The story of With Love Archive
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My love for keeping a notebook started at a young age. Like many young girls who look up to their mothers, I was inspired by my mom who doodled in her planner, capturing the details of her day, from what she ate to her outfits. Her colourful pencil crayon sketches told the story of her life, and I found myself wanting to document my own.
I started filling different notebooks, planners—anything I could write on. I craved new learnings and observations. It brought me so much joy to see each notebook become worn and full, packed with clippings and receipts from my adventures. There’s something thrilling about filling up a notebook, knowing it holds pieces of your story. The more I wanted to fill up those empty pages, the more I explored. I was having fun—living, learning, and stepping outside of my comfort zone.
But that all came to a stop when I fell into years of depression. My relationship with my mother became strained during my senior year of high school. As I started to slip deeper into depression, our connection frayed—we couldn’t get through a conversation without it turning into an argument. I felt misunderstood and lost, not just with my family but within myself.
When I moved across the country for university, I was hopeful for a fresh start. And for the first couple of months, everything felt like an exciting escape. But as routine settled in, I found myself slipping into survival mode—isolated, overwhelmed, and just trying to make it through each day. My rapid mood swings scared me, and the constant paranoia and emptiness made me feel like a stranger to myself. I was navigating this new city but completely detached from the person I used to be. I didn’t know who I was becoming, and I didn’t know how to reconnect with the people who once felt like home. It wasn’t until later that I was diagnosed with Borderline Personality Disorder (BPD), which helped me understand the chaos within me.
Needing stability, and being young and naive, I held on to a relationship that couldn’t offer me the safety I was looking for. On one foggy day, determined to salvage our picnic plans, we decided to have it at home and went grocery shopping. Everything changed as he made the final left turn at the intersection. I saw the white SUV—barreling toward us faster than I could process. The impact felt slow, like time itself had stretched out, giving me just enough awareness to grasp what was happening but not enough time to react. I was frozen in the passenger seat, helpless, as the world blurred around me.
The crash wasn’t just physical—it was emotional. My body braced for impact, but inside, I crumbled. In that split second, my life felt completely out of control. The sound of metal crunching, the jarring stillness afterward, and the wave of dread that followed swallowed me whole. I sat there, the airbag’s sharp chemical smell in my face, crushed egg yolk on my jeans. Beyond the physical shock, the real terror came from feeling frozen, wondering if my limbs still worked. In my head, I couldn’t move. I was paralyzed by the fear that maybe they never would again. I couldn’t stop my mind from spiralling toward images of what my future would look like if they didn’t. No power to stop the van, no power to stop my body from betraying me, and no power to stop the fear that this could be the end.
Miraculously, it wasn’t. But the accident became a pivotal moment in my life.
I hit rock bottom after that. And while it might sound strange, I now see that rock bottom is good. It’s really good. Because from there, the only way was up.
This accident didn’t just shake me—it woke me up. It forced me to look at everything I’d been avoiding—the numbness, the survival mode, the way I’d been drifting through life. Life could have ended for me, like I had wished for during my darkest moments. But it didn’t. I was still here, and that meant something. It meant I had another chance—another chance to rebuild, to rediscover the joy I had lost, to remember the happiness I once poured into my notebooks and the little details that had once made me smile.
Of course, living with BPD brings its own challenges. It wasn’t a simple immediate transformation—nothing like that ever is. I started seeing the cracks in that relationship I held onto as I went to therapy. Every time I made progress, he would put me down, leaving me feeling like my efforts were meaningless. The lies about his whereabouts only deepened my distrust, leaving me feeling more isolated.
It was tough coming to terms with all of that. But it helped me let go and start finding my way back to myself. Along the way, I found good friends and eventually met my now partner, a man who showed me patience, kindness, love, and the softness I needed to truly heal.
I had lost the parts of me that I loved, so I started experimenting—doing what I’ve always wanted to do but never got a chance to. I began to reconnect with that sense of play I once had as a child. I started jotting notes in notebooks again, but this time I felt frustrated by the limitations of the bounded pages. There were so many layers to who I was becoming, so many different parts of me to document. I needed space to explore multiple interests at once, and that’s how the idea for With Love Archive was born.
With Love Archive isn’t just a planner brand; it’s my way of giving others the freedom to play, to explore, and to create something beautiful and personal. I wanted to design something that didn’t confine people to one approach but allowed them to organize their goals and dreams in a way that made sense to them. It’s for those of us who are still figuring things out, who crave a space to document both the big ideas and the small moments.
Thank you for being here, for taking the time to read my story, and for joining me on this new chapter. Starting this community means so much to me, and I’m excited to see where this journey takes us together.