I was always a daddy’s girl.

When I was little, I would sneak into my parents’ bedroom before the rest of the house had woken. My father, like me, was an early riser. My mother most definitely was not. I’d tiptoe to his side of the bed, tug gently on his arm and whisper, “Daddy, come play with me.”

Without complaint, he would get up, and we’d spend the morning together until everyone else finally emerged.

Nearly forty years later, I found myself repeating that same morning ritual—but everything had changed.

Every morning at seven, I would walk into my father’s apartment. I would wake him, make his coffee, empty and check his colostomy bag, lay out his medications, and make sure he took them. We’d sit together while I told him the news of the day. Then I would kiss him on the forehead and head off to work.

Somewhere along the way, the child had become the parent.

My father died in August 2025. In the last three years of his life, I was his primary caregiver. My father was fiercely independent. Even as cancer slowly took pieces of him away, he insisted on living life on his own terms. He believed he had earned the right to make bad decisions if he wanted to. Sometimes that meant drinking one scotch too many. Sometimes it meant spending thousands of dollars self-publishing a cookbook that almost certainly wouldn’t make him any money. It didn’t matter. As he liked to remind me, “It’s my life.”

And he intended to live it exactly as he chose. He filled his days with books, debates about politics, long conversations over coffee, and dreams of his next project. Even after cancer, he was convinced there was another cookbook to write, another football match to watch, another trip to France to plan. Illness never became his identity, and he refused to let it define how he saw himself.

Caregiving didn’t begin with a diagnosis.

It began with grief.

When my stepmother died in December 2021 after more than twenty-five years of marriage, my father lost the person he had expected to grow old with. They had known each other since childhood, and I don’t think he believed—even as she took her last breath—that he would outlive her.

At first, I simply spent Saturday evenings with him. We’d have dinner, watch a movie, and I’d stay the night. Then we spent a month together in France in the summer of 2022, wandering museums, cafés and the places he loved.

Looking back, that was the last time life felt normal.

My brother got married in July and everyone got covid, my dad was especially hard hit. I took care of his dog and went back and forth from my place to his to make sure he was doing ok almost every day. He was not ok, a few months later he fell, unable to feel his legs and was taken by ambulance to the hospital, later it was revealed he had a reoccurrence of cancer. He had surgery and came home.

I was working full time at this point, but increasingly it was virtual. I had to pick him up and drop him off at appointments and make sure he had his medications and groceries. I was struggling with being present at work while also making the 30-minute drive almost every day to check on my father.

By May 2023 the situation was untenable. I moved into the apartment next to my dad and worked completely virtually so I could be present for him.

In the last year of his life my father would fall more frequently, he was forgetful, he was not eating, he began needing a nurse to come to the house to take care of him in the mornings and before bed. He was no longer able to drive. Stubbornly he refused to admit that anything was wrong, he didn’t want to consider a retirement community.

At this time, I also got a big job opportunity. A job that would require me being out of the house and in community a lot, one that would take up a considerable amount of my time, I was very excited for what this could mean for my career and I initially believed I could balance this with taking care of my father.

I wanted to believe I could do both.

I couldn’t.

I started my new position in May 2025. By July, I no longer had it.

My father needed more than I could give while also trying to build a career. He called four or five times every day. I drove him to appointments, to emergency rooms, to specialists who still couldn’t tell us what was happening. He fell in the middle of the night, and I’d rush next door to help him off the floor. I slept lightly because I never knew when the next call would come.

At the end of July he was diagnosed with brain cancer. He was moved to palliative care and he died August 19th in his sleep.

I do not for even one second regret the decision I made to take care of my father. I treasure every single second I was with him, every laugh, every dinner, every time I just sat on his bed with him and talked about the world. I miss him terribly.

It has also created a sort of identity crisis for me. For three years, I woke every morning knowing exactly where I needed to be and who needed me. My father’s appointments, medications, meals, and phone calls dictated the rhythm of my days. Then, almost overnight, that rhythm disappeared. Grief is strange because it isn’t just the loss of a person. Sometimes it’s the loss of the person you became while loving them.

When I was looking for work after being laid off, I struggled to explain the previous three years of my career. The truth was, my dad had become my job.

My story is deeply personal, but it is far from unique.

Across Canada, millions of women quietly become caregivers for aging parents, often without ever calling themselves one. They rearrange careers, postpone ambitions, sacrifice income, and carry an invisible emotional load because someone they love needs them.

More than half of Canadian women (52%) provided some form of caregiving in 2022, compared with 42% of men.

Among Canadians providing unpaid care to adults—often aging parents—74% reported negative impacts on their own health, including anxiety, depression, stress, and feeling overwhelmed. Women are also significantly more likely to reduce their work hours, decline promotions, take leaves of absence, or leave the workforce entirely because of caregiving responsibilities.

I do not regret a single moment.

If I had to make the choice again, I would still choose my father.

I would choose every seven o’clock morning, every cup of coffee, every conversation about politics and history, every forehead kiss before I left for work. I would choose all of it.

What I do regret is how invisible caregiving remains.

We celebrate promotions, degrees and professional accomplishments. We rarely acknowledge the daughters who quietly put careers on hold to care for the people who once cared for them. We don’t count the missed opportunities, the lost income, the interrupted résumés, or the emotional toll that follows long after the funeral.

Nearly a year later, I still wake up some mornings expecting to walk next door. For three years, my days revolved around my father’s needs. Then, suddenly, they didn’t. Losing him meant losing not only my dad, but a role that had come to define who I was.

Caregiving is an act of love. It is also labour—essential labour that our economy depends on and our society too often overlooks.

Because behind every statistic is a daughter who once tugged on her father’s arm and whispered, “Daddy, come play with me.

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There is an uncomfortable reality at the centre of the Carter Hart story.

The legal case is over. The public debate is not.

Carter Hart and four other former members of Canada’s 2018 World Junior hockey team were acquitted of sexual assault charges in 2025 after an Ontario judge found the Crown had not proven its case beyond a reasonable doubt. In a democratic society governed by the rule of law, that matters. The presumption of innocence matters. Due process matters. The verdict matters.

But there is another reality that matters too.

As the Vegas Golden Knights compete for the Stanley Cup, Hart has become the public face of a question hockey still seems unwilling to answer. Not because he was convicted of anything—he was not—but because he is the only one of the five acquitted players to return to the NHL and immediately find himself on the sport’s biggest stage.

For many hockey fans, that is the end of the story. A player was acquitted and resumed his career.

For many survivors of sexual violence, it is not.

As a survivor myself, I have watched the conversation around Hart’s return with growing frustration. The discussion is often framed around whether he deserves another chance. What is discussed far less often is what it feels like for survivors to watch powerful institutions move on as though nothing happened.

The Hockey Canada scandal was never just about one player.

It exposed a culture that forced Canadians to ask difficult questions about power, consent, accountability, and the way our most cherished institutions respond when allegations emerge. Sponsors withdrew. Executives resigned. Parliament launched investigations. Hockey Canada underwent significant reforms. None of that happened because Canadians believed the system was working perfectly. It happened because something was deeply wrong.

That is why I struggle with the rush to celebrate Hart’s return as a redemption story.

Redemption requires more than a contract.

Ahead of the Stanley Cup Final, Hart was asked what he had learned and how he had grown since returning to the NHL. His answer focused on community involvement and gratitude toward the Golden Knights organization. Perhaps that is enough for some people. Perhaps it is not. But the question itself reflects something important: Canadians are still trying to understand what accountability looks like when the courtroom process ends.

What happened during the Stanley Cup Final itself only reinforced that reality.

During Game 1, fans repeatedly chanted “No means no” whenever Hart was involved in the play. The chants quickly became one of the defining storylines of the evening. Some viewed them as unfair. Others viewed them as a reflection of a public conversation that hockey has not fully reckoned with.

What struck me was not the chant itself. It was what the chant represented.

Nearly four years after the Hockey Canada scandal exploded into public view, thousands of fans at the sport’s biggest event were still expressing discomfort, anger, and unresolved questions. The league may want to return the focus to hockey. Teams may want to move forward. But many Canadians clearly are not prepared to simply forget.

There is another reason the public reaction to Carter Hart remains so intense.

In recent weeks, Hart generated additional controversy after appearing publicly in a “Free Alberta” shirt associated with Alberta’s separatist movement, drawing criticism from both hockey fans and political observers. The reaction was notable not because athletes are prohibited from expressing political views—they are not—but because it reinforced the perception that Hart remains a polarizing public figure far beyond the Hockey Canada case itself.

For many Canadians, particularly those who oppose Alberta separation, the image became another example of how Hart continues to find himself at the centre of broader debates about values, accountability, and identity. At a moment when Alberta is wrestling with its own questions about federalism, separatism, and the future of Confederation, the controversy served as a reminder that public figures do not exist in a vacuum. The choices they make off the ice inevitably shape how they are viewed on it.

That distinction matters because some defenders of Hart have argued that criticism of his return to the NHL is simply an unwillingness to accept the verdict. But public figures are judged on more than one event. They are judged on the totality of how they conduct themselves, the causes they choose to associate with, and the messages they send. Whether intentionally or not, the “Free Alberta” controversy became another chapter in a broader public conversation about who Hart is and what he represents.

That does not mean everyone must agree with the criticism. It does mean Canadians should not be surprised when a player who has already become one of the most debated figures in the country continues to generate strong reactions far beyond the rink.

As a side note, I think it is important to acknowledge why this case resonated so deeply beyond the hockey world. Canadians were not simply reacting to headlines or social media commentary. They heard testimony that touched on issues many survivors recognize: fear, trauma, people-pleasing, dissociation, and the complicated ways individuals sometimes respond in situations where they feel overwhelmed or unsafe.

The court ultimately found that the Crown had not proven the charges beyond a reasonable doubt, and that conclusion must be respected. But it is equally true that many Canadians listened to that testimony and saw difficult questions about consent, power, and vulnerability that extend far beyond a single verdict.

That is part of why the public conversation has persisted long after the legal proceedings ended. It is also why the chants that followed Hart onto the ice during the Stanley Cup Final were about more than one player. For many people, they reflected a broader discomfort with questions that hockey, and perhaps society more broadly, has yet to fully answer.

As a survivor of sexual violence, I understand why.

For survivors, these stories are never just stories. They are reminders of how difficult it can be to come forward. How complicated trauma can be. How often public discussions become focused on the accused while the experiences of complainants fade into the background. Whether people agreed with the verdict or not, many survivors saw elements of their own experiences reflected in the testimony and in the public reaction that followed.

That is one reason why the celebration surrounding Hart’s return feels so jarring to some people.

The challenge is that hockey often treats legal innocence and public accountability as identical concepts. They are not.

A court determines whether a criminal offence has been proven beyond a reasonable doubt. Fans, teams, sponsors, and communities decide what values they want their institutions to represent. Those are different conversations, and they should be.

Survivors are routinely asked to be understanding. To trust the process. To accept that a verdict has been rendered and move on. Yet institutions rarely ask themselves equally difficult questions about the messages they send when they rush to celebrate a return, sign a contract, or frame a comeback as a feel-good story.

That is why I have been critical not only of Hart’s return but also of those who have chosen to champion it. Every organization, executive, commentator, and fan is entitled to make their own judgment. But they are making a choice. They are deciding what values they want to elevate and what consequences they are willing to overlook.

None of this means Carter Hart should be denied the rights afforded to every Canadian. It does mean Canadians are entitled to debate what messages are sent when organizations embrace public figures connected to one of the most consequential scandals in modern Canadian sports history.

What troubles me most is how quickly some people seem eager to stop asking questions altogether.

The real legacy of the Hockey Canada scandal will not be whether Carter Hart wins a Stanley Cup.

It will be whether hockey learned anything from the scandal that brought the sport to this moment in the first place.

Because for survivors watching from the stands, from their living rooms, and from communities across this country, the questions never left.

Only the headlines did.

The legal case may be over. But for many survivors, the conversation about accountability, culture, and what we choose to celebrate is just beginning.

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Why I’m Starting This Substack

For years, I have written about politics, public policy, and current affairs. But over time, I found myself returning to the same underlying question: what happens when women’s experiences are treated as peripheral rather than central to our public conversations?

That is why I am starting this Substack.

This won’t be a publication about “women’s issues” in the narrow sense. It will be about the places where women’s lives intersect with the institutions that shape our society: healthcare, the justice system, politics, sports, media, and culture. It will examine how policy decisions affect women’s bodies and safety, how public narratives are formed, and why certain stories capture national attention while others disappear almost unnoticed.

As a survivor of sexual violence and breast cancer, I know these issues are not abstract. I also spent years working in government on programs addressing family violence and sexual violence, giving me a policy perspective that complements lived experience. Together, they have taught me that meaningful conversations require both empathy and evidence.

I want to write about the realities of navigating healthcare as a woman, the challenges survivors face in seeking justice, the politics surrounding women’s health, and the ways sport and popular culture influence our understanding of consent, masculinity, equality, and power. Whether it is a high-profile sexual assault trial, domestic violence legislation, gaps in breast cancer screening, or the culture of elite athletics, these stories are rarely just about one event. They reveal broader questions about the society we are building.

There is another reason I am starting this publication.

Some of the pieces I am proudest of have never been published. Not because they lacked evidence, or because the arguments were weak, but because I was told there wasn’t an audience for them. Again and again, I heard that stories centred on women, violence, health, or the intersection of those issues with politics and culture were too niche, too difficult, or simply not what readers wanted.

I have never accepted that.

I believe there is an audience for thoughtful, evidence-based writing that takes women’s experiences seriously. I believe there are readers who want more than outrage, more than partisan talking points, and more than headlines that disappear after a few days. I believe people are looking for context, nuance, and analysis that connects individual stories to the broader social and political forces shaping our lives.

This Substack is, in part, an experiment to test that belief. It is a place for essays that never found a home, for stories that deserved a longer shelf life than the news cycle allowed, and for new writing that asks difficult questions without assuming easy answers. Rather than waiting for someone else to decide whether these conversations are worth having, I have decided to create the space myself.

Too often, discussions about gender become trapped in ideological camps. I am not interested in slogans or outrage for its own sake. I am interested in facts, thoughtful analysis, and asking difficult questions—even when the answers challenge my own assumptions. My goal is to create a space where complex issues can be examined with nuance, compassion, and intellectual honesty.

I also believe these conversations belong to everyone. Violence against women is not only a women’s issue. Access to quality healthcare is not only a women’s issue. The health of our institutions, our families, and our communities depends on how seriously we take these challenges.

If this publication succeeds, I hope readers leave with a deeper understanding of the forces shaping women’s lives today—and perhaps a renewed belief that good policy, better journalism, and informed public debate can make a genuine difference.

If you’ve ever wished these issues received more thoughtful attention, I hope you’ll subscribe. And if, like me, you believe there is an audience for writing that treats women’s lives not as a niche topic but as an essential part of our political, cultural, and social story, then I hope you’ll help prove it.

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