On Sunday, February 16th, 2025, the second of two massive snowstorms blew through Montreal.
My dad and I happened to be in town during this historic event, having driven in during the tail end of the first storm which had finished Thursday night.
It was his birthday on the 15th, and we both love Montreal. We’ve traveled there many times before, but it had been a long time, so we felt as though a trip was long overdue.
We made a reservation at our favorite Polish restaurant, Stash.
Luckily for us, the bulk of our activities were scheduled on Friday and Saturday, because by Sunday the world was whited out with snow.
We were no strangers to coming to town in the winter, but this was different.
The snowfall was endless, and the thousands of dump trucks and plows that had been deployed in an attempt to keep the streets as clear as possible could barely make a dent.
At one point, dad and I counted ten plows all in a row parading down René-Levesque Street.
Still, major roads got plowed. Sidewalks got plowed. People were working around the clock to clear away the snow.
“This must be just an average day in the winter here,” I would joke to Dad, and to an extent that is true. Montreal is in fact a city with extraordinarily high snowfall.
But as it would turn out, the storms we were traveling through happened to be some of the snowiest in Montreal history.
With both storms coming in at a whopping 70+ centimeters of snow, Dad and I had decided to travel during the snowiest 4-day period in Montreal history.
I loved it.
Those who know me well know I’m a lover of the cold. All winter I’m as active outside as any other time of year, and I love being outside in below-freezing air.
Having prepared well for the inclement weather, I was hardly fazed as I expertly navigated the half-plowed streets and underground shortcuts.
As I always do, when I’m in Montreal, I felt right at home.
“If I can handle this,” I thought, taking a deep breath of the cold air, “I can handle living here.”
On February 25th, 2025, I received notice that I was accepted to the Master’s of Public Policy and Public Administration program at Concordia University.
Just like that, it hit me like a winter storm:
I was going to live in Montreal.
Part of why Dad and I had decided to travel to Montreal when we did was for the Concordia open house. I had been hoping for McGill, my top school, but I was willing to give Concordia a shot. Though I had been on the fence, the open house showed me that I would actually be a great fit for the program I was interested in, and I finally began to feel like coming to Montreal was a real possibility.
When I got my acceptance ten days later, it hardly felt real. By the time McGill rejected me, I hardly even cared anymore. I was already looking towards the future–– a future carved out by the past.
Living in Providence over the summer and interning in the public sector had made two things clear to me: one, I wanted to be living in the city, and two, I wanted to be a part of the political culture of that city. I learned that although there was plenty of stress involved in a public service career, it was rewarding in equal measure, and it felt right for me in a way no job ever had before. To study policy at Concordia would be opening the door to a future I wanted to have, and I couldn’t be more excited to step forward into the world of urban politics.
I fell in love with Montreal the moment I stepped foot in the heart of the old town district. I was only 15 then, but I felt like I’d known this city forever. It seemed as though the layout of the streets was written on my palm, as I rarely got turned around when I walked there. It was February then, too. It didn’t snow.
Over time, I learned the character of many of the neighborhoods in the city. I tested out the street names and signs, the sounds of French unfamiliar on my tongue. I listened to the people around me and slowly sounded things out. Eventually, I learned a little French. Just a little, but I learned.
I learned the culture of Montreal, of Quebec, of Canada. I learned the intricacies of a political system that was similar, yet so different from that in the U.S. I learned that Montreal was so much more than just a multicultural city–– it was a complex political matrix, with so much potential for exploration.
One visit turned into two. Two turned into twenty. That’s probably roughly how many times I’ve visited Montreal. Whether it was for a curling tournament, an anime con, a summer getaway, a research trip, or just to visit friends, I’ve always felt the draw to come back to this wonderful city.
I always wished I could stay. My dear friends Marianne and Jeremy, who live in the area, would testify to the fact that I’m known to get emotional and cry at the end of my trips. It always felt as though living there, even if just for a while, was an out-of-reach dream, but at the end of 2023 I realized I couldn’t keep it that way. I had to try and move there.
In August 2023, I had the seed of an idea.
In August 2025, I will be moving into an apartment somewhere in the city of my dreams.
It’s starting to feel more real as every day ticks by. As each of my required immigration documents is approved, as each potential apartment is discussed, as every “keep or toss?” is considered, I feel closer to this new life I’ll be living. It’s a massive leap, but it’s one I had to conquer fear and self-doubt to finally take. Still, no massive leap comes without risks.
It’s possible that I get to Concordia and I don’t like my studies. It’s possible that living in the city will dull its magic completely, and I’ll be bored of it by the time I’m done with my degree. It’s possible that something horrible could happen, or that something horrible could start brewing inside me.
As of writing this, I am four years clean from alcohol. Coincidentally, as of this same day, I am four months clean from weed. After a few dangerously close calls with my lung health, and out of a desire to save money and keep clarity of mind, I’ve finally done what I never thought I could do and gone entirely stone-cold sober. With that comes a newfound sense of fear and intensity. The weight of picking up even a single joint is not lost on me. It feels as heavy now as picking up a drink.
In my dreams, I crack. I go get a joint, or a vape, and I get so high and feel so good… then I crash. I get depressed. I go crazy. I wake up in a panic, and am soothed only by the reality that I didn’t fail. I’m still sober. But in a time like this, where everything is so chaotic and stressful, even if it’s in pursuit of good things, the urge to light up is omnipresent. Just one hit, to take the mind off it all.
Just one hit.
It can’t happen.
I breathe in, and out. I remind myself what it feels like to be able to do that.
I remain steadfast.
I mentioned in my last post that there is an aspect of disappointment that comes with living a dream. If I do this, if I live my life the way I’ve always wanted to… how will I ever cope when I need to leave it behind? But I cannot let those thoughts discourage me. I tell everyone that I have to do this, not because I know it will be a success, or because I think it’ll change my life, but because I’ll regret it my entire life if I never try.
So, for now, I’m back to merchandising, working when I can to save up. Sorting out immigration. Sorting out moving. Sorting out my thoughts, and sorting out my priorities. Everything has been a whirlwind, but I hope it all works out. With some things, all you can do is hope.
Hopefully I do well in school and love my city. Hopefully I don’t end up in a halfway house. But as long as I’m reaching towards what I feel is right for me, I’ll always be halfway home.
Finally, if anyone wants to hang out before I leave, please let me know! I’ll happily make time for you, but the closer it gets to August the less time I will be able to spare. Of course, I also hope to see some of you up in Montreal, because it’s a great city to visit!
