Richard woke to the soft clatter of freezing rain against the pane, the kind of January morning in Montreal that feels engineered to test resolve. The radiator hissed like an impatient cat. On the nightstand, the blue notebook lay open to yesterday's entry: *Small steps, northern light.* He read it twice, then closed the cover as if sealing a pact.
Coffee first. While the kettle grumbled he opened the fridge and stared at the half-empty shelf: leftover Thai, a wilted bunch of kale, three beers. He shut the door, grabbed his coat, and walked to the Atwater Market before the thought could veto itself. The market smelled of sawdust and citrus; vendors stamped feet against the cold. He bought eggs, spinach, a loaf of sourdough still warm, and a paper bag of blood oranges because their colour looked defiant.
Back home he scrambled eggs with too much pepper and ate standing at the counter, scrolling job boards on his phone. A posting caught him: *Sustainability Analyst – Remote, 60 % travel, preference for bilingual candidates.* His pulse quickened, then the reflex kicked in: *You've never led a field audit. You'd be the junior in every room. Too risky for a mortgage.* He set the phone face-down. The eggs cooled.
He opened the notebook instead and wrote the thought verbatim, the way the podcast lady had suggested—name the gremlin, shrink it to size. Underneath he added:
Counter-evidence:
- Closed the Q3 carbon report two weeks early.
- Fluent in French.
- Mortgage is fixed; savings cover six months.
He stared at the list until the words stopped squirming. Then he copied the job link into an email, subject line blank, and left it in drafts. A seed, not a decision.
At the office, Claire dropped a new project on his desk: overhaul the ESG dashboard for a client in Calgary. "They want it by month-end," she said, already halfway out the door. Richard felt the old clench—*impossible, overtime, apology emails*—but caught it mid-spiral. He opened a fresh tab, typed "ESG dashboard best practices Canada," and bookmarked three articles. He scheduled two Pomodoros after lunch. The clench loosened into something like traction.
On the metro home he stood, one hand on the pole, and practiced the exercise from the Halifax podcast: *label the thought, let it pass.* The carriage smelled of wet wool and poutine. A man's voice boomed on speakerphone about crypto. Richard's mind offered: *You're thirty-four and still renting. Liam's probably buying land by now.* He labeled it *comparison*, watched it drift like cigarette smoke, then vanish when the doors opened at Lionel-Groulx.
That evening he walked to the café on Monkland again. The barista recognized him, slid a London fog across the counter without asking. He claimed the same corner table and opened the notebook to a clean page. At the top he wrote:
Old Tapestry | New Thread
---|---
I'm not the guy who… | I'm learning to…
I can't because… | I could experiment with…
He filled the left column fast—years of evidence: *not the guy who quits stable jobs, not fluent enough in boardrooms, not bold like Liam.* The right column resisted. He sipped the fog, tasted bergamot and possibility, and wrote:
I'm learning to ask "what if" without flinching.
I could experiment with one application, see what doors open.
The pen felt heavier on the second line, like it carried the weight of the first honest risk he'd named in years.
Later, in the apartment, he pulled a dusty box from the closet—university relics: a dog-eared copy of *The Canadian Rockies Trail Guide*, a photo of him and Liam grinning beside a fire on the Rockwall Trail, both nineteen and invincible. He taped the photo to the fridge, eye-level. The younger Richard stared back, cheeks wind-burned, eyes wide with the kind of hunger that doesn't yet know the word *mortgage*.
He brewed peppermint tea and opened the job email again. This time he typed a subject: *Application – Sustainability Analyst*. The cursor blinked. He attached his résumé, hit send before the gremlin could clear its throat. The whoosh sound felt louder than the radiator.
Sleep came in fragments. At 3:12 a.m. he woke with the old refrain looping: *You'll look foolish. They'll laugh.* He rolled over, grabbed the notebook from the floor, and wrote in the dark:
Foolish is temporary. Regret is permanent.
He underlined it until the paper tore.
Morning brought weak sunlight and a reply email: *Thank you for your application. We'll be in touch within ten business days.* Ten days. He laughed—actually laughed—because the waiting no longer felt like a verdict.
He laced up for the mountain. The path was glazed with ice; he moved carefully, poles borrowed from a neighbour. Halfway up he met the older couple from Tremblant again. The woman's cheeks were apple-red. "You're becoming a regular," she said. Richard admitted he was. The man nodded approval. "Winter's the real teacher. Spring just brags."
At the belvedere he sat on the same snow-dusted bench. Montreal glittered below, smokestacks exhaling into a pale sky. He opened the notebook and drew a quick matrix:
Limiting Belief | Source | Evidence Against | Replacement
---|---|---|---
"I'm too cautious to pivot careers" | Dad's voice: *steady paycheque, son* | Closed Q3 early; learned Python in 6 weeks | "I'm cautious *and* capable of calculated leaps"
He filled three more rows—about public speaking, about money, about deserving joy. The pencil lead snapped. He sharpened it with a pocketknife Liam had given him years ago, the blade still bright.
On the descent he passed a group of teenagers attempting selfies on the icy stairs. One slipped, caught herself, laughed so hard she cried. Richard smiled without meaning to. The sound followed him all the way home.
That night he cooked properly: steelhead trout from the market, roasted with blood oranges and rosemary. He ate at the table instead of the couch, jazz on the radio—Oscar Peterson, Montreal's own. Between bites he opened the *Rockies Trail Guide* to a dog-eared page: the Tonquin Valley, caribou migrating at dawn. He traced the route with his finger, then wrote in the margin:
Someday. Not never.
Before bed he stood at the window. Snow had started again, gentle now, erasing footprints. He spoke aloud to the empty room, testing the new thread:
"I am allowed to want more than safe."
The words hung in the air, fragile but intact. He let them stay.
The tapestry wasn't finished—threads still tangled, colours clashing—but for the first time he could see the pattern emerging: not a cage of old stories, but a map with room to roam.