Robin McKeown lives on Vancouver Island, where the ocean and west coast landscape have become part of her healing and rediscovery. After more than two decades in hospitality and tourism management, she’s learning to live life on her own terms — rooted in gratitude, curiosity, and connection. She writes about resilience, change, and the quiet beauty of becoming who you are meant to be.
I grew up in the country — wide-open spaces, gravel roads, and quiet evenings where you
could hear your own thoughts. My twin sister, Ronda, was my first best friend, my other
half. From the very beginning, it was Robin and Ronda.
As babies, we had to sleep in the same crib because we wouldn’t settle apart. Even as kids,
our twin beds were side by side, and we’d reach across the space between to hold hands as we fell asleep. That bond never faded. We still speak at least twice a day — an invisible
thread connecting us no matter where we are in the world.
We were inseparable — two halves of one whole, exploring the world side by side and
learning what it meant to belong.
People used to tell me I was too sensitive, that I needed to toughen up and stop feeling
everything so deeply. But I never could. I’ve always been someone who feels things to the
core — the joy, the ache, the love, the loss. For a long time, I thought that made me weak.
Now I see it’s the very thing that’s allowed me to stay open-hearted, to love fully, and to
grow through even the hardest seasons.
I always imagined myself married. I loved the idea of partnership — of sharing life’s small,
quiet moments and building something side by side. I’ve always been drawn to connection, to togetherness, to the comfort of having a 'we'. So when I met Mike, it felt natural. For 26 years, we were a team — building a business together, building a marriage, building a life.
We chose not to have children, and our partnership became the center of everything.
But over time, I began to lose pieces of myself. I made myself smaller to keep the peace,
deferred my opinions, quieted my voice, and forgot what it felt like to move through the
world on my own terms. It wasn’t one event that ended the marriage — it was the slow
fading of myself within it. When I finally realized how much of me had gone quiet, I knew I
had to find my way back.
It took three years of courage and small steps: leaving the business, opening my own bank
account, and buying a vehicle in my name. Then, one day, I packed up my truck, my dog, and a lifetime of memories, and drove west to Vancouver Island — ready to begin again.
That was four years ago.
I’m 54 now, and I still have moments when I catch myself standing with one foot in the past and one in the present. I often picture it as a doorway — behind me, the familiar life I built, full of love, history, and memories. Ahead of me, the life I’m still creating, one choice at a time.
Some days, I glance back through that doorway and feel the tug of nostalgia. I remember the laughter, the milestones, the comfort of being part of a 'we'. Other days, I face forward and feel the breeze of possibility — the realization that I get to shape what comes next.
Depression and anxiety have both walked beside me at different points in my life. There
were times when the days felt heavy and dark, when I wasn’t sure how to move forward.
But over the years, I’ve built a toolkit — small, simple things that keep me grounded: time
outside, breathing deeply, journaling, talking with people who remind me of my strength. I
still have hard days, but I’ve learned how to manage them with compassion instead of
shame.
Living on the West Coast has been both grounding and freeing. The ocean feels like a
reflection of me — calm and steady one day, stormy and restless the next. I miss the
simplicity of a pop-in visit from a friend, the ease of family close by. My loved ones live far
away, but I’ve found new ways to stay connected — through photos, messages, and
FaceTime calls that keep me tethered to the people who matter most.
There are still days when I question my choices or long for the comfort of the old familiar
life. But there’s also gratitude — for my independence, for peace, for quiet mornings and the sound of rain on the roof. For the strength I didn’t know I had, and the reminder that
sensitivity isn’t something to hide from — it’s something to honour.
After fifty years of always being someone’s other half — first Robin and Ronda, then Robin
and Mike — I’m learning to just be Robin. Not half of anything. Not smaller to make space
for someone else. Just me — sensitive, strong, still learning, still here.
And for the first time, that feels like enough.
READ MORE > Her Story, Rambler Cafe Blog
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