As a change maker, it’s almost impossible not to see the resemblance between this work and living in Ottawa.
Ottawa is a beautiful city, disarmingly so. The canal slicing the city like a deliberate thought. Rivers—peaceful, yet so powerful. And the bridges; I love the bridges, for what they do and what they symbolize, forcing you to carry your bike, only to reward you with an entirely new outlook. In spring, the city blooms into pink, white and green as if it has forgiven winter entirely. In fall, it burns; gold, copper, red, putting on a show that feels deeply personal, almost intimate. There’s no way you don’t fall in love with this place.
And then comes January.
January in Ottawa is not a season; it is a test of character. You leave your car outside for an hour and come back to find it buried under a perfectly arranged massive heap of snow. If, God forbid, you left it out overnight, prepare yourself for a full ritual of scraping while your limbs slowly lose feeling and you silently contemplate every life path that led you here.
You drive anyway, slowly and suspiciously. Black ice turns every intersection into a negotiation with fate. The car slips just slightly, enough to remind you that you are not in charge. Sometimes visibility disappears altogether. White on white, dirty snow on the sides, in case you needed a sign saying, “This is not meant to be romantic.” If driving was never really your thing, January makes that painfully clear.
Crossing the street becomes an athletic event. You step off the curb and immediately sink mid-calf, sometimes knee-deep if you’re as petite as I am. Your balance goes first, and your dignity follows closely behind.
Every home has a mud room, whether it wants one or not. Floors in Jan are permanently damp. Chunky boots lined up like exhausted soldiers. Coats crusted with ice and salt. And if you are even remotely fashionable and foolishly believed that style could survive winter, January quickly debunks that notion. Everything you wear is soiled and salt-stained.
By the time mid-March arrives, even if you are an exceptionally positive person, you are not thinking about maintaining good spirits. You think like a warrior. You want to safely and pragmatically survive.
Every year, without fail, I find myself contemplating my life choices in Jan. What led me here? Why don’t I leave? Why don’t I settle somewhere else, somewhere warmer, softer, easier? I start scrolling through photos of cities I love: Córdoba, Bodrum, Abu Dhabi, Paris. Places where life behaves differently. More vividly and less aggressively.
And just like that, change making is a noble pursuit. One could argue it’s the very reason we’re here, to improve, to add, to create, to leave something better behind. But let’s not romanticize it too much. Change making is an uphill journey. It’s emotionally draining, intellectually exhausting, and often physically demanding. You will make friends, yes, that’s true. You will also make enemies. And more often than not, you will walk alone, carrying doubts no one sees.
This January, at fifty, after around thirty years of trying to bend systems toward something better, and nearly a decade of doing it from Ottawa, I ask myself: am I done? Should I quit both?