Welcome to The Lighthouse

I hope it feels like a warm place to visit 🕯️

Hi friend,

Earlier this year, while brainstorming possible next book ideas, I found myself thinking about the topic of home. How many homes I’ve lived in¹, how old I was in each one, what life events occurred in them, etc. Index cards are one of the tools I use to brainstorm and keep track of book projects, so I grabbed a stack and started scribbling it all down, giving each home its own card. Then I laid the cards out and added them up. There were 24. That is how many different homes I have lived in. And when I added in cards to show how many times I’ve gone back to places I had lived before (back to my dad’s, back to an ex, or to live with a friend again, etc.) so I could see a full timeline of my life in homes, it jumps to 31.

I have moved 31 times². I am 39 years old. I love numbers, so when I looked at those two, I couldn’t help but wonder what that averaged out to. The answer: 1.26 years per home. Or: 460 days.

The average is kind of irrelevant, because it doesn’t represent the truth about any of those homes (well, except for maybe a few of the apartments I lived in). As an example, I have spent approx. 17 years at my dad’s house. But of the 23 other homes, there are 10 that I only lived in for 1-6 months. So, while the average doesn’t tell the full story, it is relevant when you think about what that many moves could mean for someone’s life. For their identity. For their sense of community. For their finances and goals. And, for their nervous system. Each move has had an impact, but cumulatively, it’s safe to say I haven’t had much stability. And unstable ground is a hard place to try to grow from.

I’ve moved for so many different reasons, and the stories I’ve told myself about what each place could mean for me have varied, but they’ve usually been centred around a feeling of hope. Hope for a new career (in Toronto), or a relationship to work out, or a certain town and lifestyle I’d dreamt about (in Squamish). But moving to the UK was a little different. People always ask why I left Canada and moved here, and the honest answer is: I don’t really know. It was just an idea I had back in 2018 and it wouldn’t go away. I don’t want to say I felt hopeless about it (that would be a weird reason to move lol), but I didn’t have a specific dream either. I just wanted to try and see what happened.

I spent the first month in an Airbnb in Edinburgh, then had a four-month stay lined up in North Yorkshire. Towards the end of my time there, I started looking at proper rental listings. Not Airbnbs or short-term stays I found through friends, but a real home to call my own. Everything about this process was stressful, starting with the fact that I was new to the country, had no credit, and was self-employed without guaranteed income. (I’ve written before about how much it cost me to immigrate and get settled here.) I also didn’t know if I really wanted to live in the North, and wondered if I’d regret my decision to start this chapter of my life here. This wasn’t my usual story of hope. I was mostly scared.

The only thing I felt sure of was the house.

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When I first saw the listing for the house I rent here, I thought: omg, THE LIGHT! From the pictures, I loved how bright it looked. And seeing it in-person, I could not believe how much natural light poured into each room. This is not something I’ve seen often in the UK—a place where many homes have small windows and can feel quite dark. Not this house. Still, it was a bit bigger than what I’d imagined for myself, and the size of the garden has always felt like too much for me to manage on my own (and it’s usually more overgrown than managed). But after seeing how bright it was, the one story of hope I told myself was “the light will be good for my mental health.” It has been. Living here has been very good for my mental health. It’s also been good for my creativity.

When I first moved in, I didn’t have a vision for how I wanted the house to look. It had been years since I’d even owned furniture (I was nomadic before), let alone thought about interior design. But I did know how I wanted the house to feel—cozy, comfortable, warm—and used that to guide my purchasing decisions. After doing a two-year shopping ban from 2014-2016, I believed most purchases were wasteful or materialistic. But since living here, I’ve realized everything we buy and own is a form of self-expression. I’m learning how to express myself through furniture and decor and the feeling of a space. I’m also learning how to express myself by creating experiences for visitors, whether that’s for dinner, sleepovers (or a little girl’s first slumber party) or longer stays. I didn’t have a vision for the house, but living here (and building relationships with interesting people) has helped me become more creative.

I had only been here for a few weeks, when I decided the house needed a name. I’d never named a home in my life, so this was a new idea for me but was inspired by my surroundings. Whenever I walked through my town (and really, walked anywhere in the UK), I would notice the different signs outside other people’s homes. You can find a “Rose Cottage” and “Orchard House” and “The Lodge” almost anywhere. I do not live on the kind of street where houses have names, but I wanted one. If my house had a name, I thought, I wonder what it would be? The answer came easily. But my next thought is one I grapple with when considering making any change (including starting a new creative project): what would people think? I wondered if they (whoever “they” are) would think it was childish to name my home. Childish, juvenile, immature. I did it anyway.

“I’m thinking of calling it The Lighthouse,” I told my partner, Tall Man, and a few close friends. The name perfectly describes the original reason I fell in love with the house. It’s also ridiculous and makes me laugh, because I am landlocked in the middle of nowhere in the UK, and certainly don’t live by the sea. But I did, for most of my life before moving here. The Lighthouse reminds me of the fact that I grew up on Vancouver Island, in British Columbia, Canada. A place where the sight and smell of the Pacific Ocean was never far, and one of the most popular walks is along the breakwater down to the lighthouse and back. It also makes me think of my dad, a lifelong sailor. The Lighthouse is both my home today and an homage to my first home.

It’s also the place where I finally started writing again.

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I moved into The Lighthouse in May 2022 and re-started my newsletter a few months later in September. I didn’t start from scratch with 0 subscribers, but instead moved everyone from my old mailing list that was stored in Squarespace. Like a literal storage unit, I’d been paying Squarespace some amount of money (I can’t remember exactly how much but at least a few hundred dollars each year) to hold onto a list I’d built over a decade but had barely looked at since experiencing a trauma in 2019. After a nearly three-year hiatus from writing, I didn’t know what I wanted to do or say here. I just knew I missed it. Writing is the form of creative and self-expression I value most, and I’d been afraid to do it for years, but I didn’t want to be afraid anymore. So, I decided to write my way through. That’s exactly what I’ve done, for the past two years, and I finally feel as though I’m coming out on the other side. And I’ve discovered so much more than I could’ve imagined, on this journey.

I’m known to be a really intentional person, but if I’m honest, my writing career has felt like anything but. Instead, it’s felt like a response to opportunity after opportunity. There’s a lot about my experiences to be grateful for, but choosing this path has also left me feeling lost many times. The same way I didn’t have a vision for The Lighthouse, I’ve never had a vision for my writing career… until recently. I’m finally letting myself dream about what could be next, and coming up with a loose “plan”. Here’s what I can tell you so far, friend: I want to write one more non-fiction book, and I know the story I want to tell. After that, I want to try writing a middle grade novel (my favourite genre, after a good memoir). I don’t know what will happen beyond that yet. But to do those two things well, I want to become a better storyteller. That’s where this newsletter comes in.

For most of my career, I thought my job was to write about specific topics: money, minimalism, sobriety, intentional living (which is really creative living) and so on. But after 14 years of writing online, I can finally see what I was really doing: trying to find my own voice—my thoughts, my feelings, my values and beliefs. Now, I want to use that voice. I want to use it to share stories with you. About my life, home, community, animals, thoughts on writing and creative living and more. And I may still touch on some of my old favourite topics, but that’s not going to be the point here. In a way, there is no point anymore. I’m finally, truly, sincerely done with everything that could be put under the umbrella of self-help. I just want to practice my craft and write some delightful stories and hopefully give you something fun to follow along with.

This feels very new for me, friend. For most of my life, I have been drawn to the depths—which sometimes, naturally, leads you into the dark. My work will always include depth. I don’t think I could write at a surface-level if I tried. But I don’t want to live in the depths. I can write about the dark when I need to (like: in my next book), but I want to live and love and create in the light. And I want to do that from The Lighthouse.

I’ve lived here for 875 days now, which is the longest I’ve lived anywhere as an adult. I know what this house offers me in real life. It’s a safe place for me to express myself. A place to try new things. A place to explore from. A place to return to, and reflect on who I am and how I experience the world. A place to simply be. And a solid foundation for me to grow from. I won’t live here forever, but I can always carry this with me.

In imagining how to take that online, my first hope is that The Lighthouse feels like a warm place to visit. Invites you into a moment of calm reflection. Gives you space to sit with whatever comes up while you’re here. Feels like a safe place to use your voice and express yourself, if you want to share anything with us. And maybe, just maybe… offers a little inspiration to come up with creative ways to navigate life, love, and work.

If nothing else, I hope you enjoy the stories.

More soon,

xx Cait

PS - To my longtime subscribers, thank you for your patience while I navigated the ups and downs of wanting to make this change. Truthfully: I’ve thought about calling my newsletter The Lighthouse since September 2022, but let my inner critic hold me back. That voice told me the idea was silly, childish, immature, etc. It can take a long time for us to figure out whose voice really planted those concerns and criticisms. It wasn’t mine, and I’m glad I finally realized it. I love The Lighthouse. And I’m so glad we can connect here now. ❤️

1. For at least 30 days.

2. Technically, I guess the first time was simply coming home from the hospital I was born in, but you know what I mean!