Paris Edited-1-6PSD

About a month ago, I was helping to clean up an event space where a gala I’d spent the last few months planning had just wrapped up. As the guests started to head out, I felt a combination of intense relief and pride at how my team’s hard work had all come together.

“This was amazing. You did a great job!” said one my co-workers to me in the earshot of a few other people.

My automatic reply was something to the effect of “Thanks, but I can’t take all the credit. It was totally a team effort.”

“Yes, but I’m saying YOU did a good job. I’m sure you worked really hard on it.”

I chuckled nervously and insisted that I couldn’t have done it on my own.

“Just accept the compliment,” she said in mock exasperation. “I’ll congratulate them too, but right now I’m congratulating you.”

She was right, of course. Ever since that moment, I’ve been thinking about how uncomfortable I seem to be with accepting praise.

My go-to response is generally to talk about all the help I received or to downplay the accomplishment, in what I can only guess is an attempt to seem humble. View Post

I can’t remember the first time I heard the term “community service,” but it wasn’t until the 10th grade that I finally understood what the word meant. I had just moved to the United States from Jamaica and once enrolled in high school, I got involved with the National Honor Society and an after-school club called Building with Books.

Both organizations required students to volunteer and over the next three years, I logged hundreds of volunteer hours after school and on weekends, serving meals in soup kitchens, planting community gardens, writing letters to kids in Uganda and eventually, flying to Nicaragua with a group of other students from the tri-state area to build a school.

The two weeks I spent lugging concrete blocks across a worksite or mixing cement was perhaps one of the most formative periods in my life.

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Photo: @satiregram

As a blogger and someone who reads a lot of style, travel and lifestyle blogs, I’m keenly aware of the way that people romanticize their online personalities.

On the most basic level, this actually makes sense. After all, no-one wants to share or see a photo of you when you’re in a depressed funk and at your worst or when you just woke up (looking nothing like Beyonce). It’s kind of like how they say ‘dress for the job you want, not the one you have.’ Why not Instagram the life you want?

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london big ben


Doesn’t it always seem like there’s never enough time in the day? It’s gotten to the point where “I’m so busy” has actually become a legitimately acceptable answer when you ask someone how their day is going.

At first, I wondered if this was simply a function of having becoming an adult with a full schedule and real responsibilities. But then I remembered that even kids are over-scheduled these days. (Plus, did adults in the ’50s feel this way?)

There has been quite a lot written about our constant search for more time – which often manifests itself in the form of an epidemic of busyness (almost to the point of narcissism), overflowing inboxes and national discussions about work-life balance. 

Maybe people have been feeling swamped for as long as productivity has been a part of life, but it seems to me that there has been a very real cultural change in our attitudes toward time.

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I don’t know what you think of when you think Montreal, but when you live with a hockey-obsessed individual, you inevitably come to associate the city with the Canadiens: Montreal’s uber-successful and long-standing hockey team.

So naturally, when we decided to visit last month, a game was one of the first activities we booked.

Not being a major sports fan, I was skeptical when my boyfriend, Alex suggested we spend Valentine’s Day at a hockey stadium among beer-soaked fans. But I decided to be a sport (no pun intended) and I can’t say I left disappointed.

To understand the significance of hockey in Montreal, you have to go back to the history of the game. Which is exactly what we did. At the Bell Center – home of the “Habs,” as they’re lovingly called by fans – ticket holders for that evening’s game can stop into the on-site hockey museum an hour and a half before the puck drops.

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