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Al Wiebe on the Winnipeg Foundation’s BeCause & Effect Podcast in May 2024.
Meet Al Wiebe: Born and raised in Winnipeg, Wiebe lost his job in advertising sales in 2009 and spent two and a half years without a home. He’s living in an apartment now and for more than a dozen years has been a tireless advocate for the importance of housing coupled with support. This is his story.
My dad was a hellfire-and-brimstone preacher. Very strict. My mom suffered from mental illness. My life as a child was not pleasant at all. I was a black sheep – I never felt like I belonged. I had to do a lot of things for myself. Maybe that independence helped me later.
My dad had a housing exterior company, doing siding and eavestroughs. I took it over when he went full-time into the ministry. I was 18. I went to the bank, bought a house and a truck, the whole works. Then I had my first kid a month later, then another one 11 months later. Talk about pressure.
King’s Coronation Medal
I wasn’t a good father or husband. I was focused on the business, and I was never there, so I didn’t have a great relationship with my kids.
I also struggled with depression for years. I was on and off anti-depressants. But I wasn’t on any medication for the five years before I lost my advertising job. I was too busy making lots of money. But when the company’s owner replaced me with his friend, I couldn’t handle the trauma. And I didn’t ask for help. I was a single guy, in my mid-50s, living a block away from work. My job was my life. I had no balance, no friends, and wasn’t really in contact with my family. I kind of lived in my own head.
Living in the car
I left the city for a while but ended up back in Winnipeg. I wanted to wallow in my misery. I had sold my Mercedes but still had a nice apartment. I just kind of ruminated and started thinking about suicide. I’m diabetic and stopped taking my drugs for that, which wasn’t good either.
Al Wiebe, at right, with Point Douglas Ward, Winnipeg, city councillor Vivian Santos in March 2025. Wiebe – a peer and community engagement trainer and housing director – was presented with the King’s Coronation Medal for his advocacy on ending homelessness and advancing lived experience leadership.
One day, I just walked away from the apartment with my bag. I’d eaten at a Vietnamese restaurant a few times and behind it there was an auto dealership that also had a scrapyard with cars they used for parts. I plunked myself down in the backseat of a ’64 Mercedes — I used to drive one so figured why not live in one for as long as I’m here. I thought I’d last for a night or two. But I spent 14 and a half months living in that car.
I’d be gone by seven in the morning and stay away until seven at night, because that’s when they closed. I didn’t use food banks or shelters or soup kitchens, none of that. I collected empty beer cans and change from people at drive-throughs. That’s how I existed. But I lost 32 pounds and became very ill. I developed pneumonia and neuropathy from my diabetes. I could hardly walk some days. I began to lose hope. I didn’t think I’d get out of there.
I went to the hospital three times and three times they turned me away because I was homeless. I was looking for psychiatric care and they treated me with disdain. They told me I had to “work on things.” Work on things? The only thing you can work on when you’re homeless is survival.
Signs of hope
A few days later, I went to another hospital, to the crisis stabilization unit, and then spent 24 hours laying low in my car. A couple days after that I went to St. Boniface Hospital. I was a real mess. When I finally saw a doctor, she changed the course of my life.
She said, “You’ve been everywhere and people either could not help you or would not help you, but today I’m going to help you. It’s like you’ve fallen off the edge of the world and don’t know where you are or who you are, and you don’t know how to help yourself. Starting today, you’re going to get better and get stronger. You’re going to start becoming the person you want to be.”
She gave me hope. She told me that I was carrying a lot of trauma and I had to start believing in myself. That someday, I would be able to help other people who were in this position.
After a month in the hospital, I spent 14 months in a shelter. I hated it. There were two killings while I was there. I got attacked and my ribs were broken. At times, I wanted to go back to the streets.
I finally found a home when I got an apartment across the street from the Ma Mawi Wi Chi Itata Centre after I got out from the shelter. It’s an Indigenous organization that does amazing service-provision work. It was a big green house, and I saw people milling around. So, I went in and asked if they needed any volunteers, because I needed purpose. I needed help myself, but I also needed something to do. They must have seen something in me. They allowed me to volunteer and, over a couple years, to take courses: suicide prevention, food handling, First Aid and CPR, non-violent crisis intervention. Class after class, workshop after workshop.
The things that make you a complete person
The greatest casualty of homelessness is a loss of self-respect and self-worth, dignity, and confidence. Everything that makes you a complete person and allows you to move forward. I lost all that in a big hurry, but every time I took another course, it was like I was opening a cupboard and putting in a jar of confidence, then another one, then another one. I become a more confident person slowly, not that swaggering, SOB advertising executive who could do anything. I was so arrogant in those days. But I began to feel better about things. I knew I was going somewhere. I started to feel that I could do more.
After two and a half years, I started working as a cook at a drop-in centre once a week. I was cooking lunch for 70 people. Then one of their case managers, whose job was to keep people in housing, quit. And they offered me a job. I hadn’t worked in five years. Two and half years of homelessness, two and a half years of recovery. I said, “Sure.”
Countering judgment and stigma
These days, I live in a one-bedroom apartment with a friend who I’m a caregiver for. I help run a housing first program and organize an annual human rights symposium. I do talks about homelessness and training sessions with people from all three levels of government, including local city councillors as well as police officers, firefighters, and paramedics. I talk to nursing students and hospital staff about poverty, stigma, and unconscious bias. “Are your judgements impeding your ability to give your best to the vulnerable?” Homeless people fill up emergency rooms, and they often treat people who are homeless in an inhumane way. Our health-care system doesn’t really understand the connections between homelessness and mental health. Our governments don’t, either.
Having an apartment is great, but the work gives me purpose, and I couldn’t have got here by myself. You can’t do anything without a home, that’s for sure. That’s why I’m big on housing first. You put somebody into housing, then you look after their needs. You can’t look after anybody’s needs on the street. And you can’t get by when 80 per cent of your income goes to housing.
People think that because you’ve spent time on the streets, you’ve lost something. In my case, I’ve gained so much wisdom. I’ve had a lot of success because I have lived experience. It helps you build trust. My experience gave me deep, deep empathy.
When you’re homeless, it exacerbates your mental illnesses. It compounds them by 10 times. Because there’s trauma just about every minute of every day. Because you don’t feel secure. But it’s not just housing. Having a place to sleep won’t make you healthy. You need a case manager. You need a counsellor. You need trauma-informed medical care. You might need to work on addictions. You need wraparound support. Otherwise, life could come crashing down on you again. Housing alone is not the answer. But it’s a big part of the answer.
Poverty can be just as traumatic as homelessness. People use so much energy every day and struggle so much, especially these days because of economic conditions. People are dropping from middle class into poverty — people who’ve never experienced poverty before — and people are dropping from poverty into homelessness. People really need access to the right services, because things are really difficult right now.
It’s rewarding to be helping keep people off the streets. Two years after I escaped homelessness, I came off my anti-depressants because I had a focus. That focus was other people. But for me, bridging the gap with my family is best thing about getting my life back together. Two of my children are in their 40s and one is 50 and we get along better than ever. They’ve all done really well for themselves. My daughter and I speak on a very cerebral level. My boys and I talk sports. One of my sons is in Winnipeg today for work and I’m going to see him for dinner tonight.
Did You Know?
- Roughly 60 percent of people who are homeless in Canada face mental health issues, according to a federal report that looked at 2020-2022 nationally coordinated point-in-time counts.
- According to the Homeless Hub online resource, mental illness can make you more susceptible to unemployment, poverty, social isolation and other challenges, all of which increase the risk of homelessness.
- Whether you are on the streets, in a shelter or some other liminal situation, the lack of stability and security can amplify psychological conditions.
- Access to safe and affordable housing, accompanied by a range of supports, is one of the most effective ways to end this cycle.
- A housing first approach is less expensive than public expenditures on health care, policing and other costs associated with homelessness, according to a CMAJ study.
Resource: Housing First in Canada
Author: As told to Dan Rubinstein, an Ottawa-based writer and editor who frequently writes about health issues.
In Monica McAlduff, the First Nations Health Authority (FNHA) has found a leader whose personal journey mirrors the transformation they seek to create. The MHCC sat down to learn more about the new CEO, her vision for the organization’s next chapter, and her commitment to walking in a good way.
Home, at last
After nearly three decades serving within a system that gladly received her care, but never made her feel entirely welcome, Monica McAlduff is home at last.
As the incoming CEO of the First Nations Health Authority (FNHA), Monica’s quiet conviction shines through the screen during our virtual meeting.
“Culturally safe, patient-centered care is the beating heart of our organization’s mission,” she explains, her words carrying the weight of both professional expertise and lived experience.
For Monica, assuming leadership of the FNHA represents a milestone in a career carved with careful intentionality. Beginning with clinical psychiatric nursing, then pursuing advanced degrees and leadership, Monica understands intrinsically that First Nations patients can’t get well in an unhealthy system.
“As nurses, we may not naturally gravitate to leadership, because our instinct is to give care,” says Monica. Yet, it’s this person-first worldview that is often lacking at the highest levels of conventional health-care administration.
“As a nurse working with people living with substance use or mental health challenges, day- in, day-out, I saw how supporting someone in their wellness journey required treating the whole person – and understanding the context of their environment and relationships,” explains Monica.
It’s this philosophy, together with her unwavering belief in Indigenous resiliency, that she now brings to the challenges that lie ahead.
Rooted in care
Monica comes by her heart to serve honestly.
Her mother, a residential school survivor, worked as a nurses’ aide while instilling in Monica the values of hard work and integrity.
“My mother lives by the motto: if you’re going to do something, put your whole heart in it,” Monica says, her expression lighting up. “She never speaks a harsh word. When confronted with racism or hatred she rises above it. When I was growing up, she was determined that her past would not dictate her future, or the future of her family.”
As a second-generation residential school survivor, Monica understands intergenerational trauma from the inside out. She speaks candidly about still piecing together parts of her past that her grandparents felt best left buried until fairly recently.
This personal connection to colonization’s lasting harms shapes Monica’s approach to healing systems deeply scarred by historical trauma.
Monica McAlduff, CEO, FNHA
Walking between worlds
When I ask Monica about her early experiences as a psychiatric nurse, she becomes visibly emotional, wiping away tears from beneath her black-framed glasses. She describes seeing Indigenous patients being treated with disdain and disregard, and how she felt obliged to hold her own identity close, for fear of being discounted by her peers.
When I instinctively apologize for broaching this raw topic, she graciously responds: “In our culture, tears are healing. They aren’t something to hide.”
This duality – vulnerability alongside strength – defines her leadership approach.
“I worked in a system where I was forced to hide my own identity – something that, by rights, I felt deeply proud of,” she explains. “How could I provide authentic care while denying my authentic self?”
With racism and discrimination baked into the very bones of the healthcare system, healthcare workers who feel pressure to conceal or supress an essential part of their being can quickly find their identity eroding and their well of compassion running dry.
Seeking to resolve this contradiction would forge Monica’s life’s work.
That’s why today, she feels compelled to be as visible as possible, making the path easier for those coming behind.
“This role is more than a job for me,” Monica reflects.
It’s a way for her to honour her younger self. To smooth the path for others – regardless of what identity they may struggle to honour. And to rewrite the future.
Restoring faith in medicine’s highest calling: Do no harm
The ground-breaking cultural humility framework that FNHA has developed identifies and addresses inequities, creates cultural humility, respects knowledge holders, and walks alongside communities to address their needs.
The goal, says Monica eloquently, “is to plant a seed, and grow a meadow.”
And while she agrees there’s been collective progress, citing the United Nations Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples, the Truth and Reconciliation Commission’s 94 Calls to Action, and British Columbia’s provincial In Plain Sight Report, her focus is squarely on the work ahead.
“People are still dying in health-care settings because of bias and racism. No matter how stretched the system may be, and how hard people may be working within it, this is patently unacceptable.”
That said, Monica cautions that any standard – no matter how thoughtfully designed – is only as effective as its implementation.
“Checkbox exercises aren’t going to result in meaningful change,” she says. The FNHA itself underwent an assessment against the framework, because bias can seep through even the most stalwart bulwarks.
“What will signal progress is patient evaluation. When you hear from an Indigenous person that they felt seen and cared for, that’s the true litmus test.”
She says that will happen only when patients’ wisdom and expertise in their own healing journey are respected and supported, and the system is culturally safe for those providing care.
Ultimately, Monica believes that system-wide implementation of the framework will benefit everyone who walks through the doors, regardless of their background. But the imbalance faced by First Nations individuals seeking care is always at the fore of FNHA’s work.
A holistic approach
The First Nations Health Council – a provincial-level advocacy organization that represents, and is accountable to, First Nations in British Columbia, has developed a ten-year strategy addressing the social determinants of health. It recognizes that the “system” itself is a constellation of schools, water, land, healthcare, housing, family, community and culture.
“As the organization tasked with leading the implementation of this strategy, we at FNHA understand that health can’t be addressed in isolation,” she explains. “The same colonial systems that disrupted our health practices also disrupted our relationships with land, water, language, and each other.”
And when it comes to embedding First Nations ways of knowing and respecting cultural tradition across health-care systems more generally, Monica says the time for excuse-making is over.
“In our culture, it’s relational. Everything is based on relationships,” she explains. “Start with the basics. What territory are you on? What communities are nearby? Who am I? Who are you? How can we co-create together?”
Wholehearted leadership
As our time ends, Monica returns to her mother’s wisdom: “Lead with heart, or leave it to someone else.” For her, leading the FNHA represents the culmination of a deeply personal journey and an opportunity to transform health-care for the next seven generations.
“We can build a system where no Indigenous person has to hide who they are to receive or provide care. That’s the future I’m walking toward – one where cultural safety isn’t an afterthought, but the foundation.”
Monica stands firmly in two worlds, fluent in both the institutional language of health-care systems and the traditional approaches to wellness that have sustained Indigenous communities for millennia.
In closing, Monica returns to the light that guides her work.
“For us, for First Nations, culture is medicine. They are one and the same.”
Author: Suzanne Westover
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When I scroll through social media in the morning, groggily reaching for my phone an hour before my attendant care worker is scheduled to come and wake me up, I am almost always hit with some type of disability meme or post. They usually come in two flavours: one about how disabled people can do anything they put their minds to, or how the only disability that we have in life is a bad attitude, next to a picture of a disabled person defying the odds by scaling a mountain, skydiving, or something like that.
The second type of meme or post that I usually encounter is a magazine article detailing a beautiful person’s tragic accident that left them “wheelchair bound,” but “that doesn’t stop them from living their best life,” or something like that. These all-too-common representations in disability media leave us with very narrow views of disability. You either overcome disability and morph into a heroic figure, or you turn a tragic story into an uplifting one for others to draw out inspiration.
Not your tragic hero
We don’t only see these depictions in the media, they happen in real life as well. I can’t count on one hand the number of times that I have been approached by someone and told with their furrowed concerned brow, ‘I don’t know, if I were you, I think I might just kill myself,’ or the patronizing, ‘You don’t let your disability stop you, Andrew.’ There is rarely any space for a nuanced conversation about what it actually feels like to live in a disabled body, and let me tell you, it is so much more than those stereotypes.
One of the parts of living in a disabled body that is often discounted and entirely underrepresented is disability grief. My definition of disability grief is this: It is the grieving that comes as the result of living in a disabled body that copes with more loss and abrupt changes than most.
As a severely disabled person, I experience disability grief often – sometimes it comes up as a longing for something that I will never be able to do like running, jumping in the air and somersaulting, or even something as seemingly mundane as giving myself a shower. Other times, disability grief will come from some function that I lost the ability to do. I grieve that I can no longer use the toilet to go pee on my own and that I have to be catheterized everyday instead.
If I’m truly honest, the grief of losing that simple pleasure can’t be translated into words. I grieve that as I age in my disabled body, the pain is becoming more apparent, and it is becoming harder and harder to do many things that my disabled body used to do. All of this has had a major effect on my mental health; I find myself becoming more irritable, quicker to upset, and quicker to fall into depression.
Mental health professionals need to catch up
Kristen Williams
To understand disability grief and its effect on disabled people’s mental health better, I spoke to disabled psychotherapist (qualifying) Kristen Williams. She lives with cerebral palsy, anxiety, and major depressive disorder. She says that in her experience, disability grief is compounded.
“Disabled people are grieving the reality of our lives, and the things we cannot do, alongside our lost potential – the things we want but most probably will never have,” she says. I also asked her how mental health practitioners can help manage disability grief.
“The key is not to shy away from disability grief. Many people in the helping professions feel motivated to ‘fix’ or ‘help’ people, and sometimes this can look like offering solutions and encouragement, when we should be offering space and validation,” she says.
One of Williams’ takeaways is that therapists are not shielded from ableism – “a set of beliefs or practices that devalue and discriminate against people with physical, intellectual, or psychiatric disabilities and often rests on the assumption that disabled people need to be ‘fixed’ in one form or the other,” as defined by the Center for Disability Rights, a not-for-profit, community-based advocacy and service organization in the U.S.
Williams says that “clinicians experience it as much as they next person, so we have to examine it thoroughly, and strive to be anti-ableist in our practice.” I wanted to understand if Williams has seen a shift from disability grief to disability joy in her practice, and so I asked her.
“Part of moving towards disabled joy involves processing the sad, frustrating, and difficult moments that make up disability grief. Creating disabled joy looks like first understanding disabled grief.”
Getting to joy
I also spoke with my close friend Lorna Craig, who lives with multiple chronic illnesses including Lyme disease, endometriosis, and bipolar I. I asked her what disability grief looks like for her.
“For me, the way I usually experience it, because I have an acquired disability, it’s always comparing myself now to what my non-disabled self would be doing,” she says. “I think I spent many years grieving that person, and who she was, and what she might have been able to do.”
She continues, “These days I don’t know her. How do I know that she would have been a better version of myself?”
One of the key things that I gleaned from my conversation with Lorna was that disability grief is so much bigger than I think we understand it to be, and it is way deeper than just a buzz word. One of the things she said that I connect with so much is this: “Some days I wish my problems were more conventional instead of having a body that doesn’t cooperate and do what I want.” As someone living with invisible disabilities, Lorna highlighted that one of the things that brings her the most disability grief is not being believed by others.
I asked Lorna how all of this impacted her mental health and what she told me underscored just how important it is that we talk about disability grief and mental health.
“It ranges. Sometimes it can be a little irritating thought that stays with me throughout the day, and sometimes I can be curled up in a ball crying for days.”
I also asked her if she is seeing a shift from disability grief to disability joy.
“When it comes to my experience of chronic illness, I agree that you have to go through disability grief to find the joy. With my experience of mental illness, we haven’t really been given the chance to grieve and get to the joy. Sometimes, I think that mentally ill people don’t understand that they have a disability, and that they can claim that.”
Lorna and I talked for almost an hour about all of this, and she renewed in me just how important and ultimately complicated understanding disability grief and its effects on our mental health can be. Talking to both Lorna and Kristen, I learned that disability grief is different for each and every one of us living in disabled bodies and it is time that mental health professionals addressed their ableism so that they can understand disability grief.
I can’t wait to open my Instagram feed in the morning and see a disabled person with a caption that says, “I went to my therapist, and they helped me understand my relationship to disability grief.”
We’re not there just yet – but we could be.
Author: Andrew Gurza (they/he) is the author of the book, Notes From a Queer Cripple: How to Cultivate Queer Disabled Joy (and Be Hot While Doing It!), dozens of articles, and the viral hashtag #DisabledPeopleAreHot. He is a disability awareness consultant and podcast host.
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It’s more than just another self-help book. The Mental Health Guide for Cis and Trans Queer Guys (New Harbinger Publications, June 2025) blends personal reflection, clinical insight, and a heartfelt tribute to queer men navigating their mental health in a complex – and often contradictory – world.
Rahim Thawer, a queer Muslim social worker and doctoral candidate at the University of Alabama, draws deeply from his lived experiences, his professional work as a psychotherapist, and numerous conversations with queer and trans men.
They face myriad challenges throughout their lives, from the processes of coming out, to the nuances of growing older, and everything in between.
Topics including internalized shame, heteronormative culture, managing rejection, and substance use are explored in depth. For each subject, Thawer skillfully combines academic knowledge with real-life case studies, providing readers with practical tools and guidance to reflect on their own experiences.
Solid resource
The book is an excellent teaching resource for clinicians who may not fully grasp the historical and ongoing impact of gay, bisexual, trans, queer/questioning (GBTQ) men and their experiences. Although Thawer’s guide is primarily written with queer men in mind, it has already garnered attention from therapists and educators eager to better support queer communities, something Thawer is familiar with. In his private practice, he frequently supervises clinicians seeking cultural guidance for their cases.
For example, clinicians have approached him to say, “I’m working with a gay man struggling with shame,” or “I’m supporting a queer Muslim client who hasn’t come out yet.” These professionals are seeking a framework to understand underlying issues – and Thawer’s book provides just that. It breaks down complex issues such as internalized stigma, anticipatory rejection, and challenging family relationships – and turns it into actionable insights and interventions.
Thawer’s contributions to the field have not gone unnoticed. He is the recipient of the 2025 Mary Smith Arnold Anti-Oppression Award from Counselors for Social Justice in the U.S. and also received the 2025 Honorary Award in Education from the nonprofit South Asian Americans for Change. These accolades affirm his significant role in advancing culturally attuned practices across diverse communities.
I had the opportunity to chat with Rahim recently, and the following are some excerpts from our conversation.
Psychotherapist and doctoral candidate Rahim Thawer works in the U.S. and studied in Toronto. His new book speaks to complex issues in practical ways.
Q: What inspired you to do this? It’s a big subject and a challenging one. So, what was your motivation?
A: I started my professional work and career in the HIV sector and so many of the workshops we did that were geared to reduce risk of HIV transmission, and at other times, geared toward helping people live well with HIV, they were quite limited. They were all surrounding HIV and many communities that we met didn’t need that specifically. They needed something adjacent to that, like anti-homophobia, talking about sexuality more broadly, talking about the landscape of relationships. Now, arguably, all of that is related to HIV, but I wanted to decenter the epidemic and think about what are all the things in our subculture that contribute to our mental health outcomes? Because I think queer and trans guys live in a different world. We’ve got different norms, different expectations, our own culture, our own history. We live in multiple worlds, and I think that’s what determines our mental health outcomes. So, for me, I wanted to take both my lived experience as a queer guy and my work as a therapist to really think about what are all the things that affect our mental health.
The book that I wrote, it’s not a research book. I didn’t do a study to say what are the things that affect us. I thought, here are the things I’m seeing, and feeling, and living. What if we itemize those and talked about them? That’s where the idea came from.
Q: In the world around us, we’re hearing more and more of an upsurge in anti-gay, anti-queer, and especially anti-trans, rhetoric, both culturally and politically. How do you think that’s impacting or going to impact our community?
A: Well, I think the impact will be seen long term, because right now people have anxiety about their current rights or protections becoming limited, and that anxiety is legitimate. However, for people who are well-to-do, have been out for a long time, have access to lots of resources, they were able to do that because of rights, legalization of gay marriage, decriminalization of homosexuality, because of opportunities to afford mobility. In some cases, when you combine those things with male privilege, it paved a way for them, but those very successful people, still, I would see in my therapy practice struggling with shame, relationships, internalized stigma, and fraught relationships with their families of origin. So, my point is that even when people seem to be fine in the political sphere, the messages they’ve internalized at a young age stay with them for a long time. And that is to say that before this wave of anti-trans rhetoric showed up, we were struggling in many ways with our past. And I think the anxiety around the political condition is very valid, but I think the repercussions will be felt long term. And that part is very unfortunate because lots of people will say, ‘oh, we’ll just wait four years and then we’ll get somebody new.’ And I’m thinking, no, it doesn’t quite work like that. The message is the fear; you absorb it. It stays in your body. And it’s detrimental.
The Mental Health Guide for Cis and Trans Queer Guys
Q: Do you see any opportunities from a prevention perspective in the upcoming years?
A: Potentially. I think within the broader LGBTQ community, a lot of cisgender gay men, cisgender lesbians who are in their 40s, 50s, 60s, if they’ve been able to access some comfort in their world, in their life, in their time, this might be a time where they look inward into the community and support people who are still struggling. We’re going to need some serious solidarity with trans communities, and we have for a long time needed more internal solidarity with underhoused and homeless LGBTQ youth. That is a big problem in Toronto and other metropolitan cities.
I think what we’re seeing politically is defunding of all things DEI (diversity, equity, and inclusion). And if that means cuts to LGBTQ care, then we’re going to have to rely on a different economy, which has to be more communal and collective.
Author: Ed Mantler has led innovation and improvement in healthcare for more than three decades. He trained as a Registered Psychiatric Nurse, holds a Master of Science Administration, and is a Fellow of the Canadian College of Health Leaders.
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Amanda Friesen, a professor of political science and Canada Research Chair of political psychology at the University of Western Ontario, recalls talking to a colleague recently who said he had been feeling a lot of stress with “everything that’s happening” in politics. “It occurred to me, ‘you’re a political psychologist. Is political anxiety a thing?’ And I thought, ‘yes, it is.’ And so, he and I had this conversation.” Since then, Friesen has been called upon as a national commentator on the subject, offering advice on how to cope with “political stress” and avoid “political information overload.”
In the wake of rapid, even shocking, political, and economic changes in the past several months, many psychology experts and mental health counsellors across Canada have reported an increase in the number of clients confiding anxieties brought on by contemplating how political and societal changes will affect them.
Political psychologist Amanda Friesen shown here in Copenhagen during a research project: It’s about a balance between staying informed without the adverse effects.
The CBC recently reported a surge in “nervous googling” of terms such as “tariff” and “recession.” Many people say they are losing sleep worrying about what may come next – and feeling helpless in the face of all the turmoil. Some are turning off the news entirely to protect themselves from those difficult feelings. Others are addicted to “doom scrolling” and exposing themselves to hateful rhetoric on social media. Some are dealing with the emotional consequences of cutting off family members and friends over profoundly divergent opinions and beliefs. Depressive symptoms can be the fallout.
New world disorder
The trend is so pronounced, some mental health experts are wondering if “political anxiety disorder” should be made its own diagnosis, distinct from other forms of anxiety.
“There’s a lot of general anger and disbelief, I think,” says Stefanie Peachey, a registered social worker, accredited family mediator, and founder of Peachey Counselling and Family Support in Burlington and Oakville, Ontario. “[Clients are] saying to themselves, ‘What does this mean for me? I’m already so scared and anxious about finances, being able to afford my grocery bill or my rent. I don’t really understand tariffs, but I know that things might get more expensive for me. And how do I afford that?’”
Job loss, escalating prices on everything from groceries to building materials, and the lack of affordable housing – these issues are real and society-wide in their impact. Worrying is understandable, but if it leads to feelings of anger and helplessness that interfere with your life, finding ways to cope without shutting out reality is essential.
Social worker Stefanie Peachey: Worrying is understandable with all that’s going on. Therapists can help sort through complex issues and feelings.
“We need tools available for people because we don’t want them to disengage from democracy,” says Friesen. “I think it’s on journalists, social scientists, and political scientists to find ways to help people stay engaged and informed without adverse effects.”
Friesen suggests “setting up an intentional, formalized strategy” for consuming news. She employs one herself. “I do compartmentalize my news consumption. I never read the news before I go to sleep. I have a few subscriptions to news outlets where headlines of major and minor news stories get delivered daily or weekly. I read these stories and avoid jumping from link to link to link. I read and then stop and set it aside.”
Another way to deal with the uncertainties facing all of us is to be proactive in preparing for possible scenarios. “Let’s say that you work in an industry that one of the tariffs is going to impact. Reach out to your professional organization or your company and ask, ‘What’s going to be our response to this? Is there a way to prepare for it, remove some of that uncertainty?’” says Friesen. “We could imagine all sorts of scenarios that may or may not come to pass. Just get some concrete responses. Okay, this might happen or this or this, and here are some possible responses or plans we could make in response. It should make you feel better to know.”
Why tuning out completely isn’t the answer
Getting involved in your own community, or advocating for an issue you care deeply about, can go a long way to allaying feelings of helplessness. Focusing your time and energy on helping to further one cause is better than becoming paralyzed by feelings of emotional overload about every issue you read about, says Friesen. “Maybe there are some new environmental efforts in your community, or you have a friend who keeps bugging you to talk to the city about improving bike lanes. Do it. Find the things that you do have power over and focus on those,” Friesen advises.
Peachey echoes these suggestions. “As therapists, we’re often working with clients around uncomfortable thoughts and worries; all the ‘What ifs.’ For instance, for a client who is questioning their sexuality, and you worry, ‘What if I’m not accepted for this?’ We work around that fear and talk about all the supports that you may have in their life, and all the ways you can minimize some of the stress. It doesn’t mean that it’s not stressful or that the worry is wrong, but that the client’s thinking can be reframed. The same could be applied in this situation. How can we minimize the stress and focus on factors that may put us more at ease?”
In an article entitled, “How to cope with political and social uncertainty as a Canadian,” Peachey writes, “When we consciously shift our focus away from elements beyond our control and onto matters where our influence is meaningful, we not only conserve valuable mental energy but also gain a sense of empowerment.”
Peachey and Friesen agree that basic self-care – continuing to get enough sleep and exercise, eat well, moderate your news consumption, and practise mindfulness – just doing the things that bring you pleasure, connecting with friends and family who nurture and support you, are important now more than ever.
“It just doesn’t do any good to worry about politics every moment of the day. Live your life. Spend time with your people, enjoy the outdoors, immerse yourself in projects or activities that bring you joy. Burning out won’t help you be ready for future advocacy. This might be a marathon!” says Friesen.
Above all, says Peachey, remember that you are not alone. Many Canadians are feeling the same way and expressing their frustrations through concrete actions such as buying Canadian, or changing travel plans, for example.
If you need help, contact a therapist who can help you reframe your fears and anxieties and find positive ways to cope. As Peachey puts it, “Rather than dwelling on circumstances and behaviours that drain your emotional reserves, redirect your energy towards actions and initiatives that align with your cherished values. By doing so, you not only regain a sense of purpose and fulfillment but also nurture your mental well-being.”
Further reading: The Therapeutic Power of Blue Space.
Resource: Strategies to stay informed without feeling overwhelmed.
Author: Moira Farr is a national magazine journalist and instructor in Ottawa. She has been moderating her news consumption, altering her social media habits, and using the added time to volunteer more.
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The Canadian Mental Health Association’s Mental Health Week runs from May 5-11. This year’s theme is #UnmaskingMentalHealth and encourages people across Canada to look beyond the surface to see the whole person.
Perhaps you know the tune – about Eleanor Rigby.
“Wearing the face that she keeps in a jar by the door. Who is it for?”
In their classic song about loneliness, The Beatles sum up beautifully what it is like to live with a “high-functioning” mental illness. The song comes to mind, at times, like when I am in a bipolar mood episode, I always leave the house with my mask on. Often, this is literal. I painstakingly put on make-up, painting a face that denotes coping and professionalism (wing tips for bright eyes! Blush for pink cheeks to denote good health!). When I leave the house, I match the attitude and tone of the people I interact with, putting in enormous mental effort to calculate the actions that will make me appear “normal.”
This mask broadcasts a message of “I’m fine,” when inside, I am often anything but. When I arrive home in the evening, I wash off the painted face and watch it circle the drain, as a kind of illustration of how depleted I feel, before I fall into bed exhausted from the effort.
For me, this year’s Mental Health Week theme is a call to action. When we unmask mental health, we create the conditions for reducing stigma by promoting understanding and eliminating discrimination against people with mental illness.
Masking – what is it, who does it, and why?
Masking, also known as “camouflaging,” is precisely that – trying to blend in with societal expectations by suppressing symptoms or traits, according to Autism Canada. It is a concept that has been most studied in the context autism and attention-deficit/hyperactivity disorder and is linked to the concept of “smiling depression,” a colloquial term for those who may slap on a smile to disguise their inner feelings.
Zachary Houle lives with autism and schizophrenia. He notes that autism has become more celebrated in the media (“autism chic” is even a thing), but he notes that the media portrayals can remove the reality and complexity of illnesses.
“I find with schizophrenia, people immediately think I’m an axe murderer or I’m dangerous and violent,” he says. “It takes less energy to pretend to be normal than going into an office knowing that I’m going to get hazed, which has happened in the past.”
Houle notes that a lot has changed in the 20 years since his diagnosis and that he is in a very progressive and understanding workplace now, but he still masks daily as it has become his second nature.
He is not alone. According to a 2023 poll from Benefits Canada, 45 percent of Canadian employees with autism feel that they have to mask their autistic traits at work.
Tanya Lepine-Darwiche, a woman who identifies as being on the autism spectrum and who lives with anxiety, agrees. “Masking is about the world accepting me being able to walk into a room and have my opinion heard without them placing judgments on me because I’m neurodivergent,” she says. “It’s putting on a performance.” She notes that it is harder to maintain social relationships when she doesn’t mask. “It’s what I need to do to be socially acceptable.”
As Houle and Lepine-Darwiche both note, masking is very useful in promoting social interaction and protecting oneself, but it also comes with costs, primarily burnout and isolation.
“I’d like to be vulnerable with people, to show them how much I trust them, but at least in the workplace I feel like I can’t do that,” Houle says. Lepine-Darwiche shared about the effects of a day of masking on her personal life, when she would come home and need a three- or four-hour nap just to recoup her energy. “It was really difficult on me and my relationship with my wife and family before I understood that all of my energy was going to masking,” she confided.
How masking affects treatment
If you are “good” at masking and continue to function, this can lead to downplaying how much you are affected by your symptoms. You, essentially, mask to yourself, and your healthcare practitioner, thus contributing to underdiagnosis and a lack of mental health supports, something both Houle and Lepine-Darwiche have experienced.
Masking also affects the level of social support that one receives. For example, when your reply is, “I’m fine,” those in your social circle cannot know that you might need extra support.
In a 2019 Ipsos study of working Canadians, 76 percent of respondents stated that they would be completely comfortable with and supportive of a colleague with a mental illness, but first they would need to know that support was needed.
The descriptor “high functioning” is not part of any diagnosis, but it is a term that captures of the reality of many. If someone imagines those with serious mental illnesses as not being able to get out of bed or go to work, that might be the case. However, for others, such as Houle, Lepine-Darwiche, and myself, we can attest to functioning adequately even when our symptoms are quite severe. Even my psychiatrist has had to learn that seeing me with my makeup done and my work clothes on, doesn’t mean that I am doing well.
Jessica Ward-King publishes under the name The Stigma Crusher to educate others about mental health. For her, this year’s Mental Health Theme is a chance to share more about what it means to mask – and to unmask – in different social situations. Sometimes that is literal – painting on an “I’m fine” face – before washing it off for the day.
Stigma, disclosure, and masking
Stigma – in all its forms – is a big factor influencing the decision to mask. According to sociologist Erving Goffman (1922-1982), those who are neurodivergent or living with mental illness will make a concerted effort to hide their symptoms – or to be “discredited” by others. Even by today’s standards, where conversations about mental health are increasingly common, many people feel reluctant to share. The same 2019 Ipsos survey of working Canadians found that 75 percent of respondents would be hesitant – or would refuse – to disclose a mental illness to an employer or co-worker due to stigma and fear of discrimination.
Goffman and others have noted how most people wear masks in their daily lives, in terms of trying to present themselves in certain ways in certain circumstances, such as on social media or at work. Putting your best foot forward isn’t the same as masking, however, where the goal is to suppress a key part of one’s identity.
For example, I experience this dilemma in another context – one of “coming out” as a lesbian, an identity that I constantly have to choose to disclose or not in a variety of situations. For example, in a conversation I can skirt around my life with my wife by cleverly using gender-nondescript language, but this brings with it a veil of inauthenticity.
Coming out about my mental illness (or not) feels similar. Do I let people in with vulnerability – or not? This is a decision that I am constantly having to make, and the solution varies with the situation, the people involved, how safe I feel, and my impression of how this “coming out” might result in negative consequences.
Chicken-and-egg situation
Without stigma, there would be little need to put on a mask to begin with, but to reduce stigma, there needs to be connections between people with lived experience of mental illnesses and other human beings – so which comes first?
While education, awareness campaigns, commemorative days, and articles like this one are effective to an extent, interpersonal contact is key according to a 2021 study in Society and Mental Health.
This, however, requires people with lived experiences to unmask, one person and one situation at a time. In other words, you need to reduce stigma to allow people to feel safe to unmask, but you need people to disclose their mental illness and unmask to reduce stigma. Chicken, meet egg.
To break that cycle, allies can play a role in creating the conditions where people feel safe to share their challenges and to open up about neurodivergence and mental illness.
For me, this year’s Mental Health Week theme is a call to action – to be my authentic high-functioning, high-performing self, and to also be okay to not be okay.
It’s also about not expending all my energy to maintain a perfectly painted mask, about not just saying “I’m fine” to make sure no one else is uncomfortable, but to feel free to say that I am struggling if I feel safe enough to do so.
When I get home from work and wash off my makeup, I want to have energy left for my family, my hobbies, and my wellness.
Outside of the home, I want to be in a world where I can take off my mask. I won’t be able to brave it every time, in every situation, and with every person – and that’s okay. The mask can be protective when the situation warrants, but little by little, unmasking can make meaningful connections to change minds.
Author: Jessica Ward-King, aka the StigmaCrusher, crushes the stigma of mental illness by being radically open about her experiences living with bipolar disorder.
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Cancer.
It feels intensely personal when it happens to you. You think, “Why me?” Then, as you look at the statistics, you realize, “Why not me?”
Cancer is ubiquitous.
The day I received my cancer diagnosis, 675 other Canadians were hearing similar news. A stark reminder that I was part of a larger collective experience.
It’s happening to more and younger people. According to the Canadian Cancer Society, of those diagnosed with cancer in Canada, nearly 40 per cent are between the ages of 20 and 64. In other words, I’m in good company.
There are two sides to every coin, and while a cancer diagnosis is unlucky by any measure, the flip side is equally important.
I had comprehensive medical care, paid leave, a compass to navigate a complex system, and a network of supportive peers to buoy me up on my hardest days.
There’s a saying that we may all be in the same storm, but we’re not all in the same boat. That resonated deeply with me, once I was able to wrap my head around a new reality.
Not-so-normal
It all started in the fall of 2023. I was bone tired. No amount of rest would restore my energy levels. I couldn’t cook a meal or have a meeting without needing a nap. And I’d wake as tired as I was before.
Like a lot of men, stubbornness is among my hallmark traits. My spouse insisted I go to the doctor. Left to my own devices I may not have heeded the alarm my own body was raising. Being partnered with a strong and smart individual is another checkmark in my good fortune column.
But I’ll be honest. A diagnosis of prostate cancer felt like a slap in the face.
I was fairly young. Healthy. Fit. I ate right. It’s comforting to feel you have a modicum of control, and there are many things we can and should do to stay healthy. But it’s a kick in the teeth to realize those things aren’t always enough.
Try as you might, you can’t rationalize cancer away.
My cousin, and dear friend, died of prostate cancer at 59 – only months before my own disease came to light. He had to travel to Gatineau from Northern Quebec for treatment, another health disparity experienced by friends and neighbours in rural and remote communities.
Michel Rodrigue, President and CEO, Mental Health Commission of Canada.
A not-so-universal safety net
And while cancer doesn’t discriminate, socio-economic status does. Cancer is never a walk in the park. It’s a long, lonely night of the soul.
But my situation was offset by the ability to access psychological supports, medications, nutritious foods, and creature comforts.
Unlike 6.5 million people in Canada, I had a family doctor at the ready. Language wasn’t a barrier to understanding, and transportation and accommodation costs, when they were required, didn’t break the bank.
For many, the extreme of a cancer diagnosis is accompanied by a lifetime out-of-pocket costs – we’re talking about tens of thousands of dollars.
From where I sit, those of us who’ve walked this path and emerged, somewhat unscathed, have a responsibility to speak up.
Advocacy – for oneself or in the broader sense – is itself a privilege.
A healthy workplace: Antidote to illness
New research from the Canadian Cancer Society took the pulse of Canadians. Survey respondents were asked how they felt a cancer diagnosis might affect their finances. The responses were sobering:
- Nearly 30 per cent feared job loss
- Over 40 per cent anticipated career setbacks
- 80 per cent worried about long-term financial impacts
When you’re unwell, workplace support can be a lifeline. My experience was transformed by colleagues who did more than just accommodate – they actively supported my journey.
The stress and anxiety of my illness, an admittedly heavy burden, was lightened by colleagues sending supportive messages; shouldering the load while I was away; holding the space for me when I got back.
Flowers appeared on my desk. My team respected my treatment schedule; my uneven recovery; my uncertainty. When brain fog set in, they reminded me. When they saw I was flagging, they suggested we reconvene. When I wasn’t my best self, they gave me a pass.
But I couldn’t help reflecting on a critical inequity.
Cancer was met with visible support, while mental health challenges often remain shrouded in silence. We have a responsibility to fight back against the stigma that relegates a mental illness diagnosis as unworthy of the same empathy I received.
Peer-support: A priceless gift
Prostate cancer accounts for 20 per cent of new male cancer cases, but statistics don’t capture the human experience. The camaraderie with fellow patients, survivors and caregivers refilled my tank depleted by radiation.
That’s why I believe connection is our most powerful healing mechanism.
A naturally reserved person, I’ve worked to become more open as I age. Prostate cancer threatened this progress. It felt like a blight on my masculinity.
With others who had walked this path, I found a language of understanding that transcended medical terminology. We spoke about fears, and revealed vulnerabilities – both the mundane and monumental anxieties that accompany a cancer diagnosis.
To cope, or not to cope
Over the years, many of us have developed mechanisms to cope with life’s uncertainties – and the big “C” is a larger uncertainty than most.
But Cancer is stealthy. It undermines your confidence and robs you of the ability to concentrate and the energy to exercise.
My usual punishing bike rides through Gatineau Hills were out of the question. Over time, I grew to celebrate my smallest victories – a walk to the end of the driveway; taking the dog around the block.
A silver lining was rediscovering a love for music, forgotten in the hustle of daily life. When I felt like my feet were encased in cement, music let my spirit soar free.
Resilience isn’t about maintaining old capabilities. It’s about discovering new ones. But we’re not all given the same opportunity to do that.
From personal challenge to collective compassion
My experience threw into stark relief that privilege is the scaffolding on which resilience is built. I didn’t emerge from this journey transformed for the better because I did something remarkable to deserve it; I did so because I had the resources – financial and social – to be successful.
Resilience isn’t about returning to who you were, but about moving forward with newfound understanding. I’m committed to advocating for those who face greater challenges in their cancer experience.
Cancer shouldn’t be faced alone. It takes a society to mount the kind of powerful response we need.
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One year after the Mental Health Commission of Canada (MHCC) was created in 2007, the non-profit established its Youth Council, a program designed to engage younger adults (18 to 30) in the MHCC’s mission to improve the country’s mental healthcare system. At the time, the Youth Council program was ground-breaking in that it signalled a move towards involving people with different perspectives and lived experience in the project of changing attitudes about mental well-being and removing barriers to accessing mental healthcare treatment.
The MHCC’s Youth Council is, at its core, an advocacy group working to amplify the voices of younger people. It’s run by folks with a commitment to positive change and helmed by Em Alexander and Colbi Mike, the council’s current co-chairs.
Colbi Mike, a young Indigenous mother, documentary filmmaker and law student from the Treaty 6 Territory in central Saskatchewan, is focused on, among other things, dismantling barriers to maternal mental health and the effects of oppression on Indigenous peoples.
Em Alexander, a queer mother of two and First Nations person with European ancestry from Newfoundland and Labrador, is passionate about mental health advocacy, as well as supporting people who have experienced trauma and those facing systemic barriers to accessing quality care.
We asked the Youth Council’s co-chairs to share their thoughts about the challenges facing young people today and how mental healthcare systems can better meet the evolving needs of people dealing with the ever-changing stresses associated with contemporary times.
Acknowledge that challenges for younger generations of adults are unique
Em Alexander and Colbi Mike
Em Alexander: People my age grew up in a very different environment than our parents and grandparents, who didn’t experience the overwhelming influence of technologies like digital media. We grew up with constant exposure to world events, which can have a big impact on young peoples’ mental health and well-being. That difference makes it especially important for mental health programs to include young peoples’ perspectives and input to be successful, engaging and meaningful to the people they serve.
Colbi Mike: Youth today face extra challenges, from our economy to mental health struggles and substance use to systemic racism. Indigenous youth, in particular, carry the burden of intergenerational trauma, and ongoing discrimination and many Indigenous mothers—honestly, I would say all—encounter systemic racism. I guess it’s just a lack of understanding of who we are as Indigenous people and where we are currently in out societal healing.
Bring more young people into conversations about mental health
Colbi says: Youth bring fresh perspective, lived experience, and innovative ideas to the table and, since they’re directly impacted by policies and programs, their involvement ensures that initiatives are relevant, effective, and empowering. Ignoring their voices in the past has led to gaps in understanding our needs. Involving young people not only builds better programming, it also fosters a sense of belonging, leadership, and accountability among young people. I think it’s imperative to involve people who’ve lived in this age of this time, and to empower them with a voice, right now.
Em says: Incorporating the voices of young people is a critical step in program development, particularly for programs that aim to serve youth. The Youth Council was established in 2008, and I consider the MHCC to be a leader in the field when it comes to including young people and people with lived experience in meaningful ways in their program and policy work. It’s so important for young people to be involved in decisions that will impact them.
Give people with lived experience of mental illness a bigger role in decision-making
Em says: It goes right back to the saying “nothing about us without us,” really. If you’re creating or updating policy that is relevant to people with lived experience, then they should be involved in that process from the start. Would you want someone to design support for you without listening to your experience or what you need, or what has or hasn’t worked before? Of course not. To get it right, you need to include lived experience. This is incredibly important in policy work because it can have lasting impacts on services, access, quality of care, and other things.
Colbi says: It’s absolutely critical to hear more from people with lived experience. Policy affects real lives and those impacted should have a seat at the table. People with lived experience have insights that professionals and decision makers might overlook, and their involvement ensures that policies are not only practical but also inclusive. Engagement also builds trust, accountability, and long-term success.
As an Indigenous mother, I have first-hand knowledge in navigating challenges such as barriers, cultural disconnect, and limited support systems. My lived experience helped me approach issues of empathy, cultural awareness, and ensure that programs and policies are grounded in real-life struggles and successes.
Em adds: As co-chair, my lived experience, both personally and as a caregiver, plays a role in my approach. My goal is to approach leadership from a trauma-informed and recovery-oriented lens, and to uplift and value the intersectional identities and experiences that our members hold. It’s been a very meaningful role for me to hold over the last several years and we operate very well as a council with respect, trust, and support.
The next steps include raising awareness, education and funding
Colbi says: Education is essential for reconciliation. Healthcare professionals need to understand the lasting impacts of residential schools, colonial policies, and systemic oppression to provide culturally safe care. While there have been efforts to include this education in some curriculum, the process is slow and inconsistent. Call to action #24 (from the Truth and Reconciliation Commission of Canada’s 94 Calls to Action) emphasizes that this is a priority, but we still need more accountability to ensure all healthcare workers are equipped to support Indigenous patients with respect and understanding.
Em says: From my own experience working at the intersection of non-profit and mental health sectors, there needs to be more support for the mental health workforce. We’re starting to see more awareness when it comes to that problem, but one of the biggest challenges I still see is good people wanting to be able to do more to help but, at a systemic level, not having the resources or capacity to do so. Sometimes this comes down to cost of services, access, wait times, or eligibility, but there’s no shortage of people wanting to support others. I sincerely hope that funding will be maintained for mental health care and related programs and initiatives throughout transitions in political governance.
We all have a role to play when it comes to providing support for people in need
Em says: When people are reaching out for support, don’t assume their identities, or their needs, or experiences – ask them, and listen with the intent to learn. It’s a challenging time right now, particularly for members of the 2SLGBTQI+ community. There are very real threats to safety for our community created by the hate and ignorance outside of our borders—and here in Canada, too. Check in on the people in your life from these groups because they are being targeted right now—BIPOC communities, 2SLGBTQI+ communities, immigrants/refugees, and others—and they need all the support they can get.
Colbi says: Mental health is deeply tied to the well-being of families and communities and yet mothers often face stigma, isolation, and limited access to safe mental health services. It’s important, therefore, to support mothers by investing in accessible and appropriate mental health care, childcare, and transportation.
We also need to keep creating programs that integrate cultural teachings and community support, because, for Indigenous people, healing often comes through reconnecting with our culture, language and communities. Investing in these areas can strengthen resilience and identity for future generations.
Author: Christine Sismondo, PhD, is a historian who writes about social issues. Her work is featured regularly in the Globe and Mail, and the Toronto Star. She is a National Magazine Award winner and the author of several books.
To mark Nutrition Month, the Mental Health Commission of Canada (MHCC) sat down with Christina Seely, Registered Dietitian, Certified Diabetes Educator, and co-chair of the Dietitians of Canada Addiction, Mental Health & Eating Disorders Network, to discuss the deeply intertwined relationship between our mental well-being and food choices, in a bid to give us all something more well-balanced to chew on.
“It’s complicated…”
A relationship with food. It’s something everyone has in common. In fact, I’d be willing to bet that if Facebook had a status update on the subject, we’d all be perpetually set to “it’s complicated.”
And it’s only getting more so.
Twenty years ago, the jury was still out on the connection between food and many chronic illnesses. Today, we know the right choices can help stave off depression, dementia, and a host of other health concerns.
No pressure, right?
Now, throw into the mix an appearance-obsessed culture and the relentless influence of online “lifestyle” purveyors, whose perfect plates and elevated palates can leave the rest of us feeling like we’re eating dust.
It’s hard to make thoughtful choices when we’re drinking from a firehose of mis- and disinformation, all while enduring shame and blame that can further disenfranchise us from a healthy relationship with food.
I chatted with Christina to understand how we can reframe this discourse, embracing a more compassionate, common sense approach.
It all comes down to science
While our stomachs might grumble, it’s actually our brains that have the hungriest cells. At a mere two percent of the body’s weight, our brains consume an astonishing 20 per cent of food energy.
To build and maintain its structure, the brain forages for 50 different nutrients, maximizing its function and protecting itself from harm.
“The production of feel-good neurotransmitters, like serotonin or dopamine, is enhanced or limited based on our diet,” explains Christina. “And while the causes of mental illness are complex, food is an essential building block of brain function.”
It follows then, that an optimal diet can improve mood and boost energy levels, and not just by a little bit.
A well-nourished brain is more resilient to stress, and nutrition affects brain health throughout our lives, from earliest childhood to our elderly years.
“Appropriate nutrition can reduce the risk of depression by about 40 per cent, and upwards of a third of Alzheimer’s diagnoses might be preventable through lifestyle choices,” says Christina.
Choices that, unfortunately, aren’t readily available to everyone.
“Take mental illness treatment and diet,” says Christina. “This may be a particularly fraught cross-roads. Common medications for serious mental illnesses can increase appetite, thirst and fatigue. Also, symptoms of mental illness can affect energy level and, by extension, the planning, shopping, and cooking process.”
A perfect storm, often leading to increased reliance on convenience foods and delivery options, which helps to explain the comorbidity between weight management and mental illness.
“There is a double stigma for people living with mental illness and a higher weight. And, because the mental and physical health systems often operate independently, people are less likely to receive best-practice care for their physical health,” says Christina, who runs a monthly dietetic clinic for clients of the Canadian Mental Health Association.
“Redressing inequity is a passion project,” she explains. That’s why she was drawn to London’s InterCommunity Health Centre, which provides care to those who traditionally face barriers.
Behind the curtain: A dietitian’s perspective
No matter our circumstance or backstory, Christina says people may be hesitant to see a dietitian because of fundamental misconceptions about what they’re going to hear.
“I assumed that the approach would be prescriptive,” I admit, too embarrassed to confess that my own breakfast was three digestive biscuits and a cup of tea.
But Christina reassures me that clients are often far harder on themselves than a dietitian would ever be. This is especially true among people who’ve experienced cardiac events or received a diabetes diagnosis, for example.
“Some people arrive clutching these ridged lists of dos and don’ts, berating themselves for the slightest deviation. So they’re often pleasantly surprised when we explain a big part of our job is making sure they don’t lose the joy they once found in eating.”
The surest route to throwing up your hands, she explains, is creating a set of impossible-to-meet criteria.
“The last thing I want my clients to feel is perceived failure or self-recrimination,” emphasizes Christina. “This is a lifelong journey with highs and lows. What we’re trying to do is smooth it out, and aim for the manageable in-between.”
I tell her what a relief it is to hear someone talking about food from a common sense perspective, instead of in a perfectionistic or performative way. But then, in the billion-dollar space that’s diet and weight management, common sense is what’s desperately lacking.
Add to this the advent of new weight management medications, and the complexity of an already fraught dialogue grows.
“While they [medications] can be helpful for certain people under the right circumstances, they also come with a hefty price tag and limited insurance coverage, creating yet another barrier between those who can access certain treatments and those who’re left out in the cold,” says Christina.
Christina Seely, Registered Dietitian, Certified Diabetes Educator, and co-chair of the Dietitians of Canada Addiction, Mental Health & Eating Disorders Network
Perfect vs. fed: Finding balance in an imbalanced world
In the truest axiom I’ve heard in a long time, Christina suggests, “We can’t let perfect be the enemy of fed.”
She goes on to explain: “If you have IBS or another chronic gastrointestinal condition, it’s okay to subscribe to the survival diet when you need to.” In short, eat what you can tolerate without making yourself more unwell.
“Honestly,” I say, “these judgment-free statements are so refreshing and unexpected.”
Christina notes that one of the biggest challenges Dietitians Canada faces is the onslaught of misinformation feeding Canadians a diet of unhelpful content, which is often profit-motivated rather than person-centered. Cutting through the noise of fad diets and miracle cures becomes increasingly difficult in our information-saturated age.
“Food is central to so many parts of our lives, and the cultures that are the healthiest tend to embrace the beauty of breaking bread together, rather than creating a societal expectation of perfection.”
Voicing vulnerabilities
Speaking of perfection, I reflect that we’re conditioned – almost from birth – that there are right and wrong ways to eat and be fed.
I remember being unable to breastfeed my premature daughter and feeling utterly inadequate, until someone finally said to me, “Canned veggies, fresh veggies… the important thing is that you’re feeding your child with love.”
For so many of us, food is a means to express affection and socialize. Having that impulse curtailed – whether you live alone, or have an allergy, intolerance, or illness that detracts from enjoying the communal nature of food – can be isolating.
But until we normalize voicing these vulnerabilities, we’re going to continue to be islands. This can be especially true of people who struggle with their weight in a society that is still in recovery from worshiping thinness. Over time, Christina herself has shifted to a “weight-inclusive” approach, meaning her consults are a guilt-free zone.
“We tend to keep our food insecurities, whether economic or emotional, very buttoned up,” Christina notes. “As dietitians, it’s important that we convey we’re here with an eye to support. Full stop.”
In fact, peeling back layers to help people identify the many factors that can influence eating habits – including stressors and difficult experiences – is part and parcel of the role.
“Studies have shown that at least 50 percent of us qualify as having had an adverse childhood experience (a potentially traumatic event) as a child,” says Christina.
This reality should free us to be more honest about our challenges, not isolate us. And yet, in our world of curated Instagram perfection and a sea of aspirational cooking content, the widening chasm between haves and have-nots is starker than ever.
Food bank usage is up 90 per cent from just five years ago – the highest it’s ever been. Helping people manage difficult budgetary decisions has added complexity to the dietitian’s traditional role. To help meet this growing need, Christina’s health centre has created handouts to highlight money-saving options like dollar store shopping, price matching, and apps like Too Good to Go and FlashFood.
But financial insecurity is often layered. For example, someone living with serious mental illness may experience addictions, like smoking, which displace the food budget and increases the risk of nutrient deficiency.
The bitter irony?
“Those who could benefit the most from a high-quality, healthy diet are often the least able to obtain it,” Christina concludes.
Meeting this depth of need is just one of the many obstacles Christina and her colleagues face.
Disordered eating – Red flags and roadblocks
“Sometimes our hands are tied even when there are concerns,” explains Christina. “As allied health professionals, we can’t offer a formal diagnosis around disordered eating, and there may not be a straightforward avenue for getting one – or accessing supports.”
Language, says Christina, is often an initial red flag for dietitians when it comes to identifying someone who may be struggling with disordered eating.
“People may indicate a strong value judgment on food. For example labelling them as ‘bad or fear foods,’ and others as ‘safe foods,’ which can indicate a cause for concern. Another sign can be if people report spending a great deal of time worrying about their food choices and weight.”
But with 6.5 million people in Canada lacking a family doctor, the most obvious door to medical support may be closed, while wait lists for formal eating disorder programs can stretch two years or longer.
Dietitians are left with imperfect solutions: mental health or therapy referrals when a client has access, either through employer benefits or if publicly funded coverage exists; books, webinars, and other self-guided materials when finances are a constraint.
“Provincial insurance for dietitian visits often comes following a specific diagnosis,” Christina explains, “which curtails the opportunity to take a more proactive approach.”
Small steps, big impacts
Despite these challenges, Christina is convinced there is still reason for optimism. Her best piece of advice?
Try to avoid thinking of food as the enemy.
“Consider that a wide range of eating habits can support health – and small changes to food choices can have an outsized impact. Whether it’s adding a serving of frozen veggies, cooking two meals a week at home, or cutting down on soda.”
The biggest thing to remember, she advocates, is that we’re all experiencing challenges, from feelings of inadequacy to overindulgence.
As a parent, I deeply relate. I chastise myself for serving too many chicken nuggets and too few chopped veggies. But my conversation with Christina reminds me that a healthy diet has room for a range of foods, and we shouldn’t beat ourselves up for doing our best on any given day.
Nor should we give up on doing that little bit better.
“If we push ourselves too hard, we can conclude the effort is futile, why bother.”
That’s why taking an approach of everything in moderation is the likeliest route to reaping the long-term benefits of making more nutritious choices. Chasing a number on a scale or perfect pant size isn’t the solution, because finding true nourishment is about feeding your whole self – body and soul.
A seat at the table
There’s something comforting in the knowledge that there is no such thing as a perfect relationship with food. Contrary to popular belief, licensed experts like dietitians aren’t there to police our intake. Instead, they can help us see opportunities for choices that might better serve us, all while validating our fears and frustrations.
Christina’s approach reminds us that our worst tendencies—from self-disgust to self-righteousness—aren’t on the menu.
Instead, dietitians offer a more palatable approach: one that acknowledges the complexity of our relationship with food while providing practical tools to make that relationship healthier.
Sure, food is sustenance.
But it’s also connection, memory, comfort, and joy. Like it or not, we’re in this relationship for the long haul. Making small, daily commitments to improved choices will help us reduce our risk of developing both physical and mental health conditions.
The path will be different for each of us – depending on our biology, psychology, finances, and culture.
In an ideal world, there’s a place at the table for all of us.
Author: Suzanne Westover
