Artist Spotlight: Feels Zine

by Mikaela Brewer for The 44 North

Senior Editor

Photo of Feels Zine’s “Sexy” issue by Melissa Blackall

“[Q]ueer 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.”

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. 

Co-founders Hannah (left) and Sarah (right) at a booth offering Feels Zine issues

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.

The front cover of Feels Zine’s “Sexy” issue

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.

The front cover of Feels Zine’s “Queer Romance” mini zine

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About Feels Zine

A collage of Feels Zine issues

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

Why Libraries Are Vital Third Spaces, Featuring Dear TPL: The Passport Project

by Stephanie Ta for The 44 North

Co-Founder, The Toronto Public Library Passport Project

A black-and-white sketch of a public library

"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.

A model of the Riverdale branch of the Toronto Public Library, created from the pages of a book

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. 

Youth Engagement Scarborough participants gathered on stage

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.

Stephanie on the steps of the Toronto Public Library’s Rivderdale branch in the winter

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.

Books stacked on top of a Toronto Public Library tote bag

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.

Writers Room | What Happens When You Call 211: Re-braiding Trust in Community Care

by Mikaela Brewer ​for The 44 North

Senior Editor

A dark forest at dusk

As the holidays approach, bringing with them colder weather, loneliness, and isolation for everyone—especially folks in need of mental health support or experiencing homelessness—the Toronto Community Crisis Service (TCCS) “provides free, confidential, in-person mental health supports city-wide from mobile crisis worker teams. TCCS supports Toronto residents 16 years of age or older and is available 24 hours a day, seven days a week.” All you need to do is dial 211. “The service provides a non-police-led, community-based, client-focused, and trauma-informed response to mental health crisis calls and wellness checks.”

Please engage with the TCCS website for further resources. Please also view this illustration for examples of support offered by TCSS. This story was inspired by the profound impact TCSS has on the Toronto Community, with the hope that services like this will continue to expand across Canada. Across Ontario, please see these resources if you need non-police-led mental health & social services.

Please note: this short story discusses suicide attempts, ideation, loss, and grief. It may activate folks with similar lived experiences, beyond what feels safe to spend time with. Please engage with this story how/whenever it feels safe for you.

***

I turned eighteen last December 23rd, the same day Oscar Peterson died in 2007 and a week before my parents died in a house fire. It’s almost cruel that it wasn’t our house, mostly because I might have been home. Or maybe it feels premeditated that our home was still there for me to face.

My parents took the bus a few blocks over to feed a coworker’s cat, near where I was attending veterinary school classes that evening. They were going to meet me afterwards.

My parents were firefighters.

***

I’m sorry this is written between the lines of old sheet music. Jona gave it to me. I know it’s jazz music, but I’m not sure what song it is. It belonged to her partner. 

I heard Jona in the back office of the laundromat—where I live and work now—over the rhythmic thumping of the machines. Jona’s red nails clicked the keys of her archaic typewriter with the fierceness of a novel’s climax, so she tells me. Jona immigrated from Jamaica decades ago and owns this vintage laundromat. She hasn’t changed it at all—the walls are still half wood panelled and half mint blue wallpaper; the machines are still orange; and the tile still looks like a cracked checkerboard. The washers and dryers stare each other down with their frontload-door-eyes, forever at the beginning or ending of a game.

Jona’s old, warm, and not always friendly, but unfailingly kind. And a bit too impatient. The place has been wreathed in cedar boughs and frankincense taper candles since early November.  

“O’scary McCloud!” 

If you’re wondering, yes, that is in fact my name. I’ve grown to appreciate it. My parents loved Oscar Peterson, and I love him because they did. When I was born, and the nurse asked about my name, my mom said, “Oh, scary!” It just stuck—a fun take on Oscar and the best example of what my parents were like. Later, when I was a toddler, and my mom was braiding my hair, she always said she was braiding pathways for sadness to leave my brain—like special scars for my fear to escape. 

“How does your sadness escape, Mommy?”

“When Daddy and I put out fires, sweetheart. We help the hose with our tears.”

I’ve gone by Scar since. Jona’s just sort of formal, if you feel me? In the best way.

“Yes, Jona?” My voice rattled a bit—I was perched cross-legged on my favourite dryer in the back corner of the laundromat. 

“Did you check again?”

I smiled involuntarily. “Yes, Jona, it’s still coming. Supposed to start at 4:06 p.m.”

“It’s about damn time. I’ve been waiting for snow for a month!”

I laughed so she could hear it as a response, but it was hollow. I ran my thumbs over the harmonica in my lap, and watched the clothes and bedding spin in the washers and dryers. I’d stopped feeling the waves of sadness coming. Now, it just leaked. Unlike my parents, I didn’t have a hose to channel it with. Had they been keeping this fire of pain at bay my whole life? What about their own? My nose started to run, but I didn’t snuff it back up; the air was thick with cotton and dryer sheet fibres. And I hoped, maybe, like blood from a shocked wound, it wouldn’t stop. 

The laundromat was one of the few places that still took change without it being weird. I know that’s when I first fell in love with music—hearing the change jingle in my parents’ pockets when they tossed my small body in the air. I’ve felt small again since they died, like I could fit into those machines, barely, tumbling over on myself with nowhere to go, stuck behind a locked door I always have to pay to open, waiting for someone else’s cycle to finish. 

***

They say you need a lot of water to put out a fire. So I jumped. 

But last February’s water wasn’t cold enough, and the Humber bridge wasn’t high enough. The burn just seared, bone cold as I lay on the raw rocks, hoping my blood, too, would dry out. 

But the cops found me partially conscious. Cuffed me. Asked invasive questions. Someone had called, saying I looked suspicious. They locked me in a burning yellow room in the hospital, so bright with artificial light I felt like I was looking directly into the sun. Or another irreversible fire. The cops hovered outside the door, pacing to some militant beat. 

I’m not sure I consented to anything, if I’m honest. As a young Black man, I never would’ve called 911.    

And I won’t now. I won’t call anyone. 

There are 547 unread texts on my phone. All from my freshman year friends at veterinary school. I stopped opening them the day I left the program. I’m afraid even knowing what they’ve said is a burden for someone else to carry. 

I let my head fall back against the corner, crashing into this dead White guy Jona likes. I think she likes him because his last name is Frost and he wrote about snow a few times. I’m positive she’s the only Canadian immigrant who worships winter. But there’s this poem she has framed, behind my head right now. It’s beautiful, stamped into my brain, and I can’t bear to look at it.  

“Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening” by Robert Frost

I do have a few miles to go, but I’ve decided only as far as Biidaasige Park, where I could be both inside and outside the city at once without being found.

***

The temperature drops fast this time of year. I wait for the blizzard to build my disguise before I slip into it.

At 4:10 p.m., I yell, “Jona! I’m going to get a coffee. I’ll be back—”

“Don’t be too long, I need you to empty the coins from the machines tonight! We’re closed tomorrow!” 

I didn’t answer, but I know she heard the front door chime like a bell tower as I left, ringing in the dark.

***

The park was desperately quiet—stopped. When I was a kid, any prolonged or encompassing quiet felt like noise. It felt misplaced. But now, I wanted it to absorb me. The snow kept falling as if God were pouring it. Wires, cables, and branches slumped under the weight. I lost the internet as I wound deeper into the woods, past picnic tables, ziplines, and buried plant spines. The snow hid whether I was on a trail or not, but I couldn’t see street lights anymore. I stopped when all I could smell was animal bodies and pine, and all I could taste was the metallic cold.

Jona had stitched an extra layer into my dad’s bunker jacket so I could wear it as a winter coat. I peeled it off and dropped it. In my t-shirt, I dropped my body beside it. 

My parents had taught me how to cry, but I’d forgotten. Now, I wondered if sitting under a tree in a blizzard was another way to put out a fire. 

At least it might be another way to drown. 

I fell asleep. 

***

My phone rang too soon and woke me. I couldn’t feel my fingers, and I don’t know how or why I answered. I was so cold. 

“Scar? Where are you?”

“Jona?” My voice crumpled like tissue paper. 

“Where are you?”

I was delirious, my brain churning the last thing I’d thought of—the poem. “It’s filling up fast. So lovely and dark and deep, Jona.”

“Scar, my dear, where are you? Can you get to my house?”

“There’s no house. I’m far from the village.” 

“Not that far. Hold on to that harmonica.”

“But I can’t keep my promise.” 

***

I wasn’t surprised that she hung up. I didn’t think anything of it. I didn’t think at all. I was so sleepy and somehow warm, my muscles fizzing. Honey light spilled across the woods. It hadn’t soaked through to me yet, but I could see it dripping in the air, dancing with the snow like golden ghosts. I was afraid of getting stuck to its strings—of getting pulled like a lasso, plucked like a guitar. My parents’ blonde wood guitar. 

Somewhere at the edge of the park, the Toronto Community Crisis Service (TCCS) dispatch team was afraid they wouldn’t find me in time. Jona had called 211. No police. 

“On the Trail” by Oscar Peterson trickled weakly from my harmonica. I couldn’t feel my mouth or my fingers. I closed my eyes. Let me be music. The last sense I was conscious of was my hearing. And my ear training—my judge of trust—was tuned. 

The last thing I heard was a disembodied voice, “Keep playing, honey! We hear you! We’re coming!” 

***

As I started to warm up, I felt two bodies sitting on either side of me in the back of a truck, ready with hot water and food. Warm clothes and blankets were layered across my shoulders, and a sleeping bag was pulled up to my torso. The two bodies came into view—two Black women with kind eyes. They asked, tenderly, if I’d like to be connected with Afrocentric support, a shelter bed, or crisis services. They outlined every available option for me. In this little cut out of warmth, amid one of the darkest nights of the year, I felt safe enough to tell them where I needed to be. 

The TCCS team drove me back to the laundromat, listening intently the whole way as I told them what had happened. They helped me climb the fire escape to my rented room, and told me they’d wait if I felt I still needed them. I thanked them and said I’d love a ride somewhere to be with a friend so I wouldn’t be alone. They smiled and waited for me to grab something I needed to bring with me. 

***

A few minutes later, I knocked on Jona’s front door. It was bedazzled in dollar-store lights and decorations that illuminated the front stoop in pools of colour, as if the night had broken apart into the rainbow it’s made of. I turned and waved to the TCCS team, who waved back as they drove away.

I’ll never forget the look of relief on Jona’s face when she opened the door. Cooking, cigarette, and fire smoke spilled out with her, filling the space between us like suspended snow, melted into steam. 

She grinned and said, shakily, “Well, thank you for stopping by my house, this snowy evening.”

I held out a cardboard storage box, filled with coins from the machines, and smiled. Surrounded by heat, I didn’t feel afraid—I didn’t feel the urge to put anything out. 

Jona hugged me and kissed my cheeks now stained with tears.

“Oh, my dear.” Jona’s eyes scanned me before she added, “Your hair. No sir. Not in such beautiful frost and snow.” 

I’d tied my hair into a large bun, now soaked and astray. 

“Would you let me do your braids?” 

I paused for a moment, but nodded. My heart remembered how to fight fires, and it had been a long time since I’d let my fear escape.