Suzanne Westover Archives - Mental Health Commission of Canada

Changing the Narrative on Suicide Prevention: What Safety Really Means

Ian Peralta — Tue, 08 Sep 2026 04:00:26 +0000

By Suzanne Westover

When it comes to suicide prevention, deep expertise lies with those who’ve lived through an attempt or supported someone who has.

Madi Sutton, Allison Dunning, and Kelly Brownbill have thought back to the conversations that helped to save their lives, or the life of a loved one, and they shed light on what made these conversations safe and meaningful for them.

More than scratching the surface

Allison Dunning

Are you thinking of suicide? Do you have a plan? Do you have means?

We’ve been taught these are the questions to ask when someone discloses suicidal thoughts. But Allison Dunning, executive director of Peer Support Canada, says they barely scratch the surface.

“These yes or no questions play into the binary idea that you’re going to imminently harm yourself, or you aren’t,” says Allison. “The reality is more often a shade of grey.”

Having deep experience with peer support, she describes suicidality as a low hum running in the background of many people’s minds — an escape hatch they might never use.

“As a society, we’re uncomfortable talking about death and dying, so people push those feelings down until they become dangerous,” says Allison.

When pain becomes unbearable

Madi Sutton

That’s what happened to Madi Sutton, who attempted suicide at age 16.

“I was in so much pain it hurt to breathe,” she recalls now, more than 10 years later, having trained to become a health care provider, as a way to honour her experience.

“I woke up in the hospital with a back injury,” says Madi. “And I learned later the psychiatrist in charge of my care wrote off any possibility of recovery.”

Her parents rejected that bleak prognosis. She credits their steadfastness and the kindness of the nurses who cared for her with saving her life. “In my darkest moments, a nurse would come and sit with me, and just their presence would affirm that I was worthy of healing,” says Madi.

Meanwhile, her parents held hope when she couldn’t. Her father would say, “I know you don’t have hope, but I do, and I’ll hold it for you.”

The language of safety

Kelly Brownbill

This kind of ferocious, attentive care is something Kelly Brownbill, a teacher of First Nations’ tradition and culture, knows first-hand. When her daughter Ziigwen’s suicidality became acute, Kelly spent three years with a single imperative: keeping her daughter alive.

Over time, they developed a shorthand. Instead of asking, “Are you suicidal?” Kelly would ask Ziigwen, “Are you safe?” It gave them a shared, precise understanding: Kelly was asking not whether her daughter was well, but whether she had a plan to harm herself imminently.

“Sometimes she’d start venting, and she’d see my eyes widen with fear, so she’d hold up her hand and say, ‘Mom, I’m safe,’” Kelly recalls.

Kelly also gauged her daughter’s capacity with another simple question: “Do you have any spoons?” It became code for “Is this asking too much of yourself?” It gave her daughter permission to tap out of tasks that would deplete her dwindling reserves.

This shared language helped create safety between them. If Ziigwen said she didn’t feel safe, Kelly knew how to respond.

“You can’t respond with guilt or recrimination. You say, ‘Thank you for telling me that. I am here. I am going to keep you safe,’” says Kelly.

The power of curiosity

When Madi was at her lowest, her family simply asked, “What do you need right now?” Sometimes that was company while watching a movie or sitting together in silence.

“It gave me permission to ask for helpful support, rather than letting others assume what I needed,” she says.

According to Allison, these responses are the opposite of what usually happens. More often, people are dismissive, offering a pat on the shoulder with reassurance that everything will be fine. “I shut down immediately on hearing those words,” says Allison, who has herself experienced suicidality.

Sometimes, people hit the alarm button, calling in reinforcements before they’re required. “It’s happened to me. I’ve been formed. I’ve been sectioned,” says Allison, who suggests trying a very simple intervention first.

“Ask someone if you can make them a cup of tea, get them a sandwich, if they’d like to go for walk,” she says. “Because of the fluid nature of suicidal thoughts, a person can feel very differently after they’ve eaten or done some movement.” While Allison concedes these measures won’t solve the more deeply rooted problems, she emphasizes that intense feelings of distress can sometimes be lessened once basic needs have been met and people have had space to breathe and move.

Above all, Allison advises responding with compassion and curiosity. “Someone has just told you they are suffering. Try sitting with them in that pain.”

Questions like What have you done when you’ve felt like this in the past? or What’s helpful to you in moments like this? create space for exploration.

“You’re not trying to fix the person or convince them they’re wrong to feel this way,” Allison explains. “You’re just present and curious.”

Why intention matters

But curiosity requires time, which is a scarce resource in clinical settings.

“An emergency room is, by nature, not designed to deal with chronic or ongoing health issues,” Allison points out.

Even in primary care, health care providers operate under real constraints: time is limited; capacity is stretched. But meaningful support doesn’t require infinite hours. “It requires intention,” says Madi.

When someone discloses suicidal thoughts, Madi, Allison, and Kelly agree the first response should be unequivocal. Thank you for telling me. Thank you for trusting me.

“That immediately calms the flood of anxiety after a disclosure,” Madi says.

From there comes honesty about limitations. “As a health care provider, be transparent about time constraints,” says Madi, who suggests responding with I have 10 minutes, but you are worthy of as much time as you need or I wish I could sit with you in your pain, but what I can do is tell you there are resources for you, because you are worthy of help and support.

In a busy health care setting, Allison affirms that a referral to peer support can be a meaningful way to offer a low-intensity intervention, without dismissing someone’s need to be heard.

Reframing also matters. Routine screening questions — Do you smoke? Do you drink alcohol? — can feel judgmental to someone already drowning in shame. Madi suggests providing context for the questions: “Explain, these aren’t questions to judge your choices. These are questions to help me ensure the right treatments.”

People at their lowest often feel unworthy — of care, compassion, and kindness.

“I was looking for a signal to confirm the worst thoughts about myself,” says Madi. That could be a sigh, an eye roll, a tightening of the shoulders.

“Small, often-unintentional signals can do untold harm.”

On the flip side, nonjudgmental body language, such as leaning slightly forward, keeping arms and legs uncrossed, making eye contact, and facing someone directly, can signal safety.

The bigger picture

While compassion between individuals, whether within a family or in a health care setting, is important, the conditions for safety extend beyond a single household or interaction.

Allison is acutely aware of how privilege shapes care. “As a white, cis-gender woman, I may be extended grace that others in the same situation wouldn’t be,” she acknowledges.

When we talk about suicide prevention, Allison says, we need to consider the foundations. “Housing, food security, libraries, peer support, anti-racism — these are legs of the stool. We can’t ask someone to be well if they are hungry and without a home.”

For Kelly, this structural view is inseparable from culture. Safety for Indigenous people means something specific: safety in communities often too small for privacy, safety in a broader world where racism and historical trauma still echo, and safety in their own bodies.

Health care providers and support systems, Kelly believes, need to ask each person this question: What would make you feel safe? The answer may be different for everyone. But that question, she says, is at the heart of what will ultimately change the narrative around suicide prevention.

Changing the narrative

What does a real shift in the narrative look like?

For Allison, it starts with curiosity before crisis hits. Questions like How do you think we got here? help us understand not just where someone is now, but how they arrived there. That’s where prevention actually begins.

For Kelly, the shift is from prevention to life promotion, drawing on cultural strengths and helping people find power and resilience in their heritage. “Suicide prevention is one side of the coin,” says Kelly. “But life promotion is the other, and it’s equally important.”

For Madi, it means rejecting the idea that attempting suicide is cowardice, selfishness, or a moral failing. “When I tried to take my own life, it was at a moment when the pain was not something I could endure any longer,” she says.

She survived. She healed. And she returned to health care because living through that pain taught her something textbooks cannot.

“When you have lived through this very visceral kind of pain, you are perhaps more attuned to it than others. And knowing what that pain does to a person gives insights into how to best respond when you encounter it,” Madi reflects.

When living through those moments of pain, the question Kelly always comes back to is the simplest one: What do you need to feel safe?

And then we listen.

Author: Suzanne Westover An Ottawa writer and former speechwriter, and Manager of Communications at the Mental Health Commission of Canada. A homebody who always has her nose in a book, she bakes a mean lemon loaf (some would call her a one-dish wonder) and enjoys watching movies with her husband and 14-year-old daughter. Suzanne’s time with the MHCC cemented her interest in mental health, and she remains a life-long learner on the subject.

The post Changing the Narrative on Suicide Prevention: What Safety Really Means appeared first on Mental Health Commission of Canada.

The hardest conversation: Changing the way health-care providers talk about suicide

Kati Oliver — Tue, 11 Aug 2026 08:30:39 +0000

By Suzanne Westover

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Only a month after Joy McNabb completed Talking About Suicide — a refreshed, free, self-directed three-hour course available to all health-care providers — she found herself drawing on her newfound knowledge.

She was caring for a patient at a foot clinic in Fort Qu’Appelle, Saskatchewan, where she works for the File Hills Qu’Appelle Tribal Council (FHQ) as a licensed practical nurse (LPN).

“People are more than a wound, or a diabetes diagnosis, or a chronic illness,” says Joy. “And when you’re sitting with them in a vulnerable space, if you build up trust and confidence, you can become someone they feel safe to confide in.”

This is exactly what happened when the patient she was treating began to talk to Joy about their situation. They had made choices, they said, they wished they hadn’t. They were on a different path now, but they felt lonely and confused. Were they worthy of a better situation? Was there really something to continue to fight for?

“In that moment, having just finished the training, I thought to myself: I can handle this.”

Trust is earned slowly and lost quickly

When Joy discovered the patient was considering self-harm and experiencing suicidal ideation, she slowly floated the idea of a safety plan. “I was cautious. Always conscious of asking for permission. Of listening without judgment.” The relief her patient felt at feeling seen and heard was a turning point.

“I told them, hey, we’ve all had bad days,” say Joy, who allowed herself to be vulnerable to better empathize with her patient. “This is a judgment-free zone. You’re safe here.”

After some consideration, the patient agreed to Joy’s suggestion to build a safety plan. Putting their heads together, they created a blueprint for what to do if the patient felt unsafe again. This was empowering for Joy, and life-changing for her patient.

The Talking About Suicide training, which is informed by people with lived and living experience, left her recasting many of her previous interactions with patients in a new, more compassionate light.

“Now that I know better, I will do better.”

A three-hour investment for a lifetime of confidence

In the feedback we gathered from course participants, the Mental Health Commission of Canada heard from health-care professionals from across the country working in diverse settings, each of whom took something away from the course that has helped them refine their approach to life promotion and suicide prevention.

From Indigenous health services to veteran communities, rural emergency departments to mobile crisis teams working in lockstep with police, these providers are on the front lines where suicide prevention skills matter most.

Today in Canada, 13 people will die by suicide, and nearly half of them will have seen their primary care provider in the four weeks before their death.

A Métis Elder working with both veterans and Indigenous communities described the training as “enlightening” and indicated that it provided new tools and approaches for discussing what he says remains a deeply stigmatized subject in both populations.

For Samira Smith, an LPN in Alberta, the course was revelatory. Once afraid of speaking openly about suicide, she now recognizes that silence is the truly dangerous response.

Her learning has spilled over into her personal life in profound ways. Recently, when her daughter confided that an eight-year-old friend had tried to self-harm, Samira was able to help her daughter’s friend to talk about his feelings and let him know he is loved and never alone — a conversation she says she would have panicked through or avoided entirely before the training.

The long game: Changing the system one provider at a time

As providers learn new language, gain confidence, and build trust, the result can be transformative, both individually and systemically.

For Anna Spilker, a cognitive behavioural therapy (CBT) team lead in Alberta, the training gave her the effective questioning techniques she needed when she encountered a client experiencing active suicidal ideation. Her newfound assurance led her team to overhaul their suicide intervention charting template, ushering in systemic change that will impact countless clients.

Wade Norquay, who works in emergency medicine in rural Prince Edward Island, shared how the training reminded him of the importance of simply taking a moment, no matter how busy the emergency department gets, to be truly present for patients in crisis.

Across providers, a recurring theme emerged. Talking About Suicide does more than build skills. It’s a complete reframe of a worldview that has swept suicide under the rug for too long, labelled it as taboo, and propagated the dangerous misperception that asking even thoughtful, empathetic questions could “plant a seed” of suicidal ideation.

The result is a slow but steady cultural shift within health-care settings that prioritizes what actually works: direct, clear, compassionate language. Naming suicide, asking point-blank about plans and means, and being a non-judgmental listening ear are the best practices that will ultimately help reverse the distressing upward trend we’re seeing in deaths by suicide in Canada.

The impact is measurable: following the Talking About Suicide training, 96 per cent of graduates reported feeling confident about discussing suicide with their clients and patients.

Talking About Suicide is meaningfully changing conversations, creating safe spaces, and building a more empathetic and responsive system, one provider at a time.

“My patient, once experiencing a feeling of hopelessness, is now thriving,” says Joy. “That helps me sleep better at night.”

Learn more: Talking About Suicide: Empowering Healthcare Providers, Instilling Hope in Clients

This free, three-hour self-directed online course is accredited by the College of Family Physicians of Canada and the Canadian Nurses Association and is designed for health-care providers of all types. Developed with guidance from people with lived and living experience and featuring testimonials from suicide attempt survivors, the training provides practical skills for having direct, compassionate conversations about suicide.

To register: Talking About Suicide

This training is part of the Mental Health Commission of Canada’s broader commitment to suicide prevention and complements the Roots of Hope initiative.

Resources, sources, and documents

Talking About Suicide – Infographic

Suicide Prevention Initiatives

Author: Suzanne Westover, An Ottawa writer and former speechwriter, and Manager of Communications at the Mental Health Commission of Canada. A homebody who always has her nose in a book, she bakes a mean lemon loaf (some would call her a one-dish wonder) and enjoys watching movies with her husband and 14-year-old daughter. Suzanne’s time with the MHCC cemented her interest in mental health, and she remains a life-long learner on the subject.

The post The hardest conversation: Changing the way health-care providers talk about suicide appeared first on Mental Health Commission of Canada.

From Silence to Systems Change: How Lived Experience Is Redefining Quality Mental Health Care

Kati Oliver — Tue, 21 Jul 2026 08:32:45 +0000

By Suzanne Westover

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When Alisha Haseeb signs onto Zoom from her University of Toronto dorm room, where she is a first-year medical student, health and optimism radiate from her screen. Her books are neatly stacked, posters brighten the walls, and her smile is disarming.

Today, Alisha is a member of the Mental Health Commission of Canada’s Youth Council. But her journey — shaped by a silent struggle and a growing determination to help build a better system — wasn’t always smooth sailing.

Which is precisely why her hard-won wisdom was invaluable when it came time to develop the Commission’s Quality Mental Health Care Framework and Implementation Toolkit, grounded in the voices of lived and living experience. Designed to knit together a typically fragmented system of care into safe, culturally responsive, person-centred support, the Framework and Toolkit mandate a simple call to action: build a system that adapts to people, rather than the other way around.

When the light begins to dim

Alisha Haseeb

As a young girl growing up in Belleville, Ontario, Alisha sparkled. She excelled academically, thrived socially, and poured passion into every hobby. But somewhere between middle school and high school, her bright world began to fade.

It happened insidiously. Her love of learning dulled. Lunchtimes became isolating. Joy felt distant. She walked through her days like a shadow of her former self, disconnected from the experiences that once made her feel alive.

At the time, she didn’t understand that she was standing in the eye of a storm shaped by intersecting pressures: the expectations within her Pakistani immigrant family, the lack of cultural mirrors in her predominantly white community, and the absence of language to describe what she was feeling.

“I was walking this path without seeing my experience mirrored anywhere,” she recalls. “If you can’t see it, you begin to question if it’s even real.”

In a family where mental health literacy was limited, concepts like boundaries, self-compassion, and mental wellness felt unfamiliar. And so, with no reference point for mental health within her family, and no teachers trained to recognize culturally shaped distress, Alisha internalized her pain. She told herself she was privileged — with loving parents, a stable home, and strong grades — so she had no right to struggle.

It is precisely this kind of early, invisible suffering that quality mental health care must catch before it reaches a crisis point. Yet too often, the system misses it entirely.

When you don’t have the words

Conversations about emotions were rare in Alisha’s home, leaving her without the vocabulary or confidence to express her feelings. “I desperately wanted to be alone. But I hated being lonely,” she says.

So, she hid in the bathroom at school at lunchtime, seeking refuge from a cafeteria that suddenly felt unbearable. There, behind a locked door, she finally felt free to release her emotions.

She tried to confide in a teacher, describing her slipping grades and mounting exhaustion, but her plea for help was misread. The teacher mistook her withdrawal for healthy boundary-setting rather than a sign of distress.

This disconnect highlights a critical gap: providers need training to recognize the many faces of distress, especially when distress is filtered through cultural norms, the weight of stigma, or the desire to present a brave face.

Therapy that missed the mark

As Alisha slipped further into apathy, her parents — concerned and frightened — sought therapy, the only mental health support they knew about. But therapy was expensive. And culturally, it was unfamiliar territory.

Inside the therapist’s office, Alisha hoped to feel seen. Instead, she was handed worksheets. Tasks. Homework.

For a young woman already overwhelmed by academic pressure and convinced that her worth hinged on productivity, these assignments felt like yet another test. She couldn’t complete them, and the spiral of guilt intensified.

“I didn’t understand how different things could have been if I’d felt an immediate sense of trust,” she reflects. “If someone had understood the cultural realities I was navigating.”

The mismatch wasn’t just unfortunate — it was harmful. It points to the need for care that recognizes cultural identity, lived experience, and the systemic barriers that shape how a person seeks help.

It’s precisely this gap that the Toolkit aims to address, through examples that shine a light on organizations that are meaningfully collaborating with equity-deserving populations and practical resources to support people seeking help. For example, the Canadian Federation of Nurses Unions’ Equity and Inclusion Toolkit acts as a litmus test to assess current structures and practices, highlighting where improvements can be made.

A slow turn toward healing

For Alisha, healing began in small, unexpected ways. When closures during the COVID-19 pandemic sent her home, the familiar rhythm of family life and time away from school pressures allowed her nervous system to reset. Conversations with her older siblings helped her name feelings she had repressed for years.

But the real turning point came when she began her undergraduate degree at McMaster University. For the first time, she met peers who shared her cultural background and emotional experiences.

“To look at someone and instantly feel understood — it was transformative,” she says. “I finally felt safe.”

In sharing her story, she learned how many others had endured similar struggles, shaped by migration, expectation, and stoicism. Her vulnerability opened doors for shared understanding and became the foundation for her mental health advocacy.

Meanwhile, her family’s knowledge and comfort level evolved alongside hers. Mental health, once relegated to the shadows, became a topic of open conversation. Her parents and grandparents began asking questions not just about achievement, but about wellness.

This kind of cultural shift — within families, systems, and workplaces — is what the Toolkit aims to support through case studies, best practices, and concrete strategies that help organizations transform insight into action.

Translating vision into practice

The Quality Mental Health Care Framework Implementation Toolkit was developed through extensive consultations with people with lived and living experience, health-care providers, administrators, and policy experts. Its purpose is practical: to help organizations apply the revised Framework consistently and meaningfully.

The Toolkit emphasizes that quality care must reflect the cultural context of the person receiving it — not the assumptions of those providing it. This includes understanding how race, migration, language, and cultural norms shape someone’s experience of distress and help-seeking. Cultural safety, a foundation of the Framework, requires that people feel respected and free from shame. The Toolkit provides resources to build environments where stigma is recognized, addressed, and dismantled at individual, organizational, and systemic levels.

Rather than designing care for people, the Toolkit promotes designing care with them. This means involving people with lived and living experience in decision-making, evaluation, and improvement processes to ensure that services reflect the realities of those they serve, not theoretical ideals.

The Toolkit includes examples, prompts, and practical resources to help organizations turn theory into action — adapting local policies, training, workplace culture, and service delivery to embed person-centred, trauma-informed, integrated, equitable, and recovery-oriented care into real-world environments. These tools exist so young people like Alisha, and countless others, won’t fall through the cracks simply because their distress isn’t recognized by rigid systems.

Writing a new narrative

Today, as Alisha studies medicine, she carries her past into her future practice with intention. She wants to give patients the kind of care she needed — care that sees the whole person, honours their culture, and recognizes that suffering doesn’t have to meet an arbitrary threshold to deserve attention.

Had her first therapist understood the pressures felt by children of immigrants or recognized that “homework” would feel like another test, Alisha’s healing might have begun sooner. If her teacher had been trained to see withdrawal as a signal of distress, she might not have spent so many lunches hiding in a bathroom stall.

These are small shifts. But they can change everything.

Back in her dorm room, Alisha reflects on the lessons she’ll carry into her work. “I hope to practice person-centred care in everything I do,” she says. “And what I’ve learned is that means something different for everyone.”

The Toolkit exists to help make that vision a reality, not just for clinicians-in-training, like Alisha, but for the entire mental health ecosystem. It reminds us that quality care isn’t defined solely by access to services, but by creating environments in which people can recognize themselves in the care they receive — and do so with dignity, safety, and cultural resonance.

In helping to build a system that listens, adapts, and evolves, the Toolkit — and the lived experiences that ground it — ensure that young people like Alisha no longer have to walk their path unseen.

Resources, sources, and documents

The Quality Mental Health Care Implementation Toolkit

Quality Mental Health Care Network

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What’s in a name

Kati Oliver — Wed, 29 Apr 2026 08:30:08 +0000

MHCC & Series

When Sarah Ford agreed to speak with me about the Canadian Hemophilia Society’s upcoming name change, I’ll admit my knowledge of bleeding disorders was limited — largely informed by pervasive myths and misperceptions.

During our conversation, my understanding deepened, and the parallels with mental health became impossible to ignore: intergenerational trauma, vigilance born of past harms, the weight of stigma, and the challenge of reaching those who don’t yet know they need help.

This is familiar territory for the Mental Health Commission of Canada. And it’s proof that our health challenges, while distinct, share common threads.

The Canadian Hemophilia Society gets a new name

After 73 years, the Canadian Hemophilia Society is poised for a major change. The organization will soon become formally known as Bleeding Disorders Canada.

Sarah Ford, the non-profit’s CEO, recognizes that with a new name comes a new identity.

“Reaching a consensus on something this momentous is never easy,” says Sarah on a Zoom call from her Montreal office. “It’s walking a fine line.”

On the one hand, it’s imperative to honour a rich and storied legacy that dates back to the organization’s founding in 1953. On the other, there is a need to broaden the tent to include people who’ve been historically underserved.

As Sarah navigates this delicate balance, she’s always mindful of the resilience and determination of this small but mighty community — one that has borne an outsized burden.

When a life-saving treatment turns deadly

“Before treatments were available, hemophilia could have been life-threatening, more or less,” she reflects.

The disorder prevents blood from clotting properly, which can lead to internal bleeding and harm to joints. The knees, ankles, and elbows are especially vulnerable. When bleeding occurs in a vital organ, it can be life threatening.

“Then in the 1980s, you had this incredible moment of optimism.”

Sarah is referring to the advent of clotting medications extracted from donated blood, with thousands of plasma donations being pooled into a single batch. These concentrates were able to treat internal bleeding via small infusions, and individuals no longer had to be hooked up to a machine for days.

With this breakthrough came fresh hope — until it was revealed that thousands of people who had received these life-saving treatments had become infected with HIV and hepatitis C as a result of a contaminated blood supply.

“That nascent hope was crushed overnight,” says Sarah. “Many died from the very treatment meant to save them.”

Keeping history close

Decades later, the fear, anger, and grief remain fresh for those who were affected by the contaminated blood supply.

“A woman who lost her father, brother, or uncle at that time, and is now contemplating giving birth — how can we not describe this as intergenerational trauma?” asks Sarah, who felt compelled to memorialize these experiences.

“We need to keep our history close so that we can continue to learn from it. It’s about honouring the previous generations, while protecting those coming up after.”

This felt especially important in the lead-up to a name change. There needed to be reassurance for those early advocates that they would still be very much in the fold.

Led by volunteers, Sarah put the wheels in motion to build a digital national memorial dedicated to those who died and whose lives were forever changed — a reminder of the heavy toll of the past and the need for ongoing vigilance and advocacy.

She anticipates a year of behind-the-scenes work to gather the content and personal reflections that will immortalize the tenacity of those dealt a double blow: first an inherited bleeding disorder, then a diagnosis of HIV or hepatitis C.

“The bleeding disorders community is made up of people who were failed by a system that was supposed to protect them. But because of that, they are among the most savvy, literate, and tireless advocates.”

That watchdog role (what the organization calls hemovigilance) remains critical. And it is one that benefits not just the tight-knit bleeding disorders community, but many others who may need transfusions for various medical reasons.

“We need to make sure the systems are in place to avoid these kinds of preventable public health disasters.”

Next year, 2027, will mark 30 years since the seminal Krever report, which recommended sweeping reforms to ensure a safe blood supply.

“We can’t let these harms from the past become part of a more faded history. We are standing on the shoulders of those who lost so much.”

Sarah Ford

More than skin deep

The psychological toll of living with a bleeding disorder runs deeper than the tainted blood tragedy. Globally, some 47 per cent of people living with a blood disorder experience anxiety.

This can be compounded by the stigma attached to an inherited condition, whether it’s fear of insurance complications, workplace discrimination, or concerns about alienating a potential life partner.

“These aren’t abstract worries,” Sarah explains. People make real decisions about disclosure, career paths, and relationships on the basis of fear of how they’ll be perceived.

Inherited bleeding disorders remain prone to mischaracterization. Hemophilia has been mythologized as a disease of the royal line. This is technically true, because Queen Victoria passed hemophilia on to her heirs, but it’s certainly not limited to blue bloods. There is still a pervasive idea that people with hemophilia might bleed to death from a simple cut. Or that hemophilia is exclusive to males.

These misunderstandings matter. They affect diagnosis, treatment, and how people understand their own experiences.

Building a bigger tent

As the original cohort of advocates ages and innovative treatments for hemophilia, like gene therapies, come online, the organization’s shift toward a more inclusive name makes it easier for people to find community and support without having to navigate outdated perceptions.

Sarah ticks off populations that could be better served: women and girls, those with von Willebrand disease (VWD), people living with rare factor deficiencies or rare platelet disorders, and those in rural or remote communities.

“We have to keep our shoulder to progress, and we do that by putting up a bigger tent. If we want the game-changing therapies we’re seeing for hemophilia extended across other blood disorders, we need a new generation of advocates.”

Women and girls, in particular, have been given short shrift for too long. They’ve been labelled as “carriers,” which negates their lived experience beyond childbirth. The organization has spotlighted stories of those like sisters Erin and Emileigh who openly discuss everything from the onset of their periods (painful, heavy), to bruising and joint pain (often), to anxieties about travelling and becoming injured. These experiences have been worsened by doctors’ dismissive attitudes and delayed treatments — which is why Bleeding Disorders Canada is stepping up to the plate.

“Our understanding of these disorders among the female population is a huge part of achieving equity,” Sarah says, who acknowledges it’s not always an easy subject to broach.

“Think about young women getting their periods for the first time. Then layer on the trauma of menorrhagia — heavy menstrual bleeding. Many would rather talk about anything else.”

If Bleeding Disorders Canada wants to be the go-to for information — the first call when someone has a new diagnosis or is wrestling with the possibility — then identifying themselves as that trusted source starts with a name.

Right now, a woman might not see her experience reflected when she comes across the Canadian Hemophilia Society. “And yet,” explains Sarah, “we’re already doing work on her behalf. We’re advocating for her. In all but name only.”

Meeting people where they are

Bleeding Disorders Canada is undertaking a rebrand, but the work won’t diminish. “It’s only going to expand.”

The organization works with health-care providers to ask where the questions are and what community members need to know. Plans include expanding education on everything from novel therapies for hemophilia to updated information on VWD.

“People want concrete, reliable information they can bring with them to their health-care team,” she says.

Increasingly, not-for-profits fill that knowledge gap, providing unbiased, well-researched resources in an era when seeking verified health information can feel a lot like drinking from a firehose.

“Some people want stacks of peer-reviewed journals; others want an infographic they can digest at a glance. We do our best to meet people where they are.”

If you build it, they will come

Closing the knowledge gap for those who may need information but don’t yet have it is part of Bleeding Disorders Canada’s new strategic direction.

Sarah shares a striking statistic: “We have 5,000 people living with VWD registered in the national bleeding disorder database, and that number should be closer to 25,000.”

The new name is a marquee, a signpost that all are welcome. Sarah believes if you build it, they will come.

She lights up when she talks about recently sending three women to the World Federation of Hemophilia 2026 World Congress: “One has von Willebrand disease, one lives with mild hemophilia, and one has a son with severe hemophilia. Two are training as medical practitioners. There is this sense of excitement, this feeling of being at the centre of this conversation. A real feeling of new possibilities.”

I ask if the need for advocacy has decreased as treatments have evolved.

“No!” On this point, Sarah is emphatic. “Applying advocacy to protect care systems and hard-won wisdom to improve conditions for underserved populations — this is an area of tremendous need. It’s an incredible time to see how quickly things are changing.”

The official name change will happen this June, with a transition period focused on logistics — ensuring the chain of communication between community members, decision-makers, and others remains unbroken.

“Whether we are CHS or Bleeding Disorders Canada, what remains true is that we’re dedicated to foundational education and committed to being a trusted source of information for all our constituents — even those who haven’t yet arrived at our door.”

For those who want to get involved, Bleeding Disorders Canada offers volunteering opportunities and peer support programs and maintains links to provincial chapters across the country. The website serves as a hub for resources and information.

As Sarah puts it: “For the community, by the community, with the community.”

To learn more, visit www.hemophilia.ca.

Author: Suzanne Westover

Suzanne Westover

An Ottawa writer and former speechwriter, and Manager of Communications at the Mental Health Commission of Canada. A homebody who always has her nose in a book, she bakes a mean lemon loaf (some would call her a one-dish wonder) and enjoys watching movies with her husband and 14-year-old daughter. Suzanne’s time with the MHCC cemented her interest in mental health, and she remains a life-long learner on the subject.

The post What’s in a name appeared first on Mental Health Commission of Canada.

Are You There Judy? It’s Me … Midlife Margaret

Ian Peralta — Tue, 17 Feb 2026 13:00:09 +0000

By Suzanne Westover

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At midlife? We’re on our own.

From American Beauty to Mad Men, the male midlife crisis is a cultural obsession — complete with sports cars, affairs, and existential breakdowns.

Take my dad. In his early 60s, he bought a black Mustang GT convertible, beautiful but impractical, a coupe with negligible legroom. We still had a family dog, and my parents regularly made long drives. My mother recalls a juddering so relentless that every few kilometres she double-checked her fillings hadn’t fallen out.

While he conformed to the trope of the male midlife crisis, the reality is a little starker.

Midlife can be a period of reflection, a grab bag of unmet goals and shifting roles. My dad had recently retired, but his job had been central to his identity. His kids were grown. He began offering (not so helpful) observations on my mother’s vacuuming. In retrospect, the car was a stand-in for feelings of grief and loss he couldn’t articulate.

Given that men have been conditioned to externalize distress — acting out in anger, masking depression through workaholism — it makes sense that someone identifying as male might address midlife malaise with a big-ticket item.

A fast car equals a new lease on life. Problem (not quite) solved.

Are you a woman over 45? Pass me the eraser

It’s trickier to find evidence of the female equivalent.

As Ada Calhoun writes in her seminal book, Why We Can’t Sleep: Women’s New Midlife Crisis,

From the outside, no one may notice anything amiss. Women might drain a bottle of wine while watching TV alone, use CBD edibles to decompress, or cry every afternoon in the pick-up lane at school. Or, in the middle of the night, they might lie awake, eyes fixed on the ceiling. There has yet to be a blockbuster movie centred on a woman staring out her car’s windshield and sighing.

Society has a terrible habit of literally erasing women of a certain age from public discourse.

Here I’m thinking about Lisa LaFlamme, the estimable CTV anchorwoman who embraced natural silver locks during the pandemic and disappeared from screens shortly thereafter.

In the United States, a lawsuit against the media company Meredith Corporation highlighted the age disparity between men and women on TV news. Writes Calhoun, “In five years the company removed seven female anchors with an average age of 46.8 and replaced them with younger women, whose average age was 38.1 … male anchors remain a decade older, on average, than their female co-anchors.”

Cause and effect? You decide.

On top of this, as women, we’ve been socialized to internalize our feelings.

You come to this place, midlife. You don’t know how you got here, but suddenly you’re staring fifty in the face. When you turn and look back down the years you glimpse the ghosts of other lives you might have led. All your houses are haunted by the person you might have been.

-Hilary Mantel, Giving up the Ghost

So, if we don’t see ourselves, or our crises, play out publicly, it can lead us to believe we don’t need or deserve psychological help.

“A middle-aged woman’s midlife crisis poses a dramaturgical problem,” opines Calhoun. “Women’s crises tend to be quieter than men’s. Sometimes a woman will try something spectacular … but more often she sneaks her suffering in around the edges of caretaking and work.”

The question isn’t whether we ruminate at this natural inflection point, when as much lies behind as lies ahead.

Of course we do. It’s a season of life when we ask ourselves if it is too late to start a business, get divorced, get married, quit a job, write a novel, travel to far-flung places, or start fresh. But Eat, Pray, Love-ing it only works if there’s someone to watch the kids and walk the dog.

In other words: Is this all there is?

This kind of rumination becomes concerning when we shift from workaday introspection to genuine psychological distress, even if that distress is so quiet we’re the only ones who can hear it.

A perfect storm — with no life ring

A new national report — the 2025 Women’s Mental Health Report, developed by GreenShield in partnership with Mental Health Research Canada — reveals just how widespread this quiet crisis has become.

Nearly half of Canadian women are experiencing heightened anxiety due to political and economic pressures. (And no wonder!)

That anxiety bump is compounded for those staring down perimenopause — a mid-life bonus complete with a steep decline in estrogen, a hormone governing everything from mood regulation and cognitive function to sleep patterns and body temperature.

Hot flash, anyone? If you know, you know.

When your estrogen falls off a cliff, it can lead to anxiety, depression, brain fog, and sleep disruption, not to mention bone density loss and increased risk of heart disease. Given that this dramatic life change is non-negotiable, you’d think more women would be braced for impact.

Yet, as Jessica Yaffe writes in her January 13, 2025, The Globe and Mail essay, Once I hit my 40s, I had no idea what was going on with my body, “I thought I had lupus. I thought I had esophageal cancer. I thought I had rheumatoid arthritis. I thought I was losing my mind. Nope … It was just good old menopause.”

As teens, many of us turned to Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret, but the 10 million mid-life women[1] living this reality in Canada today don’t have Judy Blume as their guide. More than half feel unprepared for menopause, while 60 per cent are unaware that depression and memory issues come with the territory.[2]

Add society’s unrelenting pressure to look youthful, and you have a population that doesn’t see their realities reflected and that’s struggling for validation and support.

In Why We Can’t Sleep, Calhoun explores the unique challenges faced by Generation X women (born 1965-1980) who were raised to believe they could “have it all.” On the basis of interviews with over 200 women, she reveals that many feel exhausted, overwhelmed and underemployed, caught between housing costs, credit card debt, and career stagnation.

Gen X women were promised equality, but they inherited a world that hadn’t changed to accommodate it. They entered the workforce during economic downturns and were told to lean in — thanks, Sheryl Sandberg — while the structural supports like affordable childcare and pay equity never materialized.

If you’re feeling adrift and unfulfilled, you’re in good company.

S*#t sandwich, anyone?

For many, this hormonal balancing act comes at a time when our parents are aging and we’re still caring for young children.
My daughter is newly 14, and my widowed mom is 87. Between managing teen angst and fighting ageism, I’m battling on two fronts. Often, it’s my own mental health that takes a back seat.

Statistics show that 35 per cent of women aged 45-64 report symptoms of depression or anxiety, particularly during major life transitions.

I’m not alone. A 2024 Statistics Canada study found that 86 per cent of sandwich generation caregivers said their responsibilities affected their health, with women more likely to experience stress, anxiety, and exhaustion. Among the five per cent for whom menopause coincided with double-duty caregiving, 93 per cent reported negative health impacts and 41 per cent reported financial hardship.

These circumstances quickly deplete internal resources, leaving women and non-binary carers with fully depleted reserves of resilience.

The workplace offers little refuge. Three-quarters of working women feel their employer is either unsupportive or uncertain how to help them manage menopause. The economic cost is staggering: the Menopause Foundation of Canada estimates an annual economic impact of $3.5 billion, including $237 million in lost productivity and $3.3 billion in lost income due to reduced hours, lower pay, or women leaving the workforce entirely.

Wine o’clock: more than a meme

When you combine career angst, hormonal shifts, and identity disruption, there’s a risk at midlife that people will reach for substances to numb big feelings. No wonder you can buy aprons, socks, and framed prints proclaiming it’s “wine o’clock.”

But the humour falls flat when you consider that women’s substance use is often more insidious. While men tend to use substances in a more social and visible way, women are more likely to numb their feelings or hide their use to conform to social norms. The slope to high-functioning dependency can be steep and slippery, and serious problems can hide behind a glossy veneer of success.

When the data get personal

Mental health challenges at midlife affect all women, but not equally. Nine per cent of women who identify as 2SLGBTQI+ and eight per cent of racialized women reported needing mental health support but not accessing it — nearly double the rates of their non-2SLGBTQI+ and non-racialized peers.[1]

For Black women, the barriers are more acute. The Voices Unheard survey, which was Canada’s first national health survey focused on Black women and girls, conducted by the Black Women’s Institute for Health, found that respondents were misdiagnosed, ignored, and told they were “too functional” to receive care.

The pressure to appear strong has led to delayed care and isolation. As the survey report states: “When Black women are expected to endure suffering silently, they are denied the support and intervention that could save their lives.”

No Mustang for you!

So, what does midlife support actually look like?

It means recognizing that major life transitions naturally involve questioning and gradual adjustment. A crisis, on the other hand, brings persistent distress, functional impairment, or harmful coping mechanisms.

It means understanding that women’s intense reflection isn’t the hysteria of yesteryear. It’s a legitimate response to profound biological, social, and identity shifts happening simultaneously.

It means creating menopause-inclusive workplace policies; developing accessible, affordable mental health resources tailored to life stages; and addressing hormonal health as part of mental health care.

When we break the silence around menopause and midlife mental health struggles, women don’t have to manage these challenges feeling invisible and alone.

I, for one, would love to watch a feature film starring, say, Kerry Washington, navigating midlife’s tedium, sighing as she looks out a rain-streaked window. (Shonda Rhimes, you got this!)

Thinking back, my dad’s Mustang was about reclaiming youth, freedom, and adventure before time ran out. But a call back to youth or fecundity isn’t what women and non-binary

individuals need at midlife. (I certainly don’t plan on rushing out to buy a top-of-the-line pram, just for show. Besides, my Goldendoodle would rebel.)

What we need, rather, is to be seen, supported, and given the resources to navigate one of life’s most challenging transitions, without feeling silenced by stigma or being forced to self-medicate our way through it.

Society has told our generation of women we can have it all. How about we start with the basics?

Where to find support and sisterhood

GreenShield’s Free Women’s Mental Health Program offers culturally sensitive, trauma-informed virtual therapy with personalized matching on the basis of culture, race, language, and religion. Over 120,000 women have accessed these services. greenshield.ca

Mothering Minds (Black Women’s Institute for Health) provides comprehensive, culturally responsive support for Black mothers, with emphasis on peer connection and community. bwhealthinstitute.com

Menopause Foundation of Canada works to close the menopause knowledge gap, improve access to care, and create menopause-inclusive workplaces. menopausefoundationcanada.ca

Respite4ALL (SE Health and GreenShield) supports working caregivers, especially from equity-seeking communities, with respite care and free mental health counselling. champlainhealthline.ca

Mental Health Commission of Canada has curated resources by province and territory in support of caregiver mental health. Caregiver Resources – Mental Health Commission of Canada

Mental Health Commission of Canada’s guide on Where to Find Care. addresses key questions to help you navigate the public and private options available in Canada.

Author: Suzanne Westover

Illustrations by: Sunny Street Creative

The post Are You There Judy? It’s Me … Midlife Margaret appeared first on Mental Health Commission of Canada.

Desperately Seeking Sleep

Kati Oliver — Tue, 04 Nov 2025 19:10:20 +0000

By Suzanne Westover

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This week, the “s” word is on everyone’s lips.

Did you get enough?

Overindulge?

What about quality? Better than usual, worse?

I’m talking, of course, about sleep.

In the wake of Sunday’s time change, which brings us from Daylight Saving Time to Standard Time, an already complicated topic becomes more so.

As a society, our understanding of sleep—and its impact on everything from memory to mental health—is growing. And yet, some of us still insist that eschewing sleep is a sign of productivity. The LinkedIn stars who promise billion-dollar ideas if only you can harness 20 “productive” hours in the day.

Then there are those so desperate to maximize rest that the pursuit itself becomes a vicious cycle of fatigue.

The billion dollar question – How far would you go for a good night’s sleep?

Sleep is a billion-dollar industry. In 2023, the “sleep economy” had an estimated value of over $100 billion, and that number is only projected to rise.¹Think apps and tracking rings; special alarm clocks and weighted blankets; melatonin and memory foam mattresses.

Ironically, the glorification of sleep, and its flip side, commodification, may only add to the pressure felt by those for whom sleep is a distant dream.

A shift in thinking

Sleep should be universally accessible. After all, it’s free and readily available. But that line of thinking fails to consider sleep from a health equity lens.

Think about shift workers, whose circadian rhythms are thrown out of whack as a matter of course. Many years ago my husband was a young ship’s officer. The “Dog Watch²“is a rite of passage—keeping watch on a darkened bridge from 12 a.m. to 4 a.m. every “morning,” the witching hour when staying awake is a Herculean effort, fueled by strong coffee and stale donuts. Nurses, ER docs, first responders—all are familiar with the toll taken when your body clock is at odds with the hours you punch in.

Parents of newborns will also relate.

I recall being a new mom to a preterm baby, having to set an agonizing alarm to wake her to feed every three hours, walking around in a state of debilitating exhaustion. But the implications go beyond simply being “tired.” From cognitive impairment, to emotional lability, to slower reaction times and trouble focusing—there’s a reason sleep deprivation is a form of torture.

It’s also a drain on the nation’s wallet. According to a 2022 study in Sleep Health³, insomnia and associated symptoms cost the Canadian economy about $1.9 billion. That includes direct costs like doctor’s visits, sleeping pills and therapies, and indirect costs, like reduced productivity.

So what does good sleep actually look like?

Adults need seven to nine hours of good-quality, uninterrupted sleep per night. But it’s not just about logging hours. Good sleep cycles through deep sleep and REM stages. Dr. Diana McMillan, a professor at the University of Manitoba’s College of Nursing, describes one process as a “pressure washer for the brain.” During sleep, your brain literally cleans out metabolic waste through the glymphatic system.

Most adults cycle through sleep stages every 70 to 110 minutes, ideally getting four to five complete cycles per night. While occasional insomnia is perfectly normal, if you often don’t feel rested after a full night’s snooze, the sleep you are getting may not be restorative.

How can I sleep better tonight?

For those who want better sleep—who aren’t constrained by demanding work schedules yet don’t want to turn rest into a data-driven obsession—focus on consistency. Go to bed at the same time every night and create a wind-down ritual. Make your bedroom a sleep sanctuary with clean sheets and dark blinds. Avoid alcohol before bed, as it disrupts REM sleep.

Set tech boundaries: No TV in the bedroom, and definitely no laptops or tablets in bed. Blue light tricks your brain into thinking it’s wake time. If your bedroom doubles as a home office, use a room divider to block work stress triggers.

Why do I still feel tired after eight hours?

Quality matters more than quantity. Health conditions like sleep apnea, restless leg syndrome, or anxiety disorders can hijack high-quality sleep.

Dr. Rébecca Robillard, director of clinical sleep research at the University of Ottawa, explains that even your “silent” phone might be sabotaging rest with subtle sounds that disturb restorative sleep without fully waking you. If you use your phone as an alarm, put it at a safe distance.

What about sleep-tracking technology?

Until fairly recently, our only sleep hack was counting sheep, which likely dates back to medieval shepherds.

But the advent of sophisticated sleep measurement metrics isn’t strictly a good thing. Some people develop “orthosomnia”—an obsession with sleep data that actually worsens sleep. Dr. Robillard suggests taking sleep scores “with a big grain of salt,” noting “If you feel like you slept better, you probably did.” Your body is often a better judge than your smartwatch.

But what if good sleep feels impossible?

Here’s where we need to discuss sleep equity. Not everyone has equal access to quality rest. The standard advice doesn’t apply to shift workers, new parents, or people working multiple jobs. As Dr. Robillard notes: “Telling people they need to sleep more doesn’t really resonate with a single mom who has two jobs and four kids.”

Instead of “sleep shaming,” we need to address systemic barriers. Some researchers suggest starting with daylight saving time policies, which are associated with surges in hospitalizations from accidents and self-harm.

When should I worry about my sleep?

Dr. McMillan’s rule: “If you’re having trouble sleeping or don’t feel rested after a night’s sleep for more than three months, talk to your primary care practitioner.” Poor sleep can signal underlying health conditions and lead to serious long-term consequences including cardiovascular disease, diabetes, and mental health disorders.

If basic sleep hygiene isn’t helping, consider Cognitive Behavioural Therapy for Insomnia (CBT-I). Dr. Robillard emphasizes this should be “first-line treatment” before medications.

The bottom line

From Sleeping Beauty’s hundred-year slumber to the Princess and the Pea’s quest for perfect rest, our cultural stories have long recognized that sleep is both essential and elusive.

And while we’ve evolved from counting sheep to tracking REM cycles on our wrists, the fundamental human struggle with rest remains unchanged.

Sleep is finally getting respect as a health pillar alongside nutrition and exercise. The bidirectional relationship between sleep and mental health is compelling enough that experts are calling sleep a public health priority.

But here’s the most important takeaway: be kind to yourself about sleep. Perfect sleep isn’t always possible for everyone. Focus on what you can control, seek help when needed, and remember that even small improvements make a meaningful difference.

And let’s not forget sleep’s most ancient promise.

Tomorrow, we get to try again.

Further reading: Sleep and Mental Health – what’s the connection?

https://www.cbc.ca/radio/costofliving/sleep-economy-personal-business-costs-1.7470221

The name itself is likely a literal translation from the Dutch or German, meaning “dog’s time.” As in only dogs should be awake at this hour.

https://pubmed.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/36319579/

Author: Suzanne Westover

The post Desperately Seeking Sleep appeared first on Mental Health Commission of Canada.

Serving with heart

Kati Oliver — Fri, 20 Jun 2025 08:30:00 +0000

By Suzanne Westover

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In Monica McAlduff, the First Nations Health Authority (FNHA) has found a leader whose personal journey mirrors the transformation they seek to create. The MHCC sat down to learn more about the new CEO, her vision for the organization’s next chapter, and her commitment to walking in a good way.

Home, at last

After nearly three decades serving within a system that gladly received her care, but never made her feel entirely welcome, Monica McAlduff is home at last.

As the incoming CEO of the First Nations Health Authority (FNHA), Monica’s quiet conviction shines through the screen during our virtual meeting.

“Culturally safe, patient-centered care is the beating heart of our organization’s mission,” she explains, her words carrying the weight of both professional expertise and lived experience.

For Monica, assuming leadership of the FNHA represents a milestone in a career carved with careful intentionality. Beginning with clinical psychiatric nursing, then pursuing advanced degrees and leadership, Monica understands intrinsically that First Nations patients can’t get well in an unhealthy system.

“As nurses, we may not naturally gravitate to leadership, because our instinct is to give care,” says Monica. Yet, it’s this person-first worldview that is often lacking at the highest levels of conventional health-care administration.

“As a nurse working with people living with substance use or mental health challenges, day- in, day-out, I saw how supporting someone in their wellness journey required treating the whole person – and understanding the context of their environment and relationships,” explains Monica.

It’s this philosophy, together with her unwavering belief in Indigenous resiliency, that she now brings to the challenges that lie ahead.

Rooted in care

Monica comes by her heart to serve honestly.

Her mother, a residential school survivor, worked as a nurses’ aide while instilling in Monica the values of hard work and integrity.

“My mother lives by the motto: if you’re going to do something, put your whole heart in it,” Monica says, her expression lighting up. “She never speaks a harsh word. When confronted with racism or hatred she rises above it. When I was growing up, she was determined that her past would not dictate her future, or the future of her family.”

As a second-generation residential school survivor, Monica understands intergenerational trauma from the inside out. She speaks candidly about still piecing together parts of her past that her grandparents felt best left buried until fairly recently.

This personal connection to colonization’s lasting harms shapes Monica’s approach to healing systems deeply scarred by historical trauma.

Monica McAlduff, CEO, FNHA

Walking between worlds

When I ask Monica about her early experiences as a psychiatric nurse, she becomes visibly emotional, wiping away tears from beneath her black-framed glasses. She describes seeing Indigenous patients being treated with disdain and disregard, and how she felt obliged to hold her own identity close, for fear of being discounted by her peers.

When I instinctively apologize for broaching this raw topic, she graciously responds: “In our culture, tears are healing. They aren’t something to hide.”

This duality – vulnerability alongside strength – defines her leadership approach.

“I worked in a system where I was forced to hide my own identity – something that, by rights, I felt deeply proud of,” she explains. “How could I provide authentic care while denying my authentic self?”

With racism and discrimination baked into the very bones of the healthcare system, healthcare workers who feel pressure to conceal or supress an essential part of their being can quickly find their identity eroding and their well of compassion running dry.

Seeking to resolve this contradiction would forge Monica’s life’s work.

That’s why today, she feels compelled to be as visible as possible, making the path easier for those coming behind.

“This role is more than a job for me,” Monica reflects.

It’s a way for her to honour her younger self. To smooth the path for others – regardless of what identity they may struggle to honour. And to rewrite the future.

Restoring faith in medicine’s highest calling: Do no harm

The ground-breaking cultural humility framework that FNHA has developed identifies and addresses inequities, creates cultural humility, respects knowledge holders, and walks alongside communities to address their needs.

The goal, says Monica eloquently, “is to plant a seed, and grow a meadow.”

And while she agrees there’s been collective progress, citing the United Nations Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples, the Truth and Reconciliation Commission’s 94 Calls to Action, and British Columbia’s provincial In Plain Sight Report, her focus is squarely on the work ahead.

“People are still dying in health-care settings because of bias and racism. No matter how stretched the system may be, and how hard people may be working within it, this is patently unacceptable.”

That said, Monica cautions that any standard – no matter how thoughtfully designed – is only as effective as its implementation.

“Checkbox exercises aren’t going to result in meaningful change,” she says. The FNHA itself underwent an assessment against the framework, because bias can seep through even the most stalwart bulwarks.

“What will signal progress is patient evaluation. When you hear from an Indigenous person that they felt seen and cared for, that’s the true litmus test.”

She says that will happen only when patients’ wisdom and expertise in their own healing journey are respected and supported, and the system is culturally safe for those providing care.

Ultimately, Monica believes that system-wide implementation of the framework will benefit everyone who walks through the doors, regardless of their background. But the imbalance faced by First Nations individuals seeking care is always at the fore of FNHA’s work.

A holistic approach

The First Nations Health Council – a provincial-level advocacy organization that represents, and is accountable to, First Nations in British Columbia, has developed a ten-year strategy addressing the social determinants of health. It recognizes that the “system” itself is a constellation of schools, water, land, healthcare, housing, family, community and culture.

“As the organization tasked with leading the implementation of this strategy, we at FNHA understand that health can’t be addressed in isolation,” she explains. “The same colonial systems that disrupted our health practices also disrupted our relationships with land, water, language, and each other.”

And when it comes to embedding First Nations ways of knowing and respecting cultural tradition across health-care systems more generally, Monica says the time for excuse-making is over.

“In our culture, it’s relational. Everything is based on relationships,” she explains. “Start with the basics. What territory are you on? What communities are nearby? Who am I? Who are you? How can we co-create together?”

Wholehearted leadership

As our time ends, Monica returns to her mother’s wisdom: “Lead with heart, or leave it to someone else.” For her, leading the FNHA represents the culmination of a deeply personal journey and an opportunity to transform health-care for the next seven generations.

“We can build a system where no Indigenous person has to hide who they are to receive or provide care. That’s the future I’m walking toward – one where cultural safety isn’t an afterthought, but the foundation.”

Monica stands firmly in two worlds, fluent in both the institutional language of health-care systems and the traditional approaches to wellness that have sustained Indigenous communities for millennia.

In closing, Monica returns to the light that guides her work.

“For us, for First Nations, culture is medicine. They are one and the same.”

Author: Suzanne Westover

The post Serving with heart appeared first on Mental Health Commission of Canada.

Food for thought: Untangling our relationship with food and mental health

Kati Oliver — Mon, 31 Mar 2025 08:30:00 +0000

By Suzanne Westover

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To mark Nutrition Month, the Mental Health Commission of Canada (MHCC) sat down with Christina Seely, Registered Dietitian, Certified Diabetes Educator, and co-chair of the Dietitians of Canada Addiction, Mental Health & Eating Disorders Network, to discuss the deeply intertwined relationship between our mental well-being and food choices, in a bid to give us all something more well-balanced to chew on.

“It’s complicated…”

A relationship with food. It’s something everyone has in common. In fact, I’d be willing to bet that if Facebook had a status update on the subject, we’d all be perpetually set to “it’s complicated.”

And it’s only getting more so.

Twenty years ago, the jury was still out on the connection between food and many chronic illnesses. Today, we know the right choices can help stave off depression, dementia, and a host of other health concerns.

No pressure, right?

Now, throw into the mix an appearance-obsessed culture and the relentless influence of online “lifestyle” purveyors, whose perfect plates and elevated palates can leave the rest of us feeling like we’re eating dust.

It’s hard to make thoughtful choices when we’re drinking from a firehose of mis- and disinformation, all while enduring shame and blame that can further disenfranchise us from a healthy relationship with food.

I chatted with Christina to understand how we can reframe this discourse, embracing a more compassionate, common sense approach.

It all comes down to science

While our stomachs might grumble, it’s actually our brains that have the hungriest cells. At a mere two percent of the body’s weight, our brains consume an astonishing 20 per cent of food energy.

To build and maintain its structure, the brain forages for 50 different nutrients, maximizing its function and protecting itself from harm.

“The production of feel-good neurotransmitters, like serotonin or dopamine, is enhanced or limited based on our diet,” explains Christina. “And while the causes of mental illness are complex, food is an essential building block of brain function.”

It follows then, that an optimal diet can improve mood and boost energy levels, and not just by a little bit.

A well-nourished brain is more resilient to stress, and nutrition affects brain health throughout our lives, from earliest childhood to our elderly years.

“Appropriate nutrition can reduce the risk of depression by about 40 per cent, and upwards of a third of Alzheimer’s diagnoses might be preventable through lifestyle choices,” says Christina.

Choices that, unfortunately, aren’t readily available to everyone.

“Take mental illness treatment and diet,” says Christina. “This may be a particularly fraught cross-roads. Common medications for serious mental illnesses can increase appetite, thirst and fatigue. Also, symptoms of mental illness can affect energy level and, by extension, the planning, shopping, and cooking process.”

A perfect storm, often leading to increased reliance on convenience foods and delivery options, which helps to explain the comorbidity between weight management and mental illness.

“There is a double stigma for people living with mental illness and a higher weight. And, because the mental and physical health systems often operate independently, people are less likely to receive best-practice care for their physical health,” says Christina, who runs a monthly dietetic clinic for clients of the Canadian Mental Health Association.

“Redressing inequity is a passion project,” she explains. That’s why she was drawn to London’s InterCommunity Health Centre, which provides care to those who traditionally face barriers.

Behind the curtain: A dietitian’s perspective

No matter our circumstance or backstory, Christina says people may be hesitant to see a dietitian because of fundamental misconceptions about what they’re going to hear.

“I assumed that the approach would be prescriptive,” I admit, too embarrassed to confess that my own breakfast was three digestive biscuits and a cup of tea.

But Christina reassures me that clients are often far harder on themselves than a dietitian would ever be. This is especially true among people who’ve experienced cardiac events or received a diabetes diagnosis, for example.

“Some people arrive clutching these ridged lists of dos and don’ts, berating themselves for the slightest deviation. So they’re often pleasantly surprised when we explain a big part of our job is making sure they don’t lose the joy they once found in eating.”

The surest route to throwing up your hands, she explains, is creating a set of impossible-to-meet criteria.

“The last thing I want my clients to feel is perceived failure or self-recrimination,” emphasizes Christina. “This is a lifelong journey with highs and lows. What we’re trying to do is smooth it out, and aim for the manageable in-between.”

I tell her what a relief it is to hear someone talking about food from a common sense perspective, instead of in a perfectionistic or performative way. But then, in the billion-dollar space that’s diet and weight management, common sense is what’s desperately lacking.

Add to this the advent of new weight management medications, and the complexity of an already fraught dialogue grows.

“While they [medications] can be helpful for certain people under the right circumstances, they also come with a hefty price tag and limited insurance coverage, creating yet another barrier between those who can access certain treatments and those who’re left out in the cold,” says Christina.

Christina Seely, Registered Dietitian, Certified Diabetes Educator, and co-chair of the Dietitians of Canada Addiction, Mental Health & Eating Disorders Network

Perfect vs. fed: Finding balance in an imbalanced world

In the truest axiom I’ve heard in a long time, Christina suggests, “We can’t let perfect be the enemy of fed.”

She goes on to explain: “If you have IBS or another chronic gastrointestinal condition, it’s okay to subscribe to the survival diet when you need to.” In short, eat what you can tolerate without making yourself more unwell.

“Honestly,” I say, “these judgment-free statements are so refreshing and unexpected.”

Christina notes that one of the biggest challenges Dietitians Canada faces is the onslaught of misinformation feeding Canadians a diet of unhelpful content, which is often profit-motivated rather than person-centered. Cutting through the noise of fad diets and miracle cures becomes increasingly difficult in our information-saturated age.

“Food is central to so many parts of our lives, and the cultures that are the healthiest tend to embrace the beauty of breaking bread together, rather than creating a societal expectation of perfection.”

Voicing vulnerabilities

Speaking of perfection, I reflect that we’re conditioned – almost from birth – that there are right and wrong ways to eat and be fed.

I remember being unable to breastfeed my premature daughter and feeling utterly inadequate, until someone finally said to me, “Canned veggies, fresh veggies… the important thing is that you’re feeding your child with love.”

For so many of us, food is a means to express affection and socialize. Having that impulse curtailed – whether you live alone, or have an allergy, intolerance, or illness that detracts from enjoying the communal nature of food – can be isolating.

But until we normalize voicing these vulnerabilities, we’re going to continue to be islands. This can be especially true of people who struggle with their weight in a society that is still in recovery from worshiping thinness. Over time, Christina herself has shifted to a “weight-inclusive” approach, meaning her consults are a guilt-free zone.

“We tend to keep our food insecurities, whether economic or emotional, very buttoned up,” Christina notes. “As dietitians, it’s important that we convey we’re here with an eye to support. Full stop.”

In fact, peeling back layers to help people identify the many factors that can influence eating habits – including stressors and difficult experiences – is part and parcel of the role.

“Studies have shown that at least 50 percent of us qualify as having had an adverse childhood experience (a potentially traumatic event) as a child,” says Christina.

This reality should free us to be more honest about our challenges, not isolate us. And yet, in our world of curated Instagram perfection and a sea of aspirational cooking content, the widening chasm between haves and have-nots is starker than ever.

Food bank usage is up 90 per cent from just five years ago – the highest it’s ever been. Helping people manage difficult budgetary decisions has added complexity to the dietitian’s traditional role. To help meet this growing need, Christina’s health centre has created handouts to highlight money-saving options like dollar store shopping, price matching, and apps like Too Good to Go and FlashFood.

But financial insecurity is often layered. For example, someone living with serious mental illness may experience addictions, like smoking, which displace the food budget and increases the risk of nutrient deficiency.

The bitter irony?

“Those who could benefit the most from a high-quality, healthy diet are often the least able to obtain it,” Christina concludes.

Meeting this depth of need is just one of the many obstacles Christina and her colleagues face.

Disordered eating – Red flags and roadblocks

“Sometimes our hands are tied even when there are concerns,” explains Christina. “As allied health professionals, we can’t offer a formal diagnosis around disordered eating, and there may not be a straightforward avenue for getting one – or accessing supports.”

Language, says Christina, is often an initial red flag for dietitians when it comes to identifying someone who may be struggling with disordered eating.

“People may indicate a strong value judgment on food. For example labelling them as ‘bad or fear foods,’ and others as ‘safe foods,’ which can indicate a cause for concern. Another sign can be if people report spending a great deal of time worrying about their food choices and weight.”

But with 6.5 million people in Canada lacking a family doctor, the most obvious door to medical support may be closed, while wait lists for formal eating disorder programs can stretch two years or longer.

Dietitians are left with imperfect solutions: mental health or therapy referrals when a client has access, either through employer benefits or if publicly funded coverage exists; books, webinars, and other self-guided materials when finances are a constraint.

“Provincial insurance for dietitian visits often comes following a specific diagnosis,” Christina explains, “which curtails the opportunity to take a more proactive approach.”

Small steps, big impacts

Despite these challenges, Christina is convinced there is still reason for optimism. Her best piece of advice?

Try to avoid thinking of food as the enemy.

“Consider that a wide range of eating habits can support health – and small changes to food choices can have an outsized impact. Whether it’s adding a serving of frozen veggies, cooking two meals a week at home, or cutting down on soda.”

The biggest thing to remember, she advocates, is that we’re all experiencing challenges, from feelings of inadequacy to overindulgence.

As a parent, I deeply relate. I chastise myself for serving too many chicken nuggets and too few chopped veggies. But my conversation with Christina reminds me that a healthy diet has room for a range of foods, and we shouldn’t beat ourselves up for doing our best on any given day.

Nor should we give up on doing that little bit better.

“If we push ourselves too hard, we can conclude the effort is futile, why bother.”

That’s why taking an approach of everything in moderation is the likeliest route to reaping the long-term benefits of making more nutritious choices. Chasing a number on a scale or perfect pant size isn’t the solution, because finding true nourishment is about feeding your whole self – body and soul.

A seat at the table

There’s something comforting in the knowledge that there is no such thing as a perfect relationship with food. Contrary to popular belief, licensed experts like dietitians aren’t there to police our intake. Instead, they can help us see opportunities for choices that might better serve us, all while validating our fears and frustrations.

Christina’s approach reminds us that our worst tendencies—from self-disgust to self-righteousness—aren’t on the menu.

Instead, dietitians offer a more palatable approach: one that acknowledges the complexity of our relationship with food while providing practical tools to make that relationship healthier.

Sure, food is sustenance.

But it’s also connection, memory, comfort, and joy. Like it or not, we’re in this relationship for the long haul. Making small, daily commitments to improved choices will help us reduce our risk of developing both physical and mental health conditions.

The path will be different for each of us – depending on our biology, psychology, finances, and culture.

In an ideal world, there’s a place at the table for all of us.

Author: Suzanne Westover

The post Food for thought: Untangling our relationship with food and mental health appeared first on Mental Health Commission of Canada.

When it’s time to hand in your notice to go in search of yourself

Ian Peralta — Thu, 12 Oct 2023 19:14:31 +0000

By Suzanne Westover

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When I left my job at the height of the pandemic, it wasn’t after months of quiet quitting. Nor did I do a happy dance. I didn’t see myself reflected in the media narratives about quitting one’s job.

I wasn’t like the flight attendant who went viral by dramatically announcing his departure over a loudspeaker before throwing himself down the emergency slide in an inglorious exit. And neither was I someone who’d phoned it in with the bare minimum, recusing myself from any extra duties in a form of silent protest.

I was resigning, in the truest sense of the word. I was conceding defeat without being checkmated. I had come to accept that something undesirable could no longer be avoided.

After nearly ten years, I had slowly come to the realization that a job I’d loved and been devoted to hadn’t given back to me as assiduously as I’d given to it.

Like a frog in a pot, I was brought to a slow simmer over time. And while apparently that myth has been debunked, and frogs do, in fact, have the good sense to leap out when they start to cook, I opted to braise in my own juices.

It wasn’t a choice I made consciously.

Like so many women of my age, working in professional careers while balancing a personal life, I was torn between wanting to make a difference in my work while needing to be present for my family. But my generation was sold a bait-and-switch.

We could have it all, society told us. Be powerful working moms: bosses in the board room who baked cookies on the weekend. (No one told us we’d likely get burned.)

Many of us, myself included, tried to cash in on that promise, only to discover the coupon was time-limited. At first, it’s easy to climb the ladder. But it gets harder if you find yourself stepping off and back on, as the needs of your kids, spouse or older parents ebb and flow.

So many of us wind up mid-way, too far down to be the masters of our fate, but just high enough to feel the weight of responsibility. My solution was to double down. To make the maximum input possible while stranded mid-rung.

So, I launched myself into learning everything I could about mental health, the purview of my organization’s mandate. I had a stack of books on my nightstand. I read Simon Sinek and Adam Grant, who put organizational psychology in simple terms.

I poured over countless personal accounts of lived experience.

I delved into the imprint left by intergenerational trauma, and the indelible scars of racism on the psyche.

I composed op-eds in the shower. I practiced interviews while doing the dishes. I scribbled tip sheets on damp paper while watching my daughter’s swimming lessons. I was constantly scanning the news landscape to see how our organization could be more relevant. I listened to podcasts, watched documentaries and read articles late at night. Instead of winding down on the commute, I did some of my best writing on the bus.

Yes, I truly wanted to understand better. But my motivation wasn’t entirely altruistic. I also wanted to be the best. To affirm my place as a trusted source of information and underscore my value. I derived a sense of meaning from this work, but I should have seen the danger signs when it began to define me.

I wasn’t reading the mysteries I’d always loved. I was rarely writing for the sheer joy of it. I’d let my physical wellness take a back seat. The irony of working to advance mental health and wellness, while risking mine to burn out, didn’t dawn till later.

My work slowly became not just something I did, but a central fact of who I was. If you work hard enough in a (fruitless) effort to become irreplaceable, your stock in a workplace can only climb so high before the law of diminishing returns kicks in.

You work more diligently. You put in longer hours. You never turn down a colleague in need. You constantly put up your hand. “I have an idea,” was my watchword in a meeting. Inevitably, the work I suggested would fall to me. And I relished it. Because it conformed to the myth I was making about my own invincibility. I could do it all, I told myself. I was the person that could always be relied upon. I wouldn’t ever let anyone down.

And the cycle ticks along just fine…Until slowly you become tired. Then you start to make little mistakes. Finally, your judgement clouds and your temper shortens. Soon, I was disappointing myself. My very efforts were working against me. I was my work, but I no longer liked who I was.

And that, for me, was the point of no return. I wasn’t a healthcare worker, or a first responder. I wasn’t someone whose job puts them in harms way. There is heroism and sacrifice in that kind of selflessness.

I, on the other hand, was making a choice, which meant I could also un-choose it.

But giving up a job that’s come to mean too much to you isn’t done easily or without cost.

I still remember powering down my laptop for the last time. Switching off my phone. Carefully folding up my power cords. Placing the whole lot in a cardboard box and sealing it up like a time capsule. And in a way, that’s exactly what it was. I was packing in the formative years of my professional career, not entirely certain what my next chapter would hold.

And while I would miss my colleagues terribly, and, much later, mourn the loss many aspects of my work that brought me joy, I knew that I had something important to do. Quitting a job doesn’t have to be a celebration. Nor does it need to be done quietly. Sometimes it’s too complicated to be boiled down to a single emotion.

Maybe that’s when it’s time to hand in your notice to go in search of yourself.

Author: Suzanne Westover

An Ottawa writer and former speechwriter, and Manager of Communications at the Mental Health Commission of Canada. A homebody who always has her nose in a book, she bakes a mean lemon loaf (some would call her a one-dish wonder) and enjoys watching movies with her husband and 13-year-old daughter. Suzanne’s time with the MHCC cemented her interest in mental health, and she remains a life-long learner on the subject.

The post When it’s time to hand in your notice to go in search of yourself appeared first on Mental Health Commission of Canada.

This is your brain on Instagram

Brett Stoner — Thu, 19 May 2022 19:56:03 +0000

Staying mentally well in a digitized world

While Digital Health Week was a celebration of the advantages of connected care — from virtual consultations to e-health records to useful apps — it was also an opportunity to reflect on how we maintain our best mental wellness in an increasingly digitized world.

“There’s no doubt that the pandemic has increased our reliance on virtual connectivity and social media,” affirmed Dr. Keith Dobson, professor of clinical psychology at the University of Calgary. “And while there are some positives associated with our capacity to remain plugged in to our relationships, we can’t be blind to the very real pitfalls.” —

Those pitfalls are having an especially adverse effect on the mental health and wellness of young people — especially young girls.

“Our brains tend to believe what we can see,” Dobson said. “While intellectually, we might comprehend that a photo is doctored, that an image has been filtered or retouched — a waist nipped in, eyes made bigger — our brain doesn’t readily make that distinction.”

Seeing is believing
Dobson explained that the primacy of our sense of sight is largely why we as a society are so enamoured with digital platforms like Instagram that offer powerful visual stimulants. We’re also reeled in by the hit of dopamine, the feel-good hormone that kicks in when we’re using a medium that offers us easy wins. Likes, hearts, shares, and comments give us bite-sized endorphin rushes, without requiring much in the way of effort.

“Normally, we get a sense of well-being from an accomplishment,” he added. “Something that has required us to invest meaningful time, energy, and effort. Instead, social media provides us with a short-cut. But it’s one that comes at a high cost. The industry we’re up against is a formidable foe — one that has invested billions to buy access to our innermost thoughts and most intimate insecurities.”

Ironically, Dobson noted, we don’t need to feel good while we’re actively engaging on social media. That activity might make us feel less-than, unattractive, not-good-enough. But interestingly, when we shut down our phones, we start to feel good again.

The ‘negative feedback’ loop
“It’s called a negative feedback loop,” he said. “Think of it like this: you have a negative thought — ‘I’ve left the stove on,’ for example. Then you need to check the stove to make sure it’s off. After you find relief in checking, the pattern begins again.”

Holly Craib, a 21-year-old art student in Ottawa, agreed. “I don’t even consciously decide to check my social media. In a moment of boredom, quietness, or loneliness, I just automatically reach for my phone and start scrolling.” She describes the frustration of an hour or two slipping by, checking Twitter or “doom scrolling,” pulling herself up short when she realizes she’s making herself insecure by comparing her accomplishments to those she’s seeing on her feeds.

Dobson echoed Craib’s assessment, explaining that there are myriad things that pull us toward social media. We may fear we’re missing out. Then there’s the pull of social currency: wanting to be sure we can contribute to a conversation about a particular social media event, personality, or meme.

But things can take a dangerous turn when our insecurities are being mined as precious data by organizations seeking to profit from our distress. Eating disorders have increased during the pandemic, and researchers are connecting the link between being in lockdown and having constant access to tempting content that reinforces negative thoughts and damaging behaviours.

A love-hate relationship
“It’s a vicious cycle,” said Craib. “I think like a lot of people my age, I have a love-hate relationship with my phone. I’ll often see friends posting the equivalent of ‘you’ll have to reach me on my landline’ because they are taking a breather from all the noise on social media.”

Once you’ve shown an interest a certain kind of content, algorithms designed to snag your attention quickly respond with reinforcing information. Suddenly, a single search like “How to lose five pounds” becomes a tsunami of diet content. If you weren’t convinced you needed to slim down before that innocuous search, you’re suddenly inundated with the message that you absolutely do.

“And therein lies the danger of being a passive consumer,” said Dobson. “I realize that the tools we have in our arsenal are relatively weak against a billion dollar behemoth that lives in our pocket and seemingly reads our minds, but that’s why we’ve got to be doubly savvy.”

Coming to grips with virtual reality
If you grew up with Seventeen magazine, for example, which you could read and put aside, it may be hard to conceive just how ubiquitous social media’s influence has become. It’s not just the latest trends, funny jokes, and a way to stay in touch with grandma. It’s the whole world in the palm of your hand — and for a lot of young people it becomes their validation, their connection, and their biggest detractor.

Craib said cutting herself off from her phone would be like cutting a lifeline, especially during COVID. “Virtual connection has been part of my life since I was logging on to MSN Messenger when I was in elementary school. I got my Facebook account when I was 13. I don’t know how not to connect with people this way. But I also understand it’s playing on my vulnerabilities, and that’s a fine line to walk.”

Dobson advocates education as the most powerful tool we have — especially for parents of young people. He urges parents to learn about social media and to openly discuss the content their children are seeking, teaching them from an early age how to be critical consumers. “Having them ask, ‘What is the purpose of this image?’ And then, ‘How does it make me feel?’ gives them an opportunity to see if their thoughts are being distorted by unhealthy, unrealistic standards of beauty or accomplishment, for example.”

He also advocates clear boundaries that, he readily admits, won’t necessarily be easy to enforce.

“Some obvious ones for me are no phones in the bedroom, time-limited access to phones and computers, and pursuing other activities that give you an endorphin rush that’s earned without strings attached.”

Learning an instrument, exercising, going for a walk, or having a meaningful conversation with a close friend are social media alternatives that give our brain a feel-good boost, without the inevitable crash.

But for Craib, the work she does as an artist keeps her tethered to the platform she finds most problematic. “Instagram is a natural place to showcase my art, which I love making. But it’s also a forum where you can start to feel unseen, drowned out, or less prolific. I suppose in that way it’s a bit like having a frenemy. On the one hand, you’re able to put yourself out into the world. And, on the other, the world is there to respond.”

Taming the beast
But for April Yorke, there are ways to tame the beast. During her time as the Mental Health Commission of Canada’s manager of digital marketing, she has mastered the skill of making social media work for her, rather than the other way around. And she’s quick to point out that using the platforms can also have positive mental health benefits.

“One of the best things about social media is that it lets you home in on your interests. If you love puppies, fly fishing, and knitting, you can bet you are going to see puppies and fly fishing and knitting, morning till night.”

But if you sense that the algorithm has turned against you (when #HowToLoseFivePounds is all the content you see), Yorke recommends turning the algorithm to your advantage. “Start searching for what makes you happy. When you find it, make sure you like, follow, subscribe, and comment — any action you can take to engage with it. It won’t take long for the algorithm to pick up on where your new interests lie and start pushing you in that direction.”

And if you are still seeing something you don’t like? “Report it. Block the account. Social media gives you those options because they don’t want to show you stuff you don’t want to see and eventually lose you as a customer. Complete the feedback loop by also making it clear what you don’t want.”

Craib is also a proponent of this approach. “I’ve given Twitter a list of words or phrases or subjects a mile long that I am not interested in reading about ad nauseam. It’s not perfect, but it’s a step in the right direction.”

Dialing it back
If those two options aren’t enough, Yorke has another idea. “Act like a feuding celebrity and take yourself back to zero. Unfollow absolutely everyone you are currently following. Remove your own posts and photos that you no longer wish to see.”

Yorke has a friend who took a multi-year break from social media. When he made his return, he used only one network and carefully curated who he was following.

“Now,” said Yorke, “using social media makes him feel inspired in a way that it never did before.”

It’s not usual to see articles recommending strategic avoidance or deleting apps altogether. While that may be the right move for some — it’s not really an option for social media managers or people like Craib, who are required to leverage the connectivity of social media to showcase their work or run a business.

But as Yorke said, “Once you winnow down your list of follows, it doesn’t take as long to ‘get caught up’ (whatever that means), so you spend less time on the app. Now I mostly see my close friends and ads for travel bags with lots of pockets — an important reminder that a big wide world beyond the screen is out there.”

Author: Suzanne Westover

Suzanne Westover

Illustrator: Holly Craib https://www.hollcee.com/

The post This is your brain on Instagram appeared first on Mental Health Commission of Canada.

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