It’s been a really long time since I have had such a visceral reaction to a book. Around a month or so ago, a good friend of mine recommended Miriam Toews’ All My Puny Sorrows after realizing we shared the same love of books that hold the capacity to destroy their reader. 

[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.

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.

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?

Young Canadians, in particular, are acutely aware of this permeability. Many consume U.S. news in real time, encounter the same viral footage, and experience the same unease when democratic norms appear fragile. The fear is not that Canada is identical to the United States, but that no democracy is immune to erosion — especially when power begins to justify itself rather than explain itself.

Across these pages, you’ll find work that grapples with Black history and resistance, the freedom to read, women’s and girls’ safety, sexual and reproductive health, homelessness, and the quiet, daily ways communities hold one another together when institutions fail them. These themes may appear distinct, but they are bound by a single throughline: access. Access to knowledge, to care, to dignity, and to platforms that refuse to look away.

They say that in the last seven minutes of brain activity, approaching death, a person re-experiences their whole life. Others say it’s just surges of memory and awareness. Me? I’m a writer. At least half of my life happens in my head with characters I’ve never met. But they’re the residue of not only people I’ve known, but people I’ve passed in life—on streets, at schools, in restaurants. Mothers, poets, fathers, cooks. So I say, why not?

In 1971, Nikki Giovanni spoke with James Baldwin at length in A Dialogue (also released as a book). When I first read it, not long after she passed away in December 2024, the texture and resonance of her voice felt like double-sided sticky tape. It hasn’t left me, and sticks to what I read now. Her conviction is unparalleled not only in its power but in its grace; grace as in its dexterity of love. And for that reason alone, I struggled to choose just one poem for this essay.

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.

One of the most important lessons the fellowship taught me is that you don’t need a perfect plan or a large platform to begin. I used to believe meaningful change required waiting—for the right idea, the right time, or the right level of confidence. This experience showed me that starting small isn’t a weakness. It’s often how change becomes possible.