This morning I saw the lines—real, long, determined lines of people voting. And I felt something I hadn’t felt in a while: hope, heartbreak, and a gut-punch reminder that democracy still means something. Even here. Even now. This weekend, like many others across Canada, my family will come together. There will be laughter, probably too much food, and at least one heated discussion where someone storms out to walk off a mood. And underneath it all—this steady awareness that we are still lucky. Not in the smug, patriotic bumper-sticker way. But in the way that says: we still live in a country where we get to choose. Where we get to vote. I know that sounds cheesy. Cliché. Maybe even a bit hokey. But it’s true. This morning, I saw the photos on social media and experienced lines out the door when the polls opened. People showed up early to cast a ballot in this election, some of them for the first time. It stopped me cold. Because for all the cynicism, the noise, and the manipulation, there’s something about people choosing to vote that still feels deeply human. I live in rural Alberta. I know most people in the line I was in would not be voting the way I did. But I still felt this strange mix of hope and heartbreak seeing them there. Because at least they were voting. At least they were showing up. And I think-especially right now-that still means something. We are at a crossroads in this country. And that isn’t dramatic. That’s just where we are. And the divide isn’t just about left versus right, or who cuts what taxes. It’s deeper than that. It’s about whether we still believe in Canada. It’s messy, imperfect, pluralistic-or whether we retreat into something smaller. Something meaner. Something more American. I haven’t talked much lately about the 51st state rhetoric, or Alberta sovereignty, or any of the independence fantasies that keep bubbling up in this province. Not because it’s gone away. It’s just been drowned out by other noise—housing, inflation, disinformation, culture wars. But it’s still there, under the surface. And honestly? I’m feeling it again. Stronger than I have in weeks. I feel it when I hear people talk like Canada is the problem. When they fantasize about breaking it up instead of fixing what’s broken. I feel it when I see politicians weaponize anger instead of offering vision. And I especially feel it when I think about the people in my life—family, friends, strangers online—who seem convinced that freedom means getting your way and nothing else. And I come from a background shaped by both world wars and ongoing military service today. I was raised to believe in responsibility. In showing up. In defending not just borders, but principles. That doesn’t mean I think Canada is flawless. It means I believe it’s worth fighting for. I also think about new Canadians-the way they talk about voting here for the first time. The way they dress up to go to the polls. The way they describe it as a privilege, a joy, a moment they never thought they’d get. And I wonder when we stopped feeling that way. When did we trade that pride in for indifference-or worse, for resentment? We’ve been handed something precious. Post Second World War, Canada was left with an incredible gift: peace, resources, stability, and room to grow. And sure, we’ve made mistakes. We’ve forgotten who we are sometimes. But that doesn’t mean we burn it all down and start over in someone else’s image. It means we remember what’s worth saving. And I’ll say this too—because it’s part of the story. We talk a lot about housing and affordability, and I get it. I really do. But I also think we’ve warped what “success” looks like. I grew up in a solid middle class family. Three-bedroom house. One bathroom for five people. And we were proud. It wasn’t 6,000 square feet and a granite kitchen. It was a home. A life. A shared space with expectations grounded in community-not entitlement. I’m not saying young people shouldn’t want to own a home. I’m saying the system has broken down not because we’ve lost our values, but because we’ve forgotten how to value the things that matter. Like voting. Like compassion. So maybe this is all a little ranty. A little too long. But I needed to get it down. Because this long weekend, when you’re sitting around the table, smiling at your kids/grandkids or in my case, my very first grandchild—maybe take a second and remember that none of this is guaranteed. None of it is permanent. Democracy isn’t some background noise. It’s a decision. One we make every time we show up. And yeah, maybe it’s a little sad that it takes a crisis for people to remember that. But here we are—lined up outside polling stations, still trying. Still choosing. Still stubborn enough to believe we can do better. That’s Canada, isn’t it? Not perfect. Not always polite. But still showing up-even when the weather sucks, even when the system feels rigged, even when your neighbour’s voting the opposite of you and you still nod hello. So let’s vote. Let’s fight. Let’s hold the line. Let’s not let apathy do what no foreign enemy ever could. We’ve been handed something rare. Let’s not give it back. I always have that memory of the many times I heard my father say “When you’re born in Canada you’ve already won the lottery.”
Nancy's Notes 