“I wrote a book about learning to love my body. After finding out I have terminal cancer, I’ve decided to republish it”

I grew up feeling inherently undesirable. When I was eight years old, I was in a car accident where I sustained a spinal cord injury. It left me permanently disabled. Whether I wanted to or not, I always drew attention to myself. I swayed when I walked, my legs scissored in and out, and I often tumbled over completely. It was the mid-2000s, and celebrities like Britney Spears and Christina Aguilera were the pinnacle of beauty and sex appeal, but they were thin and able bodied. I couldn’t see myself in them.

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Then, in 2009, I graduated from Dalhousie University with a bachelor of arts—not a super useful degree in the middle of a global recession. I desperately needed a job, and Venus Envy, an education-based sex-and-book shop, was one of the best bookstores in Halifax. I really wanted to work there because the store had an incredible collection of feminist critical theory. Admittedly, I was less interested in the sex toys. At 23 years old, I was mostly indifferent to sex. I was inexperienced, and though I was queer, I’d been in the closet for years. But I had a decent amount of retail experience under my belt, so when I applied for a job, Venus Envy hired me.

My job was to sell sex toys, provide sex education to customers and give workshops across the province, at private events, bachelorette parties and even senior’s facilities. I talked to people about everything from consent to blowjobs. At first, I felt like an imposter. Right after I was hired, I began reading every book about sex I could get my hands on. Eventually, I was a walking encyclopedia of sex knowledge, but I still had no clue what good sex actually felt like.

One day, about six months after I started, a customer asked if the vibrator I was recommending had worked for me. I felt caught, and after mumbling a very unconvincing lie, I decided to take matters into my own hands. I started practising all the things I’d been reading about, first on my own, then with partners. I quickly discovered that the people having the best sex were the ones who’d thrown out the idea that it had to look any certain way. They weren’t making assumptions that all guys like to dominate or that all women want to be submissive. Sex could be experimental, playful and freeing. At Venus Envy, I met other disabled people with flourishing sex lives. Suddenly, it clicked for me—I didn’t need to be able bodied or look a certain way to be hot.

In fact, my disability helped me become a great sex educator. People often worry about saying the wrong thing around me, so I have tons of experience making them feel comfortable with my body. It felt like an easy transition to helping people feel more at home in their own bodies. I instinctively knew how to listen to people’s fears and insecurities, free of judgment. I loved my job, even with all its uncomfortable quirks. Once, I gave a safe-sex presentation to thousands of first-year students at Dalhousie. It involved putting a condom on a dildo and demonstrating how to give a blowjob. For some people, a gig like that would be a nightmare. I lived for it.

I quickly realized, though, that all of the books and resources I was turning to for guidance had been written for people who are able bodied. So I started a blog, The Fucking Facts, to document the pleasure and joy of sex for people with disabilities. About a year into it, I was at a party, and one of my friends introduced me to Robbie MacGregor, who ran Invisible Publishing. My friend said that I should write a book for him, and he casually agreed. He sent me a very kind email the next day, encouraging me to go through with it. I was thrilled and immediately signed on.

The result of that conversation was Hot, Wet and Shaking, a memoir and essay collection about the lessons I learned in my early twenties. At its core, it’s a book about what it means to fall in love with your body, particularly as someone with a disability. It’s also about learning how to have good sex and lots of it. When it came out, I was on the cover of the local paper, and I got to tour the book across the country. Even though its content is very revealing and personal, I had no regrets.

I continued working at Venus Envy until my early thirties. In 2017, I moved to Toronto. I was commuting to Guelph to get my masters of science in couples and family therapy. While there, I specialized in healing from sexual trauma. Although I still believe sex is empowering, I know it can also be complicated. In a lot of ways, the work is very similar to what I’d been doing for years—helping others process shame, fear and failed expectations. After I finished my degree, I was hired at a couples therapy clinic in Toronto, and I eventually left to open up my own private practice.

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Then, in October of 2022, I was shocked to receive a diagnosis of rapidly growing cancer in my bladder. They immediately planned for an emergency surgery, so quickly that my CT scans hadn’t even been processed yet. The scans didn’t come through until the day before the surgery, and when my doctor called me, it was with even more bad news: it was too late, he said. They could now see that my cancer was terminal. He told me to go eat my favourite foods. It felt like I was being served my last meal. Passing the news on to my friends and family was incredibly hard. Many people came over that day, bringing breakfast, coffee and whiskey. We spent the whole day eating, drinking and crying together.

Whether I wanted to or not, cancer forced me to take a step back and re-examine how I’d lived my life. I’ve always been an energetic person, and so much of my career and personal life has revolved around helping other people—as a sex educator, a sex partner, a therapist. I’ve always been a workaholic, and I rarely slowed down to consider my own needs. With cancer, my body physically can’t keep up with that lifestyle. I had to take a year off work after the diagnosis. My energy was simply too low. These days, I work part time, and I spend many of my other hours reading, lying down or swimming.

This year, I got a call from my publisher about a ten-year anniversary re-publication of Hot, Wet and Shaking. I’m so much more reluctant to share the intimate details of my sex life these days. While I still manage to have a fulfilling one, it’s more challenging now. Sometimes I have to cancel dates because I’m simply too tired. I’ve always been a magnet for pleasure, and having to seriously consider my physical limitations doesn’t come naturally to me. If Hot, Wet and Shaking was about experiencing my body as a vessel for pleasure, the years since my diagnosis have been about learning how to accept that my body can also experience great pain. And even though I find my 25-year-old self cringey and embarrassing, I don’t regret that book. It was a much-needed celebration of sex, and besides, we’re all cringey and embarrassing sometimes—I know I still am. So I thought, Why the hell not?

Facing death has been a devastating process, but I’m trying to reframe my circumstances. I still experience so much joy, whether through sex or through spending time with friends and family. Back when I wrote my book, it felt revolutionary for me to be so publicly adoring of myself. In a society where disabled bodies are often seen as objects of pity, I still think it’s important work. But, ten years and one cancer diagnosis later, I’ve learned that life is full of both joy and profound suffering. It’s easy to rejoice publicly, but it’s a lot harder to express sadness. I have found, though, that when I’m honest about how hard it can feel to be alive, disabled and facing death, I feel less alone. People join me in my grief—they admit that they’re sad too. It’s within this shared space of love and celebration and grief that I feel the most healed.