by Stephanie Ta for The 44 North
Co-Founder, The Toronto Public Library Passport Project
"The Toronto Public Library has supported people through moments that are deeply personal and often invisible. It has been there during unemployment, long study sessions, childhood afternoons, and later-in-life learning curves. These forms of support do not always get acknowledged."
On a beautiful summer day in July of 2024, I signed into our regular all-hands work meeting. Thirty minutes later, I signed off having learned that the full operations of the nonprofit we worked for would be closing its doors. We were all unemployed.
There was no dramatic buildup or warning, and it was strange how ordinary the information felt in the moment, even though everything was about to change. That kind of ordinariness sticks with you—it's a reminder that instability can creep up on you, even on beautiful summer days.
It’s now 2026, and I still haven’t found long-term, permanent employment. Instead, I’ve juggled a long string of contracts. If I'm lucky, I have short roles and project-based work, meaning temporary positions with deliverable dates taking priority over purpose. This lifestyle has become familiar to zillennials in the questionable battlefield we call the workforce. With unpredictable employment crammed into long days and even longer nights, stability is an abstract concept; planning more than a few months ahead feels optimistic at best and foolhardy at worst.
It didn’t take long for me to realize how familiar my story is. Friends, colleagues, youth across the GTA, and hundreds of online strangers are all navigating similar realities. People are constantly moving between contracts, applications, side projects, and long stretches of waiting just to start. We’re all figuring out how to live without guarantees. Stability becomes less about things staying the same and more about knowing some places will still let you in. Life under capitalism means that we longingly emphasize our ability to own, control, and gain access. We yearn to have access—the type of access that means you don’t need to earn your right to exist in a space. You don’t have to be productive, successful, or certain. You can show up as you are, even when everything else feels in flux.
This is the access we all dream about, which becomes grounding when nothing else feels secure or safe.
During this very unplanned and unwanted gap period, I found myself spending a lot of time on the internet. I consume endless information that rarely makes me feel better. Feelings of comparison and competition close in even though I’m spending less time with real human beings. I needed a place to break out of these four walls and constant reminders of not having a place to actually be. I needed somewhere that did not expect productivity or optimism; somewhere that would let me exist without pressure. A place that doesn't cost anything. I’m one of the lucky ones because a place like that does exist. For me, one of those places is the TPL or its government name: The Toronto Public Library.
Some days, I went to the TPL to locate Knitting for Dummies. Other days, I went when I needed quiet space with outlets and backsupport. Most days, I just need to leave the house. The library has always given me somewhere to land.
The library has always been important to me. Even as a kid, it felt special. It’s a place where you can wander without a goal and still feel like you’re going on an adventure. Walking through the aisles feels a bit like walking through a candy store. Every shelf offers a new possibility. You stumble into topics you never planned to learn about. If you speak more than one language, the world inside the library feels even bigger.
A library card unlocks more than books. It gives you access to museums, art galleries, and city attractions. It lets you learn how to sew or borrow equipment you might not be able to afford on your own. It makes curiosity feel affordable and within reach. It invites and welcomes you back into community.
Libraries are often described as quiet spaces, and they are. But they’re also places where people figure things out. For many, the library is one of the first public spaces they navigate independently. It’s where they print their first resume. It’s where they wait for friends after school. It’s where they sit without being told to buy something or move along. These moments are small, but they matter.
In my work with youth, I have seen how rare that kind of space is and how it’s continuing to dwindle. Many environments expect performance, progress, and answers. Libraries don’t. They allow people to exist while they are still becoming.
I know I’m not the only person who feels this way about libraries. So when my neighbour, Marisa, came to me with an idea, it immediately felt like something worth paying attention to.
Marisa told me about the unofficial Toronto Public Library passport—a passion project that encouraged people to collect stamps from each library branch they visited. As someone who moved to Toronto from the United States, Marisa discovered the library system as an adult. In many ways, she had explored more branches than people who grew up here. Her love for public access and community spaces made her wonder what the passport could become if it felt more intentional and reflective.
She asked if I wanted to help reimagine it, and of course, I said yes.
My background in nonprofit and social impact work meant I knew how to support a project like this. I knew how to coordinate people and move ideas forward. But it was my flexibility that made it possible. Contract work teaches you how to build things without waiting for perfect conditions. You learn how to make something real with what you have.
From the beginning, we were clear about one thing: This could not be a project about youth without youth being deeply involved. Too often, young people are asked to engage in ways that feel shallow. They are consulted after decisions are already made. They are invited to participate without being trusted to shape the work itself.
We wanted something different.
Youth volunteers were invited to visit their favourite branches not as researchers with scripts, but as community members. They talked to staff. They observed how people used the space. They noticed small details that are easy to overlook. They asked questions because they were curious, not because they were told to collect specific information.
What emerged were stories that felt real. They were not polished or uniform; they reflected how people actually experience the library.
One of the most meaningful parts of the project was the creation of branch-specific stamps. Designing a stamp sounds simple, but it requires people to think deeply about the place. What makes this branch feel like itself? What does it offer its neighbourhood? What stands out when you spend time there?
Turning those reflections into visual designs became a way of saying and emphasizing that their perspective mattered—not as a symbolic gesture, but in a real and tangible way.
This is what youth engagement can look like when it’s rooted in trust. Youth were not asked to represent an entire generation. They were not expected to perform expertise. They were invited to contribute as themselves.
Dear TPL: The Passport Project became our love letter to the Toronto Public Library. At a time when so much feels uncertain, it felt important to pay attention to the spaces that quietly support us. We wanted to capture what the library means to people and create room for reflection and memory.
Through Dear TPL, you’ll find a growing collection of stories, photos, and lived experiences from branches across the city. Youth and community volunteers documented moments that do not always appear in official histories. They focused on how spaces feel and why that feeling matters.
Creating something during a period of uncertainty can feel grounding. When the future feels distant or unclear, working on a project offers a way to stay present. Dear TPL was never meant to solve systemic problems. It was an act of care. A way of saying that these spaces mattered enough to be noticed.
The project is still growing, new stories are still being added, and youth are still encountering their local branches in meaningful ways. That ongoing nature feels right as libraries change alongside the communities they serve.
The Toronto Public Library has supported people through moments that are deeply personal and often invisible. It has been there during unemployment, long study sessions, childhood afternoons, and later-in-life learning curves. These forms of support do not always get acknowledged.
If Dear TPL does anything, I hope it encourages people to notice the spaces that support them and to share their own stories. For young people, especially, being trusted to help shape public memory is not just engagement; it is belonging. And sometimes, belonging is what keeps us going.
If you’d like to learn more or get involved—in Toronto or through the libraries in your city!—reach out to Stephanie here.
