More Than A Form of Art: Poetry as Community Care

by Hanna Grover ​for The 44 North, Guest Writer

Hanna at a speaking engagement, wearing a black striped blazer. Via Hanna Grover.

“In these conditions, poetry becomes more than a form of art. A poem can hold grief without trying to solve it. It can preserve joy in fleeting moments. It can transform isolation into resonance, allowing someone to read a line written by a stranger and think, Someone else has felt this too.”

Poetry is one of humanity’s oldest forms of storytelling, and today, it feels more necessary than ever. In a world saturated with headlines, algorithms, and rapid consumption, humans barely have enough moments long enough to feel. 

For many young people, poetry has become a language for emotions that are otherwise difficult to articulate. We’re growing up in an era shaped by uncertainty alongside rising rates of anxiety and burnout, increasing loneliness despite digital connection, and a globe where many youth feel pressured to mask themselves. In these conditions, poetry becomes more than a form of art. A poem can hold grief without trying to solve it. It can preserve joy in fleeting moments. It can transform isolation into resonance, allowing someone to read a line written by a stranger and think, Someone else has felt this too. That moment of resonance is powerful because it reminds us we are not alone. Youth are craving spaces where they can be authentic together as a collective without fear of judgment. And while social media evidently encourages curated identities and constant comparison, poetry invites people to speak honestly. 

Hanna receiving a regional health & wellbeing award for Poet2Poet from Ingenious+. Via Hanna Grover.

I’ve witnessed this firsthand through my work founding and spearheading Poet2Poet, a youth organization focused on enacting poetry to battle the youth mental health crisis and create connection. Through workshops, open submissions, and community initiatives, Poet2Poet was built around a belief that creative expression can foster emotional connection and empower youth voices. What began as a platform for young poets gradually became an international global community where youth across the world could share their stories and engage in health and wellbeing programming through poetry. Poet2Poet has published over three hundred poems from young writers around the world, each carrying a different perspective but united by the same desire to be heard. Moreover, Poet2Poet focuses on delivering opportunities to promote youth health and wellbeing through poetry by running free in-person and virtual writing workshops for youth. Our most recent workshop for National Poetry Month, Waves and Words, was a collaboration with Unsinkable, one of Canada’s largest storytelling-focused youth mental health charities, designed for youth aged 16-25 in Canada, in person and virtually. After weeks of planning with the amazing Unsinkable team, Waves and Words was created to intentionally provide a space where youth used writing and poetry to explore emotional wellbeing, identity, and healing. The entire event felt surreal, but what struck me most was how people who entered the room as strangers left feeling connected through shared vulnerability. At that moment, it was clear that the beauty of poetry is how it transcends barriers. No one needs formal training, expensive resources, or a perfect understanding of literary devices to write a meaningful poem. Poetry is accessible because it begins with honesty and an inherent creative freedom to experiment with language on the page, and that’s exactly what was seen during the workshop. 

The banner for Hanna’s "Waves & Words" workshop

Hanna at a workshop, connecting with writers using paper & markers. Via Hanna Grover.

My journey in building Poet2Poet has always demonstrated how poetry can function as a form of care. Unlike many conversations around mental health that often focus only on diagnosis or intervention, poetry allows people to process emotions and deal with challenges in accessible human ways. It’s vital to have a daily outlet for your well-being, and in the case of Poet2Poet, a community that can support you. National Poetry Month further amplifies this idea by transforming poetry from an individual act in isolation into a collective, community movement. During National Poetry Month, poetry becomes visible in schools, libraries, communities, and online spaces. It encourages people who may never normally engage with poetry to pause and encounter it, regardless of whether they see themselves as a “writer”. It reminds us that everyone has a story worth telling. Every person carries experiences, memories, fears, and hopes that can resonate with others. 

At the end of the day, poetry matters now because humanity matters now. In a fast-moving world that can sometimes feel emotionally numbing, it’s clear that poetry helps people reconnect—with themselves and with one another—one line at a time.

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Hanna Grover is a youth advocate, researcher, and public speaker driven by a commitment to health and wellbeing equity, children’s rights, and youth empowerment. Her journey began with a simple belief: that young people deserve a seat at every table where decisions about their wellbeing are made. Today, that belief shapes everything she does, from founding Poet2Poet, a youth-focused organization that merges poetry with mental health, to working with national health organizations to create more equitable healthcare systems. Through Poet2Poet, Hanna has helped thousands of youth across 70+ countries use writing as a tool for healing, connection, and advocacy. Alongside her many personal initiatives, she serves and collaborates with a range of organizations, advisory councils, academic teams, and advocacy platforms on projects that center youth voices for systems-level change. She has had the privilege of speaking at national conferences and panels, often serving as the youngest voice in rooms filled with fellow policymakers, researchers, and professionals with a hope to empower others like her. Her advocacy has been recognized through awards like Canada’s Top 10 Under 18 Changemakers, British Columbia's Medal of Good Citizenship, and Surrey’s Top 25 Under 25.

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Words Matter: Harm builds over time. So does healing.

by Lillian Currie for The 44 North, Guest Writer

In partnership with Harmony Movement, University of Toronto Schools, and Unsinkable, our discussion will feature 4 panellists who will explore the role of language in both reinforcing harm & creating the conditions for more respectful, inclusive, and courageous school communities. Lillian’s essay is a special-edition feature in support of this event.

"Belonging is more than simply being allowed into a space. Belonging is knowing your humanity will be respected once you are there." 

Language is often referred to as “just words.” But anyone who has ever walked into a classroom and suddenly felt smaller because of a joke, comment, nickname, or even silence knows that words are never just words.

Words shape how people are treated.

They shape who feels safe enough to speak.

They shape who is defended and who is left behind.

In schools, language quietly shapes the atmosphere. It can make a classroom feel welcoming, and just as easily make someone feel they’re only surviving the day instead of truly belonging there. One sentence can stay with a person long after the bell rings.

Anti-Black language in schools is not always obvious. Sometimes it’s a racial slur yelled across a hallway. Other times it hides behind “jokes,” stereotypes, or comments that people dismiss as harmless. It can sound like a surprise when someone tells a Black student, “Wow, you’re so articulate,” as if intelligence were unexpected. It can appear in assumptions about attitude, behaviour, or intelligence. It can appear when Black students are punished more harshly than others for the same actions. And sometimes, the most painful part is not what’s said, but what’s not said: The silence after racism happens—the silence that makes students feel completely alone.

That silence can hurt more than the words themselves.

People often think courage and vulnerability are opposites. Courage sounds fearless and strong, while vulnerability sounds exposed and uncertain. But when it comes to confronting anti-Black language in schools, the two are deeply connected. Real courage requires vulnerability. Speaking up means risking awkwardness, rejection, conflict, or isolation. It means saying something even when staying quiet would be easier. It means caring more about another person’s dignity than your own comfort.

For many Black students, vulnerability is not a choice. It happens the moment they walk into spaces where they feel pressured to monitor how they speak, act, or express themselves. There’s a constant awareness of how they might be perceived: “too loud,” “too angry,” “too intimidating,” or “too ghetto.” That pressure is exhausting. It means code-switching and rehearsing your tone before asking a question in class. It means wondering whether defending yourself will make you seem “aggressive.” It means hearing stereotypes repeated casually and then being told, “It’s not that serious,” when it hurts.

One of the hardest things about harmful language is how quickly people focus on intention instead of impact. Students excuse comments as “just jokes.” Teachers sometimes overlook harmful remarks because they were not “meant badly.” Friends defend each other by saying, “That’s just how they talk.” But words don’t stop hurting simply because someone claims they didn’t mean harm. Pain doesn’t disappear because the person who caused it was laughing.

One of the most dangerous things schools can do is allow harmful language to become normal. When anti-Black comments happen so often that people stop reacting, it sends a message. It tells Black students that their pain is something they’re expected to handle quietly. It teaches others that racism only matters when it’s ‘extreme enough’ to make national news.

But racism doesn’t start with headlines.

It starts with what people allow.

It starts when someone says the n-word and nobody corrects them.

It starts when Black hairstyles are labelled “unprofessional.”

It starts when Black students are punished for behaviours others are excused for.

It starts when teachers avoid conversations about race because they’re afraid of getting uncomfortable.

It starts when students decide silence feels safer than speaking up.

But silence is never neutral. Silence protects harm by allowing it to continue.

As someone who is white, I think it’s important to recognize that confronting anti-Black language cannot only fall on Black students or students of colour. Too often, the people most harmed by racism are also the ones expected to carry the full responsibility of addressing it. But white students, teachers, and community members should also carry responsibility to challenge anti-Black racism, especially in moments where silence feels easier. During my last years of middle school, I constantly overheard predominantly white peers calling their friends racist, stereotypical names like “monkey” or “gorilla” as a joke. At the time, I didn’t dare to say anything—I didn’t have the courage to. 

I still remember hearing the laughter surrounding those comments, and I feel uncomfortable as if it happened yesterday. 

In those moments, I was afraid of speaking up and making things awkward, especially since I didn’t know the people who spoke those words. What makes these moments especially important to address is that those students are about to enter a new stage in their lives, perhaps with the belief that their language is acceptable. The more we excuse it as humour, or “just joking around,” the more normalized it becomes. Racism doesn’t become dangerous only when it becomes extreme or violent; it becomes dangerous when people grow comfortable enough to stop recognizing it as harmful at all. That’s why courage matters not only in major public moments, but in ordinary everyday conversations where harmful language is allowed to pass unchecked.

There’s a specific kind of loneliness that comes from experiencing racism in places that constantly claim to value inclusion. Schools may hang posters celebrating diversity, hold assemblies about equity, and talk about belonging, while students still feel unseen in everyday life. Representation without accountability becomes performative. Inclusion without action becomes empty.

Real inclusion feels different.

It feels like entering a classroom without preparing yourself to be hurt.

It feels like knowing that if someone says something racist, others will step in before you even have to ask.

It feels like teachers are listening instead of becoming defensive.

It feels like learning about Black history in ways that go beyond pain and oppression to also celebrate brilliance, creativity, joy, resistance, and humanity.

Belonging is more than simply being allowed into a space. Belonging is knowing your humanity will be respected once you are there.

The responsibility to create that kind of environment belongs to everyone, although courage can look different depending on who you are.

For students, courage can mean interrupting a racist joke even when friends laugh or roll their eyes. It can mean saying, “That’s not okay,” even when it risks social backlash. For Black students, courage can mean continuing to speak honestly about experiences people would rather ignore. There is strength in refusing to make yourself smaller so others can stay comfortable.

For teachers, courage means understanding that neutrality is impossible. Teachers shape school culture every day through what they challenge, ignore, or normalize. Courage can mean addressing racism immediately instead of awkwardly moving on. It can mean admitting when they don’t know something and being willing to learn. Some educators avoid conversations about race because they fear making mistakes, but silence often causes more harm than imperfect effort.

Vulnerability for educators means recognizing that good intentions do not erase blind spots. It means understanding that being corrected is not an attack but an opportunity to grow. A teacher willing to say, “I didn’t realize the impact of that comment, but I want to understand,” creates far more trust than one who refuses to listen.

For administrators, courage means going beyond statements and promises. Diversity initiatives mean little if students still don’t feel safe reporting racism. Schools cannot claim to value equity while ignoring unequal discipline, achievement gaps, or student experiences. Accountability is uncomfortable because it forces people to confront systems they may benefit from or contribute to. But discomfort isn’t the same thing as harm. Many students live with discomfort every single day simply trying to exist in these spaces.

What makes vulnerability difficult is that it requires honesty. Nobody wants to believe they may have contributed to harm. Nobody wants to admit they stayed silent when they should have spoken. But healing cannot happen without honesty.

Repair is another form of courage.

Too often, accountability is treated only as punishment. But real accountability is about growth and change. It’s about creating environments where harm is recognized, addressed, and prevented from happening again. Apologies alone are not enough. Repair requires reflection, education, changed behaviour, and consistency.

A student who uses anti-Black language should not simply be suspended and forgotten. They should understand why those words carry so much harm. They should learn the history behind them and the impact they continue to have. Accountability without education can become performative, but education without accountability becomes meaningless.

Repair also means listening to people who were hurt without expecting them to explain their pain perfectly or politely. Black students should not have to become educators while trying to process their own experiences. There is something deeply unfair about expecting people to calmly defend their humanity while they’re hurting.

Social media has made these realities impossible to ignore. Videos constantly surface of students using racial slurs, teachers making discriminatory comments, or Black students being humiliated while others watch and record. These moments remind people that racism is not simply part of history—it still exists in everyday life. But social media also reveals how quickly people rush to defend harmful behaviour instead of confronting it. Comment sections fill up with excuses like, “They’re just kids,” or “Everyone is too sensitive.”

What those responses fail to recognize is that harmful language shapes environments long before visible violence occurs. History has repeatedly shown that dehumanizing language allows people to tolerate dehumanization itself.

At the same time, social media has also revealed incredible courage. Students organizing walkouts. Young people sharing their experiences publicly despite fear. Communities demanding accountability from schools that ignored racism for years. There’s power in people refusing to stay silent. Every person who speaks up makes it easier for someone else to do the same.

Still, courage in real life is usually quiet. But that doesn’t make it less meaningful.

It’s the student sitting beside someone who feels isolated after a racist incident.

It’s the teacher checking in privately with a student who seemed hurt after a discussion.

It’s the friend saying, “That wasn’t funny,” even when nobody else does.

It’s the administrator willing to listen without becoming defensive.

It’s the parent teaching empathy before prejudice has the chance to take root.

These moments may seem small, but school culture is built from moments like these. Harm builds over time. So does healing.

The future I hope for is not one where schools become perfect overnight. Bias does not disappear instantly. But I hope for schools where students no longer carry these burdens alone. Schools where anti-Black language is challenged immediately, not because policies demand it, but because people genuinely care about one another’s dignity. Schools where vulnerability is seen as strength instead of weakness.

I hope for classrooms where conversations about race are approached honestly instead of being avoided out of fear. Where Black students do not have to wonder whether their experiences will be believed. Where inclusion is not treated as a yearly event, but as something practiced daily through language, actions, leadership, and accountability.

Most importantly, I hope for a future where students no longer confuse endurance with belonging.

Because surviving a school environment is not the same as feeling safe in it.

The deepest wounds caused by harmful language are often invisible. People remember the slurs, but they also remember the hesitation. They remember who looked away. They remember who stayed silent. They remember sitting frozen while others laughed. They remember learning, sometimes very young, that their dignity depended on how much discomfort others were willing to tolerate.

That is why courage matters so much.

Courage is not about being fearless.

It’s about choosing humanity even when it’s uncomfortable.

And vulnerability is not weakness. It’s caring deeply enough that staying silent no longer feels acceptable.

To build schools rooted in dignity, accountability, repair, and inclusion, people must first be willing to face uncomfortable truths. They must be willing to unlearn harmful language, challenge systems that normalize harm, and truly listen to experiences beyond their own. That work is difficult, but maybe education was never only meant to teach academic success. Maybe part of its purpose is teaching people how to care for one another ethically and compassionately.

Language will always shape school culture. The question is whether it will create environments where some students are merely tolerated or environments where every student feels genuinely seen, respected, protected, and valued.

And the answer depends on whether enough people are willing to speak, willing to listen, and willing to change.

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EVENT INFO & REGISTRATION

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Lillian Currie is a creative and compassionate high-school student with a strong interest in helping others and making a positive impact in her community. She is passionate about pathways involving children and youth, including social work and pediatric healthcare, and enjoys studying topics such as criminal law, history, and sociology.

Outside of school, Lillian is highly involved in her community. She is an active Youth Steering Committee Member for the Women in Leadership Foundation and also serves on the youth council for Harmony Movement. In addition, she works closely with the Glocal Foundation of Canada, contributing to the writing and research of academic papers. Through all three volunteer opportunities, she has accumulated nearly 200 volunteer hours.

Beyond academics, Lillian is passionate about dance. She has been dancing recreationally for three years and competitively for two, already achieving notable success in her dance journey. She is known for being kind, hardworking, and dedicated to supporting the people around her while continuing to grow both personally and academically.

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The Gift Writers Give: What AI Can’t Do

by Catherine Mwitta for The 44 North, Contributing Writer - Politics

An orange-hued image of a page with handwriting on it. A modern quill is resting on the page.

"Burnout became inevitable, and writing fiction became a hustle rather than a creative art form. This pace of creation wasn’t sustainable, but unfortunately, something else appeared to be." 

When I was ten years old, I gathered sheets of printing paper to write stories whenever I found myself daydreaming. I remember the first time I wanted to write. Maybe I was bored, and writing kept me busy. Or rather, I was moved by novels, magic, and life in such a way that only writing could help me respond; help me wake up without leaving a dream. 

As I grew older, writing became an activity I returned to in my free time. Everyone turns to writing for different reasons, but each—no matter the form—is connected to a core desire to distill and share our relationship with the world around us. I didn’t start publishing my work until I was much older, and decided I wanted to pursue a career in writing, but I never lost sight of that very human feeling, propelling my words across the page: Being Seen. 

Via Authors Guild

For a long time, choosing writing as a career was discouraged based on income.  According to a 2022 Authors Guild survey, referenced in Publishers Weekly, established full-time authors earn $23,329 a year—up 21% from 2018. The job site Indeed.com says authors in the United States earn on average $52,625 per year, which translates to $22.57 per hour. Change the search to “Writer,” and these numbers climb to $70,641 and $30.24, respectively.

These numbers are well-known and circulated, but even so, many writers, including me, see writing as an opportunity to escape the rat race of a nine-to-five job. Yet, unbeknownst to most (myself included), pivoting to a writing career means entering a whole other race. Another, perhaps unanticipated change was on the horizon.

The rise of indie/self-publishing technology and markets.

During the digital revolution, Kindle Direct Publishing (KDP) launched in 2007. This technological innovation allowed anyone to publish a novel without having to bypass the well-guarded gates of traditional publishing. For much of the early and mid-2000s, self-publishing was a surefire way to bar yourself from traditional publication, often seen as a last resort for frequently slush pile-rejected writers. This all changed during the pandemic.

Around this time, indie/self-publishing by writers increased exponentially (Vancouver Sun, Self-publishing Advisor, EA Books Publishing). Publishers no longer catered to their mid-list-tier authors, resulting in lower advances and a lack of marketing that often prevented them from recouping already abysmal advances to earn royalties as passive income. KDP offers a 30 percent to 70 percent ratio on royalties, an enticing upside considering traditional publishers offer a 15 percent split after factoring in literary agents (who take another 15 percent of the cut).

Writers opted for self-publishing over traditional publishing due to its high return on investment. They uploaded digital novels to Kindle and advertised them to readers through social media ads. The biggest bestsellers were (are) romance novels, and many indie-published writers made six figures writing Romantasy and now dark romance. 

Becoming a full-time writer was more accessible and possible than ever before. But, as always, there were conditions: Authors had to release at least three to four books a year to meet readership demands, and marketing became a side job, considering most “self-pubbed” authors didn't have the same connections as “trad-pubs.” Burnout became inevitable, and writing fiction became a hustle rather than a creative art form. This pace of creation wasn’t sustainable, but unfortunately, something else appeared to be.

The Indie & self-publishing demand meet generative AI.

Why spend years on a novel when you could write solely to generate income and pump out a book within an hour? 

In the New York Times piece, “The New Fabio Is Claude: The romance industry, always at the vanguard of technological change, is rapidly adapting to A.I. Not everyone is on board,” romance novelist Coral Hart stated that she used to write 10-12 novels per year. Her output is now 200 novels per year using generative AI. 

A phone with AI apps on a dark screen.

“If I can generate a book in a day, and you need six months to write a book, who’s going to win the race?” Hart said.

Readers debate the quality of Hart’s books, but what’s certain is that she’s sold around 50,000 copies and currently earns six figures. 

Traditional publishers have also recognized the profitability of AI, much like how many of them have now recognized the profitability of signing bestselling self-published authors, rather than cultivating submissions from their slush piles. In 2024, HarperCollins inked a deal with an unknown AI company to train their models on non-fiction books, and last year announced plans to use AI for translations, deciding to replace employees with tech. Regarding content creation, many readers contend that Silver Elite by Dani Francis (a pen name) was an AI-written novel, and that the Hachette-acquired book Shygirl by Mia Ballard was as well. 

As AI-generated books flood the market, I wonder when readers will no longer be able to tell whether a book was written by a large language model or by a human. I fear that day is soon. But even so, writing isn’t dead. Writers have and will continue to tell the stories closest to their hearts. We just have to look for them—and listen. And personally, quality over quantity not only matters most, but shows.

For example, Tomi Adeyemi signed a six-figure book and movie deal with Henry Holt and Co. (BYR), an imprint of Macmillan Publishers, for her first novel, Children of Blood and Bone. Jill Bearup has sold over 54,468 copies of her book Just Stab Me Now since its release in 2024, published by an independent press. Adeyemi wrote a West African-inspired YA fantasy, uncommon in 2018, and Bearup wrote a meta fantasy novel about an author’s characters acting out-of-character, a book no publisher knew how to sell. These two authors have done well in the publishing market because they chose to write deeply personal stories. 

When I feel I could be writing stories faster, or worse, that I’m not writing for market trends, I come back to my core beliefs and values: I don’t use AI for research, writing, or editing. The stories I write come from a part of me. Likewise, synthesizing what I hope to communicate to an audience during revisions is just as important to me as the final copy. All aspects of writing challenge me as a human, and as a reader, books do the same. 

What AI can’t do isn’t profitable. Maybe that’s a good thing.

As Western society pushes for more efficiency and higher profit margins, I continue to search for how to exist within this system. 

AI might be able to move me deeply as a reader, but it can’t expand my worldview. Anthropic recently settled a lawsuit over the illegal use of pirated books to train Claude, widely regarded as one of the better generative AI applications. Human experiences are not singular, and large language models can only replicate preexisting ideas. 

And thus, the greatest gift a writer can ever give a reader is the ability to think differently.

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Catherine Mwitta has a bachelor’s in creative writing from Kwantlen Polytechnic University and a certification in Journalism from Langara College. She is an editor at Augur Magazine and INKspire. Likewise, bylines at Stir Vancouver, SAD Mag, This Magazine, C Magazine and Bluffs Monitor.

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