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Tel Aviv, Israel I was never one of those little girls who dreamt of their wedding day or who came up with the names of their unborn children. That is not to…

Recently, I pulled back a bit to take a look at this blog, and where I’d like to take it. As I recently went down to part-time to focus on this as a possible business, it was necessary for me to outline what I wanted for the future of This Battered Suitcase, and for my career. I started going through my archives. I started looking at the posts that I loved writing the most. I started looking at the posts that readers loved reading the most. And it hit me: if I keep accepting all of these trips, and if I keep chasing SEO stats, my blog might grow, yes. But isn’t my blog also going to get really fucking boring?

There’s really no beating around the bush here, as the title gives it all away. I’ve alluded to this in the past and openly talk about it with friends and family, but I rarely mention it on this blog or any of my social media. I’m not quite sure why, but I thought it was high time to do it, purely to put it out there. Once it’s out there, I can’t take it away. I’m writing a book.

I have been meaning to write this post for a long, long time. I suppose you could argue I’ve been waiting to tell this story since early April of 2022, which is when I gave birth to my son. Considering he is now nearly three years old, and I have one glorious day where I am actually on top of my freelance deadlines, the sun is shining, and I have a cup of hot coffee at my side, I thought I’d finally write a blog post about my birth story, or: how I learned to stop worrying and love the epidural (I couldn’t resist the title, which is a nod to my former days of cinephilia and a love of all things Stanley Kubrick).

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.

As someone who loves to learn about the history of a place – of the who and the why a place is what it is – I knew my focus was going to be on that. And Nova Scotia is filled with history; in fact, despite it being the second-smallest province by land size, it has 13 national historic sites and six UNESCO World Heritage Sites (for reference, the entire country of Canada has 22 UNESCO World Heritage Sites, so Nova Scotia has more than a quarter of them).

On top of that, Halifax is home to the Halifax Defence Complex, a collection of five forts that were crucial overseas naval stations for the British Empire. They helped protect the Halifax Harbour from the late 1700s all the way to World War II. Despite not knowing much about this side of Halifax’s history, I was able to visit all five, and – history buff or not – I believe that they’re all absolutely worthy of a visit when you’re in Halifax.