Salt in the Air, Fire in My Chest

From a Toronto bouncer to the edge of the Atlantic—how one impulsive move cracked everything open.

2008 doesn’t feel like yesterday.

It feels like lifetimes ago.

Like I’ve died and come back a few times since.

Views shifted. Selves shed. New ones formed.

At the time, I was living in Toronto.

Working the door at clubs, setting up metal shows.

Rent was cheap enough to coast, and I’d never been one for the 9-to-5 life.

Burns me out. Always has.

Sleep cycles, neurodivergence—didn’t have the words back then, but I knew something didn’t fit.

One night after a show, a bit buzzed and fed up,

I got talking to a friend from Halifax.

He joked that he needed a roommate.

“I’ll move,” I replied.

Half joking, half serious.

And yeah—I was crushing on him a little too.

He was a hottie. What can I say?

That’s where my head was back then.

This was long before yoga, meditation, personal training.

Back when chasing pleasure and chaos was my full-time gig—even if I didn’t realize it.

Next day, I followed up.

He was serious.

So I started planning.

That instant, no-thought decision pattern kicked in.

The one I still carry sometimes.

I was 22.

My parents were concerned, but I think they also knew—

I needed to go.

To find something. To fall and rise on my own.

Friends were shocked.

I was hardcore Toronto.

Had the neck tattoo to prove it.

But I needed out.

Thought maybe Halifax would reconnect me to my Mi’kmaq roots.

Thought I might become a carpenter like my grandfather.

No clue why that idea stuck so hard—but it did for years.

The day came quick.

July 7th, I think.

Packed light—only what I could take on a plane.

My first big purge.

(Or so I thought—years later I found my stuff at Dad’s.)

Saying goodbye to my mom was hard.

She cried.

We didn’t come from money, and I wasn’t just moving—I was disappearing into the unknown.

From one low-income neighborhood to another:

Scarborough to the North End of Halifax.

Dad drove me and the crew to the airport.

A friend who worked for an airline helped us get standby flights.

Cheap tickets. That’s how we pulled it off.

And here’s the kicker:

I’d never even been to Halifax.

Not once.

Didn’t know the city. Didn’t know the job scene.

I just left.

Blind leap. Gut call.

Flying in, it looked like we were landing in pure forest.

Then I stepped off the plane and smelled salt in the air.

Conor was waiting at the airport.

Driving into Halifax for the first time

Seeing the ocean, the land where some of my family had lived

It felt surreal. Magical.

We moved into a small townhouse called North Mews.

Two floors. Right on the harbour.

$400 each.

Compared to Toronto, it felt like a dream.

We dropped our stuff and headed straight for the pubs.

East Coast beers, thick air, accents, ocean vibes.

I hadn’t traveled much

Montreal a couple times, Ottawa, once even CBGB in New York.

But this? This was a whole new world.

The smells, the sounds, the way people carried themselves.

Everything felt new.

And I had no idea just how much that one choice

that single gut decision

would change my life.

Looking back…

I was stuck in Toronto.

Spinning my wheels. Miserable.

So I left.

No plan. No backup.

Just a need to try something different.

That’s who I am.

When it’s time—I go.

Boots on. Head first.

And somehow, that’s always where the real story begins.

—Red Shanti