Moving Still - Medium Magazine (Fall 2021)

Moving Still

MEDIUM MAGAZINE

Together and alone, we all are moving still.

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Masthead Editor-in Chief

Writers

ELIZABETH PROVOST

ARONI SARKAR JULIANA STACEY DANICA TENG ELISA NGUYEN MAY ALSAIGH HAYDEN MAK DUAA NASIR MIGUEL DASILVA BELICIA CHEVOLLEAU RICARDO JAROSLAV VALDES ELIZABETH PROVOST

Managing Editor ELISA NGUYEN

Director of Design MANJOT PABLA

Head of Photography HAYDEN MAK

Head of Videography NIKOLAS TOWSEY

Copy Editors JULIANA STACEY MIGUEL DASILVA

Published by Medium II Publications 3359 Mississauga Rd. N., Student Center, Room 200 Mississauga, ON L5L 1C6 WWW.THEMEDIUM.CA

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Table of Contents Meeting Madam U.R.

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ARONI SARKAR

A New “Normal”

10

JULIANA STACEY

The Other

15

DANICA TENG

Silent Interactions

18

ELISA NGUYEN

Diary of a Fatherless Daughter

23

MAY ALSAIGH

Campus in Limbo

28

HAYDEN MAK

I Wish This Didn’t Have to Change

31

DUAA NASIR

The Grey Divide of Covid-19

35

MIGUEL DASILVA

The Epidemic of Social Media

39

BELICIA CHEVOLLEAU

You’re More Creative Than You Think

45

RICARDO JAROSLAV VALDES

A Car Headed for a Cliff? Health Care in Rural and Northern Ontario

51

ELIZABETH PROVOST

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Editor's Note

Media often tells us one side of the story, teasing answers to life’s uncertainties. Fairytales give life lessons through stories of riches and royalty, social platforms display a performance of reality, and journalism collects facts to document a situation, but bias is still unavoidable. As we crawled out of our homes after the world’s reopening, we sought a narrative to make sense of our experience.

Providing no concrete direction to our team, we asked, “when you think of isolation, what do you see?”

You’ll notice that isolation can look different to different people. Sometimes it’s transfigured into the feeling of loneliness in a girl diagnosed with lupus, as read in Danica’s article, or maybe it’s the the life of a fatherless daughter, as experienced by May. Sometimes it is being locked in a room, as prosed in Aroni’s poem, or maybe it’s losing connection on social media, as discussed in Belicia’s piece.

We’ve all, young and old, been forced in and out of isolation, as Juliana portrays in her short stories. Miguel digs deeper into elderly experiences and the digital divide. Then, Ricardo highlights how creativity can stem

from isolation, followed by Duaa who discusses her experience with depression and the positives of online school. Hayden and Nik observe their world through a camera lens. And finally, in our pieces, we look outward and inward, shedding light to unequal access to healthcare in Northern and rural Ontario, and showing intimate memories of places only we see—dreams.

This magazine is called “Moving Still,” two words that feel contradictory, because just like our time in isolation, there are contradictory and complementary feelings intertwined in our collective and individual experiences, like water changing forms in different seasons. We’ve discovered that there isn’t one narrative that can describe our experience.

We hope that this collection of research and creative stories will encourage you to reflect upon your own narrative and find something you can relate to. And lastly, we hope this magazine will inspire you to see isolation as it is: not necessarily good, not necessarily bad, but simply a state we all experience in life.

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Meeting Madam U.R. Aroni Sarkar

Four concrete walls with wooden faces, Stare back at me, dull and lifeless.

11 p.m., the coffee spill cleaned to leave no traces.

White light; letters on keys, flickering, blinding; keeps me timeless.

Staggered attempts at escaping this black mirror-box Of empty hellos and goodbyes and incomplete mornings and nights, Created Unknown Resilience and she never stops.

Madam U.R. chooses not to empower, strengthen, or save me; she invites.

Glass holds me hostage in my room; Drowning in forgotten waves of conversation, And with every breath of ocean-scented air in this tomb, I find her being in its creation.

A crumpled photo marked 2002, White tears on creased faces, a hopeless token.

Madam inspects the door, locked with stress, and windows too, 7 a.m., sunlight floods through the bars, unleashing the world awoken.

Her hand hovers over mine, sweaty as I crouch with eyes squinted and step out; Her shrill laughter paints a map to follow; I release myself, in doubt.

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A New “Normal” Juliana Stacey

Sydney “Sydney! Breakfast!” Mommy calls up from the kitchen. I put on my fuzzy princess socks, say goodbye to my teddy bear, and race down the stairs. The smell of fresh waffles welcomes me into the room. I pull myself up into a chair and kick my feet back and forth. Mommy pushes my big pile of drawings–the ones that couldn’t fit on the fridge anymore– off my placemat and puts a plate with a giant blueberry waffle covered in butter and maple syrup in front of me.

There are some eggs on the side of the plate too, but I know what to do with those.

As soon as Sparky walks under the table, I put the eggs into a napkin and drop it on the floor. Sparky cleans it up right away.

I grab the waffle with both hands and shove it into my mouth. Maple syrup drips down my arms and onto my pants.

“Sydney, please. Use a fork.” She walks over with her own plate, just in time to see a big glob of butter fall onto my pants. “You can’t go to school covered in syrup. After breakfast, you’ll have to run and change before school,” she says. She sits down at the table.

“Why? They only see my shirt Mommy. I just won’t stand up all day, and then the camera won’t show them that I’m all messy. Easy peasy.” I wipe my hands off on the mask I left on my chair last night. Mommy’s frown makes me think I should get a napkin instead.

Mommy picks up a napkin of her own and wipes my face. The paper sticks to the corners of my mouth.

“No, sweetie. We’ve talked about this. You’re going to

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a real classroom this year. You’ll get to meet a bunch of new people and play lots of fun games–” “Can Sparky come with me? He’s my best friend. I can’t do anything without him.” Sparky rolls under my chair as I shove a forkful of waffle into my mouth.

“No, sweetie, but–” “But you’re gonna be there? You’re always here when I do computer school, so you’ll come to real school too, right?”

I drop my fork on the table with a piece of waffle still hanging off the end. The waffle bounces off the fork and falls all the way down into Sparky’s mouth.

Mommy sighs. “No, sweetie, but–” “Then why do I have to go? I had school on my computer before. Where did that go?”

“Nowhere, but–” “So then–” “Sydney, you have to stop interrupting me.” Mommy crosses her arms over her chest. I sit back in my chair and pull my knees up to my chin.

“Look, we put you in real school this year. It’ll be just like school before everybody started getting sick. That way, when you go to Grade 1, it won’t be so different. You’ll already have friends, and you’ll know what the school is like. It’s no different than your brother. He left for school twenty minutes ago. If I were you, I’d be happy you’re not starting high school like he is.” Mommy takes my plate and walks to the dishwasher.

“But I already had friends on the computer school. There was Max, and Sarah, and Talia, and…”

“Yes, sweetie, I know you made lots of friends. But those friends are just in the online school. There are going to be so many new friends at real school. You’ll love it, I promise. You might even love it more than online school,” Mommy says, placing a small pink bag on the table.

“What’s that?”

“Your lunchbox. I have a turkey sandwich and lots of snacks packed for you. I even put a brownie in there.”

Mommy smiles as she brushes some hair out of my face.

“Wait, I have to eat there too? First no Sparky, then no

you, and now I don’t get to stay home for lunch? What’s next? My toys have to stay home too?” Mommy walks into her office, pulls out a purple backpack, and puts my lunchbox into the bag. I see big black letters that spell out my name on the front of the bag.

“They have a bunch of toys there, Syd. You don’t have to bring any of yours.”

“No I don’t. Because I’m not going.” I get up from my seat and stomp over to my dolls in the living room. Mommy follows me, carrying the ugly purple backpack with her.

“Yes, you are,” Mommy says. She grabs my hand and leads me up the stairs. “Go get changed, and then we’ll get in the car. If you’re really good, maybe we can order something special for dinner, like pizza.” Mommy sends me into my room and closes the door.

I sit on my bed and cry, crossing my arms over my chest just like Mommy did in the kitchen.

I’m not going to school. And I’m not changing my pants either.

I look down at the stain on my right leg. It’s not that big.

It only covers my knee. I fix it by covering my knee with a My Little Pony sticker.

There. Fixed.

Then, I walk over to my toy bin and throw everything in it on the floor.

There. I can’t go to school cause my room is too messy.

Jacob

“Alright class, put everything away. It’s time for your algebra quiz. It’ll just be a review of topics you should have covered last year in Grade 8. You get twenty minutes to complete two questions. The only things I want to see on your desk are pencils, erasers, and sanitizer,” Mrs. Conway says.

I sink down in my seat and stretch my legs out in front of me, putting my oboe case under my desk. The edge of my sneaker brushes against the back of Stephen’s chair. He jolts forward, scooting his seat so far in that he’s left with no room to breathe. He gasps, then relaxes, his desk scraping the floor as he slowly pushes it away from his stomach.

“Let me remind everyone that while we’re no longer in middle school, social distancing is still very much a requirement, not a suggestion. Right, Mr. Jackson? How about we shift your desk back to its proper spot?” Mrs. Conway glares at me from across the room. How she’s able to see my feet from all the way over there is completely beyond me, but I agree, turning my desk back into an island. Mrs. Conway places my test face down on the edge of my desk, careful not to touch anything but the paper. I slide the paper towards me, flipping it over to see a large wet spot instead of Question 1.

I guess that’s what happens when you have to sanitize your desk at the beginning of every period.

Squinting to read the now-blurred lettering, I begin the quiz anyway.

From a few rows to my right, Sam clicks her pen. Loudly.

Over and over. It’s like every time she blinks, the end of her pen does too.

I cover my right ear, hoping to drown out the symphony of clicking coming from that pen.

Behind her, Jess joins the competition for the title of “Most Annoying Classmate”. Her leg jitters up and down. Loudly.

Over and over. The rhythm created by her desk lifting off the floor and slamming back down mimics a jackhammer.

One row in front of me, Stephen clears his throat. Loudly.

Over and over. Then, Kyle, who sits next to him, coughs.

Loudly. Over and over.

Both fiddle with their masks, trying to find relief without taking them off, as those in the desks around them scatter, dragging themselves away from the line of fire.

The chorus of distraction continues. New noises join in what feels like every five seconds. By the time I settle in to start working, the bell rings.

“Alright everyone, time’s up. When I call you, please

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bring your test to the front and place it in this bin. Make sure your names are on it.” Mrs. Conway holds up a green plastic bucket.

When she calls my name, I walk to the front desk and hand in my test, completely blank.

Chris

I sit at desk and open my laptop. The mail icon on my taskbar bounces up and down, with a little orange “1” dancing in the righthand corner.

“Honey, I don’t want to open it.” I hover my mouse over the icon and let it sit there. A white bar labelled “1 unread email from Human Resources” pops up on the screen.

Rebecca, my wife, walks into the spare bedroom, which I converted into an office early last year, and wraps her arms around me.

“It’ll be fine. Case counts are up. I don’t think they’ll be asking you to come into the office yet.”

During the onset of the pandemic, my wife and I decided to leave the city, hoping that some distance between our house and the next would reduce our chances of catching anything. Everyone told us we were crazy. My sister said that I should stay close to family; she thought it would be easier if all of us stayed together, even if that meant staying where the case counts reached new heights each day. She couldn’t move, with her kids being in school and everything.

But Rebecca and I could. So we did.

Work for both of us moved completely online, allowing us the luxury of working from wherever we wanted to be,

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as long as there was a strong enough internet connection.

We sold our townhouse in downtown Toronto, moving two hours away to a cute little town with one set of traffic lights. Everything had been perfect. Our new backyard, complete with towering oak trees and a small vegetable garden, became our Covid-free sanctuary, giving us the space needed to feel safe during a time that otherwise felt the complete opposite.

“Don’t jinx it.” I move the cursor back and forth on the screen, hoping the “1” will just disappear entirely.

“You’re going to have to open it,” Rebecca says as she walks over to the kitchen. I sigh, click the icon, and open the only unread email in my inbox.

Dear Mr. Simmons, We are pleased to announce that our offices will be opening next Monday! We write to inform you that you have qualified as essential personnel and will be scheduled to attend meetings in person as early as next week. Be assured that every measure will be taken to ensure your complete safety during this time. If you have any further questions, please feel free to contact your HR representative.

We’ll see you soon!

My mouth gapes open.

“Honey? You’re too quiet. Did you open it? Stop procrastinating,” Rebecca says, stuffing half a sandwich into her mouth and carrying it into the room with her teeth. She places a glass of ice water on the desk in front of me and flops over onto the bed.

“It’s not good.”

“You got fired?”

“No. Worse. I have to be in the office next week.” I close my laptop and roll my chair away from my desk, turning to face her.

“It’s okay. We’ll figure this out.” Rebecca smiles, but her eyes gloss over.

“We can’t move back. And I don’t know if I’d want to. I like our house, our yard, our town. This is our home now.”

I stare at the dent in the wall on the other side of the bed.

We made that dent two weeks after moving in, when Rebecca thought it would be a good idea to mount a TV by herself, which she had never done before, while I was mowing the lawn. It resulted in a hole in the wall the size of my fist, and due to my lack of coordination and experience

with spackle, our spare bedroom wall was left with a noticeable divot. It was part of what made this place home.

“Well what other options do we have? I guess we could rent something for you to stay in when you have to go to the office, but then I’d never see you. You’re right. I don’t want to leave here either, but I don’t see anything else we can do.” She stands and begins to pace, practically tearing holes in the carpet beneath her. I grab her hand and sit her back down on the bed.

“We’re not doing that, and we’re not moving either. We’ll figure it out.”

Rebecca traces the patterns on the bedspread with the edge of her finger.

“But what if we don’t?”

Evelyn “There. All clean!” I say to my empty room as I put my brooch into its place and close my jewelry box. After spending my whole morning tidying up, everything is finally presentable. I walk to my closet and pull out a large bag filled with board games and toys, dragging it out to the centre of the room. Placing a blanket down on the floor, I set up the activities for my granddaughter. I sharpen all the pencil crayons, unbox a fresh set of markers, and put out fresh paper. The pile of wrapped gifts I’ve saved since Christmas sits in the corner of the room, accompanied by all the presents left over from missed birthdays, graduations, and other special events.

Exhausted, I sit down in my rocking chair and admire the display of cookies on the table: chocolate chip for Sydney and Jacob, cinnamon raisin for John, and gluten free digestive cookies for Christina. Other residents crane their necks as they stroll or wheel by, obviously distracted by the rare smell of freshly baked cookies. Nurse Melissa let me use her phone to order from a bakery; it is the first order I, or anyone on my floor for that matter, have made since everything locked down last year.

Everything is absolutely perfect. Now all I need to do is wait.

I turn on the television, scroll through the guide to find

my favourite daytime soap opera, pull out my crochet set, and begin my first chain.

Slowly, the yarn works itself into the beginnings of a blanket with pink and white lacy edges, perfect for Sydney’s bedroom. I wrap the yarn around my hook and pull it through hundreds of smaller loops, starting the half-double crochet stitch my mother taught me when I was young. I pause partway through my seventh line, stopping to talk to Doris, who has just returned from her weekly hospital trip. During the third episode of my television show, Nurse Melissa knocks on the door, holding a clipboard to her chest.

“I’m really sorry, Evelyn. Your son just called. I’m afraid he can’t make it in to see you today.” I stand up from my seat, placing the blanket on my chair.

“Is everything alright? Did something happen?” I ask, walking over to my telephone. “Why didn’t they call me?”

“Everything is fine, Evelyn. I think they just didn’t want to upset you. In all honesty, it didn’t sound like they were too comfortable coming into a retirement community just yet.

He said something about case counts. But he assured me that they’ll plan for another time. So we’ll just look forward to that! I’ll come in and help you clean up.”

“No, it’s okay,” I sniffle. “I’ll take care of everything.”

I bend down, preparing to put everything away. “I guess we’ll take the cookies out to the other residents. Don’t need everything going to waste.”

Nurse Melissa nods, walks over to the table, and grabs the platter.

“You know, it’s okay that they haven’t been in to see you yet. I know most of the residents on this floor have had visitors, but all the other nurses are saying that most families are waiting till everything calms down just a little bit more.

Everyone’s just adjusting the way they know best.”

I avoid her gaze, instead gathering the toys and attempting to drag them back into the closet. Nurse Melissa stops me, pulls up my rocking chair, and tells me to sit down.

She then neatly organizes the toys in my closet and shuts the door.

“We always say that third time’s the charm, but maybe that saying is outdated.” She pulls down her mask and smiles, something I haven’t seen in many months. “Fourth time’s the charm now? What do you think?”

I turn away, hoping that she wouldn’t notice the tears that have started to slide down my cheeks.

“Sure. No harm in hoping.”

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The Other Danica Teng

“Just breathe.” White snow blows across my computer screen as these words appear: “Why are you so nervous?” A soft piano tune opens a pixelated scene of dirt platforms, some covered in snow, and white flakes continue to fall against a background of trees under a dark, cloudy sky. Madeline—my little digital character with orange hair—stands at the bottom-left corner, ready to begin her journey up Celeste Mountain. As I tilt the PlayStation 4 controller’s analog stick and press buttons, Madeline jumps and climbs her way forward as lamp posts guide her path.

Soon, she comes across a cabin with an old lady, who tells her the mountain might be too much for her. “You might see things. Things you ain’t ready to see,” says the old lady, laughing. Her laugh follows me as I leave on a path of grey stones that collapse underneath me as I run along. The music intensifies, almost swallowing me, until I unlock a dash move for the first time, allowing me to make it to the safety of a dirt platform where a blue bird waits. The scene calms and pans up to a snow-filled sky with one last reassurance: “You can do this.”

Celeste is a pixel platformer game created in 2018, but I only bought it at the beginning of 2021— our oneyear anniversary of surviving isolation. I tried the first few levels and decided to buy the game, which was a steal at the time for $5.49. But it’s

funny how a mere five dollars can give you so much. Like most platformers, I had to get Madeline through various maps and puzzles so that she could reach her destination. But it’s difficult. So difficult that you’re constantly dying. The game even gives you a death counter to let you know how many times you’ve fallen to an enemy or to the ground. It’s the type of game where your mind borders insanity, and each death tempts you to fling your controller out the window. And would I play it again?

Absolutely. I would play it for the first time all over again if I could.

While the character’s base name is Madeline, the game gives you—the player—the option to input your own name instead, establishing Madeline as your pixelated persona.

Near the start of your journey, you come across, well, you. It’s a doppelganger of your character, but with purple hair and red eyes, who crashes through a mirror and identifies itself as a part of you. This “other” self discourages you from climbing the mountain. “You can’t handle this,” the Other says and chases you, playing the antagonist. As you progress, the game introduces new characters, who help reveal more about your own character and your desperate need to climb the mountain. You begin to recognize anxiety not only personified in the Other, but also manifested through the darkening of the scene, dialogue, and music. The more you

play, the more you see that the Other is also doubt. And fear. Stress and depression. The Other is every struggle your character carries, and eventually, you see it as a monster.

I turn off the game and close my eyes for the night. Nothing exists, except for me. There’s a voice in my head that I recognize as my own, and though it is more outspoken and spiteful than I am, it is still me. It is my Other.

My Other doesn’t have purple hair or red eyes. It doesn’t even need to reveal itself. Its voice is enough to haunt me, especially when I try to sleep. My Other is loud. Too loud. Sometimes, it even mimics other people—family, friends, or strangers—to remind me of my worries, just in case I don’t believe myself. I know, deep down, it’s my voice, but what if the people in my life really do think I’m not good enough? What if they don’t need me?

Over and over, I hear my Other, long enough that these illusions become truths I believe.

I can’t remember when it became so hard to sleep. The night numbs my mind as I fixate on the need for rest.

While falling asleep has never come easy to me, this problem worsened when, four years ago, the hospital became “home” for a month.

I was admitted into Trillium Health Partners’ Mississauga Hospital, where I spent half my time wheeled

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around from one exhausting test to the other, just so that they could tell me it would never end. I was diagnosed with lupus. The news of an auto-immune disease only fed my Other. One month may not seem like a long time, even when I think back on it, but when you’re living in those moments, the stretch of each second is a cruel joke.

Fatigue, loneliness, needles, medication, and physiotherapy were only some of the obstacles I had to face on my way to recovery.

Still, if there is any good that arises from struggle, it is the stronger person that comes out at the other end.

Sometimes, I can’t believe I made it out of that hospital room. All the unknowns at the time muddled my mind. I couldn’t process my mess of emotions. But I do remember one instinctual feeling—isolation.

I was never alone in the hospital. I was treated by doctors and nurses, spoke with staff, had family visits, and most importantly, my mom never left my side. So, why? Why was I overwhelmed with loneliness?

How was it possible to feel so alone when surrounded by so many people? It was a feeling I wasn’t aware of until friends started to visit me, which left me with two realizations.

One—it helps to know people are there for you.

Their presence can take your mind away from yourself and gives the Other fewer chances to talk. In a hospital, where so much is often undetermined and terrifying, seeing someone or something familiar provides comfort.

I had no idea what was wrong with me when I was brought in by an ambulance. I didn’t even have time to think of the worst-case scenario because my body felt like it was already going through it. Though the ambulance’s

everything until it took in nothing at all. And when I woke up in the hospital, my Other was there to greet me.

I never knew the difference a visit could make until I felt my sanity slipping within the four dull, beige corners of my room. At the right times, other people can offer reassurance and distraction, and I had that support whenever my family or relatives were there. But I noticed that when friends started to visit, I felt some sort of twisted validation. I saw these visits as evidence against my Other that kept telling me I’m invisible, I don’t belong, I’m unimportant. It was as if my mind couldn’t believe that people cared enough to go out of their way to come see how I was doing.

I’m lucky to have a family that I know will always be there for me, but for everyone other than my family, there were no expectations or obligations for them to visit me.

I could only hope.

Two—I dreaded that lupus made me different among the people in my life. Now, I come with a risk warning. Want to go on a hike together? I might have to stop every few minutes from fatigue.

Planning a trip? Let’s look for the nearest hospital in case my lupus flares up.

The limitations made me feel like a burden to others because I was a burden to myself. To see what others could do and to remember life before lupus, especially at a point when I couldn’t even walk, was frustrating.

Self-reflection can be rewarding, but it often aggravates your Other first. For me, these two realizations made me feel worse before I felt better. Like dominos, memories came crashing down one after the other as I recalled all the times I felt alone and questioned my self-

siren was louder than the Other in my head, it made me anxious all the same.

For the last two months prior to my stay at Mississauga Hospital, I was bedridden at home because of fatigue and joint pain. Clinics told me I had mononucleosis and that it would go away. So, my stubbornness made me ignore the severity of the state I’d been in until I was struggling with my speech and dragged onto a stretcher with a burning fever. Whenever I would see or hear an ambulance pass by, I would wish the person inside well. I never thought about being the one inside. From glimpses of scattered medical equipment to the paramedics’ voices, to my mom’s face, and to the feeling of my own tears running down my cheeks, my mind took in

worth. I fell into a jumbled mess and wondered if it was any use picking up each piece to start over.

In these moments, I saw my Other convince me that if I wasn’t useful to other people or didn’t measure up to them, I would be isolated. My diagnosis rattled this fear, but the Other had planted this idea long before through various aspects of my life.

When it came to academics, whether it was in elementary school, high school, or university, I always seemed to be surrounded by people who knew what they were doing. My grades were average, but they fell below, especially when it came to math or science, where stereotypes only lowered my self-esteem. Again, I was out of place. I viewed other people as if they were on pedestals

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that I couldn’t reach. And as I grew, your Other. You try to leave it beyou reach the mountain’s summit so did those pedestals; they were the hind—the same way you’re afraid to together. platforms I needed to climb. be left behind. You think abandonMy fear was also born from the ing all those parts of yourself that somewhat sheltered way I grew up. you hate is the best thing for both of It still takes me a while to rationalI recognize that I’m afraid to do you. But this only angers it more as ize my fears—to remember that it’s most things on my own because I it drags you back down to the botokay to be scared and that it’s okay grew up heavily dependent on othtom of the mountain. You fall, and to fail. Trying to distance myself from ers. Something as simple as making you think about giving up, but you negative feelings made them imposa phone call to the bank or asking come across the same old lady from sible to process, and like strangers, questions to a professor knots my the start of your journey. She sugthey terrified me. They still do somestomach. If I need to go somewhere, gests something you never thought times, but I’m starting to get to know someone needs to drive me, as I’ve about; she suggests that your Other them. In this balance with my Other, never been behind the wheel. The is scared. After your talk, you find my fears can fuel my motivation. thought of driving makes me anxyour Other to apologize for leaving Other people become an inspiraious. And so does taking public tranbecause you realize the old lady is tion. Though I still haven’t driven, I sit. And so does walking alone. I was right—your Other is just the part of took the first step in getting my drivwarned so often about all the things you that doesn’t want to get hurt. er’s license and passed the written that could go wrong—accidents and test. I’ve become more comfortcrimes committed by human able talking to people over the hands—that I eventually conphone and asking questions You: Look, we’re at rock bottom. There’s no point vinced myself something will when I need to. in fighting. go wrong. If I drive, I’ll probThere’s no doubt these emoOther: I can keep digging. I could pull us ably crash. If I walk to the tions are common for many down to the center of the earth. grocery store alone, maybe people, but maybe they feel You: What would be the point? Let’s climb out of I’ll get mugged. The fear of so lonely because expressing here together. everything that hasn’t hapour anxiety, depression, stress, pened holds me back. You and fear is difficult to do and can’t do it, my Other tells me. not often done. Maybe this is Don’t climb that mountain. I Except your Other doesn’t trust why I’m sharing parts of mylook around and all my friends have you. How could it? It pushes you self that I hate, some of which I’ve quickly grown up. And here I am, away, leading to a final, intense recently discovered. It’s because I barely hanging onto each platform as they keep getting higher.

You find yourself back in Celeste, sitting around a campfire under the digital, twinkling sky with Theo— another mountain-climber you befriend on the journey. “This Part of You that’s haunting you, maybe [it] comes with the territory,” Theo says.

And after talking through it, you decide, “I’m ready to put this all behind me.” And so, you confront

platforming level where you are the one running toward the monstrous Other, not away from it, as you face everything it has to throw at you.

“Fine. You Win. I guess you don’t need me after all. If you want me to go away, I’ll try,” the Other says, as pain replaces the malice in its eyes.

But now you understand this part of yourself. You’ve explored your feelings and where they come from.

You want to work together—a balance within yourself—because after all, in the end, it is you. At last,

don’t want to hate them; I want to learn from them. And it’s something I can only do with the help of myself because I am my own antagonist.

Other is me. I am Other.

When I close my eyes, nothing exists, except for me. And that’s okay.

That voice, which may be irritable at times, is there and always will be.

But it doesn’t have to be a villainous mirror of myself. I can find a way to make peace within the isolation of my own mind.

MM 17

Silent Interactions Elisa Nguyen

Bà nôi uses one swollen foot to pull herself around in her wheelchair. That’s the image I see, the sound I hear, when I think of home. Most people probably think about their dog—something we’ve never had—or stories around the dinner table—which we rarely ate at—but not me. I think of the mother to my father, the woman I never get past easily unless her back faces me and I tiptoe behind.

The woman who reaches for my hand when she sees me. She squeezes my hand as if it’s the last thing she’ll ever do, with so much pressure that her bones crush against mine and her chapped skin tickles my palm.

Our hand-teractions are a combination of squeeze, shake, hold, eye contact, more squeezing, more eye contact—if I’m able to pull my focus from the drool on her chin—until I let go of her hand, bow my head like an obedient

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Vietnamese grandchild, then retreat into my bedroom.

Even with the door shut, I hear the residue sticking from bà nôi’s wheels against our hardwood floor, and the whirring of metal rods spinning in place. It mingles with the sounds of our air-con whooshing, kitchen-clanging, and Mom’s footsteps thumping from upstairs. Bà nôi’s breathing, a low rumbling deep in her chest, broadcasts her presence so that the grandchildren have time to run away. Dad and I often compare her to Darth Vader because her breathing prefaces her arrival—but with Victorian elegance. She wears pearl necklaces and silk blouses even though she has nowhere to go. Queen Elizabeth Vader.

But as I step out of my bedroom, my fingertips gently grazing the door frame, I hear nothing.

The blue corduroy couch in front of our basement fireplace is empty. Uncle Liem must’ve been organizing the garbage or assembling plastic bags which he’d cut, fold, and tape into whatever he needed—like that time he made slippers with fancy back straps. Faint radio chatter fills the basement kitchen every morning as he microwaves oatmeal and completes chores. He is bà nôi’s fifth child out of seven, and her very own food-heater-upper, laundry-doer, and TV-buddy. He reminds me that the unmarried and unemployed are probably the most content of all people. He even dresses in the same sweater vest and track pants he wore in a photo of him and me from 2004, back when he still built me blanket forts.

“Lucas? Mom?” I call out.

No one replies.

Re-entering my bedroom, I shut the door behind me, gently releasing the handle. Mom or Dad probably drove bà nôi to a doctor’s appointment, and uncle Liem must’ve accompanied them. I guess they brought Lucas too, him being too young to be left alone.

When I was younger, I’d ask Mary, our Filipino caregiver, where my parents went. She’d tell me they were at work, or at the grocery store. I would sit cross-legged in my bedroom, absentmindedly play with dolls, brushing plastic hair behind plastic ears, and check the window every so often for their arrival. But now I’m older.

Fifteen, to be exact. A teenager who can make her own food and take care of herself. Just like the protagonist who tells their mom they’re going out and doesn’t get questioned about where, when, why, or with whom? Not like I was the type.

Where would I g o ?

The closest bus stop was at least a four-hour hike away and I, with my frizzy bangs and flat chest, could never hitch a ride with strangers, speeding down the highway into an unexplored horizon. I was not the type.

I look out my window. Dark green shadows from the forest surrounding our house fogs the view of my backyard. In the corner of my windowsill, strands of spider silk form an empty web. I should probably get rid of it, but instead I fold myself into the rumpled blankets on my bed.

Flipping onto my back, I try to remember what I was doing just before I left my room. Instead, I notice that the air conditioner above my bed isn’t working. There is no gentle hum nor breeze through the vents, no crack nor thump as wood stretches and walls shift in our aging home.

I kick my legs under the blankets, annoyed that the sheets have lost their coolness. Behind my bathroom door, cracked slightly open, so that only a silhouette of my sink is in view, I feel something peering at me.

Instead of shutting the bathroom door firmly, like I always do before sleep, I retreat deeper into my bed. I strain to remember if I have school, if I have something to study, if I am supposed to be somewhere, if someone is waiting for me.

I clutch the shirt on my chest, but no matter how hard I focus, I can’t see if it’s mine. Panicked, I sit up and scan my room. I squint as hard as I can, but my eyes capture only blurry figures. The blankets kicked into a fussy ball at the end of my bed are wrapped around my ankles, but I don’t feel their weight.

I slowly stand up on my bed, making myself taller, listening carefully for any sound.

Nothing.

A shiver slides down my spine. I’m alone.

I leap as far as I can from my bed, but there is no impact between my foot and the hardwood f l o o r,

MM 19

“For a second, everything is peaceful. A smile spreads across my face.”

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despite my clumsy landing. My shoulder slams against the door frame and I jerk away.

The basement living room blurs in front of me. I stagger, shaking my head to get rid of the dizziness. The staircase to my left leads to our front foyer, where Mom, Dad, and Lucas’s rooms are clustered together. You should feel thankful that you get your own space downstairs, they tell me.

Instead, I run toward the opposite side of the basement, where bà nôi and Uncle Liem’s small bedrooms are located. My socks slide against the hardwood, so I use my hands to push against walls as I fumble my way through my house, toward the darker, narrower staircase that leads to our main floor. I jump up the stairs two steps at a time.

Finally, I make it outside. A smeared circle in the gray sky blazes without heat. I stand wild-eyed, feeling the air sagging around me, pushing down on my shoulders, strangely dry as if it hadn’t rained for years. I gasp but my lungs fill with a rancid smell instead. The front door sways open, soundlessly.

In moments like these, you think, ‘What now?’ Like when you yell at the TV because the main character, half-eaten by a shark, struggles and ends up losing so much more blood. You think, ‘Just give up, buddy. Stop struggling and maybe you’ll die in peace.’ Death isn’t a dead-end, though. I refuse to believe it’s possible to live a life with five senses, only to be tossed into nothingness. Even the memories sitting next to my mother, me comforting her without knowing why she was crying, were worth experiencing.

Even the mindless, mundane chatter with schoolmates, walking through locker-lined hallways, glancing at the boy with smiling eyes, must be a small taste of something greater.

I sense something exit the door, but I turn my back before I can see it. The last thing I see will not be the thing that kills me. Facing our driveway, I see our black mailbox, rudely propped on a wooden post across the street, in front of our neighbour John’s house. No cars pass on the street. I only interact with my neighbours on rare occasions, mostly while waiting for the school bus. If I ask for help, I don’t think they’ll know who I am.

If there’s a will, there’s a way, I hear my dad saying in his naturally authoritative tone, as if everything in his life as an immigrant came easily, which it didn’t. I realize that if can’t outrun this thing, the only escape is up. I lurch myself into the air.

My body clenches because if I relax, I’ll fall. I’m inches

away from the thing I’m running from and finally see that it has the figure of a young girl. She tries to grab my ankle. Her fingers miss me, but my ankle tingles, as if her hand is there. I wobble upwards, higher, anywhere away from the ground. The girl stares up at me but doesn’t try to follow.

For a second, everything is peaceful. A smile spreads across my face. Trees dot the ground, and my bungalow zooms outward. Fog covers the textured grey city and the blue silhouette of Lake Ontario.

I’m not flying. I don’t think I am. My arms are behind me, like Clark Kent in Smallville, but there’s no wind blowing around me. This feels more like hovering based on sheer will, like how Neo, who bends the spoon in The Matrix, must learn that nothing exists except his mind. I don’t try to understand the thing I’m running away from.

But I did it. I got away.

My eyes flicker open and I sit upright.

Cool air blasts through the vent above my head, rumbling along with the murmur of Dad’s snores. Birds chirp outside my window. I slowly unclench my fists, noticing the sting from my fingernails that dug crescents into my palms. My heart beats sporadically as my body realizes I’m now in bed, blankets tangled around my ankles.

The same bed I ran from earlier. “Are you okay?” Mom asks as I slide onto the kitchen chair. She slices an apple and gives me a motherly ‘I-see-and-know-all-things’ look.

Dark circles under her eyes show she probably didn’t rest well either. She has always been a chronic light-sleeper.

Despite this, her skin is fresh, her natural waves tussled, her movements precise.

“Bà nôi looks out the window, her expression solemn as if she sees not the scenery but her memories.”

I shrug to say, ‘Of course I’m okay. Why wouldn’t I be?’ The dream—no, nightmare—should be forgotten within a few minutes. Mom continues cutting the apple, as if she is satisfied with my answer.

“I had a bad dream last night,” I confess.

“About what?”

“I was running away from something at home. All of you were gone,” I reply, shaking off the feeling of falling upward. “I haven’t had a bad dream in forever.”

Mom bites into an apple slice and looks at me as if the answer is easy. “Whenever I have a nightmare, I just pray. I ask God to keep me safe before I go to bed.”

“Don’t you always have nightmares though?”

“Not all the time. Sometimes—” “Because you tell me you have nightmares all the time.”

“Then I pray that God helps me forget them.”

I poke at my cereal with my spoon. I know Mom is trying to help, but her advice feels dismissive. She cleans up the dishes, wipes splashed water off the counter, careful to rub the corners around the tap, then declutters the counter.

I stuff my lunch box into my backpack. Mom kisses me on the cheek, a Vietnamese kiss with her nose, and wishes me a good day. I suddenly feel like a kid again and wish I could cling to her and ask to stay home, but I don’t.

I’m used to being alone. Not in a stuck-in-a-jail-cell type of way—although I was not above lying to my parents about attending swimming lessons—but in an anxious, surrounded-by-people-yet-misunderstood way. No one, not even Mom—who wakes up early to make me breakfast and who worries about me day and night— knows half the sadness in my mind. My problem is staying silent, smiling like a character whose only role is to move the plot along.

Bà nôi rocks herself in her wheelchair in front of the basement sliding doors. Her breathing is steady as she inhales then exhales sharply, her strength sapped. On my way out, I slide by, silently, to avoid her intimate greeting and missing my bus. But I glance back one more time midway up the stairs. Bà nôi looks out the window, her expression solemn as if she sees not the scenery but her memories.

At least when you’re dreaming, you eventually wake up.

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Diary of a Fatherless Daughter May Alsaigh

The English Oxford Dictionary (OED) defines grief as “a very sad feeling, especially when someone dies.” Featuring up to six hundred thousand words and a rich thousand-year history, the OED is universally reputed as the established guide to the English language. But that doesn’t mean there is only one definition assigned to every word. Every person interprets the meaning of a word based on how it applies to their own life. I define grief as the mental suffering and distress caused by losing a loved one.

This is my story of how grief surreptitiously crept its way into my life.

I throw my cluttered worksheets and flashcards onto the dining table and lay out my highlighters, Sharpie markers, and pens. I plug in my MacBook Air and immediately start studying for my grade ten English exam. I grab a flashcard and start writing. Pathos. A quality that evokes pity or sadness. Climax. The most intense and important part of a story. I continue doing this for about seven minutes until an urgent feeling of distress takes over my being, my gut aching in pain. My hand shivers and instantly I forget how to hold my pen. The pen drops on the card. I burst into tears.

My father has been sleeping in the ICU for seven days.

I was told by the doctors that his gastric bypass surgery would run smoothly; the risk of complications would be low.

He’d spent months preparing for this procedure. However, this was not the case. Somehow, he contracted an infection in his chest and the next thing I knew, he had several tubes attached to his cold body.

I give up on the flashcards and push them away to the other end of the table. I call my mom to ask her if she can drive me to the hospital. She is already there and tells me that my father’s friend is on his way to pick up me and my younger sister. She sounds anxious. I order my sister to get dressed, then I prepare an overnight bag, in case my mom will finally let me spend the night with her at the hospital.

Before we leave, I give my textbook to my classmate who lives on the eleventh floor, seven floors below me.

“I might not make it to the exam tomorrow, so can you give this to Mr. McNaughton just in case?”

“Sure,” she responds, “how’s your dad?” I shrug and tell her I am on my way to see him. There is an awkward pause; neither of us know what to say. I stare at the ground and tell her I must get going. I thank her and meet my sister in the lobby. After a few minutes, we spot Mr. Naser’s Toyota Corolla and morosely make our way inside. He looks hopeless.

It takes an hour to drive to Toronto General Hospital. No one mutters a word the entire way there. My brain is numb, I can’t bring myself to think about anything. This is the first time I’ve felt this way. The feeling of nothingness. My mind races and yet I can’t grasp the reality of the situation. I feel stiff. My body wants to move but my mind refuses to let it.

I am deprived of emotion and spend the car ride watching the world go by. There is a bitter taste in my mouth and my heart pounds—I feel that something is going to happen.

When we arrive, we find the rest of my family seated in a private waiting room next to the ICU. My mother, brother, older sister, uncle, and aunt huddle inside the small room.

I glance at my mother, whose gaze fixates on the ground.

Her hands cross like she’s praying for good news. I want to see my dad, but it seems like everyone in the waiting room is waiting for something. I stand in the corner, hands shaking, chest tight, contemplating whether I should ask someone for updates. But everything seems clear. The weight of bad news fills the air, and I don’t know what to expect.

I hear steps approach our waiting area and look up to find a young blonde woman at our door. She isn’t dressed in nurse or doctor attire, but a bright blue lanyard is around her neck. She speaks with a gentle voice. I try to focus on the words coming out of her mouth, but for some reason, the room is silent. I can’t hear anything. My family hastens towards the ICU. I stand up in disarray and confusion.

What did she say? Where did everyone go?

Suddenly, I hear her mumble those three gruesome words: “I’m so sorry.”

I sprint to the ICU and force the doors wide open. The

MM 23

bed is empty, sheets tucked in. He isn’t in his usual room. I run down the short hallway. I see him. My father’s lifeless body is lying there, all the tubes removed and hanging off the gurney. My mom sits in a chair next to him. I kneel beside her. She is screaming in pain and hitting me. My brother weeps. I have never seen my twenty-five-year-old brother shed a single tear. A grief counsellor is already in the room offering water. My sisters stand in shock.

To this day, I have not forgotten the moment I found my father’s body draped off the sides of the hospital bed.

I remember his yellow, stiff body. I remember the thick black liquid that fell from his nose. I remember seeing my family breakdown in absolute anguish. But it wasn’t in that moment when I felt alone. It was when I ran outside the hospital that night and called my high school. I sat on an empty, black painted, metal picnic bench in the dark while the white hospital lights shone through the glass windows behind me. I left a voicemail, telling them through sobs that I wouldn’t be able to complete my exams; I asked them not to call my mom and to take my word as I did not want to them to disrupt her. I knew that from then on, I had to adopt the responsibility of protecting my mother. That night, my heart shattered in my chest. The pieces crumbled inside my body. I knew I would be alone forever as I’d lost my best friend and my role model.

The following night, my brother’s friend drove us back in his Ram pickup truck. My brother was too distressed to drive. I had never seen him in that state. The way back on the Gardiner was also quiet. I could not stop thinking about how I had just said my last goodbye to my father, so unexpectedly. It took about thirty minutes before we were back in Mississauga. Family friends drove behind us and took us upstairs to our apartment. The apartment was crowded, but I managed to slip out.

I went to the back of the building by myself, where the giant trash bins were. I screamed for my dad as loud as I could, and I wailed for what seemed like hours. My whole body was sore, I felt weak, broken, and so lonely.

But I keep screaming and crying, as if something would change. For the first time, I realized that I would never see my father again; I would never be able to hear his voice.

“BABA,” I scream in Arabic.

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“My body wants to move but my mind refuses to let it. I am deprived of emotion and spend the car ride watching the world go by.“ “BABA, WHERE ARE YOU?” Louder.

“WHY DID YOU LEAVE? AM I EVER GOING TO SEE YOU AGAIN?” Tears running down my face, my face hurts from perpetual sobs.

“COME BACK, I NEED YOU!” I collapse to the ground and bawl for what feels like hours. My throat begins to ache and I choke on my scream.

A few minutes later, I stand up and stare at the sky. I realize that tonight my dad won’t be coming home after work, and that I will go to bed and lock the main door without him here.

I feel lonely as ever.

I drag my body upstairs and push through a crowd of family friends to hold my mother. She wails and I pull her close to me.

It’s been almost five years since, and still, I feel lonelier than ever.

Losing a loved one is never easy but losing your parent at the age of fifteen is a different kind of story.

You mature quicker than everyone else your age. A study in Northwest England, which observed individuals who lost a parent before the age of eighteen concluded that there was a negative impact imposed on their adulthood regarding trust, relationships, self-esteem, feelings of selfworth, loneliness and isolation, and the ability to express feelings. One participant admitted to experiencing

an overwhelming feeling of loneliness and isolation. Back in high school, and even to this day, I feel that overwhelming sense of disconnection.

I was unable to resonate with my peers. My worries were not the same as their worries.

Two weeks later, I was back at school. Many of my friends were just turning fifteen. Some had invited me to dinners and others invited me to their Quinceañeras. In Islam, it is traditional for mourners to spend some time at home following

MM 25

a bereavement. Therefore, I couldn’t attend any of them.

I told my friends that I couldn’t come but I felt like they believed I was rejecting their invite because I was being a lousy friend. I remember scrolling on Snapchat and watching my closest friends posting videos of each event while I was at home comforting my recently widowed mother. I couldn’t believe that some of my friends, who knew that my dad just passed away, assumed I couldn’t attend for the sole purpose of just not going. It made me feel terrible, like I was missing out on so many memories.

I was frustrated because I wanted to participate in those parties, I wanted to be in those videos, I wanted to have

I quickly became familiar with common adult terms such as mortgage, life insurance, death certificate, and pension plans. I wanted someone to talk to about these words I kept hearing. I was young but still obligated to understand each concept, or at least I thought I did. For my mother and older siblings, I was too young to know what those words meant, but for my friends, I was too mature.

Another study published as part of the handbook of Grief Counseling and Grief Therapy found that bereaved children who have lost a parent at a young age can experience social withdrawal months after the death.

“I was tired of people's pity for me. I hated the formality of it.“ fun. But I knew it would be a long while until my life would get back to normal.

I remember feeling an enormous amount of guilt because I didn’t want to hold my mother for hours while she cried. I wanted to lock myself up in my room and weep by myself. After all, I lost the only person in my family who I truly connected with.

I remember going to restaurants every Saturday because we both loved trying new cuisines. I remember waking up early together before he had work and I had

It wasn’t always easy to hear those maddening words from friends, teachers, and neighbours: “I’m sorry for your loss.” Hearing those words so frequently can cause detachment issues for a child. Those words reminded me how much no one really understood what I was enduring and reminded me that in fact, I was grieving. I was tired of people’s pity for me. I hated the formality of it.

For weeks, I felt alone. No one really understood the pain I was enduring. I was angry. I hated seeing fathers picking up their kids from school. But I knew I couldn’t

school because we both hated the thought of being late.

I remember when I told him how excited I was for him to meet my children one day and he responded with, “if I would even make it that far.” That sentence broke me because part of me believed it. His health wasn’t always the greatest, but if only I knew the day would come sooner than I thought.

I never wanted my mother to see me cry. I frequently told my sisters to comfort her so I could go to my room. Anyone who has ever lost a parent at a young age would resonate with that bitter hurt that comes with consoling someone while concealing your own pain. It’s not always easy to be strong for others when, on the inside, you can barely breathe.

be angry at them; it wasn’t their fault. I couldn’t blame my friends for their inexperience of losing someone. That was maturity, and I hated it.

Because of that lonely feeling, I had to put on a mask.

A mask so strong that it stayed on until the last year of high school. I obstructed any emotions and continued to fight against any negative feelings. In fact, through that experience, I began to neglect memories of my father.

Years passed by and I couldn’t remember his face or his voice. Why? Because I wanted to fit in. I wanted to be ignorant of life’s abhorrent gifts. I didn’t want to bear the pain of my empty life. I was so alone and though I had my friends and family, I felt like no one really understood what I was feeling.

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I also began to question religion. I wondered why God had taken away my father so soon, and constantly questioned if I had done something to deserve this loss. In their article, Osterweis, Solomon, and Green suggest the use of religious explanations regarding the afterlife has little meaning to children. In Western societies, the concept of the deceased entering heaven is sometimes upsetting to children who hold more concrete inter-

We spent most of our time conversing about feelings that we thought no one would ever understand. And for a minute, I didn’t feel alone anymore.

Until his mother finally passed. There it was again.

He spent most of his time in the hospital with his family, which only made me feel more detached. It was his turn though it felt like mine never ended.

His grieving journey left me so alienated. Suddenly, my whole world was

breadth of my age and beyond what I could handle emotionally. I entered adulthood while in my teenage years and had to teach myself how to navigate this new manner of life.

Since losing one of the only people I looked up to, I have never had a sense of direction or guidance since.

I watched my mother suffer for years and had to experience milestones without one of my parents. I’ve always felt like everyone in my life was

“I entered adulthood while in my teenage years and had to teach myself how to navigate this new manner of life.“ pretations than adults. Studies have found teaching youth about death scientifically is more comforting in the long run, as it clarifies one’s

depopulated. I felt selfish. Watching him suffer hurt me, but only because those feelings of solitude were coming back. I needed someone again.

moving forward and no matter what I did, I was always a step behind. A piece of myself is now buried alongside my father.

misperceptions and misinterpretations. Whereas for adults, religion can bring a sense of security.

Two years later, I met my best friend. Our relationship taught me that the feeling of isolation will always linger regardless of how strong your connection with someone is. We were in our last year of high school.

Our bond was based on the mutual feeling of losing a parent. Mine had died due to complications from what was supposed to be a simple procedure, and his was dying from cancer.

But my someone was hurting and enduring a loss of his own. Neglecting those feelings of grief over the past two years was something I wish I hadn’t done. Those feelings barged back in and came harder than before. This time, I was really grieving.

My journey of grief has taught me many things. One of the hardest truths I’ve had to face was how to survive adolescence as someone who has always felt much older than her other friends. I felt more mature as I took on a responsibility beyond the

The unfortunate reality is that the feeling of isolation will never fade, it will always loiter. Being a fatherless daughter is not easy. Milestones will pass by and each one will be harder than the next. I fear the day of my wedding and the day of my graduation. Those days are the loneliest and they always will be. Whether I’ve improperly grieved or should have turned to therapy, that emptiness can never be removed, only managed.

Like a chronic illness, it’s just something you have to live with.

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Campus in Limbo Hayden Mak

Despite my classes being online, I chose to spend my second year in residence at the University of Toronto Mississauga. I thought it would help me stay motivated and connected to the campus.

But the stark reality soon settled in. Upon setting foot outside my

encountering deer than fellow students.

A campus in isolation is a campus plagued with bright white lights and empty classrooms. One where my feet echo down the halls and everything is black and white, missing the vibrancy of our internation-

3-by-3 metre bedroom, I realized that I had a far greater chance of

al and multicultural student body.

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I Wish This Didn’t Have to Change Duaa Nasir

On May 31, 2021, I, along with the rest of the students at the niversity of Toronto Mississuaga (UTM), received an email from The Bulletin Brief about our upcoming school semester: As Canada ramps up its Covid-19 vaccination campaign, the University of Toronto is busy preparing its three campuses for a safe return to in-person academic instruction this fall.

I’m not sure what sort of a response this provoked in students. Joy? Relief? Excitement? I felt some of this, too—a break from the repetitive cycle of my unchanging life felt like being relieved a burden. I wanted to be happy about this; after all, the goal the entire world has in mind is returning to normal. Now, with vaccines available, that goal is floating within reach. Malls and gyms are re-opening and people are starting to meet up and socialize. I’m not denying the emotional and mental benefits of that.

But I felt a loss at the thought of returning back to a supposedly normal life.

It’s the second week of eleventh grade and I’m heading to the mall with Tharany during our lunch break. Around us, other students head in the same direction. I’m smiling as Tharany and I banter, but something feels wrong. She suddenly grabs my arm—I had almost walked onto the street, right into the path of a turning car. The car honks as it speeds away.

“Are you okay?” Tharany asks. “What were you thinking? Didn’t you see it?”

“I’m fine,” I say, “I wasn’t paying attention. You were saying something about Ms. Davis?”

As she continues—only after giving me a look—I realize I am completely fine. My heart isn’t racing. No signs of an adrenaline rush—even though I almost died.

I focus on what Tharany says as we cross the street,

safely, and I smile and groan where I deem appropriate, but can’t exactly enjoy the conversation. I don’t feel happy.

I feel like there’s a wall between us, something only I am aware of, and it’s keeping me away from her, from the world.

The first week of February in twelfth grade, I sit in a waiting room. A few closed doors over, a psychiatrist, Dr. Butler, and my therapist, Sarah, discuss a potential diagnosis.

“I can’t bring myself to care about anything anymore,” I had said to Dr. Butler. “Everything I feel is on a superficial, surface level, but nothing truly matters—most of the time I can’t even identify what I’m feeling. I can’t focus on my classes. My average has dropped. And I’m so tired, all the time, even after twelve hours of sleep.”

The sound of a door opening breaks me out of my thoughts and Sarah calls me in. After I take a seat in Dr. Butler’s office, she informs me, gently, that she’s diagnosed me with depression.

“I thought I had dysthymia,” I say, referring to the form of depression with supposedly milder symptoms.

Dr. Butler pauses. “No, I think your symptoms are severe enough to be considered Major Depressive Disorder.”

I’m in my first year of university. I take a seat in my lecture hall and bury my face in my hands. It’s only my second lecture—an English course I prefer to my chemistry classes—but I’m tired. I only start unpacking my stuff when the professor pulls up a PowerPoint and begins to speak.

Focus, I tell myself as I come close to zoning out.

Chemistry, my brain argues back. You’re behind in chemistry. And in biology. And math. You’re behind even with a reduced course load. You swore you’d do better this semester.

MM 31

I’ll catch up, I say—the same words I said to myself last week, and the week before. There’s still over a month until exams.

Which means you have another month to go home and throw yourself in bed when you should be working, says my brain. Might as well add English to the list of things you need to catch up on.

I glance at the PowerPoint, which is now on slide seven instead of slide two. There’s no textbook for English and I didn’t make any friends so I can’t ask anyone for notes.

Shit.

The way depression manifests itself is unique for every affected person. Our symptoms vary, as do our coping mechanisms. My primary symptoms were apathy, lack of motivation, anhedonia—a fancy way of saying the inability to feel pleasure—and constant fatigue.

There’s also a disconnection from my environment.

Some people call it dissociation. Others call it emotional numbness, which is what I prefer to use.

Because of this disconnection, it can be difficult for me to predict how certain situations will affect me until they actually happen, so I had no idea what to expect with online learning.

Over the summer, I took two courses, one during each session. The first one was on classical mythology and the second one was on creative non-fiction writing. These did not require much effort on my part, besides attending lectures every week from my bedroom and completing several reading responses. While the experience felt different, it wasn’t in any way bad. I was lucky that my professors were clear on instructions and expectations, and with only a single course to focus on at a time, I did well in both of them.

Then the Fall semester began, and students at UTM began discussing the changes.

“I know a lot of you have been struggling with online learning these past few weeks,” says Professor Allen. “So I’d like to spend the first ten minutes of class giving you a chance to talk and share what’s been going on lately.”

He pauses. “And you can turn your cameras off for this if you want.”

Almost everyone does, including me. The camera

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always feels like an invasion of my privacy, and I hate constantly seeing my face on the screen.

There are a few seconds of silence.

“I know that many of us professors are struggling to teach online,” says Professor Allen. “And some of us are struggling with anxiety and insomnia because of it.”

Professor Allen’s admission makes it easier for others to open up.

“I have anxiety,” a girl shares. “And that was something I often felt on campus because of my coursework. Coming home used to mean getting away from it. But now, without that change in environment, it’s become difficult to cope.”

“I feel like some professors are taking advantage of the situation and giving us more work,” a boy shares. “They also change deadlines without giving us enough of a notice.”

“I’d talk to the cashier every morning when I bought my coffee,” another girl says. “And now, it’s kind of strange not having that opportunity anymore. I know it’s not a big deal but it’s just really lonely now.”

“I’m really starting to hate Zoom,” a boy says, and several students laugh and agree in the chat.

I stay silent throughout the discussion.

It’s not that I hadn’t experienced any of what my classmates shared—excluding the last bit, since most of my professors were very understanding of the situation. However, I found that my experience of online learning was easier when compared to in-person learning.

The lack of commute—which had been a huge source of fatigue—meant that I had an extra three hours each day and was less exhausted. I could attend online workshops without worrying about them ending near rush hour.

I had lectures recorded and available online, which meant that my inability to focus, my restlessness, and my anxiety were no longer barriers to absorbing information and taking notes. I also had more freedom when dealing with my medication’s side effects. I had access to my chosen foods and drinks, and I could sleep or take breaks when I needed to.

But I think the main reason I preferred online school was that I was used to many of the things that people had just begun to feel during the pandemic, due to my neurodiversity, or the variations in my brain.

“I felt that healthy people had entered the world of the

chronically ill,” Lisa Grunwald, a woman with a chronic illness, writes in The Atlantic. “And they even knew to be careful not to complain about it too much, because with the hospitalizations and fatalities climbing, they understood that so many people had it so much worse than they did.”

Learning and interacting on Zoom did not feel so different for me because I always feel disconnected from my environment. The social isolation did not impact me as much because I always feel isolated from my peers. The looming feeling of something not being right wasn’t what separated me from others but rather something that connected me to others.

“Of course I’m thrilled a vaccine is here,” writes Rivka Soloman, another woman with a chronic illness, in Washington Post. “I hope life for most healthy folks will soon get back to normal. Thank goodness. Yet when the rest of the world goes off videoconferencing, those of us who live with health challenges and disabilities may not be able to join back in.”

I am grateful for the supports I’ve received during both online and in-person learning at UTM. They greatly improved my experience and alleviated much of my stress.

I also believe that if there was anything specific I felt I needed to make my experience better, such as extra time to complete assignments, I could negotiate those with my professors or counsellors.

That’s exactly the part where it becomes difficult, though.

Chronic illness does not exist in a vacuum. It impacts every part of your life, even if that is as simple as being too tired to do something and hating yourself because of it.

It can be difficult to pinpoint a specific reason or moment that makes life difficult because your illness is so deeply intertwined with your life that it is almost impossible to separate the two.

When life returns to normal for everyone else, there’s people and places and activities to look forward to. For me, though, it’s about a variation in the way I live my life, because there will always be a looming sense of missing out, or not getting the chance to do enough, or wasting the supposedly best years of my life because I can’t snap out of it.

Part of what people experienced during the pandemic—and are desperate to get away from—is what I will continue to deal with for at least a few years, if not the rest of my life.

After I reread the email from The Bulletin Brief, I wonder how I’ll readjust to in-person learning.

I’ll time block everything in Notion, I decide. I’ll try harder to focus in class. I’ll—I’ll— Sure, my brain says. Sure.

“Chronic illness does not exist in a vacuum. It impacts every part of your life.”

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ANNIE SPRATT/UNSPLASH

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The Grey Divide During Covid-19 Miguel DaSilva

We shuffle them up like a set of old documents relegated to the storage unit. Just important enough not to shred up and discard, but still not worthy of display in our most prominent filing cabinets.

The Covid-19 pandemic was a stark reminder of how we treat our elders. We brushed those statistics off as a consequence of compromised immune systems, chronic illnesses, age, and the general weakness present in an aging body. Our ears perked up when nurses and health-care practitioners were laid up in the ICU, when hospitals were so full of patients that regular health care, surgeries, check-ups, injuries, and emergencies were turned away.

No room at the inn.

It was alarming, and still is, to know that frontliners were dying, and that others were dying because they couldn’t get the care they needed. Still, with the deaths, the high case numbers, and the general fear and anxiety associated with the virus, it wasn’t Covid-19 itself that caused anger. It was the lockdowns.

On March 17, 2020, Ontario Premier Doug Ford declared a State of Emergency in Ontario, and the province-wide shutdown began.

Lockdown policies shuttered businesses, public spaces, libraries, hospices, and old-age homes, penning up elderly folk. Suddenly, everyone’s worlds shrank to the rooms in our homes, the sidewalks we could stroll

on for an hour every day, the grocery stores filled with impersonal masked faces.

Senior citizens were among the hardest hit by Covid-19. The lockdown severed them from their communities. Their sense of belonging—meagre and abused as that belonging already was—was exchanged for exile. So, an entire population of people already swept to the side, already isolated, already vulnerable, were placed in a government-enforced limbo. They were left alone and ill-prepared for months of hyper-isolation without the help of the technology that younger people had access to.

My father’s mother lives in Portugal, in the mountains above a small town called Arcos de Valdevez. Her plot of land is surrounded by grapevines and worn grey stone walls.

Stray cats roam on their soft pads through the bright blue, pink, and yellow wildflowers that bloom in her garden, five feet from the brick house she and her daughter, my aunt, live in. In the morning, the sun breaks across the terraced hills and floods this beautiful but shambled space. At night, the sky turns into a thick black blanket studded with brilliant diamond stars. Inside the house, my grandma sits in front of a small twenty-inch TV, listening to Nacional Journal while she scribbles

Portuguese words into her crossword puzzle book.

I once received a call through Skype, sometime at the height of the second wave in Portugal. On my phone, I saw my grandma and aunt’s pixelated faces lagging and jumping across the screen in unnatural rhythms. They asked me how they could make the quality better. I gave them some options, but they were unsure of how to follow my directions.

Their voices started to crack and then they suddenly froze; a robotic voice rang out and the call dropped.

A combination of little access to a quality internet connection, a lack of technological aptitude, and an unfulfilled desire to connect with the world—beyond her stone walls and stray cats, past the mountains that rise like bars around her home, over the sea that she will never cross— placed my grandmother in isolation.

She sits in front of the TV until she’s too tired to get up and bring herself to bed. She only responds to simple questions, she eats breakfast, lunch, and dinner with a mean, stoic face, then returns to her crossword puzzles. Isolated. Depressed. My father’s family all live in Portugal, not too far away from where they grew up as children. But out of fear of spreading the virus to each other, they no longer hold dinners at the house, and hardly visit her, even just to stand on the dirt road that leads to the front door.

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The digital divide, or the “grey divide,” is used to describe the gaps in access and ability to use new technology. This is not a new issue, but the Covid-19 pandemic has displayed the need for this digital divide to close. Pushing for online interactions was a major player in mitigating the negative effects of “social-distancing” and “self-isolation.”

The government asked Ontarians to hold birthday parties over Zoom calls, for young groups of adults to spend their nights in virtual watch-party rooms bingeing shows together, for in-person mentorship programs and recreational activities to move online. This worked for those with enough technological prowess and intuition, who could easily construct a social network that resembled real-life social connection. They found the pain of social isolation eased through chat rooms, forums, videos, virtual coffee chats, online concerts, and memes they could swap back and forth.

But what were the elderly to do in this situation, already hindered by that gray digital divide? In a study published by Thomas N Friemel from the University of Zurich in Germany, senior citizens aged 65 and older living in Switzerland were interviewed to understand the frequency of their internet use. Only one quarter of the 1103 seniors interviewed used the internet enough to be considered “onliners.” That means roughly three quarters of this group were “offliners.” According to the study, of the offliner group, 60.4 per cent had never used the internet in their lives.

The campaigns pushing for online community building were not meant for our eldest members of society. There were no campaigns asking us to visit our elderly, begging us to keep in contact with the old folk we had in homes.

There were no national thank you’s, kudoo’s or attaboys for them. They were left behind. But not by everybody.

I spoke with the Executive Director of the Ontario Society of Senior Citizens Organizations (OSSCO) Elizabeth Macnab to gain insight on how elderly people coped with the lockdown measures and formed communities amid the pandemic. The OSSCO provides learning programs for senior citizens including computer literacy workshops. In some of their programs, they estimate that over 750 older-adult learners participated.

According to Macnab, these seniors “are not just learning something, they’re building connections.” While it may seem that their family is the only community an

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elderly person has, the truth is that many of them maintain strong connections with the people they live with, especially in retirement homes. Macnab states that a person only needs about five people in their social network to thrive, but that as people get older and lose connections with friends, their social network goes to “a circle of four, then it’s three, then it’s two, then you go, my goodness the person is dying of loneliness and social isolation.”

Macnab also says that during the pandemic she learned that within “the retirement homes, all social activity ended.” Where they were once able to connect with other residents and build the social connections that are essential to any person’s life, they now had no way to socialize. Macnab says that some of the residents they spoke with said “they felt like they were in prison,” and that without some of the programs available through the OSSCO, “they would have no interaction except through the staff for nearly a year.”

The social networks most young people access daily are not the same networks available to senior citizens.

The infrastructure for young people to transplant their ordinary public lives into the virtual world was solidified well before the lockdowns in Ontario affected everyone. There was no infrastructure for the seniors. Their networks were old-fashioned, strictly in person—the odd phone call, the even rarer FaceTime. When the lockdowns forced us inside, we cut off senior citizens from their community.

Specifically, they were cut off from what Macnab calls “casual relationships”—the organic and spontaneous interactions that occur when senior citizens are able to walk over to the coffee shop and see who they might encounter, or when they can come down for dinner from their rooms and chat with friends.

“They want to socialize and contribute to the wellbeing of the group,” said Macnab. Exactly what anyone else wanted to do, from the children that couldn’t go to school anymore, to the business owners that couldn’t open their doors, to the senior citizens that lived quiet lives. Seniors with access to OSSCO’s programs were lucky enough to have an avenue to build connections, but not all seniors were given these same opportunities.

Macnab told me that, “If we are not as a society engaged and living intergenerationally, we won’t succeed.”

Funding and creating opportunities for senior citizens to learn computer literacy, while at the same time building

community, is only the first step. The next step is to remove the barriers to access–such as the financial cost of technology—and develop purpose-built user interfaces and hardware that are accessible and familiar to seniors with and without disabilities.

Without these solutions, our senior citizens suffer from more than just the inability to see their loved ones on a screen. What effect does this have? What do we know about social isolation as it relates to health and wellbeing?

How does social isolation connect with depression and anxiety? And does depression and anxiety lead to more illnesses and disorders?

In a study led by the Danish National Institute of Public Health, researchers conducted an analysis of data on individuals from the U.S. born between 1920 and 1947.

What makes this study interesting and valuable, as related to the grey digital divide and Covid-19, is that it considers two forms of social isolation, both of which are extremely relevant to the handling of province-wide lockdowns.

The first form of social isolation is social disconnectedness. The study defines social disconnectedness as “a scarcity of contact with others.” The second form of social isolation is perceived isolation, which is an individual’s subjective perception of their connection to social networks and personal relationships. Perceived social isolation considers feelings of loneliness, low intimacy with friends or partners, and the idea that there is no support available, regardless of the actual level of social connectedness or the size and participation of their social network.

The researchers of this study found that “social disconnectedness predicted higher amounts of perceived isolation, which in turn predicted higher amounts of depres-

that the healthcare system was not overwhelmed, it is important to note that the government failed to consider how to facilitate social networks in a demographic that thrives on social connections but prefers to maintain them offline.

That’s the crux of the issue. Where Covid-19 exposed all the faults in our flawed social systems. Like a house with a rotten foundation blown down by a sudden hurricane, our society cracked under the weight of a pandemic that was foreseen but not planned for.

Depression on its own is a public health issue for seniors living in isolation from their families and caregivers, but there are added complications that come from depression in the elderly. A study published in the British Journal of Psychiatry found that depression increased the risk of Alzheimer’s disease and cognitive decline among people with more than eight years of education.

There is also evidence that links stress and depression with higher rates of cardiovascular disease. Results from a clinical review of depression and cardiovascular disease, led by researchers from departments of cardiology in Australia and Sweden, showed that there is a causal relationship between depression and cardiovascular disease.

It is the town below those mountains that help my grandmother feel connected. Up there on the mountain side where horses whine on the slopes and clouds meander along the cool breeze, where internet is expensive and hard to access—she’s all alone. She needs the casual conversations sparked up under awnings in front of shops, on the small patios outside of restaurants, in the market where she bought the food, toiletries, and crossword puzzle books she needed for the week. Just like the people here need their trips to Tim Hortons, or the cafeteria, or a

sion and anxiety symptoms.” This echoes the issue that Covid-19 lockdowns brought to our elderly community members. There is a cycle that occurs, a loop that drives old folk deeper into a spiral of social withdrawal.

According to the study, elderly people that think that there are no social supports available to them are more likely to suffer from depression. In Ontario, the government prohibited members of these elder’s social network from going to visit them if they were living in retirement homes or long-term care homes. They were cut off even from close contact with care providers and their friends, and instead saw nurses, doctors, and staff only.

Now, while those lockdowns were necessary to save lives and to ensure

games night to maintain a social network. The lockdown affected everyone across the globe, and it created prisons for many of us, but it was our elderly that might have felt the most trapped by the lockdowns in Ontario.

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The Epidemic of Social Media Belicia Chevolleau

At the height of the pandemic, almost half the world spent 18 hours a day in their homes. Thrust into this foreign world of mandatory masks, physical distancing, and panic, the government ordered us to stay home and away from our friends and colleagues. During the moments we weren’t in online lectures or working, many of us flocked to social media.

“Whether it was out of boredom, to learn from current news, or even to find some comfort in knowing the whole world was having similar experiences, my eyes were glued to the screens,” Jacqueline Le, a U of T Masters of Information student, confessed. This is the reality many shared.

A study by Uswitch revealed Americans spent more than 1,300 hours on social media last year. As a consequence of the lockdowns which began in March 2020, monthly active social media users grew across all social media platforms.

The allure of social media lies in its ability to distract us from our own reality. App creators continually try to reel us in and keep our attention on the app; sending push notifications with updates we missed or live streams we need to check out.

In my own life, I tried to resist. Yet, little by little, as job rejections piled up and idleness increased, I soon gave in to social media’s tug. As the pandemic waged on, social media—the epicenter for virtual connection—transformed into a source of isolation. In the same place I sought solace, isolation of a different variety spawned.

I sat down with three university students, one masters student, and two recent grads I met during my undergrad or through social media during quarantine to hear their own social media stories. During our conversations, I asked how their social media usage affected them during the lockdowns. Their responses can be described in four symptoms of excessive social media use.

Symptom 1: Loss of connection “Something as simple as reacting to a story sparked a conversation,” says Trisha Tolentino, a third-year anthropology student from UTM. During the pandemic, she made efforts to reach out to people she didn’t normally communicate with.

Tolentino notes how nice it was talking to her peers, even briefly, but that it seldom led to long-lasting friendships. She attributes this unfulfilled desire to her loneliness.

Tolentino detailed her waning friendships too. “I personally felt I wasn’t as close to my friends as before. I feel like we were growing apart without realizing or wanting to until we just stopped talking.”

Like many students, Josh Cooper, a business student at the University of Michigan, was forced to migrate back home to Ohio for the remainder of the school year. Although he lived with his parents and little brother, Cooper still sought connection from people outside his immediate family. But when he didn’t receive messages from friends, loneliness took over.

“Sometimes I feel like I have nothing else to do but wait for someone to message me,” he said.

Similar to Cooper and Tolentino, my friendships morphed as well. In the beginning, my phone blew up with notifications, so much so that my parents and siblings commented on how I texted excessively during dinnertime.

As the pandemic progressed, my energy diminished. By the second lockdown in Ontario, conversations went stale, resulting in back-and-forth small talk with little meaning: “What’s up?”

“Nothing much, you?”

“Nothing much.”

Yet conversations forcefully continued, stirring up a deep frustration within me, and a hunt for a deeper connection.

In a world where social isolation is an epidemic, face-toface contact “is like a vaccine,” says Susan Pinker, a psychologist on on TED Radio Hour from NPR. Face-to-face contact is proven to produce richer conversations along with a plethora of other benefits, including better mental health, a healthier brain, comfort, and a sense of belonging. Still, the measures we took to mitigate the pandemic forced us to forgo faceto-face social interaction and tore some friendships apart.

Although communication can happen through social media, the break from the “real world” removes us from the environments where some relationships thrive.

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Symptom 2: Social media fatigue Users flock to social media to escape their reality, but instead, they are bombarded with images that further remind them of their present situation.

Social media fatigue is a phenomenon where users overloaded from excessive exposure to social media content desire to withdraw from their screens. Out of the six people I interviewed, five revealed they cut down on their social media usage and four even took time off the platforms.

A huge contributor to social fatigue during the pandemic was the news. News about the virus was not exclusively shared through newspapers and news channels—information also spread on social media.

Some refer to the Covid-19 pandemic as the first social media infodemic.

Social media is a channel to disseminate information, but unlike traditional journalism, users don’t need to include their sources, conduct research, or abide by journalistic ethics. As such, misinformation can easily spread especially with the shareability of some social media posts. Consequently, social media sites like Instagram began posting disclaimers alongside any mention of “Covid-19” to combat misinformation.

The onslaught of news about the pandemic festered panic and anxiety. “The news was everywhere. I remember I stopped watching news channels because I was trying to avoid all this Covid stuff. Then you hop on Instagram and it’s the same

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thing. You hop on TikTok and it’s the same thing,” comments Maya Ramsammy, one of my interviewees and a registered nurse at a long-term care staffing agency called Plan A. She graduated from Humber College in 2020 and immediately started working. As someone who works closely with Covid-19 patients, Ramsammy expresses how constantly seeing pandemic news on social media was distressing. Most of all, seeing her place of work making headlines made going to work harder.

Ramsammy mentions an onset of depression that made her avoid social media and even delete all social media apps off her phone. To distract herself from the abundance of news seeping onto social media, she took up more shifts at long-term care centres and other places. “It wasn’t even the money. I just couldn’t stay home all day after sitting at home for so long. I felt happy to be a nurse and helping people.”

As Tolentino explains, “You come to social media for fun.

Your first thought is not to spread

the news.” Social media used to be a place for frivolous fun: a place to share updates on life and share posts you relate to. In the past, most of our news came through news channels or newspapers. Now, the prevalence of news at all hours of the day on all platforms contributes to the mental strain experienced by users.

Similar to how my safe space, my bedroom, became an all-purpose hub for school, work, and pleasure where no boundaries existed, the absence of separation on social media created exhaustion and mentally-taxed users.

The barrage of images regarding social injustice on social media evoked conflicting feelings among viewers, some expressed how overwhelmed and lost they felt waking up to news of police brutality, anti-blackness, Asian hate, and other social injustice issues on their feed. The younger generation especially led the fight against social injustice, but new issues appeared frequently. As much as Tolentino wanted to help, there were so many causes going around that she felt hopeless.

“Social media used to be a place for frivolous fun.”

Social media fatigue caused me to withdraw from friends and social media too, but not completely. The social media management part of my business and work at The Medium operated almost completely through social media, so even though I took ‘breaks,’ I could never truly separate from the platforms. I made some changes, such as turning off notifications and making a habit not to touch my phone immediately after waking up. I felt more productive, less dependent on other people, and happier. I liked the space and the ability to disconnect as needed without repercussions.

Symptom 3: FOMO “Instagram is the highlight reel of people’s lives. Other social media is a little more balanced where people will share other things, but Instagram isn’t like that,” Tara Monfaredi tells me.

Monfaredi, a recent University of Toronto Mississauga (UTM) graduate, went from being busy to unemployed and out of school. Pre-pandemic, Monfaredi worked part-time at a restaurant. However, when the restaurant went bankrupt, she was jobless. Her days, typically divided between work, school, and socializing, were replaced by job hunting and endless work, school, and socializing, were replaced by job hunting and endless scrolling.

The superficiality of social media, and especially Instagram, induced a “fear of missing out,” otherwise known as “FOMO,” among many people including myself.

FOMO is a form of social anxiety caused by the belief others are having fun without you. This phenomenon preys on your desire for connection and can lead to extreme dissatisfaction, diminished self-esteem, increased depression, and loneliness.

Monfaredi speaks about a documentary she watched called Fake Famous, which covers social media during the pandemic. In the film, the directors highlight celebrities and influencers who still posted pictures of themselves going all over the world—exempt from travel bans—eating in restaurants, doing photoshoots, and continuing their lives as normal. Meanwhile, people died from Covid-19, businesses went bankrupt, and students struggled to find work.

Social media exacerbates loneliness by presenting images of what we are missing out on. Even throughout the pandemic, some users acted as if the pandemic did not

“FOMO is a form of social anxiety caused by the belief others are having fun without you.” exist, continuing to hang out with their friends and parting.

Influencers like Kylie Jenner came under fire for hosting lavish parties amidst Covid-19 restrictions as if the restrictions did not apply to influencers and celebrities.

Being presented with images that don’t align with her reality prompted Ramsammy’s decrease in social media usage: “I actually started to use it less often. The pandemic is obviously worldwide, but you see people having fun and living their life and you can’t really do anything.”

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“We go to social media to cure boredom, but instead, we are reminded that we are alone.”

Even with loosening restrictions, as a nursing student placed in Covid-19 units, Ramsammy struggled to connect with her non-nursing friends. “When things actually eased up, a lot of people didn’t want to go out with me because, obviously, I was working with Covid-19 patients.” Our first responders and medical workers are an integral part of fighting against the pandemic, yet the people working their hardest to support those most affected by the pandemic have fewer opportunities to socialize with friends.

FOMO is not exclusively for “fun” activities. We can also feel like we’re missing out when seeing posts about people’s biggest achievements: how they overcame adversity, secured new jobs, maintained high GPAs, and got accepted into graduate programs.

At times, I felt inadequate, like my four years of undergraduate studies and the tens of thousands of dollars in tuition served no purpose.

No matter the platform, whether it is Instagram or LinkedIn, there were always people the same age, or even younger, doing things I could only dream about. In those moments, imposter syndrome tugged the hardest. My mental health teetered on the edge.

Social media is a house of illusions. Although we may see others living seemingly happy and free lives, we all have experiences we omit behind the screens, creating distorted perspectives of each other. Easy access to people’s performed lives allows us to easily judge ourselves and

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others. It instills the constant need to compare.

Symptom 4: Poor mental health The University of Pittsburgh reported that teens who frequently check and heavily use social media are three times more likely to feel socially isolated. We go to social media to cure boredom, but instead, we are reminded that we are alone. Social comparison leads to psychological distress.

A longitudinal study conducted by Italian psychology and social science professors revealed higher rates of distress post-quarantine.

These apps provided endless opportunities for scrolling, making it easy to get lost in content or messaging people online.

“We couldn’t see each other face-to-face so we had to make do with our situations,” Jacqueline Le says. Pursuing her master’s and working as a library assistant, the shutdown forced Le to work and study at home. “But after a few months of staying up until 4 a.m. playing video games, sleeping in past noon, and spending the rest of the day scrolling through TikTok, it was making my mental health terrible.”

After going down a spiral of social media, Le felt sluggish, lazy, and demotivated. However, after a while, she made the conscious decision to change. “I’ve been taking

phone and computer breaks and removing links and apps to stay away from being online. I only check when it’s necessary and I do my best to keep distracted with chores or reading books to reduce screen time.”

Gladys Lou, a third-year art & art history student at UTM, also described the adverse side effects of staying indoors. She admitted to feeling “frustrated and trapped” when sitting in her house too long, even though she connects with friends on social media. To get out of her stupor she went on walks.

Going outside, however, was a luxury in Ontario’s first lockdown. Ramsammy reminded me that the government shut down all parks and nature spots and restricted travel to essential-only trips. Although transmission was relatively low outdoors, the panic-mongering led to the closure of these peaceful spots.

Not only does time outside fill us with vitamin D, but nature also alleviates anxiety and stress. In-person socialization works similarly. Humans need connection.

Socialization is the foundation of a happy, healthy life.

Socialization wards off feelings of loneliness, a contributor to poor mental health and unhappiness. Covid-19 not only affected people’s bodies, but it messed with their mental state, even if they never were physically infected with the virus.

As Tolentino pointed out, “social media isn’t a substitute for actual socializing.” It simply acts as an alternative method to socialize. “You can talk to people, but it is not the

spiteful of the moment of isolation and loneliness, I am grateful for the opportunity isolation afforded; it stripped me of the superficial and robed me with the reminder of who I am. Perhaps, after much reflection, my issue was never with social media, but rather with the change isolation invoked.

It took my sickness with social media to realize focusing on myself was the cure.

“Social media isn’t a substitute for actual socializing.”

same as meeting them in person.” She describes the experience of the loosening restrictions as glaringly different compared to the time she spent video calling or messaging her friends on social. At the end of the day, as Tolentino puts it, “you are still alone even when talking” on social media.

So, we log off and feel more isolated than before. It’s a continuous cycle of isolation perpetuated by an unexpected virus.

Nevertheless, social media is not the complete antagonist I wanted it to be. Social media and I remain in a committed, complicated relationship. In some ways, it drew me closer to people I may never have known otherwise—such as the interviewees in this article—and in other ways, it amplified the non-substantial friendships I held on to. Though

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You’re More Creative Than You Think Ricardo Jaroslav Valdes The start of summer 2020 was a bumpy one for me. Two months of online school and ten pounds later, I was finally free. Since everything was closed and we were forced to isolate, I figured I’d have time to do the one thing I’d always wished I could do: nothing.

I watched popular Netflix shows like Tiger King, played video games such as Call of Duty: Warzone, and scrolled through endless TikTok videos—even though I promised myself I wouldn’t download the app.

Doing nothing felt great for the first couple of days, but eventually, I became extremely bored. Depression crept up on me. I couldn’t sleep or remember things.

Not to mention, my lack of physical activity was slowly turning my double chin into a triple chin.

Indeed, those can be the symptoms of loneliness due to isolation. Studies show that loneliness can have serious health impacts on our physical, mental, and cognitive health. Depression, poor sleep quality, and lack of memory barely scratch the surface. Social isolation poses a higher threat to our health than obesity, and similar health risks as smoking 15 cigarettes a day. Isolation even decreases overall life expectancy.

I spent a lot of time on social media to keep my mind busy. Story after story, and post after post, I noticed that my peers were going through similar experiences as me, but not everyone was on the same page. While I was leaving a permanent body-sized dent in my couch, others were announcing their newly established small businesses. Among them were custom cakes and confections, and stitched canvas businesses.

“I went from having a really busy life to having my schedule completely empty,” says Tanya Manchanda, a University of Toronto Mississauga (UTM) alumna and recent Harvard University graduate.

In March 2020, Manchanda was accepted into Harvard University for a Master’s of Human Development and Psychology. She was working three jobs to pay off her UTM tuition and save up for Harvard. But when the pandemic erupted, she lost all of her jobs. “I didn’t know if I could accept [Harvard’s] offer because I had no

source of income,” she explains.

Like everyone else, Manchanda’s schedule freed up.

At first, she felt unfulfilled, tired, and lonely. She filled her schedule with a lot of walks and physical exercise, but even that turned monotonous. Luckily, her dad’s 50th birthday was around the corner—an event that had been in the works for months.

“We had planned a huge surprise birthday party for him [with] a really big cake,” recalls Manchanda.

Originally, her family wanted to buy her dad a custom cake from a close friend, but they were fully booked.

“I [couldn’t] find anyone to make a custom cake for my dad. I [thought] ‘let me try to make one for him,’ because I’ve been baking ever since I can remember. I love baking.”

Manchanda’s first custom cake was a success. She received an overwhelming wave of support from her friends and family—so much so, she reasoned, “maybe I can make cakes and cupcakes and try to run a small business.” And she did just that.

In May 2020, Manchanda launched Dessertly (@dessertly_ on Instagram), a custom cakes and confections business. The business grew exponentially, garnering customers from all over the Greater Toronto Area. With her sudden influx of income, Manchanda accepted her offer at Harvard University shortly after her business launched.

Dessertly’s origin story made me wonder: could isolation lead to any positive outcomes?

We can certainly ask Shakespeare, who wrote King Lear, Macbeth, and Anthony and Cleopatra while he was isolated during the plague of 1606. Or Sir Isaac Newton, who came up with his theory of gravity and laws of motion while quarantined in 1665. Perhaps we’d like to ask Mary Shelley, who wrote Frankenstein in 1816 due to a massive volcano eruption in Mount Tambora, Indonesia that kept her limited to the four walls of her home. These highly skilled creatives had one thing in common: their productivity came as a result of their loneliness. But why?

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Researchers at McGill University may have the answer to that question. In 2020, they published a study in Nature Communications that investigated how our brains change during isolation. Researchers took magnetic resonance imaging (MRI) data, genetics, and psychological self-assessments of 40,000 participants from the UK Biobank—an open-access database available to health scientists around the world. McGill’s scientists compared the MRI data of participants who frequently felt lonely with those who didn’t. Nathan Spreng, the lead author of the study, and his colleagues found that the default networks in the brain—regions responsible for memory and cognition—were stronger in lonely individuals. They also found an intriguing result: regions of the brain responsible for imagination were “stronger.”

“In the absence of desired social experiences, lonely individuals may be biased towards internally directed [thoughts],” concludes Spreng. These internally directed thoughts include reminiscing, thinking about the future, or imagining desired social exchanges. In other words, being lonely makes us incredibly creative.

Manchanda’s desire to attend Harvard University was strong. Her lack of income and lingering tuition fees forced her to come up with a creative solution amidst uncertain times—and that’s when Dessertly was born.

Dr. Simone Walker, a psychology sessional lecturer at UTM, states that “some individuals are better at

“Being lonely makes us incredibly creative.”

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[preventing] the negative outcomes” that come with uncertainty. She teaches PSY324: The Science of WellBeing, a course that explores the determinants of happiness from an interdisciplinary perspective.

According to Dr. Walker, uncertainty challenges and interferes with our ability to satisfy our basic needs. For that reason, humans can’t tolerate uncertainty. But what do our basic needs consist of, and how do we satisfy them?

The answer is more complex than we think. Wellbeing is defined in many avenues. Some experts see well-being as acquiring the things we desire in life: education, financial stability, good health and relationships, a new laptop, or even a new car. Others see well-being in terms of fundamental needs to survive, like food, water, and shelter. But humans also have psychological needs: “A need to feel that you’re good at the things you do, a need for competence, a sense of mastery,” explains Dr. Walker.

As Manchanda began her studies at Harvard University from home, she struggled with balancing her online orders and her courses. “I took summer school at Harvard before starting my actual year,” she recalls.

“If more people took the time to step outside of themselves... the world would be a better place.”

“That’s when I started noticing everything getting harder.

But it was good practice because I was only taking one course, so I still had time for my orders.”

Manchanda runs Dessertly on her own. She creates Instagram posts, bakes custom cakes, packages orders, and sometimes, delivers them too. Once the orders started stacking up, her family stepped in and helped her out with the business operations. Her mom helped with groceries, baking, and decorating, while her dad and brother helped with deliveries. Manchanda realized that, once her school picked up pace the following fall, she would need to improve her time management skills—especially for time-sensitive orders like engagement cakes.

“You can’t just call them and be like ‘I’m so sorry. You needed an engagement cake, but I can’t make it anymore,’” chuckles Manchanda. Fortunately, time-sensitive orders were scheduled ahead of time, giving her plenty of days to prepare. “I was working hard, and people were actually liking what I was making. That led to this feeling of fulfillment. I felt better about myself.”

Now you see; measuring well-being

is simple, yet complex. Experts consider how well, and to what extent, we can satisfy our needs. That is, how much autonomy we feel, how positive our relationships and interactions are, and how our environments allow us to make choices and express ourselves through creative means.

Olivia Kabelin, a journalism and law student at Carleton University, certainly agrees: “I truly believe that if more people took the time to step outside of themselves and practiced being present while tapping into their creativity, the world would be a better place,” she states.

At the beginning of the pandemic, Kabelin lost all her jobs and struggled with severe anxiety and frequent panic attacks. Since high school, she had never gone more than a month without employment. Jobs gave Kabelin a sense of routine. A lack of them made her feel lost, isolated, and nothing like herself—not to mention, she missed spending time with her friends and family.

Like me, Kabelin spent hours scrolling through TikTok. She found a video demonstrating the process of making stitched canvases, and that’s when a brilliant idea came to her. “I thought it would be fun to try making one myself for my sister’s birthday. I ended up making her three canvases and fell in love with the craft,” recalls Kabelin.

“The first day I tried canvas stitching, I knew I had found exactly what I needed during [that] dark time—a sense of purpose.”

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The question now becomes: is creativity a means to well-being when facing a crisis such as the Covid-19 pandemic?

In 2021, researchers at the University of Applied Management in Germany, the University of Nebraska in the U.S., and the Chinese Academy of Science in China published a joint study in Frontiers in Psychology that explored how creativity can bring well-being in times of uncertainty.

They surveyed more than 1,400 participants from Germany, China, and the U.S. on how the Covid-19 pandemic impacted their daily and professional lives. Researchers found that isolation from the pandemic was positively related to engagement in the creative process and an increase in creative growth.

Min Tang, the lead author of the study, concluded that those who prioritize the needs of others before their own demonstrated a great ability to cope using creativity. In other words, the desire to help others through creative means in times of crises positively impacts our mental health and boosts how socially connected we feel.

“By engaging in creative activities, [individuals] harness and amplify their positive feelings about themselves (e.g., perceived growth), which will subsequently improve resilience and well-being,” writes Tang. Ultimately, creativity offers a sense of purpose.

In July 2020, Kabelin founded her small business OK Created (@ok.created on Instagram and TikTok). Short for Olivia Kabelin

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Created, the business sells and creates hand painted and stitched canvases. At first, Kabelin wasn’t sure whether she would stick to stitched canvases; her business started by selling hand-painted clay pots with candles. She chose a name that would work for all her artistic creations but has since decided to stick to stitched canvases.

Kabelin has stitched simple designs like a scarlet rose, to elaborate ones like Lord Ganesh, the Hindu God of beginnings. Design

ideas come from her own imagination or may be requested by her customers. “Creating art for my loved ones and helping bring [my customers’] artistic vision to life filled me with elation in a way I hadn’t felt before,” describes Kabelin.

OK Created also gained traction quickly. Kabelin received orders internationally, shipping to U.S. states such as Texas, California, Pennsylvania, and Arizona—as well as overseas countries like Portugal. As the waitlist grew, she had to come up with an efficient

way to meet her customers’ high demand. So, she created DIY stitched canvas kits.

“My goal is to enable my customers to both receive their artwork quicker than I’m able to create it for them, and to inspire [their] desire to create,” adds Kabelin. “My current goals include selling my stitched canvas kits on my new website.”

Creativity benefits our mental health in many ways. When we are in lockdown and unable to engage in our usual routines and habits—such as participating in leisure activities with our friends— our well-being and basic needs are sabotaged.

“Individuals who are resilient are those who respond to those infringements on basic needs without despair and discouragement, but rather an increased motivation to satisfy those needs. That’s what can drive creativity,” explains Dr. Walker.

If you’re like me, you’re probably comparing yourself to Manchanda, Kabelin, or any other small business owner who were productive with their time during the pandemic, wondering why you didn’t channel your creativity to the same extent. Can watching Netflix shows, playing video games, and scrolling through social media be considered a “hidden skill”? Because if so, I’d like to sign up for an Instagram business account as well.

But is creativity defined by just artistic means or starting new businesses?

Certainly not. Don’t compare yourself just yet—or ever, please— because creativity, like well-being, also has different definitions.

In the third edition of Human Motivation, Robert E. Franken defines creativity as “the tendency to generate or recognize ideas, alternatives, or possibilities that may be useful in solving problems, communicating with others, and entertaining ourselves and others.” In other words, creativity isn’t necessarily tied to writing novels, baking, or arts and crafts—it’s bigger than that. Let me give you an example.

After being exhausted from watching movies and playing video games, I noticed that I hadn’t talked to anyone outside my household—only the few “crazy times we’re living in, huh?” text messages here and there. In reality, I was only staying connected to others through social media. Learning about business start-ups like Dessertly and OK Created made me wonder: what hidden talents do I have up my sleeve?

Turns out, very few. I’m not good at cooking, baking, drawing, or singing (my family can vouch for that last one). I had exhausted all my creative outlets, or so I thought. Weeks later, a couple of friends that I hadn’t talked to in a while reached out. They wanted to catch up over a hike at Bronte Creek Provincial Park, something I hadn’t thought of doing. The hike was amazing. Being outdoors, hearing birds chirping, smelling the fresh dew—all of it felt right, despite being socially distanced. Hikes became predominant to my quarantine routine, followed by mountain biking. I had found a creative way to pedal my pounds off while keeping my social life afloat, and eventually, my mental health replenished.

Small businesses like Dessertly and OK Created inspired me to find creative ways to feed my basic needs of social interactions and staying fit. Similar to Manchanda and Kabelin, creativity helped me get a grip in an unstable and uncertain world. The best part? I didn’t have to learn anything new. Rather, I creatively adapted the skills I already had into my routine.

“Being a creative person can allow you to satisfy some basic needs that contribute to well-being,” explains Dr. Walker. “In some cases, it’s not to return

to our levels of functioning pre-adversity, but to surpass that and transform our lives and ourselves in a positive way.”

Isolation allowed for a lot of self-reflection and introspection about our lives. It made us question ourselves, but it also molded our personalities. Simply put, isolation made us resilient. Manchanda found creative ways to stay on top of her orders once she started her master’s at Harvard University. Kabelin designed a website to sell her DIY stitched canvases to satisfy customer demand. I found a passion for mountain biking and hiking nature trails. You may have found creative ways to maintain your sanity, such as staying fit, connecting with others, or simply being busy.

One thing is for certain: we may not have started an Instagram business out of boredom, but we were still creative.

We were still able to grow, conquer our minds, and take care of ourselves.

And we should be proud, we made it this far. That is the beauty of isolation—adaptation.

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A Car Headed for a Cliff? Health Care in Rural and Northern Ontario.

Elizabeth Provost

Context In Ontario, 90 per cent of the population resides within 160 kilometres of the American border. The remaining ten per cent of the province’s population, 1.46 million individuals, experience drastically different living environments. Differences between rural and urban health systems exacerbate inequalities and render it difficult to access care in Northern and rural Ontario.

Shirley Roebuck, a nurse from rural Ontario, works in a small hospital in Wallaceburg. In a collection of research, data, and stories about rural healthcare systems from the Ontario Health Coalition, Roebuck describes the “disregard exhibited by our political leaders as well as the healthcare leaders” as the reason for small community hospitals closing their doors.

Rural hospitals, with resources and services compromised, are struggling to serve their communities. Roebuck affirms that rural hospitals can become vibrant again with just a fraction of the services offered in urban centres. Enough budget cuts for rural centres, she demands. “As a nurse, I see every day how budget cuts have downloaded costs and stress onto patients and their families who struggle to travel further for care or go without, putting their

health in jeopardy.” Rural communities are characterized by low population densities and large distances between town centres. Limited land and air travel due to road and weather conditions makes access to basic health care a challenge.

“The silence is heart-rending.

Rooms that once offered sanctuary to the sick and halls that once resounded to the echo of busy feet are now filled with overflowing boxes and sundry equipment,” describes Kathleen Tod in the same report as Roebuck. Tod served as hospital administrator at Burk’s Falls and District Health Centre which recently closed after 61 years of serving the community. Her steps echo in the empty hospital halls. The local community of 7,000 in North Muskoka is advised that all lost services can now be “easily obtained” at three area hospitals—all 45 minutes to an hour away.

The Ontario landscape needs attention. “We are Ontarians, urban and rural. We are citizens, taxpayers and we are voters. We deserve the same respect and dignity, and access to care, whether we live in the countryside or in a city,” says Roebuck. Those in urban centres have the privilege of quick access to family doctors, ambulatory services, and special testing, while rural

Ontarians struggle to book appointments, or get to the hospital in time.

Empty, dimly lit halls. Hospital beds with stale sheets. Mothers delivering their newborns hundreds of kilometres from their family.

Physicians overworked and overburdened. A healthcare system in dire need of governmental and community support. Patients travelling across treacherous landscapes to reach services. A population stripped of years alive. An urgent need for change.

In 2009, the Institute for Clinical Evaluative Sciences reported that 185 Northern Ontario communities of 30,000 or fewer residents required more than 30 minutes of travel by car to reach an emergency department, and 55 communities, 27 of which are remote, had no access within 60 minutes. 68 communities required 30 minutes of travel to reach any source of primary care— the first point of access to health-care services for any health-related problems or needs such as a family doctor or walk-in clinics.

This staggering statistic means rural and remote Northern communities face avoidable premature deaths, compromised treatment courses, and poorer population health, as individuals struggle to access the most basic of health-care services.

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What determines the disparities?

Numerous factors play a role in creating or exacerbating disparities that lead to isolation from proper healthcare services. Such factors include the geographical distribution of communities; other social determinants of health; socioeconomic, cultural, and language differences; and available medical personnel, support, and technology—all of which result in poorer population health.

Health equity involves much more than just health care—it also encompasses the social determinants of health. The World Health Organization defines the social determinants of health as “non-medical factors that influence health outcomes. They are the conditions in which people are born, grow, work, live, and age, and the wider set of forces and systems shaping the conditions of daily life.”

In an interview, Dr. Kate Mulligan of the University of Toronto’s Dalla Lana School of Public Health tells me, “In the North, culturally safe health care is vital. If people won’t come for health care, they won’t be healthy—no matter how fancy your technology is, or how many physicians you have.”

Bias, exclusion, and racism in health care directed at marginalized Indigenous communities of the North have warranted mistrust. Colonial artifacts such as residential schools, “Indian Hospitals,” and the Indian Act have compromised Indigenous Peoples’ sense of safety when receiving care.

In an interview, University of Toronto St. George Human Biology and Health Studies professor Leanne De Souza-Kenney shares with me that “we know for certain that communication and building of trust between physicians or providers and their patients is critical and takes some time.” In Indigenous communities, building that trust involves being culturally sensitive, aware, and receptive to the fact that these communities often devise their own infrastructure of health based on cultural traditions of care.

Professor De Souza-Kenney says that practitioners must take on a holistic approach to assess individuals— instead of just considering the symptoms presented. “It’s about the whole person, where they work, live, grow, eat, play—all these things are important and factor into

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their ultimate care and their receptivity to the feedback of that physician,” she explains.

For many Indigenous and minority communities, the ability for healthcare groups to understand the health barriers that affect their symptoms, and subsequently offer a culturally sensitive diagnosis, is vital to their desire to apply and access care. Culturally sensitive care reflects the patient’s cultures, values, and beliefs, and influences the provider-to-patient relationship.

The needed reform When applying the changes required to improve Indigenous health, it is paramount to support the health-related recommendations of the Truth and Reconciliation Commission of Canada, and the National Inquiry into Missing and Murdered Indigenous Women and Girls.

The Truth and Reconciliation Commission of Canada aims to educate and foster dialogue between Canadians on the profound injustices faced by First Nations, Inuit, and the Métis Peoples. The Commission prioritizes education as one of their recommendations. Addressing inequities requires a new generation of Canadians with an unbiased and informed understanding of Indigenous Peoples, their communities, and their practices.

Self-organized community programs—such as the Ontario Telemedicine Network, the Sioux Lookout First Nations Health Authority, and other rural health hubs— have developed to address the disparities in social and economic determinants of health, the cultural nuances of the North, and the acute health care needs. Yet, despite many efforts, poor access to health-care services persists.

In her essay “Issues Affecting Access to Health Services in Northern, Rural and Remote Regions of Canada,” Professor Annette Brown from the University of British Columbia writes: Reform involves three broad initiatives: developing more cost appropriate ways of delivering health care, a shift to community-based versus hospital-based care, and an increased focus on the social determinants of health including the health effects of poverty and powerlessness.

Primary care as a pillar for health has been eroded by decades of cost-cutting and a health system focused on acute care—a type of care that is not designed to

address chronic, complex illness, mental health issues or addictions, but only deals with health issues once they can no longer be ignored.

Rural-specific concerns Beyond the role that physicians play in addressing inequalities, Canadians must be sensitive to the lived experiences of others. When completing their education, signing up for a course, or listening to a podcast episode, it is important to reflect on capacity building—the investment in the effectiveness and future sustainability of Canada. Professor De Souza-Kenney explains that we must ask “how can we be equitable, not equal—because some people need more than others.”

Additionally, without the knowledge, training, and capacity to address the social determinants of health, “we are putting out fires instead of getting in front of them,” tells me Professor De Souza-Kenney.

When conducting her research, Dr. Amanda Sheppard of the University of Toronto’s Dalla Lana School of Public Health, concluded that “women in remote communities couldn’t access mammography [services] to the same extent as other women in the province who were also age-eligible.” In response to Dr. Sheppard and her colleague’s work, new initiatives and programs were created to account for the lack of access.

The government must provide health-care services in all communities, but “they’re not in the business of knowing how to do that well,” Dr. Sheppard explains to me.

Governmental entities have fallen short, and continue to do so, by not building relationships with communities and asking those on the frontlines what health care should look like. According to Dr. Sheppard, we can assume that communities would prefer to “have control of the healthcare dollars that are meant for their peoples.”

The politics of healthcare Very little has changed at the hands of the provincial government regarding access to health-care services in Northern and rural Ontario.

Local communities have empowered themselves to take better control of their own health and well-being.

Although regrettable to have been forced into such a position, out of necessity came invention, solidarity, new ideas, and community governance.

“NGOs, non-profits, and other groups are making it work with very little funding […] and they will continue to do so, but if our government can step up, then they can do more,” says Professor De SouzaKenney. Health policy is important when it comes to public and global health. However, a constraint on the relationship is that “science has a different timeline than policy.”

The Covid-19 pandemic has made it evident that “policy makers need their answer now, and science takes some time to double check and confirm,” adds Professor De SouzaKenney. Implementing health policy training for students in various fields could aid in creating a clear line of communication between science

and governance, while welcoming the perspective of others.

In January 2021, the Northern Ontario School of Medicine Physician Workforce Strategy publicized that a minimum of 313 fulltime physicians across Northern Ontario were needed to fulfill the health care needs of the Northern community.

However, Dr. Sarah Newbery, Inaugural Assistant Dean of Physician Workforce Strategy, and rural generalist family physician for 25 years in Marathon, Ontario, tells me that it’s “not as simple as making it mandatory that physicians go and work in in rural northern settings.”

She explains that the safety and success of the physician may be compromised if they haven’t prepared and trained to work in a rural or remote environment.

This is the case because of the breadth of care required from physicians practising in rural and Northern communities. Dr. Newbery shares that family physicians in rural regions “work part of their time in the office, part of their time in the emergency department, and part of their time providing procedural and inpatient care in the hospital.”

For a physician that has not been trained in handling and managing a wide range of care, this situation can be challenging, and to take it on without training is not fair to the clinician or the community.

Unfortunately, maintaining the skillset needed to provide a wide breadth of care is not the only stressor for physicians of the North.

Delivery of care in low-resource settings—settings lacking specialist and technological support—compared

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to high-resource settings is a challenge, limiting the care available to individuals in those communities.

The Northern Ontario School of Medicine The Northern Ontario School of Medicine (NOSM), with campuses in both Sudbury and Thunder Bay, is one of the few medical schools in the world with an explicit social accountability mandate aimed at improving the health and well-being of people in its service region. The NOSM has become the primary source of doctors for Northern Ontario. The institution’s curriculum and mission produce a skilled and diverse medical workforce with appropriate and crucial cultural and linguistic competencies that allow for understanding of rural and Northern Ontarians and their medical needs.

NOSM’s social accountability mandate focuses on 3 populations: rural populations, Indigenous populations, and Francophone populations.

At the undergraduate level, NOSM offers a case-based learning approach to its curriculum, with cases set within Northern contexts and populations. So, from the start, the focus is on the context in which patient encounters and cases occur.

Dr. Newbery emphasizes that “rural exposure during medical training increases the chances that a learner will subsequently choose rural practice.”

The institution also offers learners a ‘Rural Generalist Pathway’ meant to “enrich the support that we provide to learners and create a cohesive pathway from high school to practice for

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those learners who want to become rural generalists.” The social determinants of health, particularly geography and poverty, “mean that rural clinicians in Northern Ontario often have to manage locally, a much higher complexity of patients,” explains Dr. Newbery, “and the training and education learners receive must support them to manage that complexity.

The NOSM 2025 Challenge strategic plan focuses on the transformation of health human resources, health education delivery, and research.

For example, in addition to the Rural Generalist Pathway, NOSM will offer Francophone and Indigenous Health and Wellness Pathways. This supportive education for those interested in learning how to better serve their populations will allow for the delivery of primary care across the urban-rural continuum.

Physicians of the North Besides the stress imposed by the breadth of care required from rural and Northern physicians, urban practise is also more attractive because of the perceived greater viability of a family, personal life, employment, and development in a large city centre, as well as greater professional supports.

Dr. Newbery emphasizes that “it’s not so much that [physicians] are avoiding the North, but the same attractors don’t exist.”

However, some efforts have been made to help with the perceptions of working in the North. Prior to Covid-19, physicians were seldom able to access educational conferences due to the difficulty to schedule time off. The pandemic has introduced

opportunities for health care providers to continue their education and interact with other professionals in their field with ease through virtual settings.

Additionally, Dr. Newbery predicts that this may “create new opportunities for physicians to live and work in rural northern Ontario if their spouses can work from home and be connected to an urban workplace but not have to live in an urban environment.”

When attracting physicians to Northern and rural communities, Dr. Newbery says that “money is an easy incentive, but I think it’s increasingly not the most important incentive.”

Physicians are looking for virtual supports and mentorship opportunities. She urges the ministry to invest in creating an environment where “physicians can take the time off that they need, can access the continuing professional development that they need, can collaborate with colleagues easily, can easily access mentorship, and can acquire the leadership skills that they need to lead well through a crisis like Covid-19.” All these factors would work towards making Northern practise an attractive career.

“We’re not going to successfully draw physicians into rural communities if those communities don’t have some degree of economic vibrancy,” adds Dr. Newbery. Investing in infrastructure such as development of school systems, working trades, and leisure activities that supports rural communities and their industries may be the key to the future of healthcare in Northern Ontario.

The Northern population experiences chronic, complex, and serious health issues. On average, people in Northern Ontario live two years less than the rest of the province’s

population and are challenged with complex chronic illness such as diabetes and kidney disease. Specifically, the amputation rate for diabetes is higher in Northern Ontario than in any other of the province’s regions.

Additionally, impoverished communities that are rural, remote, or isolated are most affected by acute health outcomes.

With these factors in mind, Dr. Newbery urges “communities to think differently about the number of physicians it takes to care for a population.” The margin of capacity has been consistently compromised, partly due to the assumption that the doctor-to-population ratio in rural Ontario should be the same as to that in urban regions. We need to investigate how many physicians it would take to meaningfully care for a population that has a higher burden of complex chronic illnesses and faces limited access to additional resources, such as mental health counselors, physiotherapists, occupational therapists, and addictions counselors.

The future of Northern and rural healthcare We don’t often think about our neighbours, whether next door, on the next street, or a thousand kilometres away. Yet, what we deem to be simple, effective, and easily attainable in urban centres, such as access to family or emergency care, can be difficult, take hours, or unavailable in rural Ontario.

Northern, rural, and Indigenous communities in Ontario urgently need practise models and networks that are innovative, grassroot, equitable, rural-specific, team-based, and culturally appropriate. This means that governments need to prioritize meaningful conversations between policy makers and community leaders, and provide greater financial and technological supports to health care providers.

Instead of cutting first and measuring later, governmental support programs must work with communities to determine what supports must be established to help Northern and rural communities flourish. Ontario nurse Shirley Roebuck describes the Ontario health system as a “car headed for a cliff, if the voters—the taxpayers— don’t make the policy makers turn on their lights. […]

[We] must restore Ontario’s small and rural hospitals and the vital care they provide.”

There are many nuances to the changes necessary in addressing these disparities. But the first step is always understanding the presence of such disparities and listening to those living through them. Isolation from health-care services in Ontario is a life-threatening issue that must be addressed. Now.

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