I had spent over a year writing The Other Side of the Straight Jacket from my mom’s perspective, trying to immerse readers in her mindset. But my editor asked a question I couldn’t ignore:

 

 

The truth is, no matter how much research I did: interviewing those who knew her, analyzing medical records, rereading our text messages… I could never be entirely sure.

 

 

At first, it felt daunting. But now, the words are flowing in a way they never did before. The first manuscript was my mom’s story. This version is mine.

 

 

This rewrite mirrors my journey in life. For over two years after her passing, I was stuck in a trauma loop, ruminating on my anger. I wanted answers. I wanted justice. I tried to understand precisely what was going through my mom’s mind when she decided to access MAiD. To leave us. Writing from her perspective was part of that. I went to the darkest depths of her thoughts, trying to piece together the why. And in doing so, I found something unexpected—a softness.

 

Immersing myself in her experience helped me process my pain in ways I couldn’t have imagined. It wasn’t a waste. It helped me grieve. It helped me heal. And now, it’s helping me write this book in a way that feels true to both of us. It’s also helping me step into the next chapter of my life.

 

Last fall, I completed an End-of-Life Doula program at Douglas College, and this month, I began hospice volunteer training. Sitting with people at the end of their lives feels like a full-circle moment—one I never expected but now profoundly understand.

 

In Canada, nearly half of those who die by medical assistance in dying (MAiD) without a terminal illness—like my mom—cite feeling lonely and feeling like a burden as their reason for applying.

 

Because while I was there for my mom, it wasn’t in the way we both deserved.

I was fighting desperately to save her life, and in doing so, our final conversations were stolen from us. I didn’t get to sit with her as her daughter without the urgency of trying to keep her here. And I will carry that loss forever.

 

She was isolated. She felt like a burden. She became part of that statistic.

Unlike my book, I can't rewrite her death. What I can do is move forward.

 

 

Over the next few months, I’m developing a series of grief workshops to help people navigate loss in all its forms. Grief doesn’t just happen after death—it begins before loss, in the moments we sense someone slipping away. It’s complicated, messy, and different for everyone. These workshops will be a place where people can come as they are without pressure to move on or fit into a timeline.

 

I’ll share more details in the coming months, but I’m excited to bring this work forward in a way that truly supports those who need it.

 

 

In the UK, a bill is being proposed to legalize euthanasia. On the surface, it appears to have strict safeguards, but it echoes the same weak policies that allowed my mom to access MAiD in Canada—without a terminal diagnosis while experiencing mental illness, isolation and distress.

 

I submitted written evidence to their parliamentary committee. Shortly after, I was invited to speak in London and Edinburgh at the end of April. I’ll share my mom’s story and what Canada’s experience can teach them about the unintended consequences of expanding assisted dying laws.

 

Later this fall, I’ll also be speaking at the Physicians for Life conference in Toronto.

 

 

The last 3.5 years have been a transition, one that has led me toward full-time advocacy and grief support. I never imagined this would be my path. But just like with my book, the more I share my story, the clearer everything becomes.

 

Thank you for being here, for reading, and as always…

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