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Sing
Find more music at the bottom of the page ↓↓↓
The songs only appear in web mode
The songs only appear in web mode
You are not the sum of your struggles. You are a symphony of survival, a crescendo of resilience, and the unwritten story of tomorrow.
- Lindsay Wincherauk
- Lindsay Wincherauk
↓The Big Days↓
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There comes a point in life (maybe an age) where if we are not spending most of our time cultivating our passions and chasing our dreams—eventually, you'll become nothing more than small talk.
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CONVERGENCE
By Lindsay Wincherauk
People imagine job loss as a pause; at sixty-five, it’s a collision.
When a sixty-five-year-old is terminated, the job loss is only the spark.
What follows is convergence.
Bills don’t wait.
Rent doesn’t care about timing.
Grief doesn’t pause for paperwork.
Death arrives from one direction.
Debt from another.
Silence from institutions meant to protect.
Promises stall. Trust funds hover.
Survival becomes arithmetic, recalculated hourly.
This is the person you fired.
People imagine job loss as a pause—time to regroup, update a résumé, “take a breath.”
That fantasy belongs to people with margins.
At sixty-five, there are none.
While everything collides, life keeps happening at full speed.
A chosen family waits in another country as a grandmother is cremated—cart after cart rolling bodies into a furnace—and there is nothing I can do to help except endure.
No money to send. No flight to book.
Only words, emojis, and the weight of helpless presence.
Stress isn’t one thing.
It’s the convergence of all things—arriving at once, with no off-ramp.
The body reacts before the mind can negotiate.
Sleep fractures. Appetite becomes optional.
Empathy turns into guilt when it costs money.
Even kindness feels unaffordable.
This isn’t about a corporation anymore.
It’s about what happens when systems remove support without considering momentum—when a single decision detonates inside a life already carrying grief, age, and responsibility.
We like clean stories.
Clear villains. Clear recoveries.
Real life is messier.
Convergence is quiet.
Invisible.
And by the time anyone notices, the damage has already compounded.
This is what stress looks like when everything arrives at once—and nothing stops.
How quickly does compassion decay when survival becomes inconvenient?
Contact:
Lindsay Wincherauk
[email protected]
778.329.3820
By Lindsay Wincherauk
People imagine job loss as a pause; at sixty-five, it’s a collision.
When a sixty-five-year-old is terminated, the job loss is only the spark.
What follows is convergence.
Bills don’t wait.
Rent doesn’t care about timing.
Grief doesn’t pause for paperwork.
Death arrives from one direction.
Debt from another.
Silence from institutions meant to protect.
Promises stall. Trust funds hover.
Survival becomes arithmetic, recalculated hourly.
This is the person you fired.
People imagine job loss as a pause—time to regroup, update a résumé, “take a breath.”
That fantasy belongs to people with margins.
At sixty-five, there are none.
While everything collides, life keeps happening at full speed.
A chosen family waits in another country as a grandmother is cremated—cart after cart rolling bodies into a furnace—and there is nothing I can do to help except endure.
No money to send. No flight to book.
Only words, emojis, and the weight of helpless presence.
Stress isn’t one thing.
It’s the convergence of all things—arriving at once, with no off-ramp.
The body reacts before the mind can negotiate.
Sleep fractures. Appetite becomes optional.
Empathy turns into guilt when it costs money.
Even kindness feels unaffordable.
This isn’t about a corporation anymore.
It’s about what happens when systems remove support without considering momentum—when a single decision detonates inside a life already carrying grief, age, and responsibility.
We like clean stories.
Clear villains. Clear recoveries.
Real life is messier.
Convergence is quiet.
Invisible.
And by the time anyone notices, the damage has already compounded.
This is what stress looks like when everything arrives at once—and nothing stops.
How quickly does compassion decay when survival becomes inconvenient?
Contact:
Lindsay Wincherauk
[email protected]
778.329.3820
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Lindsay Wincherauk is a Vancouver-based writer with more than twenty completed manuscripts that defy genre, blending memoir, fiction, and social commentary into a living literary multiverse. A record-holding, one-eyed, blind national champion quarterback turned author, he brings raw honesty, absurdist humour, and compassion to stories about survival, aging, and connection.
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- The Barista (Literary Fiction / Social Commentary)
- Abe (Psychological Thriller / AI Identity Exploration)
- Glue! (Genre-Defying Meta Memoir)
- Humans’ Bistro (Psychological Thriller)
- The Stairs (Psychological Thriller)
- Sparkly Pingle Ball: Season 1 (Absurdist Fiction / Dark Humour / Satirical Episodic Narrative)
- Life is a Short Story (deepens your meta-memoir lane)
- A 60-Year-Old Man Running in Flip Flops (Hybrid Memoir / Story Collection (Creative Nonfiction + Absurdist Fiction + Social Commentary)
- Prose (Literary Fiction / Metafiction / Genre-Bending Satire
- I Think I Might Be Charlie Kaufman (Genre-Bending Memoir / Meta-Memoir / Surreal Autobiographical Satire)
- We Remember the Darts (Genre-Bending Memoir / Meta-Memoir / Surreal Autofiction)
- Plus 15 (solidifies your literary range)
- Death Sauce (Absurdist Thriller / Literary Satire)
- Eat - A Living Document (Memoir Meets Absurdist Fiction in a Vancouver Café)
Location unknown. Sister (Aunt) Sadie + Mum (Grand) Rebekah. + Me Brother (Nephew) Son (Grand)
Name Day
13 July 1963
What the hell am I doing here?
You are not my Mother; you are not my father.
Wah.
Where are Mummy and Daddy?
Saturday, I’m your Uncle James.
And I’m your Aunt Rosemary; we are fostering you until…
Until what?
Don’t worry about it.
Here comes Bernice and Sadie.
Jim Rosemary, let us take Saturday off your hands today.
Bernice tossed me into the back seat of Sadie’s car and roared away from Jim and Rosemary’s dairy farm. Then, one hour later, Sadie parked her wheels on the corner of Jasper Avenue and 97th Street, and then they sauntered, with me being dragged by Bernice, to the Vital Stats Office.
13 July 1963
What the hell am I doing here?
You are not my Mother; you are not my father.
Wah.
Where are Mummy and Daddy?
Saturday, I’m your Uncle James.
And I’m your Aunt Rosemary; we are fostering you until…
Until what?
Don’t worry about it.
Here comes Bernice and Sadie.
Jim Rosemary, let us take Saturday off your hands today.
Bernice tossed me into the back seat of Sadie’s car and roared away from Jim and Rosemary’s dairy farm. Then, one hour later, Sadie parked her wheels on the corner of Jasper Avenue and 97th Street, and then they sauntered, with me being dragged by Bernice, to the Vital Stats Office.
Nothing to see here (this month) - I'm in the writing lab.
Nothing to see here (this month) - I'm in the writing lab.
Write. Read. Sing. Dance. Be Kind.
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