Abby Captures

Sometimes, coming home feels different. It’s quieter, softer, and makes me more thoughtful.

Right now, I’m sitting at Empty Cup, one of my favourite coffee shops in Winnipeg. It’s more than just a café to me. It has always been a space in between. In between classes, in between responsibilities, in between versions of who I was becoming. I used to come here with my bag still full of notes, letting the day settle slowly over a warm cup of coffee. Sometimes I stayed after classes, sometimes long after everything else had ended, just to sit with my thoughts a little longer. It feels familiar in a way that doesn’t ask anything from me. And maybe that’s why it feels right to write here again.

This visit feels different from the ones before.

I came back not just to revisit familiar places, but to say goodbye to my aunt, my godmother, my Ninang. She was my mom’s only sister, someone whose presence had always quietly woven itself into our lives. Her passing was sudden, but not unexpected. After her long battle with cancer, we’ve come to accept that this was the kind of peace she had been holding onto. It was the peace she deserved.

Still, acceptance doesn’t make the absence any lighter.

If Regina George had a cool mom, I had an even cooler aunt.

She carried herself with an effortless kind of grace. Always put together, always glowing in her own way, and somehow always surrounded by people. But more than that, she made people feel seen. She made everyone feel comfortable just being themselves. There was something youthful about her spirit. She had a young soul in an auntie’s body.

She laughed easily. She danced without hesitation. She sat through horror movies, shared meals over tacos or chicken wings, and filled ordinary moments with a kind of warmth that felt lasting.

She was someone I could turn to for conversations about love, about life, about the things I didn’t always know how to say out loud. And somehow, she always knew how to listen in a way that made everything feel lighter.

Looking back now, there’s a quiet wish to have held onto those moments just a little longer.

Grief has a way of settling into the quiet spaces. It lingers in moments like this: between sips of coffee, between passing thoughts, between memories that arrive without warning.

Growing up in Winnipeg was never simple. Like many people who leave their hometowns, I had complicated feelings about it. For a long time, this city felt like somewhere I needed to outgrow—somewhere that shaped me, but also somewhere I believed I had to leave behind in order to become who I wanted to be.

And in many ways, I did leave.

Moving to B.C. changed me. It taught me independence in a way nothing else could. It gave me space to rebuild myself, to choose my own direction, and to start creating a life that felt entirely my own. But distance has a quiet way of shifting perspective. It softens old frustrations and brings clarity to things we once overlooked.

Now that I’m back, I see Winnipeg differently.

I notice the familiar streets that once felt too small but now feel grounding. I see the quiet strength in the people—resilient, steady, and unassuming. I find memories tucked into unexpected corners, appearing without warning but never without meaning.

There’s a quiet pride in this city.

It’s home to places like the National Microbiology Laboratory, where scientists work behind the scenes on some of the world’s most complex health challenges. The Canadian Museum for Human Rights stands as a reminder of reflection, history, and the ongoing pursuit of something better. Even beyond its landmarks, Winnipeg carries stories of people, progress, and quiet impact that often goes unnoticed.

Somewhere within all of this are the hallways of my alma mater, the University of Manitoba.

That place holds years of my life—lessons, struggles, growth, and moments of uncertainty that shaped me more than I realized at the time. My relationship with it was never simple. It was a quiet balance of admiration and frustration, a love-hate experience that I now understand is part of many students’ journeys.

But time has a way of reframing things.

Looking back, I feel something I didn’t expect—gratitude. Those long days, those moments of doubt, those small victories—they were all part of a foundation that carried me forward. Even when I didn’t see it then, they were shaping the person I am still becoming.

And tucked into those years—into the ordinary days was Iko.

My loving, gentle, and quietly loyal companion.

There was a time when I imagined bringing her with me to British Columbia, letting her be part of the life I was building there. I thought we still had time—that she would be there through that transition, through another chapter of my life.

But she chose to leave before I was ready.

Some of my favourite memories of her weren’t anything grand. Just small, ordinary moments that somehow meant everything.

Those moments felt endless back then.

Now, they feel like something I carry.

Sometimes I like to think she simply found her way to somewhere softer, somewhere peaceful—her own version of paradise. And in quiet places like this, I still feel her with me. Not in a way that hurts, but in a way that reminds me how deeply she was loved.

And maybe that’s the thing about love, whether it’s for a place, a person, or a small, furry soul who once followed you through your everyday life.

It doesn’t really leave.
It just changes form.

And maybe that’s what Winnipeg gave me all along.

Courage.

As I finish my coffee, I’m reminded of how much of life is shaped in these quiet, ordinary moments. Growth doesn’t always come from big turning points. More often, it happens in pauses like this: small, unnoticed spaces where we sit, reflect, and slowly become who we are meant to be.

Maybe that’s the quiet truth about home.

We leave.
We grow.
We build lives somewhere else.

But a part of us will always belong to the streets, the classrooms, the cafés, the memories, and the souls we carry with us.

And no matter where life takes me, I know this much will always be true:

I will always carry a quiet pride in saying that I’m from Winnipeg.