by Mikaela Brewer for The 44 North

Senior Editor

Editor's Note: Recently, I had a chance to speak with the co-founders of a zine I've long admired. We chatted all things queer love, romance, reclaiming sexiness, and more! Please check out their newest issue, "Hunger," and many others here. —Mikaela

The 44 North (44N): Firstly, before we begin, could you share why you started something like Feels Zine? How do you, your families, ancestors, community, politics, and values braid into your work on these zines? Where/how would you like folks to witness/experience this when spending time with the zines' pages? Is there anything you hope people pay particular attention to? Take action with/from?

Feels Zine (FZ): FEELS started with a dream and a friendship! Hannah, our co-founder and creative director, has worked in magazine design for a long time, but always wanted to have her own. Sarah, the co-founder and editor, is a social worker by trade and a big fan of talking about feelings. After visiting the Toronto Art Book Fair about a decade ago, we made the decision to take the leap and try making our own.

Thematically, it comes from a couple of decades of friendship centred around a deep comfort with each other discussing challenging feelings in a culture that does not always support or encourage it. It is also deeply political in nature, focusing on justice, community care, and storytelling. 

In terms of experiencing FEELS, one thing we’ve really loved is hearing the vast array of rituals people who consume it seem to have that are very personal to them. Just like feelings! We want people to sit with the content in a way that feels most true to them. The content is emotional and often challenging, and we want that to feel as safe as possible. 

44N: I love that your publication is about feelings. More specifically, I admire the message that our inner worlds aren't necessarily safest when kept private. As you say, "Having an open dialogue about what’s going on inside of us can foster meaningful connection and make us feel less alone, especially in the social-media era that asks us to curate and polish our lives and feelings before sharing them—if we share them at all." When you began curating & creating zines like "Sexy" and your "Queer Romance Mini Zine," I'd love to know how you thought about representing feelings, especially since so many other emotions are present & connected to queer sex positivity, health, and safety. How did these two zines, in particular, fit into the fabric of what Feels Zine is & hopes to do?

FZ: With those issues in particular, we wanted to move away from media representations of what it means to be sexy, or what queer romance looks like, and shift the focus back onto how it actually looks in our lives—far messier and more nuanced, but also more real. As a queer person (Sarah here, so speaking for myself), I’ve always found myself disappointed in the majority of representations of queer love and sex—so much so that when I find something I connect to, I won’t shut up about it and am so excited about it. I felt that way in receiving the submissions for those issues—so thrilled to see experiences that might look different from my subjective experiences, but also so similar in the feelings and the authenticity in them. I think this is really the epitome of what we want FEELS to be—a space for something we feel in our guts as true to life.

44N: Issue 18, "Sexy," explored feeling sexy, worth, and desire. Safe, positive sex & sexiness can empower us, as you say, and should be something to celebrate! Across the work included in this zine, how did you curate/capture this beautiful balance of feeling sexy—not only re: sex, but also in how we show up in the world? 

FZ: One thing that people may not know about our process is that, once we put out a call for submissions with our overarching mission statement, we really let the submissions we receive guide the final product. We work hard to curate that mission statement to touch on different viewpoints and angles to a feeling and not lock in on any one element. But at the end of the day, the most important component is how people relate to that statement and that feeling. As much as it would be nice for our egos to say we captured all that, the truth is, the contributors did that work. We also worked hard to curate submissions that explored the spectrum of how sexiness shows up for us—in ourselves, with others, with the world, and how we communicate about it. We don’t want to showcase just one type of experience—we want as many unique experiences as possible.

44N: Your "Queer Romance Mini Zine" explored queer romance as an act of resistance & resilience, creating intentional space for queer love stories. I so admire this. And in conversation with what we've been discussing: romance, love, and desire aren't insufficient without sex, of course! Intimacy beyond sex is a vital part of queer love stories, and I'd love to know how this mini zine approached queer romance beyond or alongside sex?

FZ: The complementing mini zines are a concept we’ve used a few times over the years, and come straight from the submissions we receive. Every once in a while, when we’re curating an issue and reviewing submissions, a related but distinct emotion or topic jumps out at us that necessitates space-making. As we worked through our Pride Issue submissions, this became very clear as a topic that was resonating with a lot of people, and a huge component of their subjective queer identities. Romance can involve sex for a lot of people, but it isn’t a necessary component, and we hope that that rings true in the overall storytelling of the Queer Romance mini zine. 

The other thing I would note, which I mentioned above, is that queer romances have far fewer representations in the media, and often the ones we do aren’t written by us, and are rooted in pain and trauma. This, for me, is a huge part of why I believe queer love stories are so important to share–because seeing ourselves represented gives those of us who don’t yet feel safe or seen a place to have their experiences reflected back and honoured.

About Feels Zine

Feels is a publication about feelings. It is a place to explore, to share, and to be honest. Having an open dialogue about what’s going on inside of us can foster meaningful connection and make us feel less alone, especially in the social-media era that asks us to curate and polish our lives and feelings before sharing them — if we share them at all. Feels believes there are no good or bad feelings — the value comes from how we relate to them, how we experience them, and what we learn from them.

Feels believes in inclusion and recognizes that certain voices have been given the lion’s share of the spotlight throughout history. Our pages are for everyone. We are a feminist, sex-positive, 2SLGBTQ*, anti-racist, anti-colonial publication.

—Feels Zine Instagram & website

By Hailey Hechtman for The 44 North

Contributing Writer

I’m curled up on the couch, a book in my hand, blanket over my outstretched legs, a cup of tea on my side table, and music playing off the T.V. with some digitally rendered image of a bookstore in New York City.

I feel present for one of the few moments in my day.

Every other second, my mind is occupied with the rustling, restless thoughts that come with being a person in 2026; the distractions of the world and my day taking hold of the little attention I can muster up these days. Yet, for those hours enthralled in a story—with a central or series of characters that I don’t need to rescue, a setting that feels distant yet familiar, a plot I can follow and fumble through with the urge to know yet not the need to fix—I’m captivated.

Sometimes it’s a thick literary fiction spanning decades of family saga or interweaving relationships; others, it’s a historical reimagining, inviting me into the point of view of someone long lost or never having lived at all, in a time that I can only picture through the page. In other cases, it’s a translated work, cultivating insight into a cultural perspective that feels emotionally close yet contextually distant. In rare cases, on an evening of deep freeze in January, it’s a fantasy—complete with mystical creators, lands imposing and impossible.

Genre aside, it’s the act of escape into these spaces between pages that gives me the freedom to see myself or others from new vantage points. While the plot points may be planets or periods away from my day-to-day existence, novels allow me to question aspects of myself and others in a way that even my journal never fully captures.

They allow space for my imagination to posit questions about revenge, love, identity, deceit, decadence, and desire. They act as a frame for my own answers to emerge alongside the characters’ actions, opening an internal dialogue that rarely runs free when I stop to assess my responses in real-time. They permit me to try on personalities that, while seemingly opposing from my lived experience, somehow fit in my subconscious. They illicit emotional resonance, allowing the feelings to blossom even if I’ve never encountered a dragon, a witch, or a spy.

This can be extrapolated further to my understanding of those in my life and those around the world. Through the characters in a novel, I can identify with and recognize the lived experiences of my partner, my colleagues, the rider across from me on public transit, and the person whose image shows up across my phone screen while scrolling on social media. We often hear real-world retellings of those navigating strife, those engulfed in violence, those subjected to mistreatment.

Yet, so often when this is but a flash across our screens, we sit for a moment in rage and move forward, or feel utterly helpless yet continue to scroll to the next image, the next video. There is something about literature—maybe it’s the world building and imprinting that happens when something is on the page, maybe it’s the emotional investment that comes from our storybook days, curled up in our pjs at 8 p.m. on a school night, maybe it’s simple that these characters and stories are both not at all and yet fully real to us somewhere in our mind.

Translating that experience—those deep reflective moments stepping mentally into the shoes of another—can activate us, alongside the same sensibility in the way we look around us. The stories and settings we choose can help to contribute not only to our understanding of the broader world but to our capacity for compassion. As we dive into the inner worlds captured in a novel set across the globe, in real-world and fictional settings, we can begin to expand our hearts for those living those moments each and every day.

Empathy takes many forms within the world of a book: Pain for the protagonist’s agonizing decision, fear for the unknown as they travel off on an adventure, elation as they find themselves with their soulmate as the final chapter closes.

We can see ourselves in them and yet see them in us. Different from a film or a show, the act of absorbing a story from the crisp paper sheets of a book on your bedside table allows for greater insertion and participation; the chance to fully immerse yourself without the added layer of visual representation. The settings become an illustration of your own design, the language a tool for curating the tone and flow of conversations that move the plot forward.

It’s in fiction that we find pieces of ourselves yet to be discovered, that we recognize our own humanity in the eyes of figures expressed in words and alive through our imagination.

How many times have I dug into a first paragraph knowing that the journey will be grueling and yet I read on? How often have I wept as a character faces hardship only to lie in bed pondering the hurts I have faced myself? How enthusiastically I’ve cheered when the person I’ve followed from moment one finally sees their dream come to fruition or their plan transform into reality? In those instances, have I not stopped to assess where I am on my own road to happiness, freedom, or fulfillment?

Have I not nostalgically galivanted through childhood memories, scattered vividly, to explain the backstory? Or found myself cycling through the losses, regrets, or missed opportunities that have passed me by as those on the page make the wrong choice, let go of the wrong person, shut the wrong door?

On my literary expedition, I can place myself in many lives, yet it’s in the sentences and plot twists that shine a light on my own humanity—and that of those around me—that I find myself most transfixed; transformed.

When the lessons show themselves, the morals crafted by our architects of the human experience, I find myself enveloped in questions about what it means to be human, to be a woman, to be alive, and to be alone. The author empowers me to step into curiosity through the safety of others, like a blanket over my own shame, survival, and sensitivity. They gift me space for an internal conversation that otherwise would require a whole lot of personal commitment to self-awareness and introspection.

What if we approached every book we opened as a window into our innermost secrets—if we saw them as a chance to discover what doesn’t easily float to the forefront of our consciousness, a sort of cover that makes the digging a little easier?

What if we allowed ourselves to dream about our motivations and misgivings through the eyes of that misunderstood mermaid, the cast-aside medieval servant, that mischievous villain or that heartbroken heroine? Would we give ourselves more grace? Would we dole out forgiveness to those around us, recognizing that perhaps, as our beloved characters etched on pages, they, too, have stories hidden that take a plot reveal to understand, complete with motivations and backgrounds that have not yet been revealed?

What if we thoughtfully approach each life interaction, each new acquaintance, each uncertain scenario with the openness with which we approach a novel? Not assuming that we know the ending—that we have all the answers from the start—but instead sitting tight, navigating each oncoming segment with an understanding that with each new point and page we will gain greater insight.

We may see that some moments in life will be novellas. Others will be series. Our neighbourhoods close and far may be mysteries first unsolved, yet with time invested, patience, and the one-page-at-a-time approach, we can learn to uncover the pieces that are not just sitting on the surface. That even our own thoughts—the ones that gnaw at us as anxiety or flutter with anticipation—may not always be what they seem.

They may be the sign of a new chapter emerging, or be the clarifying instance that allows us to move on to the next book in the saga.

How can we take life a little more like a book to be read, and in turn, use each new book as a chance to better understand life? What a novel idea.

by Jason Wang for The 44 North

Winner of our Inaugural Essay Contest

In the Canadian Armed Forces, we're taught that the most dangerous threat is often the one that remains hidden. Today, that danger is no longer confined to a physical battlefield; it has taken root in the digital spread of medical misinformation.

As a Grade 12 student aspiring for a future in neurosurgery, I see misinformation not merely as a social ill, but as a clinical hazard. It behaves less like an abstract idea and more like a pathogen, producing tangible harms that strain public health systems, burden the economy, and undermine collective safety. During the peak of the COVID-19 pandemic, my own grandmother—a woman who survived the 2003 SARS outbreak in China and understood the visceral reality of respiratory illness—found herself paralyzed by skepticism. Despite her lived history, the sheer volume of digital misinformation regarding vaccine safety led her to abhor the very medical breakthrough designed to protect her.

It was only through exhaustive persuasion and the presentation of rigorous clinical data that she begrudgingly consented to immunization. Her hesitation was not born of ignorance, but of a systemic failure in information integrity. It was through this experience that I realized medical misinformation acts as an informational pathogen that imposes a tripartite cost: biological, economic, and societal, ultimately illustrating that the erosion of scientific literacy is a tangible threat to human life and the stability of the healthcare system.

Misinformation is not a victimless exchange of ideas; it has a direct, pathological impact on human physiology. During the COVID-19 pandemic, researchers attempted to quantify the death toll attributable to vaccine refusal. A 2022 study published in The Lancet estimated that COVID-19 vaccination prevented approximately 14.4 million deaths globally in the first year of availability (Watson et al., 2022). Working backward from that figure, the Kaiser Family Foundation calculated that between June 2021 and March 2022, at least 234,000 COVID-19 deaths in the United States could have been prevented if unvaccinated individuals had received the vaccine (Amin et al., 2022). These were not deaths caused by vaccine scarcity, logistical failures, or overwhelmed hospitals. Medical intervention existed and was available. What failed was the transmission of accurate information to the populations who needed it most.

The pathway from misinformation to mortality operates through two distinct but interconnected mechanisms. At the individual level, false beliefs about vaccine safety leave people vulnerable to severe disease outcomes. COVID-19 disproportionately threatens specific populations: the elderly, individuals with underlying conditions like diabetes or cardiovascular disease, and the immunocompromised. When a 70-year-old diabetic encounters claims that "natural immunity is superior" or that vaccines alter DNA, they're being steered toward a preventable death. The data from 2021 is unambiguous: unvaccinated individuals died and were at higher risk of infection from COVID-19 at rates 13.9 and 53.2 times higher than their vaccinated counterparts, respectively (Johnson et al., 2022). That mortality gap represents actual bodies, not abstract risk calculations.

At the population level, vaccine hesitancy degrades what epidemiologists term “herd immunity, the phenomenon where high vaccination coverage protects even those who cannot be vaccinated by suppressing overall transmission. Herd immunity requires crossing specific thresholds: for measles, approximately 95% of the population must be immune to prevent sustained outbreaks (Osman et al., 2022). When misinformation depresses vaccination rates below these critical levels, diseases that had been eliminated for decades resurface.

Canada's experience is instructive. Between 2019 and 2023, routine childhood vaccination coverage dropped from 90% to 82% (Jacobsen, 2025). In November 2025, Canada lost its measles elimination status after 27 years. Canada recorded over 5,100 cases in a single year (Soucheray, 2025). Two infants died after contracting the virus in utero, before they could be vaccinated. The virus had not mutated into a more dangerous form. The vaccine had not failed. The only variable that changed was information integrity. The cruelty of this dynamic lies in its distribution of harm. The individuals who bear the biological cost are often not the ones who rejected the medical intervention. The infants who died in Canada's measles outbreak made no decisions about vaccine safety. The immunocompromised cancer patient who contracts COVID-19 from an unvaccinated colleague did not choose vulnerability. The child who develops measles because their parents believed discredited claims about vaccine-induced autism did not consent to that infection. When misinformation convinces one person to refuse vaccination, the biological consequences radiate outward, creating community-wide vulnerabilities that extend far beyond individual choice.

Beyond direct biological harm, misinformation creates a preventable fiscal crisis for healthcare systems built on the principle of prevention. The economic logic of vaccination is straightforward: a small upfront cost prevents far larger expenses later.

During the COVID-19 pandemic, this logic played out in real time. Between June and November 2021, hospitalizations of unvaccinated adults cost the U.S. healthcare system approximately $13.8 billion, according to research by the Peterson Center on Healthcare and the Kaiser Family Foundation (Farrenkopf, 2022). That figure represents just five months in a single country. The vaccines were free to patients. The hospital stays were not. ICU beds, ventilators, weeks of round-the-clock nursing care, and post-discharge rehabilitation drove costs that dwarfed what prevention would have required. Each COVID-19 hospitalization in Canada averaged roughly $20,000 for non-ICU care and exceeded $50,000 for ICU treatment, according to CIHI (CBC News, 2021). Across hundreds of thousands of largely preventable hospitalizations, the resulting economic waste becomes staggering. The Commonwealth Fund estimated that COVID-19 vaccination prevented approximately $900 billion in U.S. healthcare costs during the first year of vaccine availability alone (Schneider et al., 2022).

The opportunity cost of this spending is as important as the headline numbers. The National Cancer Institute operates on an annual budget of about $6.9 billion. The $13.8 billion spent on preventable COVID hospitalizations in five months could have funded nearly two years of cancer research. It could have paid the annual salaries of roughly 138,000 nurses or purchased more than 2,700 MRI machines, substantially reducing diagnostic delays. Instead, those resources were consumed treating a disease for which effective, free prevention already existed.

Canada experienced a similar dynamic. Fraser Institute estimated that the Canadian government spent approximately $359.7 billion responding to COVID-19, with an estimated 25% (89.9 billion) wasted (Fuss, Hill, 2023). While not all of that spending was avoidable, vaccine hesitancy accounted for billions that could otherwise have modernized hospital infrastructure, expanded mental-health services, or reduced surgical backlogs that left tens of thousands of Canadians waiting in pain.

Outbreak response costs further expose the inefficiency created by misinformation. When vaccine-preventable diseases resurge, public health systems must mobilize extensive emergency operations: contact tracing, laboratory testing, isolation protocols, and redeployment of clinical staff. Contact tracing a single measles case can cost between $10,000 and $50,000 (Hyle et al., 2018). A 2018–2019 measles outbreak in New York involving 649 cases cost the city approximately $8.4 million in emergency response alone (about $12,900 per case), excluding hospital treatment (Zucker et al., 2020). By comparison, the two-dose MMR vaccine costs roughly $100 (Antoneshyn, 2025). These are not abstract inefficiencies; they are real budget line items and real staff hours diverted from other priorities.

As immunologist Dawn Bowdish has noted, cuts to public-health funding, the lack of a national vaccine registry, physician shortages, and widespread misinformation reinforce one another. Budget cuts weaken the infrastructure needed to counter misinformation. Misinformation lowers vaccination rates. Outbreaks then consume far more funding than the original cuts saved. This reveals something fundamental about how healthcare systems function. Canada’s universal healthcare model rests on an implicit social contract: individuals accept evidence-based prevention, and the system provides care when prevention fails. Misinformation breaks that contract. An unvaccinated patient occupying an ICU bed with preventable disease displaces care for heart-attack victims, trauma patients, or people awaiting surgery. The burden extends beyond money to system-wide constraints: staff burnout, delayed procedures, and overcrowded emergency rooms. Misinformation does not merely waste resources; it degrades the basic capacity of healthcare systems to function.

The biological and economic costs of misinformation ultimately converge in a third dimension: the breakdown of collective capacity to respond to shared threats. As a member of the Canadian Armed Forces Reserves, I have been trained to recognize that mission success depends on accurate intelligence. When field units receive false information about enemy positions or terrain conditions, operations fail, and soldiers die. Public health operates under the same constraint.

Populations cannot mount effective responses to disease outbreaks if they cannot agree on how diseases spread or whether medical interventions work. This is not merely a problem of political disagreement. It represents a fundamental breakdown in the social infrastructure required for coordinated action during crises.

The erosion is measurable. Research by Obohwemu et al. found that lack of confidence, complacency, constraints, calculation, and collective responsibility have all been highlighted as barriers to vaccination uptake among parents to different degrees (Obohwemu et al., 2022). The effect persisted months after exposure, suggesting that misinformation creates lasting changes in trust rather than temporary confusion.

A 2021 study by Loomba et al. published in Nature examined the impact of misinformation on COVID-19 vaccine acceptance across 5,000 participants in the United Kingdom. Participants exposed to anti-vaccine misinformation showed a 6.2 percentage point decrease in willingness to receive a COVID-19 vaccine, and exposure to misinformation emphasizing vaccine side effects reduced stated vaccine acceptance by 6.4 percentage points (Loomba et al., 2021). The effects were largest among individuals who were initially unsure about vaccination, demonstrating how misinformation specifically targets and exploits uncertainty.

The consequences extend beyond immediate health decisions. During February 2022, protests opposing COVID-19 vaccine mandates blocked downtown Ottawa for three weeks, disrupted international trade at border crossings, and required the invocation of the Emergencies Act for the first time since its creation in 1988 (Government of Canada, 2022). The protesters' core belief, that vaccine requirements represented government overreach rather than public health necessity, had been cultivated by years of online misinformation about vaccine safety and efficacy.

Regardless of one's position on specific policy choices, the event demonstrated a critical failure: a substantial portion of the population had become unreachable by conventional public health communication. They were not evaluating evidence about transmission dynamics or hospital capacity. They were operating within a constructed narrative where vaccination itself was the threat. This matters because complex modern societies require institutional trust to function. Climate adaptation, pandemic preparedness, food safety regulation, and infrastructure maintenance all depend on public willingness to defer to technical expertise on questions beyond individual competence. When misinformation convinces populations that expert consensus is either fraudulent or politically motivated, that deference collapses. The immediate result may be preventable deaths during a pandemic. The long-term result is a society that has lost the ability to protect itself from foreseeable dangers.

Misinformation does not merely kill people in the present. It disables the mechanisms societies need to prevent future deaths.

My grandmother eventually got her COVID-19 vaccination, but it took weeks of persuasion and countless conversations before she trusted the science over what she had read online. Millions of others never made it to that point. The 234,000 preventable deaths in the United States, the return of measles in Canada after 27 years of elimination, the billions spent treating diseases we already knew how to prevent—these numbers tell a straightforward story about what happens when people cannot tell truth from fiction. Misinformation kills people, drains resources that could save other lives, and breaks down our ability to respond when the next crisis arrives. But the same networks that carry lies can also carry truth when people know how to recognize the difference.

The answer is not censorship. It is teaching people how to think critically about health information, the same way we teach them to read or do algebra. My generation has grown up watching misinformation kill people we know. We understand how it spreads because we have seen it happen in real time. That experience can become our greatest defense if we treat scientific literacy as essential to navigating modern life safely. The cost of misinformation shows up in obituaries and hospital bills. The value of a scientifically literate society shows up in the deaths that never happen and the crises we prevent before they spiral.

My grandmother is alive today because accurate information eventually reached her through the noise. How many others could we save if we made sure it reached them first?

About the Author

Jason Wang is a Grade 12 Senior student at St. Peter’s Catholic Secondary School in Peterborough, Ontario. He currently works as a lifeguard, swim instructor, piano teacher and recently, an Army reservist. He wishes to pursue a career in medicine and neuroscience/neurosurgery in the future. He is also the creator of “The Axonora Initiative,” a recent YouTube channel focusing on tackling misinformation.”

Connect with Jason on personal Instagram: @jimjamwong08 or through The Axonora Initiative @axonorainitiative

References

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• Zucker, J. R., Rosen, J. B., Iwamoto, M., Arciuolo, R. J., Langdon-Embry, M., Vora, N. M., Rakeman, J. L., Isaac, B. M., Jean, A., Asfaw, M., Hawkins, S. C., Merrill, T. G., Kennelly, M. O., Maldin Morgenthau, B., Daskalakis, D. C., & Barbot, O. (2020). Consequences of undervaccination—measles outbreak, New York City, 2018–2019. The New England Journal of Medicine, 382(11), 1009–1017.https://doi.org/10.1056/NEJMoa1912514