Nancy's Notes

Let’s have a little fun because some of us have a new truth. It appears the Baby Boomers have found their voice. To be fair this may include some of the earlier Gen X folks as well. And when I say “Boomers,” I can already hear Gen X, Millennials, and Gen Z muttering from behind their screens: Oh boy. The old people are at it again.

Well… yeah. We are. And we’re not whispering. To be fair, when I was their age, I definitely thought anyone over 60 was halfway to the bingo hall. But here’s the thing: turns out we’re not done. In fact, we may just be getting started.

In the recent federal election, our voice wasn’t just present, it roared. Something shifted. Maybe it’s the stakes. Maybe it’s the steady diet of disinformation. Maybe it’s that we’ve seen what happens when good people stay silent. Whatever it is, we spoke up. Loudly. And proudly.

I’ve always had a voice (just ask anyone who knows me). But this time, something clicked. The filter dropped a notch. Not to be reckless, but to be real. Because this moment in time doesn’t need politeness. It needs purpose.

Now, let’s be fair, many of us already knew our value. We’ve been shaping families, communities, companies, and countries for decades. We raised kids, worked jobs, fought battles, broke barriers. But this is different. There’s a rising awareness that our voice, as a collective is having an impact again. A real one.

And here’s what makes me proud: we’re not doing this out of ego. We’re doing it out of love. For our kids. For our grandkids. For the country we helped build and still believe in.

You hear people say it all the time: “I just don’t want my children or grandchildren growing up in a world like this.” And sure, those visions differ. Some may not vote like I do, or speak like I do, or post like I do. But the common thread is clear: we care about what comes next.

So, how do we do this? Not everyone’s going to join an advocacy group. Not everyone’s going to write long rants (guilty), run for office, or lead a campaign. But we have one giant asset that no one can take from us: life experience. We’ve lived through cycles. We’ve watched history try to repeat. We’ve learned what works and what absolutely doesn’t. And we’re still relevant, damn it.

And here’s something I don’t want us to forget: we are the last generation with direct access to the voices that lived through the Great Depression and the Second World War. Not the economic downturns of the ‘80s or ‘90s, but the actual Great Depression. Not textbook summaries, but stories told across kitchen tables. We had parents or grandparents who fought, or supported those who fought, in a war that shaped the modern world. That kind of lived wisdom, of sacrifice, of resilience, of survival, doesn’t come with a Google search.

And as that direct knowledge fades, the danger is that we stop recognizing what real hardship and fascism actually look like. And yes, there are parts of the world where it’s already happening again.

So if you’re reading this and you’re one of the people I’m talking about, one of us, then let me say it plainly: I’m proud of you. I’m proud of us. And if you’re not a boomer but rather someone who has a parent or grandparent who is, please take a moment. Listen to what they’re saying. Ask them why they’re fighting so hard. You might just hear something that helps make sense of it all.

Because this isn’t about nostalgia. It’s about legacy, not in a name-on-a-building kind of way, but in the deeper sense. Legacy as in: Did I do my part? Did I use what I’ve learned to leave the world a little better than I found it? And maybe most importantly: Did I find my voice? Even if it took me a while? Well, I did. And I’m not alone.

We’ve still got work to do. Letters to write, elections to vote in, grandkids to love fiercely. But make no mistake, we’re not just wise elders sipping tea and knitting sweaters (although we do that too, and beautifully). We’re the generation that wore mini skirts and combat boots. We flew airplanes, rode motorcycles, marched on Parliament Hill, hitchhiked through Europe, and some of us may have raised hell before we raised kids. We’re not just relevant. We’re cool. Arguably cooler than some of the kids who roll their eyes at us on TikTok.

So yeah, we’re Boomers. And we’re not done!

PS The picture of my Dad and I was in an article on my father in the Star Weekly. Some of you may remember that colored magazine published by the Toronto Star and available nationally.

A Pope in the age of Trump. Actually I debated whether to talk about this. It doesn’t really fit the lane I usually stick to. I tend to write about policy, politics, and our messy little Canadian democracy, with a healthy dose of sarcasm and a dash of lived experience. But this? The papacy? That’s not exactly my brand.

Still, I’m going to talk about it. Because something about this moment feels bigger than religion. And because, well, it brought up more than I expected.

Let’s start with some context. I’m not Catholic. Never have been. I was raised Protestant, and let’s just say my marriage to a French-Canadian Roman Catholic didn’t exactly win me a standing ovation from his side of the family. In those days, being a Protestant daughter-in-law wasn’t some quirky anecdote, it was a full-blown problem. That was decades ago, and we’ve all moved on (mostly), but I’d be lying if I said those dynamics didn’t shape how I view the Church.

Which brings me to this: very few people thought the new Pope would be American. There were odds-on favourites, sure, Italy’s second-in-command under Pope Francis seemed like the safe bet. Others pointed to the Church’s fastest-growing communities in Africa or the Philippines, a nod to the global South and a way of recognizing where Catholicism is actually expanding.

But the cardinals went with a curveball. They chose an American.

And not just any American. Cardinal Robert Prevost, now Pope Leo XIV has been vocal, before and after his election, about the moral urgency of global migration. He’s spoken clearly about the responsibility of wealthy nations to welcome those displaced by war, climate disaster, and economic collapse. He has framed migration not as a problem to be managed, but as a defining test of compassion and leadership in a fractured world. This is not a pope chosen to clamp down and retreat. This is a pope who believes we are a moving world, and that the Church must move with it.

So yes, the Church chose an American Pope. And yes, the MAGA crowd is already grumbling that he’s not their kind of Christian. Which is kind of the point. This wasn’t about appeasing Trumpists. This was about confronting them, from within their own borders, in a language they can’t ignore.

Now don’t get me wrong. I’m not saying the Church suddenly became a progressive utopia. It’s still wrestling with its own demons (some quite literally). Pope Francis did something extraordinary: he moved the institution forward. Slowly, awkwardly, imperfectly, but forward. He spoke about climate change, economic inequality, and the need for mercy. He apologized to Indigenous Peoples in Canada, not by issuing a statement from Rome, but by getting on a plane, coming to Canada, and saying the words in person. That mattered at least as a start. That still matters.

So yes, I expected the pendulum to swing back. After all, institutions like the Vatican have a deep fondness for rubber bands. But the American Pope? That’s not a swing, it’s a sidestep. And maybe, just maybe, a strategy.

Because if the Church wants to remain relevant in an age of disinformation and division, it has to engage with the places where those forces are growing. And that includes the United States, where truth, decency, and democracy are all under renovation, or possibly foreclosure. Maybe this choice is a form of resistance. Maybe it’s a gamble. But I don’t think it’s an accident.

And for me, personally? It’s strange. I spent much of my adult life as the outsider in a Catholic family, biting my tongue at dinners, holding my own in debates about doctrine versus decency, trying to raise kids with both freedom and faith. I didn’t expect to feel anything about the new Pope. But I do. I feel…hopeful. And slightly vindicated.

And let’s be clear: if the MAGA movement is already mad about this Pope, I’m even more on board. When your enemies are anti-science, anti-women, and anti-truth, having their disapproval is practically a character reference.

Because let’s be honest, religion has been used as a weapon in the U.S. for a long time now. Trumpism didn’t invent it, but it sure did load the chamber. Faith has been twisted into a tool of exclusion, cruelty, and raw political power. Jesus gets name-dropped between gun laws and border walls, while compassion gets kicked to the curb.

But here’s the thing: the Vatican just answered back. And not with more fire and brimstone, but with strategy. The appointment of Pope Leo XIV isn’t just a theological decision. It’s a geopolitical counterstrike, an elegant, calculated response from one of the oldest institutions on Earth to the circus of Christian nationalism.

They chose an American. But not that kind. Maybe, just maybe, the Church is reminding us that religion can still be about humility, about welcoming the stranger, about taking moral risks instead of political sides.

The Catholic Church may be trying to save the world, or at least save its soul. If this Pope can help slow the moral erosion of modern politics, even a little, I’ll call that a win. Or at least a decent Hail Mary.

Alberta is part of a sovereign Canada. Not as presented by Danielle Smith. I’ve tried to temper this a bit in past posts, mostly because I speak to a national audience. But it’s time to circle back.

I’ve lived in Alberta for more than 45 years. My children were born here. My husband and my family have benefited greatly, and continue to benefit, from the oil and gas industry. I don’t write this without that perspective. But what I’m about to say isn’t just an Alberta conversation. It’s needs to be seen as a national one.

Danielle Smith appears to believe she’s a major geopolitical figure, attempting to upstage a historic meeting between our Prime Minister and Donald Trump by scheduling a press conference at the exact moment Mark Carney arrived in Washington. And conveniently, when Prime Minister Carney addressed the media, Smith suddenly made herself available to do the same. The timing is not subtle. It’s a posture, one meant to scream, “Alberta First,” as if we’re some sovereign entity on the global stage, not a province within a federation.

This isn’t statesmanship. It’s narcissism. And it feeds a much deeper problem.

Alberta has a superiority complex. There, I said it. And I say it from the inside, from the oil-patch towns and highway diners and city boardrooms I know well. This is not an attack. It’s an intervention.

That complex is rooted in a selective sense of grievance. It’s seen when ‘some’ Albertans cherry-pick stats, play the victim during downturns, and weaponize our contributions to the national economy to justify any level of political belligerence. We frame ourselves as misunderstood mavericks when in reality, we’re often just being held to the same constitutional rules as everyone else.

Danielle Smith doesn’t challenge that narrative. She feeds it. She floats unconstitutional legislation, nods to separatist rhetoric, sues the federal government like it’s a sport, all while pretending this is just what “the people” want. I did a post recently that laid out the actual numbers around Albertan support for separation. Spoiler alert: they’re not with her. But that doesn’t stop her from weaponizing the illusion.

And then there was today. I got a private message from a woman in a very conservative part of central Alberta. Before she said anything, she asked if what she was about to say could be seen publicly. I assured her it was a direct message, just between us.

She wanted to say thank you. She had read one of my posts and wanted me to know how much it meant to her. And she felt she couldn’t say that out loud.

That’s fair. She still lives where she lives. Her friends, family, and community may not share her views. She has to survive in that context, and that means protecting herself in ways most people never have to think about. But that message reminded me why I do this.

I don’t write for likes or shares or comments. If you want to, great, I appreciate it. But that’s not the point. I write to try and open up space. Space for conversation, space for people to see things through a new lens. Space for someone to feel less alone in a place where their voice doesn’t feel safe. That’s the goal. And if that’s all this post does, mission accomplished.

As with my conversations around the federal government, it’s time we get back to work on the issues that actually affect our daily lives. Here in Alberta, that means healthcare, education, infrastructure, the things that matter. The noise around separation and political theatre can wait. We’ve already lost too much time to the Danielle Smith Show while real problems keep piling up offstage. Remember the AHS scandal?

Yesterday, Danielle Smith sat down for an interview with Vassy Kapelos on Power Play. And if anyone thought this Premier might tone it down, think again. This woman isn’t slowing down, she’s doubling down. Every question was met with the same practiced deflections and political theatre we’ve come to expect, as if her job is to stir drama, not solve problems. Kudos to Vassy for keeping the pressure on. We need more of that kind of journalism, because what’s at stake here isn’t just about rhetoric. It’s about accountability.

Unity isn’t easy. It’s a choice. And right now, some of our leaders are making the wrong one. And if the skies over Alberta look dark in that photo, don’t worry. That’s not weather. That’s just the political forecast.

Washington is, for now, behind us. But what happened today between Canada and the United States deserves more than a shrug and a photo-op headline. Because by any fair measure,this was a success.

When Prime Minister Mark Carney arrived in Washington, it wasn’t just protocol on display, it was theatre with intent. Donald Trump personally greeted him at the White House entrance, a gesture not extended to every leader. With a full honour guard in place, the tone was surprisingly cordial. No awkwardness, no forced smiles, (well maybe that is naive), just two men aware that the optics mattered. And in that moment, it was hard to ignore the symbolism: both flags, both leaders, standing face to face before stepping into the storm.

Carney navigated it all with discipline and control. He didn’t take the bait. He didn’t play the game. He managed the moment, and maybe even the man.

Take, for instance, Trump’s tired 51st state jab, the idea that Canada might someday be “for sale,” said with that familiar grin. Carney answered, calm and composed: “As you know from real estate, there are some places that are never for sale. We’re sitting in one right now, Buckingham Palace that you visited, as well. And having met with the owners of Canada over the course of the campaign the last several months, it’s not for sale, it won’t be for sale, ever.”

It wasn’t a quip. It was a quiet assertion of sovereignty, one that cut through the noise and landed exactly where it needed to.

Carney didn’t just push back. He pushed forward. He made it clear: the USMCA must evolve. Canada isn’t here to abandon the deal, but it’s not here to be complacent either. Reform is expected. Partnership is welcome. But passivity? Off the table.

Trump, for his part, later said there was “no tension.” That might be a stretch, Carney’s body language in the Oval Office suggested plenty of internal restraint. You could see him holding back from correcting Trump’s economic distortions. But somehow, it worked. Trump left the room without a tantrum, and Carney left with his purpose intact.

The solo press conference at the Canadian Embassy was classic Carney. No chest-thumping. No world-conquering rhetoric. Just: We accomplished what we hoped to accomplish. Not flashy, just serious, strategic leadership.

And it continues to matter at least for me, personally. Growing up on the East Coast, our relationship with the U.S. was part of everyday life. Trips to Florida were routine, sometimes for my father’s business, sometimes for family time. Flying down the Eastern Seaboard in a small aircraft, stopping in Bangor, Raleigh-Durham, or Vero Beach, didn’t feel exceptional. It just was. The U.S. was familiar and trusted. You didn’t think about crossing the border, you just did it.

Later, in Western Canada, that ease showed up differently. Driving to Montana for gas or cheese felt no different than driving to Saskatchewan. Disneyland, Las Vegas, the Grande Canyon, so many memories. Crossing the line wasn’t a political act, it was part of the rhythm of life. Now, that world feels like it’s slipping away. Maybe permanently. There’s a sadness in realizing nostalgia won’t bring it back. That simple trust in cross-border normalcy, the casual, neighbourly connection, has become something fragile. And no amount of wishing will undo that.

Meanwhile, the chaos on the other side of the table continues. Trump was simultaneously riffing about announcements of ceasefires “Israel doesn’t know about,” while his Treasury Secretary, under oath, confirmed there’ve been no trade talks with China, contradicting Trump’s own statements hours earlier.

And back home? The Conservative brain trust rolled out Andrew Scheer as their voice of the day or should I say the days until Poilievre weasels his way back. Out of their entire expanded caucus, they chose him to speak. It’s like watching a reboot of a show nobody asked for.

So yes, the circus continues. But amid all that, Canada held its line. Carney held his ground. And I’m choosing, for the first time in a long time, to feel something close to optimism.

This isn’t over. The G7 is ahead. Trade talks are coming. Cabinet appointments are next. And yes, I’ll be watching all of it closely.

But today, something important happened. Two leaders stood at the same door. One talked. The other led. And this time, leadership won. And for once, in a world addicted to noise, the quiet one left with the loudest message.

Today is not a day for full analysis. Today is a day for watching, waiting, and if you’re like me, wrestling with a tangle of emotions. As Canada’s Prime Minister meets with a U.S. President who continues to test the edges of diplomacy, democracy, and decency, I’m choosing to step back and bear witness. I’ve shared this video before, Tom Brokaw’s beautiful piece on the Canada–U.S. relationship, first aired during the 2010 Vancouver Olympics, and I share it again now, because it reminds us of what we have been together, and what we still could be, if we don’t lose sight of each other. I will be back tomorrow but in the meantime let’s watch this and remind ourselves as well as both our fellow Canadians and our American friends.

The Holding Pattern Over Washington. Prime Minister Mark Carney meets with Donald Trump tomorrow. And before we go any further, yes, Prime Minister. He’s earned the title. Trump? Technically holds one too, but that doesn’t mean we have to place a capital P beside his name like some sort of honorific halo. Not here.

This meeting is not the solution. It’s the set-up. The positioning. The flight plan filed before we even taxi to the runway. Let me be clear: you don’t barrel your aircraft into a storm system thinking you’ll land without turbulence. You enter the holding pattern. You watch for the weather and check for the traffic. You listen closely to what’s being said on the radio and intuitively know the things you have to consider. Then, and only then, do you start your descent.

We voted Mark Carney in to deal with this. To deal with him. But solving the tariff war on Tuesday? Not happening. Not because Carney isn’t up to the job, but because anyone who thinks you can solve Donald Trump in one meeting is either a grifter or a fool. Or Pierre Poilievre. And thank God it’s not Pierre walking into that room.

Let’s be honest: can you even imagine that meeting if it was Pierre sitting across from Trump, nodding earnestly while Trump asks whether we’re still mining maple syrup or if Canada has joined NATO yet. The level of bootlicking would require a chiropractor on standby. And I say this not as a partisan, but as a Canadian who’s watched Trump devour weak men with glee.

So yes, we should all be relieved it’s Carney in that room. If anyone understands both diplomacy and danger, it’s the guy who’s managed world economies and has danced with politicians. He’s dealt with unstable markets and unstable egos; this is just another high-stakes derivative.

Because it’s not just Trump across the table it’s the entire performance machine around him. Look at yesterday’s interview with Meet the Press. It somehow managed to be both wild and tediously familiar. He screamed fake news, denied facts, rewrote history mid sentence and still somehow stayed seated. The Press have to walk that impossible line again: tell the truth without triggering a Trump walkout. It’s a theater of the absurd, except his absurdity has nukes and tariffs.

So tomorrow Mark Carney walks into that room where reality is flexible, truth is optional, and even a basic statement could spark a tantrum or a social media post with global consequences. He’ll be surrounded not just by cameras, but by people who believe Trump is a prophet and Carney is the enemy. And in that room, facts may not protect him.

Now, let’s not kid ourselves, Trump will need a win. His team will demand it. His base will expect it. His far-right media acolytes, the ones who show up to Oval Office pressers pretending to be journalists, will script the moment before it even unfolds. We’ve seen it before. Zelensky. Stoltenberg. The set-up, the sucker punch, the silence. Carney will have to stare into that chaos and not flinch.

This isn’t a bilateral negotiation. It’s not even a policy discussion. It’s a theatre of power, and the stage has been set by a man whose whims now drive global markets. And here’s the kicker: no matter what Carney does, whether he gives Trump a diplomatic off-ramp or calmly defends Canada’s position, the right-wing outrage machine will light up anyway. “He didn’t fix it!” they’ll cry. “Poilievre would’ve stood up to Trump!” they’ll insist, from behind anonymous usernames and keyboard courage.

Let them scream. Because those of us who understand diplomacy know that sometimes progress looks like nothing at all, until later, when the landing gear drops and you finally touch down somewhere closer to stability.

But if you’re still holding out hope that Tuesday’s meeting will be predictable, manageable, or even tethered to reality, let me offer you this final moment of clarity: the man across from Mark Carney, the one who’s torched trade deals, insulted veterans, and mocked our leadership, recently posted a photoshopped image of himself as the Pope. Not satire. Not parody. A full-blown papal fantasy, mitre and all. You don’t have to be Catholic. You don’t even have to be religious. You just have to be awake to feel your stomach turn at the sheer narcissistic delusion of it. When I first saw it, I didn’t believe it. I checked. Then I double-checked. And then I had to sit with what it meant.

Mark Carney isn’t negotiating with a leader. He’s walking into a room with someone who thinks he’s divine. So no, he won’t fix it all in one meeting. But thank God it’s him in that seat, and not someone like Poilievre still trying to impress the man with the holy headshot on Truth Social.

This isn’t gossip or chatter; it’s been confirmed. In Mark Carney’s first press conference after becoming Prime Minister, he announced that King Charles III will travel to Canada to personally deliver the Speech from the Throne. That hasn’t happened since Queen Elizabeth II did so in 1977, a moment steeped in symbolism during the Trudeau Sr. years.

Usually, the Throne Speech is read by the Governor General, in our case, Mary Simon, a proud and historic choice herself. But this time, the Crown isn’t just sending a representative. This time, the Crown is showing up.

And that matters, maybe not to everyone. Perhaps not to staunch anti-monarchists or younger generations who understandably question the monarchy’s relevance. Heck, I know I have questioned it. But to me, at least for today, it matters.

I would like to tell you a little story.

In 2002, the Queen and Prince Philip came to Moncton, New Brunswick. My father, 79 at the time, a Second World War veteran, was receiving an award on behalf of The Canadian Aviation Historical Society. He had been fully briefed on royal protocol: no casual conversation, no jokes, no stepping outside the lines.

Naturally, he broke a rule.

He said something that made the Queen laugh out loud. Not politely, genuinely. And in that moment, Prince Philip, then 81 and also a veteran, turned to my father and said: “What a cheeky young man.” Two veterans. Two old souls from two very different worlds. But for that one second, connected.

And maybe that cheekiness wasn’t just my father’s. Maybe it was a little bit Canadian. Because let’s face it, for all our global reputation as the polite ones, the nice ones, the peacekeepers and middle-grounders, we’ve shown something else these past few months.

When our sovereignty was threatened, we didn’t flinch. When tariffs were imposed, we didn’t bow. When democracy itself came under pressure, we didn’t roll over. We got cheeky. We got bold.

We got Canadian.

So whether you love or loathe the monarchy, King Charles’ decision to come here, despite serious health concerns and a world full of other priorities, means something. It’s not about pomp. It’s about presence. And presence means power.

You don’t have to be a monarchist to understand why this matters. You don’t even have to agree with the institution to acknowledge what this moment represents. Because right now, at this moment in history, it’s not the time to get caught up in that debate. It’s the time to recognize support when it’s given, and strength when it stands beside us. Remember that we are one of fifty-five Commonwealth countries that cover all corners of the planet and some of them are significant allies. Because the monarchs attendance and recognition, may indicate that the “nice guys” on the block are more recognized, tougher (and cheekier) than they look.

Sometimes, diplomacy looks like quiet defiance. Sometimes, a nation’s character shows up in a moment of laughter. And sometimes, it may be represented by a simple statement such as “What a cheeky young man.” But maybe that cheeky young (not young) man was just representative of a darn well cheeky nation.

Quebec: The 1867 version of Let’s Make a Deal! Information that Canadians (particularly Albertans need to know)

Okay, today’s conversation may not be as thrilling as a convoy conspiracy or a TikTok rant about Trudeau’s socks, but it matters. Because no matter where you live in Canada, you will inevitably spend a lot of time talking about Quebec. Sometimes with admiration. Sometimes with resentment. Often with confusion.

Here’s the deal. Literally. Don’t shout at me and say I’m on Quebec’s side. I’m just providing a little more information so we can be informed when we act as advocates for our beautiful country.

Back in 1867, when Canada decided to become a thing, it was supposed to be a tidy little club of New Brunswick, Nova Scotia, and Ontario. Quebec wasn’t really interested in being part of this little clique they were going to name Canada. But they needed Quebec. Strategically, geographically, and economically, Quebec was the keystone in the arch. At that time, the population of Ontario was only 1,600,000 and Quebec’s was 1,100,000. So those Fathers of Confederation made a deal. A constitutional one. Quebec could protect its language, its religion, its civil law system, and, crucially, it would get everything the rest of Canada got. Equal status. Equal opportunity. Equal headaches.

So when people say “Quebec gets special treatment,” the correct historical response is: no, Quebec gets what it negotiated. The rest of you just showed up later and signed the waiver. Now fast forward 158 years. Is Quebec different? Absolutely. But let’s not pretend the rest of Canada is just one beige wallpaper of sameness. If you think Saskatchewan and Newfoundland have the same vibe, you’ve never been to either. Quebec’s not the weird cousin at the family reunion, it’s the cousin who read the fine print and brought a lawyer.

Now, Alberta and Quebec will be clarifying their expectations in the coming days. ‘Danny’ has already laid down the rules of the game as written by her. Premier François Legault, the same guy who once flinched at the word “pipeline” like it was printed on a federal income tax return, is now saying his population is more open to energy corridors. Yes, that’s right. Quebec is not the immovable monolith that Bloc Québécois leader Yves-François Blanchet pretends it is. Blanchet says a lot of things, but mostly the things that would keep him from losing even more seats.

Here’s where it may sound a little personal. Because, as you read my posts, remember that it is my personal perspective I write them from.

My husband is a French-Canadian, born and raised in small-town Quebec. His family didn’t really see themselves as part of Canada they saw themselves as Quebecois. That kind of terminal uniqueness ran deep. But my husband joined the Canadian Armed Forces, and he’s been gone from Quebec for decades. Today, as a technically bilingual pipeline consultant, he is often called on to work in Quebec so he can blend the white collar needs of the Calgary engineers and manage the Francophone Quebec workforce. And while he remains proudly French-Canadian, he now often feels as much like an outsider when he is there and as when he is home in Alberta; caught between two solitudes that both claim and reject him.

That contradiction lives in a lot of us. And if you spend time in Quebec, not just in the cafés of Montreal but in the towns, the villages, even up north where few Canadians know they’re crossing into Inuit territory, you start to see something beautiful. Yes, there are tensions. But there’s also a shared heartbeat. People who want to raise their families, laugh on long weekends, pay their bills, and feel like they matter. Strip away the language laws and the lawn signs, and you’ll find we’re not speaking so differently after all.

I grew up in Moncton, the only officially bilingual city in Canada. Think about that. It’s not Montreal, not Quebec City and not Sherbrooke. Not even in Quebec. It’s Moncton which is in New Brunswick. And I’m an Anglophone who grew up in that bilingual reality. Where we didn’t just tolerate French, we lived alongside it. It was messy. It was loud. But it worked. French and English, side by side, not just in signage but in life. That taught me something early on: that difference isn’t the problem. Dishonouring the deal is.

So now, as we move forward and debate pipelines, energy corridors, climate, transfers, and provincial autonomy, we need to come back to this basic truth: Quebec made a deal. And we agreed.

The challenge now isn’t “How do we build energy corridors in Quebec?” or “How do we save Alberta?” It’s how do we build Canada, on terms that reflect who we are today, without forgetting the deals that got us here.

And as we work our way through every province and territory in this sprawling, imperfect federation, we’ll find what we’ve always found: our differences are real, but so are our connections. And remember we made the deal with Quebec in 1867.

Alberta? Alberta didn’t even get a seat at the table until 1905, nearly four decades later. So if it feels like the rules were already written… well, they kind of were.

Okay, so I said I was only going to post a couple times a week after the election…you know, get back to work, reclaim some normalcy, maybe even clean the fridge. Well, that didn’t last long. Because there’s just too much to say, and frankly, not enough people saying it with facts, context, or even basic math.

So here I am, again. Because if we don’t start talking sense about Alberta and Canada, the loudest voices in the room will keep setting fire to the table and calling it a freedom rally. Alberta Voted. Canada Heard. So Why Are We Still Talking Separation?

Let’s start with facts, not flags. In the 2025 federal election, Alberta had approximately 3 million eligible voters, and turnout was 62.8%, so about 1.88 million votes were cast. Conservatives got 59.2% of those ballots. That’s 1.11 million votes, or 37.2% of the total eligible voter base.

Let that sink in. Only 37.2% of Albertans eligible to vote chose the party that many claim “represents all of Alberta.” And even within that 37%, many were not voting for separation; they were voting for tax relief, political change, or a familiar brand. Voting Conservative is not equal to voting to leave Canada. So when someone says, “Alberta wants out,” ask yourself: Did 63% of voters stay silent or vote against it, and still lose the narrative? And how many of the 37% you’re pointing to even support breaking up the country?

This number, 37.2%, is your new best friend. Tattoo it to your retinas. Because we’re going to need it every time this nonsense resurfaces.

I’ve lived in Alberta for 45 years. I’ve served in elected office. Raised kids. Paid taxes. Lived rural and urban areas. But I am also, without apology, a Canadian. That’s not a contradiction. That’s the point. I created Canada Strong and Free not to ignore Alberta’s real challenges, but to stop us from going off a constitutional cliff in a rage-fueled fever dream.

And yes, people outside Alberta are watching this, too. No, they won’t vote in a referendum. But yes, if Alberta separates, it impacts the entire country. Confederation isn’t a one-way exit ramp. It’s a national covenant.

Who’s Actually in This Conversation? Let’s sort the room. There are the definite Keepers. They may share political philosophies with most of us. They’re informed, curious, maybe upset, but they care. They want to understand. Hold them close even when they challenge us. There are the Maybes. They may have voted Conservative. Some like the idea of more autonomy. Some distrust Ottawa. But they’re open to dialogue. Don’t write them off. And then there is the Chaos Crew. They scream. They meme. They misquote the Constitution. They claim “everyone wants out,” with zero facts to back it. They’re not here to build Alberta; they want to burn it down and blame Ottawa for the ashes. We won’t change their mind.

Time Is Not on Our Side. This province is already on fire, and not just metaphorically: measles outbreaks, cancer patients delayed or denied care, schools bursting at the seams, communities begging for infrastructure.

And yet we’re talking about… separation? Separation isn’t just a distraction; it’s a delay tactic. And while we fight imaginary wars, real people are dying. We need an Alberta that works for all of us, not just the loudest ones

So what comes next? If you’ve read this far, you’re probably not the problem. You’re someone who wants Alberta to thrive, in Canada, with Canada, for Canada.

I encourage you to follow this group, Canada Strong and Free. You’ll find facts here. Not fury. And if I don’t know something, I’ll point you to people who do — real people, not rage pages. This is how we take the narrative back: We speak up. We show up. We stay grounded in reality. Because the next time someone says, “The West wants out,” I’ll say: Only 37% of Albertans voted for the party you think is the West, and a lot of them just wanted a damn tax break. Check your math. Then check your priorities. And anyway if I had a nickel for every time someone yelled “the West wants out” without understanding how Confederation works, I’d have enough to fix rural health care, or at least fund a therapy goat for every MLA at risk of another tantrum.

It Was Just a Ride to the Polls. But It Meant Everything.

I hadn’t planned to post again so soon. I’ve been trying to limit myself to a few a week. But a conversation with a close friend in the Greater Toronto Area won’t leave me alone. It’s not about political parties or platforms. It’s about democracy, and the quiet acts that hold it together.

My friend had volunteered a few hours of her time to help a local candidate by giving rides to people who otherwise couldn’t get to the polls. No fanfare. No hashtags. Just service. And what she shared with me needs to be shared.

She picked up an elderly Greek woman in her 80s, living far from the polling station, who likely wouldn’t have made it without help. She brought a newcomer family, likely Muslim, led by a woman in a full burqa, to cast what might have been their first Canadian vote. And she went into one of the roughest housing complexes in the area to pick up a young Black man, someone she was nervous to meet at first, alone in a part of town known for violence. She waited longer than expected. Her anxiety kicked in. And then he showed up, kind, thoughtful, engaged, and they ended up having a warm, honest conversation.

Each of these stories hit me hard. And they should hit all of us.

Because none of this is theoretical. None of this is about talking points or party lines. This is about real people, doing something real, in a country that gives us the right to participate, and, for many, the will to do better than the last chapter of their story.

There was one more moment that she hesitated to tell me, but I’m so glad she did. My friend is Jewish. When the woman in the burqa, speaking in a language my friend didn’t understand, turned to ask her if she spoke any other languages, my friend panicked for a second. She worried that if she mentioned Hebrew or identified herself as Jewish, it might create tension, might disrupt the fragile harmony in that moment. But here’s the thing: difference didn’t matter. What mattered was that, for a few minutes, they were just two Canadian women, one helping the other exercise her democratic right. It was community in its truest, most honest form.

So if you’re feeling discouraged today, maybe upset by the outcome of the election, or tempted by the talk of division or separation, I want you to think of those three people. An elderly woman who may have cast her final vote. A new citizen who may have cast her first. A young man who chose hope over cynicism, even when the odds weren’t in his favour.

And I want you to think of my friend, who thought she “hadn’t done much.” Because the truth is, she did everything. No one handed her a megaphone. No one gave her a podium. But in those few hours, she made democracy real — not in theory, but in action.

So no, you don’t need a flag on your truck. You don’t need to yell louder than everyone else online. You just need to show up — for someone else.

And to my friend: I promise you, those passengers will never forget the ride. And neither will I.