They say we become like the people we spend the most time with. If that’s true, then who we’re with is not just a reflection of who we are—it’s a blueprint of who we’re becoming.
For me, that influence is both narrow and broad.
First and most deeply, there’s my wife.
She’s passionate—about wild places, community, justice, and the arts. She loves the beach, loves freedom, and resists anything that boxes people in. As a psychologist, she connects with others on a level I admire: emotionally attuned, but also deeply practical. She’s not just moved by people’s struggles—she knows what to do. We’re quite different, which turns out to be a gift. Her intensity and breadth of feeling have stretched me, gently but persistently, in ways I couldn’t have foreseen. Living with her is a daily education in seeing the world not only more vividly, but more generously.
Then there’s my family—my origin story.
I’m one of five. We’re steady types: reliable, loyal, dependable. Some might say boring, but I’ve learned that “boring” often just means consistent. Every week, I visit my elderly parents with two of my sisters. They’re in their 90s now, still fiercely independent, still living in the family home because we’ve made it possible for them to do so. This quiet rhythm of care is not dramatic or headline-worthy, but it has formed something in me—about commitment, patience, and honouring the dignity of those we love.
Then there’s my work—college life, all day every day.
I live in a university residential college with 300 students. It’s intense. There’s little privacy and a constant undercurrent of unpredictability (which anyone who’s lived among students will understand). But there’s also a vibrancy, a liveliness, a sense of being part of something communal. They keep me young. They help me see what’s emerging in the world, what matters to the next generation. And their deep desire for belonging, even when half-buried beneath ironic detachment, reminds me that community is still a hunger we all carry.
And then, of course, there’s the dog.
We walk every morning. She comes to work. She’s cheeky, fun, and oddly intuitive—especially when routines change. Her companionship is different. Less complex. But no less significant. Dogs have a way of anchoring us in the now, of offering presence without performance. Her loyalty and joy remind me to be present, even in the in-between spaces.
The Afterword 
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