My heart has been broken.
Not by one thing.
By what I loved. By what I lost. By what I could not change. And, if I am being completely honest, by the things I sometimes wish I had done differently.
Grief has a strange way of changing the landscape around you. The streets look the same, the buildings are still standing, people are still going to work, children are still going to school — and yet somehow, everything is different.
You learn to keep moving while carrying something nobody else can see.
For me, that something is my mother.
And somehow, through all of this, this newspaper has kept me connected to her.
Every story. Every community event. Every conversation with a resident. Every person who tells me, “Your mother would have loved this.”
You have given me pieces of her back.
I don’t think you will ever truly understand what that has meant to me and my family.
When I stepped into this newspaper, I knew I was taking on a responsibility.
I did not fully understand that I was also taking on a legacy.
My mother built relationships in these communities. She listened to people. She gave them a place to be heard.
Now I find myself doing the same thing.
Sometimes I wonder if I am doing enough.
Sometimes I wonder if I am doing too much.
Sometimes I wonder what she would say if she were standing beside me.
And then I walk into another community event, another council meeting, another conversation with a resident who simply wants someone to listen — and I remember.
This is why I am here.
So to every person who has picked up this newspaper, read my words, shared a story, stopped me on the street, invited me into your community, challenged me, encouraged me or simply kept reading:
Thank you.
You have given me something I could never have asked for.
You have given me a place to belong while I was trying to figure out where I belonged without her.
You have helped me honour my mother.
And if I am allowed to call anything a victory in this strange race called life, that is my victory.
Now, I have to take the stage.
And I will see you there.
But don’t worry — I am not disappearing.
You will still find me at the fall fairs, community events, council chambers, arenas, coffee shops and on the streets of the communities we serve.
I am not going far.
In fact, I am heading somewhere new.
Tiny.
I have heard there is quite a bit to hear there.
Quite a bit to see.
And I suspect there is quite a bit that needs to be talked about.
So, Tiny residents, your turn.
Show me your community.
Tell me what you love about where you live.
Tell me what keeps you up at night.
Tell me what you believe needs to change.
Tell me what you want protected.
Tell me what you want built.
Tell me what you want your children and grandchildren to inherit.
Tell me what you want your future to look like.
The North Simcoe Springwater News will be gathering questions from Tiny residents to put to all Township candidates for our October 8 edition.
I don’t want to decide what those questions should be.
You should.
This is your community.
These are your roads, your taxes, your services, your neighbourhoods, your parks, your businesses and your future.
So talk to us.
Send us your questions.
Make your voice part of the conversation.
Because there is another reason I keep walking into these communities, sitting through these meetings and asking these questions.
It is because I believe deeply in democracy.
Perhaps too deeply sometimes.
But I believe in it because I have seen what happens when people stop participating.
Politics can feel complicated. Municipal government can feel even more complicated. The language can be difficult. The debates can be exhausting. The personalities can sometimes overshadow the issues.
And eventually, people get tired.
They tune out.
They say, “It doesn’t matter.”
They say, “Someone else will decide.”
But someone else will decide.
That is the uncomfortable truth.
If you don’t participate, the decisions do not stop.
They simply get made without your voice.
That is why voter fatigue concerns me.
Not because people do not care.
I think most people care very deeply.
They are simply overwhelmed.
And when people become overwhelmed, they disengage.
That is where journalism has a responsibility.
Not to tell you what to think.
Not to tell you who to vote for.
But to make sure you have the information to decide for yourself.
To ask the questions that need asking.
To give candidates an opportunity to answer.
To bring local issues into the light.
To make government understandable.
And, perhaps most importantly, to remind people that their voice matters.
Democracy is not something that belongs to politicians.
It belongs to you.
It belongs to the person who has lived in Tiny for 60 years.
It belongs to the young family trying to build a life here.
It belongs to the farmer wondering what the next decade will bring.
It belongs to the business owner who is trying to keep their doors open.
It belongs to the senior who worries about services.
It belongs to the young person wondering whether they will be able to afford to stay in the community they grew up in.
It belongs to every person who has ever looked around their community and thought:
“What happens next?”
That question is why I keep going.
Maybe that is what my mother gave me without ever knowing it.
A belief that communities matter.
That people matter.
That their stories matter.
And that someone has to be willing to listen.
So yes, my heart has been broken.
But it has also been filled.
Filled by this newspaper.
Filled by these communities.
Filled by the people who continue to show up.
And filled by the privilege of carrying forward something my mother loved.
I cannot bring her back.
I cannot change what happened.
But I can keep walking.
I can keep asking.
I can keep listening.
I can keep telling your stories.
And I can keep opening these pages so that our communities have somewhere to speak.
So, Tiny…
I am coming your way.
Bring me your questions.
Bring me your concerns.
Bring me your hopes.
Bring me your stories.
Show me your community.
And together, let’s make sure it is heard.