THE BECOMING
Dark N Stormy and I
The light. The dark. The fire. The slow burn of finally coming home to myself.
If you’ve found your way to this post—whether you stumbled across my site or landed here on purpose—I just want to say thank you. I don’t take your time or energy lightly.
I’ve been wanting to start a blog for a while now, and I figured the best place to begin was with a little backstory—a piece about who I am, how I got here, and why this space even exists. After some deep conversations with my best friend Lindsay D (who’s been one of my biggest inspirations and supporters), I realized this blog doesn’t have to be just me. At some point, I’ll be opening it up to other writers—friends, creators, community members—anyone with a story to tell or a truth to share. My hope is that this becomes a place where we gather in words, where we connect through experience, and where storytelling builds bridges between people. Not just a blog—a community.
If you’re reading this and you’re a writer—or even just someone with something meaningful to say—and you’d like to be featured, please send me a message. I’d love to hear from you.
My name is Danielle, but I’ve gone by Danni for as long as I can remember. I’m 37, peeling back the layers of who I had to be to survive—shapes I twisted myself into for love, safety, approval—and finally building something that feels like home in my own body and mind.
Up until recently, I spent over a decade working as a primary care paramedic here in Alberta. That job taught me more about life, death, and the human condition than I could ever explain in a single breath. It gave me discipline, empathy, and a kind of perspective you can’t fake. But it also broke parts of me I didn’t even know were fragile. After 12 years, I made the gut-wrenching decision to step away—not because I stopped caring, but because the system I was serving no longer reflected who I was or what I stood for. I still hold my license (because never say never), but for now, I’m choosing to move differently.
The turning point for me started back in 2019. I walked away from a marriage that, while peaceful on the surface, left me feeling deeply unseen. We ended things amicably, which sometimes made it even harder to walk away. That chapter closed with grace, and although life eventually took us down separate paths for good, I hold no bitterness toward him—only deep gratitude and appreciation for what he taught me in that relationship, and for the support and lessons he continued to offer even after it ended. Some connections leave quietly, but their impact lingers in meaningful ways.
What most people didn’t see during that time was the war I was quietly waging internally. I was diagnosed with both depression and anxiety, and prescribed multiple medications over the years—which led to a lot of ups and downs and, at times, made things worse. Another time, I’ll share more about my ADHD diagnosis, but what I’ve come to realize is that maybe I wasn’t depressed or anxious in the way people assumed. I was just a deeply sensitive, emotional human with a lot of unhealed trauma, trying to survive in a world that didn’t make space for that. Like most of us, I wasn’t taught how to feel or process anything—let alone speak my truth.
During that same time, I was put off work due to a series of difficult calls that left me completely unraveled. I was referred to a Traumatic Psychological Injury program—twice, actually. The first helped a little. I gave EMDR a shot; it worked for the memories I could access. But with complex PTSD, a cruel twist is often the absence of memory. How do you heal something you can’t fully recall?
It wasn’t until I started working with Kim at Inner Light Psychology that things truly started to shift. She introduced me to Somatic Experiencing (SE), a body-based trauma therapy that changed my life. SE taught me to listen to what was underneath the noise—to trust the signals of my nervous system instead of overriding them. In that process, I started to find myself—to figure out what my morals and values actually were, to learn how to communicate with honesty and clarity, to understand boundaries, and to finally see that rest is just as important as production. And for the first time in my life, I finally felt what it meant to rest, to release, and to stand in the quiet confidence of knowing who I am and what I believe in.
It was during this season of intense inner work that I made one of the hardest decisions I’ve ever had to make: I cut contact with my parents. As I began to heal, it became painfully clear that they couldn’t meet me where I needed to be met. They had their own unhealed wounds, and as much as I wished I could carry them forward with me, healing doesn’t work that way. You can’t drag people into the light if they’re not ready. That decision made me the villain in a lot of stories, and I’ve had to learn to live with that. Grieving people who are still alive is a heartbreak I wouldn’t wish on anyone. I miss them every single day. And while I’ve accepted the space that exists between us, I still hold hope that one day, we might find a way back to each other and build a relationship from a place of mutual healing and understanding.
Also in 2019, in the midst of all this upheaval, I worked for an old high school friend’s motorcycle rally called Renegade Riot in British Columbia. I had never touched a bike before—partly out of fear, partly out of a promise I’d made years ago after losing someone close in a crash. That weekend, fate had other plans. The very friend I made that promise to rolled into the event on a Harley. We both stared at each other in disbelief. And something in me cracked open. I was instantly welcomed at the event, treated like family, and introduced to so many incredible people. It left an everlasting mark on my heart. If you’ve never been, I’d recommend going at least once in your life. It’s an experience you won’t forget.
I got home, signed up for a riding course, and bought my first bike—a little 500 CC Honda Shadow— which I named Sally. I put 3,000 km on it in a few weeks. Knee surgery took me off the road for a minute, but by January 2020, I was back with a brand-new Harley Street Bob (named Dark N Stormy)—courtesy of Kurtis at Harley-Davidson of Edmonton, who now happens to be one of my close friends. As I write this, I’m just shy of hitting 80,000 km. Riding gave me back parts of myself I didn’t know were still alive. It was freedom, clarity, adrenaline, and peace all at once. It felt like coming home. Like being on a horse again—except this time, it was me in control, not trying to outrun anything.
Motorcycles, therapy, and choosing to love better—these are the threads that weave my life now. I still see my psychologist monthly. Spencer and I are in couples therapy, not because we’re broken, but because we believe in doing the work early, before things turn into resentment or regret. At our last session, our therapist told us we were admirable. Most couples wait until it’s too late. We’re choosing to grow together now, intentionally, with all the tools laid out between us. We show up for each other, and for ourselves, and we do the damn work.
Watching Spencer step into his own healing journey has been one of the most beautiful parts of my life. He’s an incredible man, and I feel lucky every day to call him mine. Together, we’ve built a life that feels like home—full of imperfect moments, real conversations, and the kind of love that holds steady through it all. We continue to create space to heal, both individually and side by side. I love the life we’ve made with our animals—messy, grounded, and real. Sitting around the fire is one of our favorite things to do (aside from riding motorcycles together, which is hands down our favorite thing). This household will always be Hondas and Harleys, and that combo says everything you need to know about us.
To the friends who’ve stayed, thank you—for your patience, your honesty, and the space you gave me to grow. You’ve witnessed some of the hardest, messiest parts of my life, and you loved me anyway. To the ones who are still here, showing up in quiet or consistent ways—you’ve left an incredible impact on my life. At some point, I hope to reach out personally and thank those of you who may not even realize the lasting imprint you’ve left on my heart. Your words, your presence, your timing—it all mattered. And to the ones who’ve come and gone—thank you, too. Not every connection is meant to last forever, but that doesn’t make them any less meaningful. You were part of my becoming, and I’ll never forget what our chapter taught me.
Light & Dark Trades was born from the wreckage and the rebuilding. It’s not just a business—it’s a revival. A revival of voice, of vision, of doing things with heart and a little bit of hustle. A place where creativity is rooted in lived experience, where care is real, and the work isn’t afraid to get gritty—because healing, growth, and showing up fully aren’t always clean or comfortable. At the core of it all is a passion for the intersection of motorcycles and mental health. The light. The dark. The fire. The choice to slow down. To embrace the slow burn.
Because that’s what I’m learning to live in—the beauty of the slow burn. I’m here trying to slow life down, to be more present. The best things in life aren’t a race to the finish line. They unfold over time. They ask you to stay. To feel. To notice. The slow burn is where meaning lives. It’s not about how fast you get there. It’s about the ride along the way. I won’t lie and say I’m not scared to build this. But I’m more scared of going back to living a life that doesn’t belong to me. So here I am—messy, hopeful, fiercely committed to doing this with intention. And if any of this speaks to something in you, I hope you’ll stick around. We’re not meant to do this alone.
As Dr. Jody Carrington says, “We are wired for connection.”
And that’s exactly what this space is for.
xoxo
Danni
