Sami Martin

Category: Mental Health

  • Murphy Riding Shotgun!

    Murphy Riding Shotgun!

    I’ve known about Murphy’s Law most of my adult life. Long before I ever named it, called it out, I felt it. That quiet, familiar sense that when things start to line up in life, something will eventually lean in and knock it all sideways, just to see how we handle it.

    Murphy didn’t arrive suddenly. He was there early on, before I had language for patterns or nervous systems or self-protection. He showed up when I was young enough to think my only real power was withdrawal.

    I was in grade five or six when my parents started talking about divorce. It was always explosive. My mother did not like my dads drinking, he did not like her controlling. Hard adult conversations vibrating through walls, half-heard sentences that carried more weight than they were meant to. I remember being angry. I wanted my school letter. I had worked hard, soccer volleyball choir, librarian. I wanted to stay on my teams, stay inside the rhythm of what I knew. And instead, adults talked, hesitated, changed their minds.

    So I made mine.

    I pulled myself out of everything. Sports. Groups. Anything that required commitment or a future version of me. I didn’t make a scene. I didn’t explain myself. I just quietly disappeared from places where I felt exposed. I don’t think anyone noticed but me.

    At the time it felt like control. Like fairness, almost. If the ground was going to move, I’d move first. Protection from the storm.

    The thing is my parents never divorced. They stayed together until they both passed. I prepared for something that never happened. I lost things I didn’t actually have to lose. And I didn’t understand then that anticipating pain can quietly cost you real experiences, not just imagined ones.

    Water mattered even then. Not pools. Never pools. I stepped on a thumbtack at the YMCA once and that was enough for a lifetime. It was always natural bodies of water. Lakes. Rivers. The ocean when I could finally reach it. Places where sound softened and thoughts slowed. In the water, my body didn’t brace. It just existed.

    Then came the move. From Stroud to Toronto.

    I felt that loss immediately. There was no easing into it. No slow adjustment. It landed hard and stayed. I knew, even then, that I was forever changed. That move cracked something open and started the deepest insecurity I’ve ever known. Everything familiar was gone at once. The town. The identity. The sense of being known without explanation.

    No hockey. No school sports. No structure I understood. I was left without the things I knew how to be inside of. That loss mattered more than I admitted at the time.

    Sam and Dad

    Somewhere in there, I also knew something else about myself. I was queer. I didn’t have the word yet, but I had the knowing. And I knew just as clearly that it wasn’t something I could share. Not there. Not then. So I learned how to compartmentalize early. To hide one truth while trying to survive another.

    I would be nearly 26 when I finally came out. Finally admitted to those who cared who would stand by me or spit in my face. I am not the first and likely not the worst story, but that was a shame I felt before I saw it differently. I still feel a sense of shame around the difference.

    That’s why the rockers made sense to me in high school. Music. The edges. A place where I could stay hidden and still belong. Music let me feel without explaining. It gave me a way to exist without being interrogated. I could disappear into it and still be seen enough. Plus words and music I mean come on. You can vicariously live there. Finf the words to describe feelings you did not know you were having. I found an identity in music.

    When I was eighteen, Murphy made himself known again. Smoking hash at the exhibition. Getting caught. A notice to appear. On paper, it was minor. I even enjoyed the community service. I appreciated the experience. But something settled in after that. The understanding that one moment, one decision, could echo longer than expected. Especially when records, authority, and borders are involved.

    I don’t think it made me vigilant. I don’t experience myself that way. It made me accepting. Accepting that things can go sideways. That life doesn’t always reward intention. That sometimes momentum carries consequences whether you like it or not.

    Then came 2012.

    That was the year Murphy screamed so loud I lost it all.

    Trying to secure a TN1 visa in the U.S., one stark decision upended my life. My apartment in Woodland Hills. A relationship that was just blossoming. A version of myself that felt settled, even if imperfect. Gone. Not slowly. Abruptly. I had a cushion in Toronto., its always going to be where I am from. I could land there. But Los Angeles was gone. The life I had built there vanished in a way that didn’t feel proportional to the moment that triggered it.

    I didn’t dramatize it, but I don’t minimize it either. That kind of loss doesn’t come with a clean ending. There’s no neat chapter break. It doesn’t wrap itself up in meaning right away. It just changes the direction of your life and asks you to keep moving, even when you’re not ready, even when part of you is still standing in the doorway of what you thought you had.

    That experience taught me something dangerous. That stability can disappear without warning. That preparation might be the only leverage you have. Or so I told myself.

    And still, water kept pulling me forward. Natural water. Beaches. The ocean whenever I could reach it. In the water, I wasn’t replaying decisions or scanning for what might go wrong. I was just breathing. Floating. Letting the noise settle. I didn’t know it then, but that was regulation. That was my nervous system finding neutral. It is there I discovered Mexico and Isla Mujeres.

    Which is why I’m writing this now.

    I’m in Mexico, working toward permanent residency, and the process stirred something familiar. Not panic. Recognition, and potential preparation. The last two years haven’t been easy. Not because everything has gone wrong, but because I haven’t always felt connected to life in meaningful ways. I cocooned. Built protection around myself. Avoided instead of engaging. Blocked things out until they hit hard enough that I couldn’t anymore.

    I followed the steps. I did what I could. And still that old sense crept in. The feeling that if something can wobble, it will. Not because I expect failure, but because experience taught me not to be surprised by it.

    This is where I had to stop and ask myself something uncomfortable.

    Why do I catalogue disasters but gloss over proof that things can — and do — work out?

    I have evidence. Real evidence. Not motivational quotes. Lived proof.

    Temporary residency here went through with barely a ripple. Minor hiccups. Human moments. Nothing catastrophic. No doors slammed shut. And yet my mind barely archived it. It didn’t linger. It didn’t soften the story I default to when I assess risk.

    Why does my brain highlight the moments that broke me and fast-forward past the ones that carried me?

    I’ve always flown by the seat of my pants. And honestly, I’ve had an incredible life. I’ve seen and done things I never imagined I would. I’ve moved cities, countries, identities, careers. I learned to move forward even when I was terrified, trusting that momentum itself might carry me somewhere solid.

    I remember landing in Los Angeles with no housing lined up. Incorrectly booked flights. Delays. Nowhere to go. Murphy in full form. And then — people. Someone opening their door. Someone saying, “You’ll be okay. Stay here tonight.” A hotel. A room. A life slowly assembling itself out of chaos.

    Those moments didn’t just save logistics. They saved me.

    They matter. They deserve as much weight as the ones that broke me.

    So here it is, without irony or deflection. Thank you.

    To the people who stepped in when I was untethered.

    To the ones who offered help without explanation or expectation.

    To the friendships and connections that came from chaos instead of despite it.

    I wouldn’t be here without you. And I don’t forget that, even when fear tries to rewrite the story.

    I found my groove in LA. A social side of myself I didn’t know how much I needed. Sunday fundays. A tribe. I was home there in a way I didn’t recognize until it was gone. Losing it felt like being cheated, not just out of a place, but out of a version of myself that trusted life more than I do now.

    Work was always there. For most of my career, I could find it wherever I landed. I built something portable. Remote before it was normal. Capable. Independent. I learned I could rely on myself. That I always had myself.

    But time changes the rules. This isn’t twenty years ago. And somewhere in that shift, my confidence softened. Still there, but quieter. More reflective. Less certain.

    I don’t know what I tie my worth to anymore. I know I have a good heart. I believe in equality. I try to support people when their hearts are good, even if I don’t fully understand their path. I’ve created Sam and lost Sam more times than I can count.

    In relationships, I lose myself. I want to be who they see. I forget they liked who I was when we met. I want people to be happy. I want to be liked. And somewhere in that effort, I disappear.

    Being left feels like rejection. Being fully seen feels terrifying too. Both live in me.

    Mexico gives me something nowhere else does. Proximity to marine life. To the ocean. It excites and intrigues me as much as it scares me. Seeing it gives me genuine pleasure. And still, somehow, I took it from myself by pulling away.

    I stopped early swims. Long walks. Headphones and salt water. Paddleboarding. I isolated myself. I don’t have a good excuse. I miss it. And I know that’s where I center myself emotionally. It always has been.

    There’s also my body in all of this, and I haven’t talked about that enough yet.

    I’m not young anymore, and I don’t say that with bitterness. I say it with awareness. My body holds history now. Injuries. Fatigue. Recovery that takes longer than it used to. But it also holds memory — ocean memory, balance memory, the knowing of how to float and how to read water without fighting it.

    When I stopped going into the ocean regularly, something in me dulled. It happened slowly. Fewer early mornings. More staying in. More isolation disguised as rest. I told myself I was protecting my energy, but what I was really doing was disconnecting from the one place that reliably brought me back to myself.

    Safety and aliveness are not the same thing.

    The ocean has never asked me to perform. It doesn’t care about my past decisions, my paperwork, my income, or my productivity. It responds to presence. To attention. To respect.

    That’s the relationship I want with the rest of my life now.

    There’s a feeling I’ve carried for years. Hands steady. Eyes forward. Knowing you can’t control the road but refusing to let go of the wheel. And another feeling just as real that says not every moment requires bracing. Sometimes you ride what comes. Sometimes you stop fighting the current and let it move through you.

    Those two states live side by side in me. They always have.

    Residency is pending now. Paperwork. Timelines. Decisions that exist outside my control. In the past, this is where my mind would start running scenarios. If this happens, then that. If that falls through, then I lose everything. The sky is always falling somewhere in those versions of the future.

    But this time feels different.

    I’m not pretending nothing could go wrong. That wouldn’t be honest. What’s different is that I’m not assigning catastrophe to uncertainty anymore. I’ve done the work. I’ve shown up. I’ve followed the steps. I’ve been honest, consistent, and clear about what I want and how I live.

    If this works — and I believe it will — Baja feels like the next natural shoreline.

    Not an escape. Not a reset. A continuation.

    Two oceans. Completely different energies. Marine mammals moving through ancient routes that have nothing to do with me. Mornings dictated by tide and light instead of screens and schedules. Learning to surf properly, not to conquer anything, just to understand timing and patience. Paddleboarding when the water allows it. Letting my body get stronger without forcing it.

    I see myself documenting instead of chasing. Observing instead of consuming. Living close enough to the water that I don’t forget who I am when I’m away from it too long. Earning through work that feels aligned — creative projects, clients I actually connect with, content that respects the places it comes from. Less noise. Less proving. More continuity.

    And if it doesn’t work — if Murphy clears his throat and reminds me that nothing is guaranteed — then what?

    Then I adapt.

    I don’t disappear. I don’t lose myself. I don’t start from zero. I adjust course and land somewhere that still makes sense for who I am now, not who I was twenty years ago. I’ve done it before, even when I didn’t believe I could. Even when I thought I’d lost everything.

    That’s the truth Murphy can’t rewrite.

    I’m not asking for a life without disruption. I’m asking for a life where disruption doesn’t erase me. Where change doesn’t mean collapse. Where uncertainty doesn’t automatically translate into loss.

    Water taught me that.

    You don’t fight it. You read it. You move with it. You trust that staying present matters more than predicting the next wave.

    That’s where I am now.

    Pending residency. Pending future. Grounded anyway.

    Murphy can still ride shotgun if he wants.He wont be narrating any longer. And that feels like freedom!

  • Island Life Without a Tribe

    Island Life Without a Tribe

    The Emptiness of Not Connecting

    There’s a kind of isolation that doesn’t come from being alone — it comes from being somewhere you chose, living a life you worked for, and still feeling like you’re standing just outside the firelight.

    It’s not dramatic. It’s not cinematic. It’s quieter, heavier, more personal.

    It’s waking up in paradise and wondering why your soul feels like it’s sitting one seat away from the table.

    The sun hits the ocean right. Salt on skin feels familiar. The wind carries laughter, engines, music from passing golf carts. Life here is alive.

    And yet there’s a part of me hovering — almost like my spirit hasn’t fully landed where my body is.

    That’s where I am.

    I’m on a Caribbean island. Warm water, trade winds, sunsets most people would pay to see once in their life. A place that should be connection-rich, community-forward, magnetic and alive.

    And I’m grateful — I truly am. I know beauty when I see it. I know privilege when I live it. Yet here I am… feeling more disconnected than I ever have.

    Not lonely because I don’t like people. Not isolated because I shut myself off. But because somewhere along the road — I stopped fitting into the world the way I used to. It feels like nobody wants to be my friend.

    There’s no moment I can point to. No dramatic pivot. No big loss of identity. It was slower — subtle — like erosion. Like the tide pulling sand from underfoot until the earth beneath you changes shape.

    And the truth is, I don’t know when that happened. But I feel it every single day — in my heart, in my soul.

    I Chose This Distance — and It Still Surprises Me

    The truth is, I’m not a victim of circumstance here. I chose this life.

    I left my tribe — not because I didn’t love them, not because I didn’t want their companionship, but because adventure felt necessary. Growth felt necessary. Freedom called louder than familiarity ever did. From an early age.

    First Toronto to LA. Then LA back to Canada. Then here to Isla.

    Each move a leap. Each chapter a reinvention. Each goodbye a little tear in the fabric, even if I didn’t feel it fully at the time.

    Some relationships held — the lifers, the ones who know my layers. Shannon, Renee, Gina, Shann and Erica.

    Some became friendly digital echoes — Facebook updates and “miss you” messages that keep history alive without ever touching the present.

    And others stayed behind in memory… chapters closed, not bitter, just finished. Life’s just foolish like that.

    I’ve slowly realized that choosing a bigger life sometimes means choosing solitude as well.

    And for the most part, I’ve embraced that and sought out new tribe mates. I like being different. I like that I built my world on my terms.

    But this loneliness? This quiet? This sense of being emotionally unmoored? This territory feels new — and I won’t pretend it doesn’t sting.

    Coming back to Isla after COVID, after the isolation of Toronto’s lockdown still stuck to my bones — heartache imminent on the horizon and grief in my pockets —

    I wanted to fall back into something familiar here. To reconnect with the spark I once felt on this island. Maybe even save the relationship.

    But life doesn’t rewind just because we remember the past fondly. People change. Places shift. Energies evolve.

    Maybe the version of me who fit here before belonged to a world that doesn’t exist anymore — not on this island, and not inside me. Though I clung to it.

    And so I’m learning what it means to choose solitude, only to realise solitude chose me right back.

    That’s the part no one warns you about — that even intention has consequences. Even courage can echo.

    Isolation That Doesn’t Ask Permission

    This wasn’t chosen solitude. I wasn’t seeking stillness. I wasn’t craving quiet. I needed something different — and yet here it is.

    It isn’t dramatic. It isn’t glamorous. It doesn’t feel like the “hero wandering alone” trope.

    It feels like waking up and thinking, I used to know where I fit. I used to feel tethered. What changed?

    It feels like trying — really trying — to connect and realizing intention doesn’t always equal connection.

    It feels like being seen, but not met. A gentle ache, not a wound. An awareness, not despair. A pause, not a collapse. But real nonetheless.

    There’s a humility in admitting that. A soft surrender. Not to defeat — but to truth.

    A Storm No One Saw

    People talk about COVID like a logistics event. Masks. Travel rules. Supply chains. But the real pandemic happened inside people — in the fault lines we didn’t know existed.

    During those early months, my relationship unraveled slowly — not with explosions, but with quiet erosion. A year of dissolving, piece by piece, understanding that love doesn’t always equal longevity.

    There was pain, yes, but also truth in letting go. She never loved me, never wanted our connection — our friendship — the relationship I felt in my heart.

    And then — in the middle of that emotional exhaustion — my brother passed away.

    Not a distant loss. Not a chapter you can close politely. A loss that leaves you feeling more alone despite the complicated lack of knowing each other deeply.

    I carried those losses into everything that came next. Living here, what I wanted for my life, and how my heart shut down.

    There is a version of grief where you don’t collapse — you keep moving because stillness is too sharp.

    You build. You distract. You plan. You try to outpace the ache. Grief waits. It always does.

    And when borders opened and flights resumed and I stepped back onto Isla, I didn’t just arrive with luggage —

    I arrived with heartbreak and absence stitched into my bones. I thought the ocean would hold me. I thought sunlight could knit me back together. I thought the place that once felt right would feel right again. I thought I’d find her again and she would save me.

    I was wrong.

    Grief doesn’t obey geography. And belonging doesn’t always come back just because we remember it fondly.

    Some pain follows you. Some lessons unpack slowly.

    Some seasons don’t end where you expect them to.

    The Return That Didn’t Click

    I expected to reconnect with the rhythm I once had here. To fall back into easy friendships, new creative energy, conversations that felt like possibility.

    Instead, I walked back into a familiar room where all the furniture had been moved. Same walls, same sky, same ocean. Different frequency….

    The island didn’t reject me. But it didn’t catch me either.

    There’s a particular ache in being somewhere beautiful and feeling a step removed from it. Not ungrateful — just unanchored. Not unhappy — just unheld.

    I tried. I showed up. I invited, reached out, joined in, stepped forward.

    I didn’t hide. I didn’t isolate. Connection just… didn’t land. The energy that once found me here didn’t recognize me this time. Or maybe I didn’t recognize myself enough to be found.

    Sometimes we outgrow spaces before we realize we’ve evolved.

    The Work Is Still Here, Even If the Noise Isn’t

    Here’s the thing — I haven’t stopped working. I won’t. I’ve just shifted focus.

    I’m building: ShiverMedia. Salty Blue. My personal brand. Projects. Templates. Content. Helping Tammy build her platform. Client work when it comes. New systems. New strategies.

    Foundation work. Deep work. Work people don’t see until it blooms. I don’t resist effort. Effort built me. Discipline never intimidated me — silence does.

    Because work fills time, but connection fuels spirit. And right now, the work is happening — but the world around it feels thin. That’s not failure. That’s… in-between.

    The season where seeds grow roots before they break the surface. The quiet phase. The internal muscle building before momentum arrives.

    Distance in Love, Distance in Life

    Two years ago, I met Tammy, from Indiana, travels regularly to a Isla. Tammy live currently in Vegas.

    Life placed her there — responsibility, family, health, timing. Not conflict — circumstance. Loss. Duty.

    We are solid. We are committed. We are building in parallel. But distance changes the sound of days.

    When your life already feels a bit unanchored, being physically apart from the person who sees you most clearly sharpens the quiet.

    Love holds. But distance leaves room. And the room echoes.Not doubt — just longing. Stretched across time, flight routes, and ocean. I don’t resent it. I just feel it.

    Maybe this island was meant to be a sacred pause — a place to grieve, to shed, to face truth, and then to launch toward the next horizon.

    Sometimes stillness is not stagnation — it’s alignment gathering strength.

    When Solitude Stops Feeling Like Strength

    I’m good alone — Solo Sam, always have been. I don’t need crowds or chaos or constant stimulation. I don’t chase noise.

    But this isn’t chosen quiet — it’s quiet that lingers even when I reach for connection.

    I’ve tried here. I’ve opened doors. I’ve said yes when I didn’t feel like it. I’ve shown up.

    Yet connection… floats. Conversation lands politely but not deeply. People are kind; sometimes they feel performative — but ultimately, the fit simply isn’t here.

    It’s like tuning a radio station that’s a half-second off the rhythm of your heartbeat.

    And acknowledging that stings as much as it steadies me.

    It’s not that I can’t belong. It’s that I won’t force belonging where resonance doesn’t live.

    When Life Isn’t Aligned, It Lets You Know

    I’ve lived long enough to know this: When I’m not on the right path, life resists. Not violently. Not as punishment. Just subtly, steadily — slightly off-axis.

    Momentum stalls. Opportunities slip by. Energy drains. Even small tasks feel uphill.

    Confidence flickers in ways it never did before.

    That’s where I am — not broken, just out of sync with the life that fits me best.

    This isn’t weakness. It’s awareness. 

    I am not fully where I’m meant to be — yet.

    And when I’m off-path, I feel it in my bones. The world becomes friction instead of flow.

    That’s why the search for work has been harder — not because I don’t have value or skill or drive, but because the right fit hasn’t appeared. I refuse to contort myself into misalignment just to ease discomfort.

    Same with love.

    No doubt, no regret — just the ache of knowing we belong together, just not like this, not here, not yet.

    We aren’t broken.

    We’re waiting for the right door to open — and building until it does.

    I don’t force belonging — not in geography, not in career, not in love.

    Out of sorts doesn’t mean off track — it means recalibrating.

    This season isn’t collapse.

    It’s compass-work.

    The uncomfortable clarity that comes before the shift.

    And when truth arrives, I don’t ignore it — I move.

    Quiet Resolve

    This isn’t a goodbye letter to the island. Though I am seeking other destinations, there is no resentment or regret. Just truth.

    I expected belonging. Instead, I found introspection. TAnd maybe that’s exactly what this chapter needed to be.

    I’m here. I’m breathing ocean air. I’m working. I’m healing. I’m relearning myself after grief, disruption, and loss.

    And when the tide turns — whether here or elsewhere — I’ll move with it.

    Not out of desperation, but alignment.

    Because I trust myself. I trust the seasons. I trust truth. And I trust the ocean enough to know: the tide always returns something.

    Until then — I will stand where I am, grounded and honest, eyes on the horizon, heart open, work steady, and spirit intact.

    Trust in the tide while I find my bearings and my tribe.

  • Hate is an Ugly Thing

    Hate is an Ugly Thing

    By Someone Who’s Had Enough of It

    I. The Ugliness of Hate

    Hate isn’t just loud. It’s corrosive. It latches on to the fearful, the insecure, the lazy-minded, and festers until it becomes part of their identity. It’s not born out of righteousness. It’s born out of weakness—a desperate scramble for superiority in a world where their relevance feels threatened.

    I’ve experienced hate as a gender queer member of the LGBTQ+ community. Not for anything I’ve done, but for who I am. For existing outside of someone else’s fragile definition of “normal.” This is not a sob story. It’s a statement of fact. Sadly, Im not the only one and it’s far from the first or the last time.

    hate is ugly

    This time, the hate has a face. A name. A social media account. A man clinging to his bitterness like a shield, lobbing lies and slurs my way to make sense of his own failure as a human being.

    But zoom out—and you see this isn’t about him. It’s about the world we’ve built that lets people like him thrive. Loud, hateful people are getting elected, applauded, and platformed. And while they rant about morals and freedom, they actively work to dismantle both while dehumanizing those they hate so much.

    II. One Example in a Long Line

    The man I’m referencing doesn’t know me. He never has. We’ve never shared a meal, never had a conversation, never exchanged anything real. Never met! And yet, I’ve become a character in his personal fiction—a villain that helps explain why his life isn’t where he wants it to be.

    He throws slurs at my identity, my appearance, my ethics—none of which he understands. None of which are any of his business. What little he does know is filtered through the lens of resentment and ego. His narrative isn’t truth; it’s a weapon.

    This isn’t the first time I’ve been someone else’s scapegoat. When you live openly, unapologetically—gender queer, tattooed, liberal, independent—you become a target. That’s the truth. The more visible you are, the more vulnerable you are to people who hate what they don’t understand.

    III. Hate Isn’t New—But It’s Louder Now

    There’s something different about today’s hate, though. It’s louder. Bolder. Less ashamed. Once whispered in private, it’s now screamed on social media, into school boards, at Pride parades, and through legislation.

    We live in a time where truth is optional, but outrage is mandatory.

    People with no real education or experience in public policy are getting elected because they’re “angry like us.” They don’t campaign on solutions. They campaign on enemies. And people cheer.

    Once “We the People” meant collective responsibility. Now it’s devolved into “Me the Electee”—a new breed of politician that governs with revenge, not representation. They’re not civil servants. They’re petty kings, ruling over social media empires and local town halls with cruelty disguised as conviction.

    IV. When Hate Is on the Ballot

    When people vote based on who they hate rather than who they hope for, democracy suffers. We see it in the banning of books, the rollback of rights, the silencing of teachers, journalists, doctors and the way the media clings to views/sensationalism. We see it in states where healthcare is denied based on gender identity, where protesting is criminalized but bigotry is cheered

    We see it when grown adults obsess over children’s chosen pronouns but ignore their access to food or safety. When political campaigns run on ignoring climate change, demonizing immigrants, queer kids, and public workers while handing tax cuts to corporations that underpay/outsorce workers.

    Hate isn’t just ugly. It’s policy now.

    who is on the ballot

    And the architects of that hate—men like the one attacking me—don’t feel shame. They feel empowered. Because we’ve stopped rewarding empathy and started electing resentment. The problem lies with the voter. They can chose or not chose hate.

    V. The Cost of Being Different

    To be different in this world is to be seen as a threat. Not because you are—but because your existence forces others to confront their smallness.

    When you are queer, or Black, or trans, or immigrant, or poor, or follow a different spititual belief—or any combination of the above—your body becomes a battleground for someone else’s insecurities.

    You get questioned, policed, misgendered, harassed, fired, in some instances, even killed—not for doing something wrong, but for being “other.”

    I’ve lived it. I’ve felt the subtle slights and the blatant insults. I’ve been the target of online comments and whispered rumors. I’ve had my work dismissed, my character attacked, my humanity debated.

    And yet, I’m still here. Still creating. Still loving. Still building something real. Because I and all others who are the targets of hate, we have the exact same rights as you. We are all equal.

    VI. A Culture of Excuses

    The man harassing me isn’t alone. He’s just one of many. A symptom, not the disease.

    We’ve created a culture where people are more comfortable excusing their failures by blaming others than owning their choices. It’s easier to say “the world’s gone woke” than it is to say “I didn’t do the work.” It’s easier to blame immigrants than to ask why healthcare is so expensive. Easier to scapegoat trans kids than to admit the education system is underfunded.

    The lie is easier than the truth when the truth requires effort.

    And so people fall into tribes. MAGA hats become armour. Conspiracy theories become gospel. And empathy? Empathy becomes weakness.

    But here’s the thing—“woke” is not the insult they think it is. If being woke means being aware that injustice exists and caring enough to want it to change, why is that bad? Since when did paying attention to suffering become something to sneer at? Isn’t the whole point of community—of humanity—to look out for each other?

    The same people throwing “woke” around as a slur often claim to be good Christians. Yet wasn’t it Jesus who said, love thy neighbour? Who taught compassion, humility, and kindness as cornerstones of faith? How does mocking the vulnerable, cutting social programs, or demonizing entire groups of people fit with treat others as you wish to be treated?

    The hypocrisy is staggering. Helping others isn’t weakness; it’s strength. Empathy isn’t some liberal agenda—it’s supposed to be a human instinct. But somewhere along the way, caring got rebranded as weakness, and cruelty got mistaken for honesty.

    And that’s the real sickness. Not just the hate, but the pride people take in wearing it like a badge.

    VII. The Quiet Resistance

    Gratefully, for all the noise, the hate, the lies—there are still people quietly building a better world.

    resistance

    Teachers who risk their jobs to support LGBTQ+ kids. Nurses who care for every patient regardless of politics. Artists, creators, organizers, thinkers—those who refuse to let cruelty define us.

    And it’s not just individuals working in quiet corners. There are entire movements and leaders dedicating their lives to pushing back against hate.

    • The Southern Poverty Law Center (splcenter.org) tracks and exposes hate groups while advocating for civil rights across the U.S.
    • The Trevor Project (thetrevorproject.org) provides crisis support and suicide prevention for LGBTQ+ youth, often becoming literally life-saving.
    • The Human Rights Campaign (hrc.org) fights discriminatory legislation and pushes for equality in workplaces, schools, and communities.

    In Canada:

    • Egale Canada (egale.ca) works globally and nationally to improve lives of LGBTQI2S people, running initiatives like youth shelters, legal challenges against harmful policies, and school education programs 
    • Canadian Anti-Hate Network (antihate.ca) monitors hate and far‑right groups, provides resources to law enforcement and media, and is rated high for factual reporting and credibility  .

    Public figures choosing integrity over applause:

    • Vice President Kamala Harris (kamalaharris.org) uses her platform to defend voting rights, reproductive rights, and marginalized communities—often at personal political risk.
    • Rachel Maddow (msnbc.com/rachel-maddow-show) pursues fact-based journalism, resisting division-driven media trends.
    • Jagmeet Singh (ndp.ca/jagmeet), leader of Canada’s NDP, speaks out against racism, Islamophobia, and inequality.
    • Geraldine Charette, co-founder of Black Lives Matter Toronto, advocates for systemic reform and racial justice.

    These organizations and leaders are firmly committed to equality, justice, and inclusion. They operate transparently, have strong public track records, and are focused on broad human rights—not narrow causes or divisive rhetoric. No credible ties to extremist or nefarious agendas were found in reliable sources during vetting.

    We don’t always make headlines. We don’t always win. But we endure. We stay human in a world that begs us to dehumanize each other.

    We choose facts over fiction. Connection over chaos. Truth over tribalism.

    Because the alternative—the one chosen by those who fuel hate—is nothing but rot. Choosing to attack, demean, and devalue others doesn’t just show ugliness; it spreads it. It poisons communities, erodes trust, and leaves nothing but bitterness in its wake. Every time someone spits a slur instead of offering understanding, every time they lash out instead of listening, they are part of the very thing they claim to despise.

    So yes, we choose to live fully, even when others try to reduce us to a slur. Because to do otherwise would be to let them win. And the world is still full of people willing to fight for better, even if they don’t always shout about it.

    VIII. A Final Word to the Haters

    To the man who thinks his words will break me: they won’t. Others before have tried and failed.

    To the system that rewards cruelty: I see you. We all see you.

    To anyone reading this and nodding in silence because you, too, have been targeted just for existing—I’m with you. May others are with you. Stand strong. Hate cant win.

    And to those who keep showing up, who fight for equality, peace, and love when it would be easier to stay quiet—I stand with you. To the teachers who protect every child, no matter who they are. To the nurses who treat everyone with dignity. To the activists who march, the lawyers who defend, the journalists who tell the truth, and the neighbours who simply choose kindness—you are proof that humanity isn’t lost.

    This isn’t about being the bigger person. It’s about being the real one. The whole one. The one who doesn’t need to invent enemies to feel valid.

    I’m not a victim. I’m a mirror. And what you see in me that you hate—that’s your own reflection, not mine.

    You can lie, scream, and posture all you want. However, HATE IS AN UGLY THING. And no matter how loudly you wear it, it will never make you beautiful.

    Here’s to everyone who refuses to wear it at all. Here’s to those who keep choosing empathy, truth, and love even when it’s hard. You are the future, and you are what’s worth fighting for.

    Sources

    ✅ Egale Canada
    • Canada’s leading 2SLGBTQI advocacy group, involved in research, legal challenges, education, and supporting LGBTQ+ youth safety—recently pulled participation from U.S. events due to anti-trans policies  .
    • Recognized by Charity Intelligence Canada; while spending transparency is rated average, their scope and longevity affirm legitimacy  .
    ✅ Canadian Anti‑Hate Network
    • Founded in 2018, non-partisan, antifascist nonprofit; surveys and reports on hate groups, supports law enforcement and educators  .
    • Rated “High” for factual reporting, no failed fact checks in 5 years  .
    ✅ Jagmeet Singh
     — Leader of Canada’s NDP
    • Globally recognized for confronting racism and Islamophobia; called Canada’s recent London, ON attack “our Canada” and proclaimed “We don’t need that kind of racism in Canada”  .
    • Announced federal NDP plans to combat hate and increase measures against Islamophobia and racism  .
    ✅ Geraldine Charette, BLM Toronto
    • Co-founded Black Lives Matter Toronto; long-standing advocacy for systemic reform and racial justice in Canada (I couldn’t find a direct media profile, but her public work as illustrator and activist confirms her credibility) ().