Bittersweet Goodbyes

Dear readers,

Well. Here we are.

I suppose this is the part where I am meant to write something neat, professional, and awe inspiring. Something carefully polished. Something full of tidy phrases about “new opportunities” and “exciting transitions.” The kind of post that sounds good on paper but says almost nothing at all.

This is not going to be that kind of post.

This is going to be honest, blunt and well, somewhat different. It will be a little messy, a little… bittersweet, and probably too long. It will be reflective, uncomfortable in places, and deeply personal. Because after a great deal of thinking, praying, wrestling with myself, and sitting alone in quiet rooms at three in the morning wondering how I even got here, after many discussions with my care teams, family and professionals and others, I have made some very difficult decisions about my life, my work, and my place in my world, especially in the archery community.

And it is time to share them.

Not as a dramatic farewell. Not as a burned bridge. Not as a formal announcement. But as a human being, sitting down and saying: this is where I am now.

So, in simple terms, I have stepped down from my leadership and administrative roles in archery. I have resigned from Archery Alberta and several affiliated programs and committees. I am stepping away from most organized sport involvement. I will be closing my archery club this fall of 2026 and shifting to private instruction only. I am choosing to focus on my time at Birch Bay Ranch, my creative artistic, crafting, musical work, and most importantly my physical and mental health. I am not leaving education, mentorship, or coaching entirely. I am leaving the overload, burnout, and systems that no longer serve my life. I am choosing myself.

To understand why, you have to understand how this journey began.

When I joined the archery community publicly and professionally, I did it for the right reasons. I believed in teaching. I believed in access. I believed in youth development. I believed in fairness. I believed in creating safe spaces. I believed in helping people who had never been helped before. I believed in doing things well and doing them ethically.

I poured everything I had into that work. My time. My energy. My health. My money. My emotional labour. My advocacy. My late nights. My endless emails. My conflict mediation. My course development. My program building. My crisis management. I gave all of it, and I did so willingly, because I thought the work mattered more than I did.

For a long time, it did.

But somewhere along the way, I became the person who “handled everything.” Somewhere along the way, my boundaries dissolved. Somewhere along the way, my own needs stopped mattering. Somewhere along the way, I forgot that I was allowed to be human. Responsibility became expectation. Expectation became pressure. Pressure became identity. And I stopped knowing who I was outside of it.

People often see the titles and the certifications and the positions. They do not see the cost, the exhaustion that never quite goes away. They do not see the anxiety that lives quietly in the background, or the nights spent worrying about things no one else even notices. They do not see the emotional weight of supporting others while slowly falling apart yourself. They do not see how stress settles into your body and refuses to leave. They do not see the lack of hard work and respect one gets either.

Over the last few years, my body has been trying to get my attention. Seizures. Cardiac issues. Severe stress responses. Chronic pain. Nerve damage. A frozen shoulder. Fatigue that sleep does not fix. My body has been waving red flags for a long time, and I kept ignoring them. I told myself someone had to do the work. I told myself I could not let people down. I told myself I would rest later. Later never came.

There is also another layer to this that I rarely speak about publicly: grief.

The loss of my child reshaped my life in ways I am still learning to understand. Grief like that does not end. It does not resolve. It does not get neatly packaged. It changes how you see time. It changes what matters. It changes how you experience work and relationships and purpose. For a long time, I buried that grief under productivity. If I stayed busy enough, maybe I would not feel it. If I stayed useful enough, maybe I would feel whole. That only works for so long. Eventually, grief demands space. And when it does, you have to listen.

Living with autism, aging, and mental health challenges adds another dimension. None of these things are failures. None of them are shameful. But they do mean I have limits. Limits I ignored for years. Social overload, sensory fatigue, emotional burnout, masking, decision exhaustion. I am very good at appearing functional. I am less good at being well. This year, I finally admitted that to myself. I’ve lost myself, and making friends and companions was deemed, improbable.

Birch Bay Ranch represents something different for me. It is quieter. It is grounded. It is relational. It is spiritual. It allows me to teach without drowning. It gives me room to breathe. It offers meaning without consuming everything else. Focusing there is not doing less. It is doing what keeps me alive.

At the same time, I have felt a strong pull back toward my creative roots. Before the committees, before the politics, before the expectations, there was writing. There was art. There was music. There was storytelling. There was reflection. There was me. Somewhere along the way, I lost her. I am going back. To my books, my blogging, my art, my music. To quiet creativity. To projects that heal instead of drain. This is not a hobby. This is survival.

I also want to be honest about something difficult. Not everyone in this community treated me well. Not everyone respected my work. Not everyone valued my contributions. Some people benefited from my labour and never acknowledged it. Some people took advantage of my willingness to help. Some people watched me burn out and said nothing. Some people actively made things harder. That hurts. I would be lying if I said it does not. But I am not writing this to attack anyone. I am writing this to release myself from needing approval. I no longer need to prove my worth.

Closing my club and moving to private instruction is part of this shift. Running a club is administration, liability, logistics, fundraising, conflict resolution, and endless paperwork. It is not just teaching. It is management. I no longer have the capacity for that. Especially doing it alone. Private instruction allows me to teach deeply, support individuals, protect my health, control my schedule, and maintain quality. It is not stepping down. It is stepping into sustainability.

Like many disabled Canadians, I am also navigating complicated systems such as the AISH to ADAP transition. These systems affect housing, income, stability, and dignity. They are stressful and exhausting. They require time and energy I cannot afford to waste elsewhere. This, too, is part of my reality now.

My faith has become more central through all of this. I believe God is not finished with me. I believe this season is not an ending, but a redirection. Rest is holy. Healing is work. Obedience sometimes looks like walking away. I am trusting that this narrowing of my life is actually preparation.

I do not have many friends. I never really have. My life has always been quieter and more inward. For a long time, I thought that meant something was wrong with me. Now I understand that it is simply who I am. I am learning how to build connection without losing myself. Slowly. Carefully. Honestly.

This is not quitting nor bitterness. This is not failure nor disappearing. I am also not known for giving up. This is me. Choosing life. This is recalibration. This is boundary-setting. This is me healing. This is reclaiming myself. This is me coming home, back to my original roots.

To those who supported me, encouraged me, stood by me, and saw me as a person first: thank you. You mattered more than you know. You still do.

Alright. I hear exactly what you want here.

You want an ending that is:

Quietly defiant

Emotionally sharp

Very “Sarah”

Autistic-coded withdrawal, not dramatic exit

Honest about betrayal

And finishes with a controlled, Babylon 5–style “I’m done explaining myself” speech

Here is a rewritten ending section you can drop in to replace everything from “So where am I now?” onward.

You can copy this directly.

Replacement Ending Section

So where am I now?

I will b returning back to my writing, crafting and creating. Back to teaching in smaller, healthier ways. I will be healing, and resting. Rebuilding, and relearning who I am again when I am not constantly performing usefulness for other people. I will become quieter. Slower. More deliberate. More honest with myself about what I can and cannot carry.

And then I am walking away.

Not loudly, or dramatically, or with speeches and announcements and slammed doors.

I am doing it the way I always do things. Quietly. Carefully. Without making a scene. Slipping out while everyone else is still arguing about who should be in charge. Letting the door close gently behind me so no one notices until I am already gone.

That is my autistic way.

I have learned, painfully and slowly, that the people closest to you are often the ones who can hurt you the most. Not always through cruelty. Sometimes through indifference. Through silence. Through taking and never giving back. Through watching you drown and calling it “strength.” Through expecting you to keep showing up no matter the cost.

I stayed too long in too many places because I believed loyalty meant endurance.

It does not.

Loyalty without care is exploitation.

And I am done offering myself up for that.

This chapter of my life is ending not because I failed, but because I finally understood that survival is not selfish. That rest is not weakness. That boundaries are not betrayal. That leaving is sometimes the bravest thing you can do.

So here is my truth, without softening it.

I am not available for burnout anymore.
I am not available for being taken for granted.
I am not available for being the emotional scaffolding that holds everything together while I quietly fall apart.
I am not available for systems that benefit from my labour and forget my humanity.

If you walk with me in this new season, in honesty and respect and mutual care, you are welcome.

If you do not, that is fine too.

But understand this:

I am no longer explaining myself.
I am no longer negotiating my health in any capacity.
I am no longer shrinking to make other people comfortable.
I am no longer carrying what is not mine to carry.

This is my life, and my healing.
This is my calling now.

And I am choosing it.

So yes. I am stepping back. I am stepping away. I am stepping into something quieter and truer and far more sacred than anything ever was.

I wish no harm to anyone.

But I also owe no one my exhaustion.

You are either with me in this new chapter, with respect and integrity, or you can take your opinions, your expectations, and your entitlement, and go piss right off.

I am done sacrificing myself for approval.

This is not goodbye.

This is me walking away with my head up, my spirit intact, and my future finally my own.

Time for a new adventure!