buildings were painted dark pinks and greens and blues. We’d spent the day climbing Cerro Negro Volcano and then riding on sleds down the side of it, hurtling ourselves down the soft black ash.

“I just got this one before I left for Central America… look.” She instructed me to pull down the back of her t-shirt, revealing sprawling script across her shoulders. I recognised the words; it was a quote by Saint Augustine. I had heard the quote a few times before, seen it on a mug or read it on a blog. This was before it became one of the most popular travel quotes splashed across the internet, found on thousands of Pinterest boards, the text always written over the image of a pristine beach or a young woman standing on a mountaintop, her blonde hair blowing in the wind.

The thing is… I hate this quote.