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Identity & Culture
Identity & Culture – How Our Cultural Roots Shape Who We Are Cultural identity is the invisible thread that runs through our lives, quietly shaping who we are and how we see the world. It is reflected in our language, traditions, beliefs, and customs—woven from both the past we inherit and the future we create. Alongside it, social identity connects us to the groups and communities we belong to, influencing our perspectives, choices, and sense of belonging. Together, identity and culture form a rich tapestry that defines individuals while linking us to something greater than ourselves. The Foundations of Cultural Identity At its core, cultural identity is about connection—connection to heritage, to history, and to the values that guide us. For some, this connection is rooted in ancestral traditions and ethnic background, while for others, it is found in shared national pride or community rituals. These cultural ties give us a sense of belonging and stability, especially in moments when life feels uncertain. Our cultural roots also shape the way we communicate and express ourselves. From the foods we share at family gatherings to the stories passed down through generations, identity is constantly being expressed in visible and invisible ways. These seemingly small details of daily life often carry the deepest meaning, reminding us of where we come from and grounding us in who we are. Social Identity and Belonging While cultural identity connects us to our heritage, social identity shapes how we see ourselves in relation to others. It reflects the groups we identify with—whether through nationality, religion, profession, or shared interests. These identities influence how we interact, the roles we play, and even how others perceive us. For example, someone may identify as both a student and an artist, or as a parent and a professional. Each layer of social identity interacts with cultural background, creating a unique and dynamic self-image. Recognizing these overlapping identities helps us better understand both ourselves and those around us. Identity, Culture, and Personal Growth Exploring identity and culture is often a journey of self-discovery. Many people seek to understand their cultural and ethnic identity as a way to affirm their place in the world. This process can involve learning more about family history, rediscovering traditional practices, or reconnecting with a language once lost. At the same time, culture influences personal growth by shaping our values and guiding our decisions. The way we view success, relationships, and community often stems from cultural lessons passed down through generations. Recognizing this influence helps us approach personal development with more self-awareness and respect for the cultural contexts that shaped us. Identity in a Globalized World In today’s interconnected world, discussions about identity and culture are more important than ever. Globalization has made cultural exchange easier, but it has also raised questions about how to preserve unique traditions while embracing diversity. For many, balancing national identity with a global outlook is a challenge—and an opportunity. Conversations around cultural identity—whether in essays, articles, or community discussions—encourage empathy and inclusion. By exploring how different cultures shape identity, we gain a deeper appreciation for both what makes us unique and what unites us as human beings. These exchanges build bridges, reduce misunderstandings, and create stronger, more inclusive societies. Celebrating Diversity and Shared Humanity Embracing cultural and social identity in all its forms allows us to celebrate diversity while recognizing our shared humanity. Every person carries a unique story, shaped by their heritage and experiences, yet we are all connected by universal themes: love, resilience, belonging, and growth. When we take time to listen to others’ cultural narratives—whether through art, storytelling, or personal reflection—we expand our perspective and cultivate respect. These stories remind us that identity is not static but constantly evolving, influenced by history, community, and personal choices. Final Thoughts Identity and culture are not just academic concepts; they are lived realities that affect how we see ourselves and how we connect with others. By reflecting on our own identities and respecting the cultural backgrounds of others, we foster understanding in a world that is both diverse and interconnected. Ultimately, celebrating cultural and social identity is about honoring our roots while embracing growth. It is about recognizing the beauty of diversity and the common bonds that hold us together. When we engage with identity and culture thoughtfully, we enrich our lives, strengthen our communities, and create a more compassionate and inclusive world.
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Joseph Tito
Identity & Culture
THE DIVORCE THAT BROKE THE INTERNET
How Sheikha Mahra Al Maktoum Turned Her Broken Marriage Into a Masterclass in Modern PowerThe Instagram post lasted exactly 47 minutes before going viral worldwide."Dear Husband," Sheikha Mahra Al Maktoum typed on July 16, 2024, "As you are occupied with other companions, I hereby declare our divorce. I divorce you, I divorce you, and I divorce you. Take care. Your ex-wife."In less than 50 words, the daughter of Dubai's ruler hadn't just ended her marriage—she'd detonated a centuries-old power dynamic, invoked Islamic law through Instagram, and given roughly 3 billion women worldwide a moment of vicarious satisfaction. The post has since been deleted, but screenshots live forever, especially when they're saved by millions.Here's what most Western media missed: This wasn't just a spurned wife going rogue on social media. This was a calculated power move by someone who understands exactly how modern influence works.The SetupLet's be clear about who we're discussing. Mahra bint Mohammed bin Rashid Al Maktoum isn't your average royal. Half-Greek, half-Emirati, educated between Dubai and London, she's been walking the tightrope between tradition and modernity since birth. At 30, she runs her own perfume line, commands 500K+ Instagram followers, and manages to be both a devoted mother and a social media force—all while navigating one of the world's most scrutinized royal families.Her (now ex) husband, Sheikh Mana bin Mohammed bin Rashid Al Maktoum, is her father's advisor and technically her cousin. Their 2023 wedding was peak Dubai excess—the kind where nobody posts the budget but everyone knows it could fund a small nation's healthcare system.Less than a year later, it was over. Publicly. Brutally. Brilliantly.The Real StorySources in Dubai (who unsurprisingly prefer anonymity) paint a different picture than the "woman scorned" narrative. Mahra had been building her exit strategy for months. The perfume line? Launched weeks before the divorce announcement. The name of her first fragrance? "Divorce." I'm not making this up."She knew exactly what she was doing," says a Dubai-based luxury brand consultant who's worked with several royal family members. "The triple talaq [saying 'I divorce you' three times] is traditionally a male prerogative in Islamic law. For a woman to use it, publicly, on Instagram? That's not emotional. That's revolutionary."The timing was surgical. Posted during peak Middle East social media hours, tagged strategically, worded to go viral. Within hours, she'd transformed from "another Gulf princess" into a global feminist icon—whether she intended to or not.The Business of Being BrokenHere's where it gets interesting. While Western influencers turn divorces into reality shows, Mahra turned hers into a luxury brand. Her perfume "Divorce" sold out in Dubai within 72 hours of launch. The follow-up fragrance? "Moving On." The third? "New Beginnings."This isn't just marketing—it's alchemy. She's taken the most private pain and transformed it into the most public power.The numbers are staggering:Perfume sales up 400% post-divorce announcementInstagram engagement rates that would make Kim Kardashian weepSpeaking requests from every major women's conference globallyA reported book deal worth seven figures"She's done what no royal has done before," explains a Middle Eastern social media analyst. "She's monetized authenticity in a culture that usually pays for silence."The Marbella ConnectionWhich brings us to why Mahra matters to Marbella, beyond the obvious fact that she probably owns property here (the Al Maktoums own property everywhere that matters).Marbella has always been where Middle Eastern royalty comes to be Western—to drink champagne, wear bikinis, and pretend the rules don't apply. But Mahra represents something different: she's bringing Eastern power moves to Western platforms, using Islamic law as a feminist tool, turning tradition into disruption.She's reportedly considering a Marbella boutique for her fragrance line. But more interesting are the whispers about a potential investment in a female-only members club here—a place where divorced women can network, not commiserate. "Think Soho House meets group therapy meets venture capital fund," says someone familiar with the plans.This makes sense. Marbella isn't just where you go to escape your divorce—it's where you go to plan your next act. The Costa del Sol has always been a place for reinvention, where new money can wash away old scandals. For someone like Mahra, it's not a hideaway—it's a laboratory.The Uncomfortable TruthLet's address what everyone's thinking: Is any of this real? Is the divorce final? Does Islamic law even recognize Instagram as a valid platform for religious declarations? Is this all just performance art with a luxury goods tie-in?The answer is: it doesn't matter.What matters is that a 30-year-old woman from one of the world's most patriarchal societies just showed every woman watching that power isn't given—it's taken. And sometimes, it's taken in public, with excellent lighting and a strategic hashtag.Her father, Sheikh Mohammed, hasn't publicly commented. But sources say he's "not entirely displeased" with his daughter's business acumen. After all, Dubai wasn't built on tradition—it was built on ambitious people who understood that controversy, properly managed, is just another word for marketing.What Happens NextThe Marbella boutique, if it happens, won't just sell perfume. Sources suggest it's part of a larger play—a lifestyle brand that speaks to women navigating what she calls "conscious uncoupling with unconscious wealth." Think Gwyneth Paltrow's Goop but with actual money and fewer jade eggs.But here's the real disruption: Mahra is building a business model for modern royal women. No more suffering in silence behind palace walls. No more choosing between tradition and independence. Instead, she's showing that you can honor your heritage while hashtagging your liberation."Every wealthy woman in an unhappy marriage is watching her," says a Marbella-based divorce attorney who's seen a spike in "Mahra-inspired" inquiries. "She's proved you can leave loudly and profit from the noise."The Last WordWhen I reached out to Mahra's team for comment, they sent back a single line: "The Sheikha's fragrances speak for themselves."And maybe that's the point. In a world where every celebrity divorce comes with competing PR narratives and leaked text messages, Mahra Al Maktoum did something radical: she controlled her own story, named her own price, and literally bottled the experience for $250 per ounce.The masculine way to handle divorce? Lawyers, NDAs, and financial settlements. The feminine way? Turn your pain into a product, your breakdown into a breakthrough, and your ex-husband into a marketing strategy.She's not coming to Marbella to hide. She's coming to expand.And honestly? The Costa del Sol could use more women who understand that sometimes the best revenge isn't living well—it's living publicly, profitably, and completely on your own terms.Welcome to Marbella, Sheikha. You're going to fit right in.Joseph Tito is the Editor-in-Chief of Between the Covers and writes the magazine’s unapologetically unhinged “Bitch Fest” advice column. He is currently researching the legal validity of Instagram divorces under Islamic law and accepting early applications for his upcoming divorce-themed fragrance line, tentatively titled “Irreconcilable Differences.”
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Joseph Tito
Identity & Culture
The Boy Who Ran Everywhere But Here
I spent decades outrunning myself. Turns out, the finish line was home.I used to think reinvention was bravery. That running—changing cities, names, careers, accents—was proof I was evolving. Turns out, it was just me trying to outpace the kid I used to be. The one with the mortadella sandwich.I was six when my parents brought me from Italy to Canada. Richmond Hill, to be exact. The land of Wonder Bread, hockey gear, and peanut butter sandwiches cut into perfect triangles. My lunchbox didn't fit in. Neither did I.While the other kids unwrapped their crustless PB&Js, I opened mortadella on ciabatta—thick, oily, unapologetically Italian. And I felt the sting. Not just the eye rolls, but the way silence tastes when you're the only one who brought something different. The smell of my heritage, I decided, was the smell of embarrassment.So I did what any kid desperate to belong does: I started sanding myself down. No more Italian at home. No more rolling my R's. No more anything that made me too much or too other. If I could just shrink enough, blend enough, maybe I could finally disappear into the background and call it safety.By fifteen, I found my escape hatch: modeling. Suddenly, airports replaced classrooms, and the kid who didn't belong anywhere was being flown everywhere. London. Tokyo. Paris. Milan—ironically. Every city became a costume change, every contract a new version of myself I could try on and discard. I thought I was finding myself. I was really perfecting the art of vanishing.Then came the directing. The producing. The building of a life that looked impressive from the outside—a carefully curated collection of identities, stacked like passport stamps. And yet, the more I built, the further I drifted from that kid with the mortadella sandwich. The one who wanted so badly to be seen that he made himself invisible.I didn't understand what was missing until I became a parent. My twin daughters were the mirror I'd spent decades avoiding. They didn't care about polish or titles or the countries I'd lived in. They cared about presence. They cared about me—the real, unedited version I'd been running from since I was six.One day, I was making them lunch. And yes, I made mortadella. On good bread. With a little olive oil, the way my nonna used to. And as I wrapped it up, I caught myself smiling—not the smile you give a camera or a client, but the kind that comes from a quiet, uncomfortable truth you've been dodging for years.I hadn't been running toward success. I'd been running away from myself. And the finish line? It was here. Home. The same messy, loud, cultural, complicated place I once tried to escape. My parents' house. My daughters. The language I tried to forget. The food I was once ashamed of. All of it, waiting for me to stop sprinting and just… sit down.But here's the thing I've been noticing lately—and it's breaking my heart:I keep having the same conversation with women. Women in their forties, fifties, sixties. Mothers who gave everything—everything—to their kids, their partners, their households. Women who built entire lives around being needed. And now? Now the kids are grown, or growing. The house is quieter. The role that once defined them is shrinking. And they're sitting in that silence, asking a question that feels both terrifying and long overdue:Who the hell am I?Not as a mother. Not as a wife. Not as the person everyone needed them to be. Just… them. The person they were before the diapers and the carpools and the endless, selfless giving. The person they maybe never even got to meet.And they're sad. Not the kind of sad you can fix with a weekend away or a new hobby. The kind of sad that comes from realizing you've been disappearing for decades—one snack pack, one school pickup, one "I'm fine, really" at a time.It's a different kind of running than mine. I ran away. They stayed put and dissolved. But the result is the same: you look up one day and don't recognize yourself anymore.Here's what I want to say to those women—and to anyone who's ever lost themselves in the roles they played:Finding yourself isn't about reinvention. It's about remembering.Remembering who you were before the world told you to tone it down. Before the fear of being too much made you shrink into too little. Before "mother" or "wife" or "caretaker" became the only name that mattered. Before fitting in—or holding it all together—felt safer than standing out.Sometimes, the bravest thing you can do isn't to start over. It's to stop running—or stop disappearing—and sit in the truth of where you began.For me, that meant coming home to the mortadella. To the loud Italian family dinners I once cringed at. To the accent I buried. To the parts of myself I thought I had to erase to be worth something.For you, it might mean picking up the guitar you haven't touched in twenty years. Remembering what you used to love before "mom guilt" became a language you spoke fluently. Giving yourself permission to want something that has nothing to do with anyone else's needs.It might mean sitting in the uncomfortable truth that you don't know who you are yet—and that's okay. That the unraveling, the loneliness, the grief of realizing you've been gone for a while? That's not failure. That's the beginning.Because the real power isn't in the escape. Or the sacrifice.It's in the return.To yourself.The one who was always there, waiting.The one who still smells like mortadella, or lavender, or ambition, or whatever the hell made you you before the world needed you to be someone else.Come home.You've been missed.
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Joseph Tito
Identity & Culture
Ten Years of Glitz: When Your Jewellers Become Your People
I don't need to sell you on Glitz Jewellery. If you know, you know. And if you don't? Buckle up, because I'm about to tell you a love story about a jewellery shop that'll make you ugly-cry into your morning coffee.They've been my jewellers since my girls were born – which, let's be real, feels like yesterday and also approximately 47 years ago. They made my wedding band. They've crafted gifts for every baptism, birthday, and "sorry I was an ass" anniversary apology. But here's the thing: Lina and Daniel don't feel like "my jewellers" anymore. They're family. The kind who remember your kids' middle names and text you when they get something in they know you'll love.Let me tell you about the time my husband Frank lost his wedding ring. Gone. Vanished. We turned our house into a crime scene – couch cushions flying, pockets turned inside out, me on my hands and knees with a flashlight checking under radiators like some deranged detective. Nothing. Frank was devastated in that specific way men get when they lose something symbolic and can't articulate why it's destroying them.We dragged ourselves to Glitz, expecting disaster. You know what Lina and Daniel did? They made an exact replica overnight and loaned it to Frank while we kept searching. No guilt trip, no "well, you should've been more careful." Just: "Don't worry about it. We've got you covered until you find it."When Frank found the original ring three months later (in the cantina, naturally, because Italian men), we brought the loaner back. They just laughed. "Thank God you found it," Daniel said. "We knew you would."The thing is, it wasn't about the ring. It was about them understanding that sometimes life falls apart, and you need someone to hold you together until you can find the pieces.That's Glitz. It's love cast in gold and silver. Love that outlasts the mess, the chaos, the everyday disasters of being human.The real story starts back in 1980, when Giselle Maggiacomo first stepped into the shopping mall jewellery game. Picture it: the big hair, the shoulder pads, the absolute audacity of a woman deciding she was going to build something lasting in an industry that chews people up. By 1999, Giselle and her husband Bruno had opened Glitz at Toronto's Fairview Mall – not just another jewellery kiosk, but a destination. For years, they served the North York community from that mall location, Giselle with her three decades of expertise, Bruno handling watch repairs with surgeon-like precision, their kids Lina and Daniel growing up between the display cases.When the clientele outgrew the mall space, the family made the leap to Maple in Vaughan – bigger space, same heart. The boutique became what Giselle always envisioned: not just a store, but a gathering place. A second living room where people came to mark life's moments.Giselle passed this June, and if you think I'm going to pretend that's not devastating, you've got the wrong magazine. She left behind Bruno, her partner of 48 years, their children, four grandchildren, and a community that called her the "Queen of Glitz." Losing your mother is its own special hell. But here's what gets me: Lina and Daniel didn't just inherit a business. They inherited her entire philosophy of care.You can still feel Giselle in that shop – in Lina's sketches that somehow capture exactly what you imagined but couldn't articulate (that OCAD University design degree wasn't for nothing), in Daniel's steady hands setting stones (he's a certified gemologist, because of course he is), in the way they both stop what they're doing to really see you when you walk in.Because that's the thing about Glitz: they see you. Not your credit limit. Not your purchasing history. You. The exhausted mom who needs something to make her feel human again. The nervous kid picking out an engagement ring. The woman replacing jewellery from a divorce who needs someone to tell her she's going to be magnificent.They'll tell you if something's not right for you. They'll suggest the $75 silver charm over the $750 gold one if it suits you better. They remember that your daughter loves butterflies, that your mother-in-law is allergic to nickel, that you hate yellow gold even though it's "back."The boutique itself is this bright, Miami-meets-Maple vibe that somehow works. Modern but warm. Chic but approachable. Like if your coolest friend decided to open a jewellery store and actually knew what she was doing. Lina will sit with you at their "Create Bar" and sketch your dreams into reality – turning your grandmother's diamonds into something you'll actually wear, or designing an engagement ring that tells your whole damn story. And their online shop? Same energy. Whether you're in Vaughan or Vancouver, they'll design custom pieces, ship anywhere, and text you updates like they're sending pics of your grandkids.Ten years in business might not sound like much, but in the world of small retail? It's basically immortality. It's surviving recessions, pandemics, and the general fuckery of running a family business while grieving. It's Lina and Daniel proving that their mother's 44-year legacy wasn't just sustainable – it was necessary.In a world of algorithmic recommendations and same-day delivery, Glitz reminds us what we're actually craving: connection. Recognition. Someone who gives enough of a damn to have your back when life goes sideways.So here's to ten years of Glitz in Vaughan. To 25 years of the Glitz name. To 44 years of Giselle's vision. To turning mess into magic, grief into legacy, customers into family.If you've never been, go. Seriously. And when you do, tell them I sent you. Not because I get anything out of it, but because I want them to know their family is growing.Because once you're Glitz family? You're in for life. And that's worth more than all the gold in that beautiful, light-filled shop.
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Joseph Tito
Identity & Culture
The Godmother of King City: Liberty at Humber Valet Cleaners
In the heart of King City, nestled on King Road, stands a local institution: Humber Valet Cleaners. For years, this establishment has been more than just a place to drop off your dry cleaning—it's been a cornerstone of the community. At the center of it all is Liberty, the spirited force behind the counter, whom my husband Frank and I affectionately call the "Godmother of King City"—the unofficial mayor, if you will.Liberty's presence is as constant as the changing seasons. With a warm smile and an uncanny memory for names and stories, she greets every customer like family. Her dedication to impeccable service and genuine care has turned routine errands into cherished visits.Under Liberty's stewardship, Humber Valet Cleaners has become synonymous with reliability and excellence. Whether it's a last-minute alteration or a treasured garment needing special care, Liberty ensures every item is treated with the utmost attention.But beyond the services, it's Liberty's unwavering commitment to the community that truly sets her apart. She's seen generations grow, celebrated milestones, and offered comfort during challenging times. Her shop isn't just a business; it's a haven of trust and familiarity.In a world that's constantly evolving, Liberty remains a steadfast presence—a testament to the enduring power of personal connection. King City is richer for having her, and we're all better for knowing her.
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Joseph Tito
Identity & Culture
The Radical Love Revolution Rev. Canon Erin's Fierce Fight for Full Inclusion
Rev. Canon Erin sits across from me at The Roost Café, her voice carrying both the weight of disappointment and the fire of unwavering hope. She's talking about the new Pope Leo XIV, about broken promises wrapped in progressive packaging, about a church that blesses with one hand while condemning with the other."I'm disappointed," she says with the kind of honesty that cuts through religious platitudes. "These things that I like about him—his compassion for immigrants, his critique of unjust policies—that's where it ends. I did a deep dive, and he hasn't been saying anything else that I love."This is the voice of someone who refuses to settle for crumbs of inclusion disguised as a feast.When Safe Isn't AssumedRev. Canon Erin doesn't have the luxury of assuming church is safe for everyone. With trans nephews, a gay aunt, and gay children of her own, she's intimately familiar with the casualties of conditional love. At All Saints Anglican Church in King City, she's created something radical: a place where LGBTQ+ people can exist without asterisks."Church is not safe for a lot of people," she explains, her voice gaining intensity. "You have to know this. You have to be aware of this. We want to create this bubble of safety, but we have to be explicit about it because that's not the general consensus out there."The church runs a booth at Pride, hosts safe services, and operates with the understanding that explicit inclusion isn't virtue signaling—it's survival. "They need to know it's safe. They need to know there's safe language, that the songs are safe. We're not going to be singing about things that make anybody uncomfortable."The Breaking PointI know exactly why Rev. Erin's ministry matters because I lived the alternative. My twin daughters and I had been going to Catholic mass with my mother and father every Sunday. What started as family tradition became impossible to sustain when the realities of institutional rejection became too visible."There was this whole scripture about the man and the woman," I tell her, remembering that particular Sunday. "The priest, God bless him—he's amazing, he baptized the girls, he was very open. While he was saying it, he saw me and my mom and the girls sitting there and was looking right at us. It wasn't like in a bad way, it was kind of like in an 'oh shit' way."That moment crystallized what so many LGBTQ+ families face: the painful gap between personal acceptance and institutional doctrine. When my family found All Saints Anglican Church, my Italian Catholic mother surprised everyone with her response."I sat my mom down and I said, 'Listen, I know you're gonna freak out,'" I remember. "But she understood. She's like, 'You know what? I get it.' I said to her, 'It's not that I'm leaving the church. I'm not leaving the faith. I just need to find someone who speaks it in a way that makes sense for us.'"The Business of ExclusionHere's where Rev. Erin drops a truth bomb that explains everything: exclusion works. From a purely institutional standpoint, drawing hard lines about who's in and who's out is more effective at filling pews than radical inclusion."Black and white, deciding who's in and who's out, actually works better at retaining people," sheadmits with painful honesty. "A lot of people like certainty. They want certainty, they crave it. And when you give them openness and choice, they're like, 'Oh, well then I'm just going to choose to be at home and be a good person.'"It's a devastating insight into why religious institutions resist change even when their own scriptures demand it. Control is profitable. Fear is a business model. And love—real, unconditional, barrier-breaking love—is apparently bad for the bottom line."For butts in seats, control and black and white decision making and hard and fast rules about who's in and who's out actually works better to keep people," she continues. "It's heartbreaking because when people realize what's happening, when people realize that actually God's love goes beyond the black and white... wherever you draw a line, you will always find Jesus on the other side."The Pope's Progressive PerformanceWhen it comes to Pope Leo XIV's mixed messages on LGBTQ+ issues, Rev. Erin sees through the careful choreography of institutional change. The Vatican will bless same-sex couples but condemn the surrogacy many queer families need to build those families. They'll baptize trans people but call their healthcare a grave sin."You can't truly bless what you refuse to understand or allow others to understand," she says with cutting clarity. "Education is one of the most powerful tools we have for dismantling prejudice. If the church truly wants to bless same-sex couples, it also needs to bless their lives, their stories, their children, and the spaces where they are formed."On the Vatican's stance that surrogacy is equivalent to human trafficking while blessing the children born through it: "True pastoral care means journeying with people through the fullness of their lives: their grief, their joy, and their hopes—in this case, to become parents. To bless a couple while condemning the means by which they build a family is not care, it's control."The Language of Love vs. The Reality of HarmRev. Erin reserves her sharpest criticism for the gap between public gestures and private language—like Pope Francis using homophobic slurs in closed-door meetings while publicly meeting with LGBTQ+ activists."Many queer people have experienced the pain of leaders who smile in public but wound in private," she says. "That kind of duplicity damages trust and reinforces harm. Real change happens when both public gestures and private language reflect the same radical love. Anything less is performance, and it's not enough."When I ask whether Leo XIV's approach represents genuine inclusion or just better-branded exclusion, she doesn't hesitate: "I think we're seeing better branding, not real transformation, at least not yet."The Revolutionary Act of Simply BeingAt her former church in Sharon, Rev. Erin ran a 2SLGBTQ+ youth group that became a masterclass in radical acceptance. No programming, no therapy sessions, no attempts to change or fix anyone. Just space, junk food, and permission to exist."I literally just brought junk food and provided a space," she remembers. "And they came in droves and loved it. We had, I think at one point, like 22 kids. Probably 17 of them were trans. And they were so happy and joyful and they loved that space."The teenagers called Rev. Erin and her team their "cosmic mamas." They were wild, joyful, and finally free to be themselves without conditions or caveats. "It wasn't about changing who they are or helping them be who they are. It was letting them be who they are. That's it."This is Rev. Erin's dream scaled up: a world where LGBTQ+ people can exist without intervention, without having to meet requirements or prove their worthiness. "Full inclusion, no stop, just normal."The Sacred OrdinaryMy family's story illuminates what's at stake in these theological battles. My twin daughters, born through surrogacy, have learned to explain their family structure to curious classmates by calling their surrogate "an angel"—language from a children's book I wrote about their conception."She is an angel because she gave me them," I explain to Rev. Erin. When one of my daughters was told she must be adopted because she doesn't have a mom, she confidently corrected: "No, we have an angel."This is what families do when the world tries to shame their existence: we create new languages of love, new mythologies of belonging, new ways to see the sacred in what others call deplorable."The moment I had kids was when my fear, which I've never lived in fear... now I live in fear," I tell her. "Not for me because I don't care about me. It's about them. I want them to have that faith and I want them to have that love, that understanding of love because ultimately I feel that that's what faith should be."The Long FightRev. Erin's work exists within the larger context of a justice movement that's measured progress in decades, not years. She talks about Chris Ambidge, a man in her church who's been advocating for LGBTQ+ inclusion "long before it was safe to be" and still gets up at Synod meetings to say he's been fighting the same fights for 30, 40, 50 years."Every time he gets up to speak about things, he will say, 'I have been speaking about this for 30 years, 40 years, 50 years, and we still have only moved that much,'" she says, illustrating a tiny increment with her fingers.The sobering reality? Even in Canada, which both Rev. Erin and I acknowledge as among the safest places in the world for LGBTQ+ families, the work is far from done. "Better, not best," as Rev. Erin puts it.The Love That Changes EverythingWhen someone leaves the church because of rejection and harm, Rev. Erin doesn't try to lurethem back with promises of institutional change. Instead, she offers something more radical: relationship without conditions."I'm not going to judge you for leaving a place that has harmed you," she tells them. "But I hope you will find other ways to connect with God and to connect with people. It doesn't have to be in a church. God is not limited to a church."Her message to LGBTQ+ people who've been wounded by religion is both validation and invitation: "That's not the experience that God wants you to have about your relationship with God or with your relationship with other people, other Christians."The Vision That SustainsRev. Erin's hope is devastatingly simple: "Absolute, full inclusion, that there's no issue ever and that people can just be normal human beings." Not tolerance. Not acceptance. Not even celebration. Just the radical ordinariness of being human without qualification."I have learned so much from the people in my life who are different from me," she reflects. "If I didn't have people in my life who were different than me, then I think I would be a jerk. I think I would be an isolated, jerky person who is unaware about the nuances of life in this big, wide world that we live in."It's a vision of church—and world—where difference is gift, where the margins become the center, where the line between "us" and "them" dissolves because we finally understand that there is no "them," only "us."Rev. Erin serves at All Saints Anglican Church in King City, Ontario, where radical love isn't just preached—it's practiced. In a world still divided by who deserves God's love, she's building proof that the answer has always been everyone.Visit allsaintskingcity.ca to learn more about a church where safety isn't assumed—it's created.As Rev. Erin reminds us: "Wherever you draw a line, you will always find Jesus on the other side." The question isn't whether God's love is big enough for everyone. The question is whether we are.
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Identity & Culture
The Car Salesman Who Actually Listens
In an industry notorious for high-pressure tactics and scripted pitches, Arjun Parmar is quietly revolutionizing what it means to be in car sales. His secret weapon? Something revolutionary in the automotive world: actually listening to his customers."I've never met a car salesman that actually listens to the customer," one client recently shared—a sentiment that perfectly captures what makes Arjun different. While others are busy talking features and financing, Arjun is busy understanding what his customers actually need.His approach flips the traditional sales model on its head. Instead of pushing inventory, he takes time to understand lifestyles, budgets, and genuine transportation needs. Family growing? He gets it. First-time buyer nervous about the process? He's patient. Looking for specific features that matter to your daily commute? He listens.This customer-first philosophy has earned Arjun not just sales, but genuine loyalty from clients who often return to him for their next vehicle purchase—and refer their friends and family without hesitation.What sets Arjun apart isn't just his listening skills—it's how he translates what he hears into genuine solutions. He understands that buying a Porsche isn't just about acquiring a vehicle; it's about investing in an experience, a lifestyle, and often a dream that's been years in the making. Whether you're a seasoned Porsche enthusiast looking to upgrade or someone stepping into luxury performance for the first time, Arjun meets you exactly where you are in your journey.His expertise extends beyond the showroom floor. Arjun takes pride in educating his clients about the engineering excellence behind each Porsche model, helping them understand not just what they're buying, but why it matters. From the track-tested performance of a 911 to the versatile luxury of a Cayenne, he ensures every customer feels confident and informed about their investment.In a world where "exceptional customer service" has become corporate speak, Arjun Parmar proves it's still possible to build a career on something simple: treating people like people, not transactions. At Porsche Centre Oakville, he's not just selling cars—he's creating relationships that last well beyond the delivery day.Want to experience car buying the way it should be? Connect with Arjun Parmar, Sales Executive at Porsche Centre Oakville, and discover what happens when someone actually listens to what you need.
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Joseph Tito
Identity & Culture
Faith & Flesh: How One Artist Transforms Pain Into Power
How a tattoo artist rejected by her church found healing in helping others reclaim their bodies—one needle at a time.The buzz of the tattoo machine fills the meticulous private room at DreamWorx Ink as Lu Pariselli works steadily on her client's hip, creating delicate florals where most people will never see them. Her client lies quietly, occasionally wincing, but mostly lost in thought. This is the magic Lu talks about—those moments of profound silence where healing happens."When they're quiet, that's when the magic is happening," Lu tells me, never breaking concentration from her work. "They're reflecting. It's beautiful to witness, but it's also hard because I feel what's happening. I feel it 100%."This isn't just any tattoo session. This is therapy through ink, and Lu—with her background in painting, German history, and radio—has become an unlikely healer for people reclaiming their bodies after trauma, loss, and rejection.The Connection That Started It AllOur story begins with baptism and rejection, with sacred spaces and the people they exclude. Lu and I found each other through social media after my twins' baptism at Sacred Heart Catholic Church in King City. While I was celebrating this milestone with my daughters, Lu was nursing a wound from her own church in Woodbridge—where she and her wife were told they couldn't baptize their son."When I saw your post, I had a sense of community regarding being a lesbian, but that didn't mean being a lesbian locally in Vaughan," Lu explains, her Italian accent softening with emotion. "Growing up and being gay here was not a good thing for me. When I saw you hitting that trifecta unicorn of gay, local to the area, and having kids too, I felt very connected to you."But seeing my celebration also stirred something painful. "You were doing something that I was unsure of and very afraid of because I had received not a very welcoming invite from the church regarding baptizing my son."The contrast was stark and heartbreaking. Two gay parents, same faith, same desire to celebrate their children—but completely different treatment from the institution they'd grown up loving."I'm a traditionalist at heart, and although I'm gay, I'm still extremely traditional," Lu says. "All my cousins and everybody in my life were allowed to be married in the church, and when I wasn't, it broke my heart. Something that had been celebrated in my life—just having the traditions of being Catholic and Italian—it made me sad that I had to throw all of those away."From Radio Waves to Sacred SkinLu's path to tattooing wasn't linear. After completing degrees in German History at York University and painting at OCAD, she spent time at The Edge 102.1 FM, a station with deep ties to the LGBTQ+ community. Each experience shaped her understanding of art as identity and self-expression."The Edge had deep LGBTQ+ community ties," she reflects. "That experience shaped my understanding of art as identity and self-expression, but I was heard and not seen there. Tattooing is the opposite—it's so intimate."The transition from painting to tattooing terrified her. "The scariest thing I ever did was change my medium because I wasn't good at it right away, and I was always good at art. I practiced with wood cutting—I bought a wood burner and was burning wood to understand that once you mark something, it's in the wood. You can't erase it."She pauses, adjusting her position to get a better angle. "I cried all the time, guys. I used to go home like, 'I'm not going to get this.' And the worst thing was that people expected me to be really good right away, and I wasn't."The Science of Sacred TouchWhat Lu discovered in those early struggling years was that tattooing isn't just about technical skill—it's about understanding the profound biochemical and emotional process happening when needle meets skin."You're working with needles, pain, endorphins—there's a whole biochemical process happening," she explains. "I was told to think about the ink injecting the skin, which is injecting the cells, and you need to think about it filling up each pocket as you go. Sometimes I think of the body as a scientific system, and that helps me realize that this is not paper, this is not a canvas—this is a living, breathing person, and I'm working on the biggest organ of their body."Research increasingly supports what Lu witnesses daily: tattooing can be genuinely therapeutic, helping with grounding, trauma processing, even PTSD. The process forces people into the present moment, creating a unique space where healing can occur."I witness that every day with the people that I work on," she says. "The men and the women that come to me wait a long time to see me, so usually their projects come from very intense things that have happened to them. In the service that I provide, it's therapy—art therapy for both client and artist."When Silence Speaks VolumesLu has developed an acute sensitivity to what's happening beyond the surface during her sessions. She watches for the moments when conversation stops and something deeper begins."When they're having a moment while being tattooed, it's silent. We're actually not speaking, and it's in that silence that it's deafening. People sit with the discomfort of the pain, but maybe we had been conversing a minute or two prior, and when they're quiet, that's when the magic is happening because they're reflecting."She's learned that silence is a powerful tool. "I don't do the majority of the talking, and in that silence, if you leave silence, people will fill it if they can. They're craving the desire to be heard, and I listen. I'm really working on the strategy of listening attentively, not interrupting. When that happens, people will give you everything."This creates enormous responsibility. "A lot happens at the consult when I first sit with someone and they open up to me. It's hard at -first for them, but once they release that, or when they open that lid of being vulnerable and I remind them that they're in a safe space, they're just craving to be heard.""Just because you weren't welcome at certain events or felt like a complete outcast at others, you're gonna fit right into the life you have right now."Reclaiming Bodies, Rebuilding LivesSome of Lu's most meaningful work involves helping people reclaim their bodies after medical procedures, trauma, or loss. She's tattooed over mastectomy scars, self-harm scars, stretch marks—transforming sites of pain into something beautiful."We can all relate to having really odd relationships with our bodies," she says. "There's parts of us that we can't stand that others will tell us are beautiful. But giving a woman her body back when they've looked in the mirror and despised looking at themselves—it makes me feel like a magician."The response from clients validates this transformative power. "I've had people say to me, 'You've given me my self-worth, my confidence back. I can wear those shirts, I can wear that outfit, I feel like me again.' As someone who also struggles with body stuff, I feel like that's my gift—giving them their confidence back."Creating Sacred SpaceThe rejection from her church fundamentally shaped how Lu approaches her work. She's determined to create the welcoming space she was denied."What I missed the most about the church was that sense of belonging because my entire family is welcome except for me," she says, her voice breaking slightly. "With tattooing, I feel like I create a space that is nothing but welcoming for that reason. Because of my hurt, I don't want people to feel small or unworthy or like they don't belong."She's incredibly intentional about power dynamics in her space. "I'm very aware of how I level people. I'll often put them higher than me, especially when we're speaking. I always sit lower because there's power in our exchange—I often hold the needle. I’m in charge. That’s scary for some people. So I always try and level it off, whether it's by physical height or physical positioning."The Healing ArtistBehind Lu's booth hangs a painting she created in university—a beach scene from 1920s France showing families enjoying Sunday together instead of being inside church walls praying. The red throughout represents the guilt and inadequacy she felt despite being deeply religious."This whole painting is about that pressure to be inside the walls praying to be a good Catholic, and the whole red is like, 'I'm not good enough, I'm never enough,'" she explains. "I was very religious—I read the Bible, I was fucking on it. That's what this whole thing is about."Now, she's created her own sacred space where people are always enough, always welcome, always heard."The rejection from the church was the same feeling you get when you're in grade school and you're not picked for gym class," she says. "That 'you are not welcome, you are not a part of us.' But that's what I find the world is really good at doing—creating the other. That's what I want to personify in this work—the opposite of that."Beyond the NeedleFor Lu, tattooing has become about much more than creating beautiful art. It's about witnessing people's stories, holding space for their pain, and helping them transform trauma into something permanent and powerful."You're only here for a little bit of time," she tells people considering their first therapeutic tattoo. "I would use tattoos to express exactly what you need to say because they can do that. Tattoos will attract like-minded people—it's a language that without saying anything, someone can connect with you from across a room. You're creating community with silence, which is really cool."As our interview wraps up, Lu's client sits up to admire the delicate florals now adorning her hip. There's something different in her posture, her breathing. She looks more present, more grounded—exactly what the research says should happen."What do I want people to take away from being tattooed by me?" Lu reflects. "That I hear them. I'm listening to everything you say to me. I hear you." She touches the gold cross she still wears around her neck—a reminder that faith and identity can coexist, even when institutions fail us. "I would tell my younger self that you're really gonna like the older version of yourself. Just because you weren't welcome at certain events or felt like a complete outcast at others, you're gonna fit right into the life you have right now."In her hands, ink becomes more than pigment under skin. It becomes proof of survival, markers of transformation, and ultimately, sacred reminders that we are all worthy of love, acceptance, and belonging—needle marks and all.Lu Pariselli is a tattoo artist at DreamWorx Ink in Vaughan, Ontario. Her work focuses on large-scale trash polka, high contrast black and grey, and avant-garde pieces that help clients transform their stories into art. Follow her on instagram.
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Identity & Culture
When Art Becomes Witness
There are 8,000 books wrapped in Indigenous fabric scattered across Canada right now. Each bears a name in gold on its spine—lives cut short, stories unfinished, families forever altered. This is The Canadian Library: not your typical collection of dusty volumes, but a living memorial refusing to let Canada look away from its most devastating truths.The numbers are staggering. Indigenous women comprise 16% of all female homicide victims and 11% of missing women, yet Indigenous people represent only 4.3% of Canada’s population. These women, girls, and Two Spirit people are more than statistics. TCL ensures they are remembered as daughters, mothers, sisters, and friends—whole human beings whose absence leaves gaping wounds.When Grief Becomes ArtTCL is a nationwide art installation memorial for MMIWG and children, created to spark conversation and deepen awareness about Canada’s true history. Toronto-based activist Shanta Sundarason founded the project after moving to Canada and learning the brutal truths many citizens have long ignored. “At the end of the day, this is Canada's story,” she says. “Canadians need to take ownership.”Inspired by British-Nigerian artist Yinka Shonibare’s The British Library, TCL wraps books in Indigenous-designed fabrics and embosses each spine with a name. It builds on the legacy of Métis artist Jaime Black’s REDress Project, which hangs empty red dresses to honor the missing and murdered. Where red dresses mark absence, TCL fills those voids—with names, fabric, memory.The Power of Stopping in Your TracksTCL’s strength lies in its arresting presence. “You can't walk past one of these shelves without stopping,” says Sundarason. Each ‘micro gallery’—in businesses, schools, and libraries—uses IKEA Billy bookcases and books wrapped in Indigenous-sourced fabrics. When someone pauses, they can scan a QR code that leads to TCL’s site, where they’ll read family-written stories behind each name. “She is not just a number or a name,” says Dr. Linda Manyguns of Mount Royal University. “Her family tells you her story.”Building Something BiggerThe project has found unexpected allies in mainstream spaces. IKEA became the first major retail partner, installing displays in all their Canadian stores. "It intends to educate, create awareness, advocate and start important conversations to help towards healing and true reconciliation," the retailer says. When a Swedish furniture giant is willing to use its retail space to confront Canadian colonial violence, something is shifting in the national conversation.Some of the books remain nameless—representing those who may never be found, whose stories may never be told. Others carry names like Debbie Ann Sloss-Clarke, whose sister Mary Lou Smoke has been waiting more than two decades for justice. "The missing and murdered Indigenous women are sisters, mothers, aunties, grandmothers and the best friends of many," said Smoke. "It's important to always remember them – their lives were taken away before they had a chance to share their special gifts in this beautiful life."TCL's ultimate vision is to bring all 8,000 books together in one massive permanent installation in a major museum or gallery, creating a national memorial that will serve as both education and remembrance for years to come. We're living in a moment when Canada is finally being forced to reckon with its colonial past. The discoveries of unmarked graves at former residential school sites have shattered any remaining illusions about this country's "nice guy" reputation. "I think that the whole of Canada was traumatized with the discovery of children's bodies and I think that was a waking-up point. People want the truth," says manyguns.The Canadian Library doesn't offer easy answers or comfortable solutions. Instead, it offers something more valuable: witness. In a culture that prefers to move on quickly from uncomfortable truths, these books insist on staying put. They demand that we see, that we remember, that we sit with the weight of what we've allowed to happen."Reconciliation will only happen when the majority of Canadians are truly educated. It's not going to be a political thing. It will be through conversations and education and that's what we are hoping to create," Sundarason says.Art has always been about making the invisible visible, giving form to feelings that resist easy categorization. The Canadian Library does that in the most necessary way—by refusing to let murdered and missing Indigenous women and girls disappear twice. Once in life, and again in memory.Because every name on every spine represents someone who deserved to live, to love, to contribute their gifts to the world. The least we can do is remember their names.How You Can Be Part of ThisThe Canadian Library relies on community involvement to grow its impact. You can build a micro gallery in your business, organization, or local space—all you need is an IKEA Billy bookcase and some donated hardcover books. TCL provides the Indigenous fabrics and coordinates the names. You can also volunteer to help wrap books, sew fabric covers, or spread awareness on social media. Financial donations support local organizations creating their own micro galleries, and you can purchase fabrics from Indigenous-owned businesses or TCL bookmarks and scrunchies. Visit www.thecanadianlibrary.ca to learn how to get involved—because reconciliation isn't a spectator sport, and every Canadian has a role to play in ensuring these stories are never forgotten.
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Joseph Tito
Identity & Culture
The Workplace My Daughters Will Inherit Is Still Broken
How 94% of male executives convinced themselves that harassing half their female staff isn't actually happeningI'm staring at two sets of numbers that make me want to throw my laptop across the room. Ready for this? One in two Canadian women have experienced sexual harassment at work. Meanwhile, 94% of Canadian executives—who are, surprise surprise, 95% male—say sexual harassment isn't a problem at their companies.Let that sink in while I pour another coffee and resist the urge to scream into the void.As the father of twin girls, these numbers aren't just statistics. They're a preview of coming attractions for the workplace my daughters will inherit. And right now, that preview looks like a horror movie where the monsters are wearing suits and calling themselves "thought leaders."The Math That Makes Me RageHere's what we're dealing with: Statistics Canada tells us that 19% of women and 13% of men report experiencing harassment at work. But when we drill down to sexual harassment specifically, the numbers get uglier. Fifty-two percent of Canadian women have been sexually harassed at work. Twenty-eight percent have experienced non-consensual touching—which, let's be clear, is sexual assault.But somehow, in boardrooms across this country, male executives are sitting around conference tables convinced this isn't happening in their companies. It's like being told your house is on fire by everyone who lives there while you insist you don't smell smoke.The disconnect isn't accidental—it's structural. When you've never had to develop a "bathroom strategy" to avoid the handsy guy from accounting, when you've never had to change your commute because your boss made a comment about your legs, when you've never calculated whether reporting harassment will tank your career faster than enduring it—of course you don't see the problem.My daughters deserve better than a workplace where their success depends on their ability to dodge inappropriate advances while pretending it's not happening.Welcome to the Gaslight FactoryThe research shows that 89% of Canadian women use strategies to avoid unwanted sexual advances in the workplace. Think about that for a second. Nearly nine out of ten women are actively modifying their behavior, their routes, their clothing, their entire professional presence to dodge harassment. And male executives are out here acting like this is just women being "overly sensitive."This isn't sensitivity—it's survival. When one woman shared her story with the Globe and Mail about working as a bank teller in the Caribbean, she described how "sexual harassment is so prevalent that it becomes normalized in the workplace." She learned to navigate halls carefully, to know "who to avoid, how not to sit next to certain people." She played small, taking up less space, always on guard because of her race and gender, and then again because of harassment.That's not a workplace culture—that's a war zone with a dress code.The Julie Payette ProblemWant to see what happens when women do speak up? Look no further than Rideau Hall. When sixteen sources came forward with allegations that Governor General Julie Payette had created a toxic workplace—yelling at staff, publicly humiliating employees, reducing people to tears—the response was swift and decisive: they spent months conducting an "independent review."The review found the allegations credible. The report was described as "scathing." Payette resigned in disgrace. Justice served, right?Except here's the thing: Payette's case only got attention because she was literally the Queen's representative in Canada. She had the highest ceremonial position in the country, and it still took months of investigation and public pressure before anything happened.Now imagine you're a junior marketing associate trying to report your director for inappropriate comments. Think that's getting the same level of scrutiny and swift action? I'll wait.The Cost of Willful BlindnessHere's what male executives don't understand: their ignorance isn't neutral. Every time they dismiss concerns, minimize reports, or convince themselves harassment is "just a few bad apples," they're actively creating the conditions for it to continue.Research shows that workplaces with higher ratios of men in positions of power experience more sexual harassment. It's not rocket science—it's basic power dynamics. When the people making decisions about workplace culture have never been targeted by that culture's worst impulses, they don't see the need to fix what isn't broken for them.The RCMP learned this the expensive way. They reached a settlement in a class-action lawsuit where up to 20,000 women could be eligible for between $10,000 and $220,000 for decades of gender-based harassment, bullying and discrimination. The final bill? Hundreds of millions of dollars, plus immeasurable damage to their reputation and ability to recruit talent.But sure, let's keep pretending harassment isn't a business problem.What This Means for Our DaughtersI look at my twin girls—brilliant, fierce, unstoppable forces of nature—and I wonder what workplace they'll inherit. Will they spend their careers developing elaborate strategies to avoid predators in corner offices? Will they have to choose between speaking up and moving up? Will they watch male colleagues get promoted while they're labeled "difficult" for refusing to tolerate inappropriate behavior?The #MeToo movement was supposed to be a turning point. Canadian women like Mia Kirshner didn't just share their stories—they built solutions. Kirshner co-founded AfterMeToo, creating digital platforms and advocacy programs to support survivors and push for policy changes. Women have been doing the work, creating the roadmaps, providing the solutions.But real change requires the people in power to admit there's a problem worth solving. And right now, 94% of them are convinced there isn't.The Bottom LineFive years after #MeToo, we've passed new legislation like Bill C-65, updating harassment laws in federal workplaces. We have better reporting mechanisms and more awareness. Progress, right?Except harassment rates haven't dropped significantly. Women are still modifying their behavior to stay safe at work. The women who speak up still face retaliation and career damage. And the men in charge are still confused about why this keeps being "such a big deal."Here's what I want those 94% of male executives to understand: your female employees aren't asking you to solve harassment because they're dramatic or oversensitive. They're asking because they're exhausted. They're tired of spending mental energy on survival strategies that you've never had to consider. They want to focus on doing great work instead of avoiding gross behavior.My daughters deserve better than a workplace where their success depends on their ability to dodge inappropriate advances while pretending it's not happening. They deserve leaders who believe women when they speak up, who create systems that work, and who understand that fixing harassment isn't just the right thing to do—it's the bare minimum for running a decent organization.Until we get there, those numbers—50% of women harassed, 94% of male executives in denial—will keep staring back at us like an accusation. A reminder that we're failing the women we claim to value, and teaching our daughters that this is just how the world works.But here's the thing about daughters: they don't accept "that's just how things are" as easily as their mothers did. And maybe that's exactly what we need.Between the Covers is a bold, witty, and unfiltered digital lifestyle and literary magazine. We tell the truth about the mess and the magic of being human. Subscribe for more stories that make you think, laugh, and occasionally want to burn it all down.
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Joseph Tito
Identity & Culture
BEYOND THE RAINBOW What Pride Actually Means (And Why It Still Matters)
Let's start with what Pride isn't.Pride isn't rainbow-washed vodka bottles that appear for 30 days before vanishing back into the corporate ether. It's not Instagram filters you slap on for a week, corporations changing their logos to Technicolor versions, or glitter-bombed merchandise that nobody asked for.It's not a party that just happens to shut down entire city blocks. (Though yes, the parties are fabulous.)While I'm usually the first to celebrate a good sale on rainbow tank tops, the commercialization of Pride Month often drowns out what we're actually marking: a revolution that began with marginalized people saying "enough" and refusing to apologize for their existence.When my twin daughters are old enough to ask about Pride, I won't start with parade floats and rainbow flags. I'll start with resistance.From Stonewall to SuburbiaPride began with a riot. Specifically, the 1969 Stonewall uprising—when patrons of the Stonewall Inn, a New York City gay bar, fought back against a police raid. Leading the resistance were transgender women of color like Marsha P. Johnson and Sylvia Rivera, drag queens, butch lesbians, and other people living at society's margins who were tired of systematic harassment and dehumanization.These weren't celebrities with Instagram accounts and corporate sponsors. They were everyday people fighting for the fundamental right to exist without persecution.The first Pride march happened a year after Stonewall, commemorating the uprising. It wasn't sponsored by major corporations or promoted on social media. It was a protest—one with the radical message that LGBTQ+ people deserve dignity, safety, and the freedom to live authentically.In the decades since, Pride has evolved. In some ways, that's beautiful progress—the fact that Target sells rainbow merchandise is certainly preferable to the systematic criminalization of queer existence. But in that evolution, we sometimes lose sight of what Pride actually represents.Why Pride Still MattersMaybe you're thinking: "But things are so much better now! Gay marriage is legal! There's a lesbian on my favorite TV show!"Progress is real, and worth celebrating. But consider this:In 2023, over 500 anti-LGBTQ+ bills were introduced in state legislatures across America, many targeting transgender youthLGBTQ+ youth are still 4 times more likely to attempt suicide than their straight peersIn many parts of the world, being gay is still punishable by imprisonment or deathNearly 1 in 5 hate crimes in the U.S. targets LGBTQ+ people40% of homeless youth identify as LGBTQ+, many rejected by their familiesProgress isn't a finish line we've crossed. It's a path we're still walking, and in some places, that path is under active construction to make it harder to traverse.That's why Pride isn't just about celebration—it's about visibility, solidarity, and refusing to go backward.Pride as Resistance to ShameAt its core, Pride is the antidote to shame—a powerful, paralyzing force that tells people they're wrong for existing as they are.Think about that word: pride. It's not chosen arbitrarily. It's specifically selected as the opposite of the shame that society has historically forced upon LGBTQ+ people.When your existence has been treated as a disorder, a sin, a crime, or a punchline, declaring pride in who you are becomes a revolutionary act. It's saying: "I refuse to be diminished by your judgment. I refuse to apologize for being exactly who I am."This is something many straight, cisgender people might never fully understand because heterosexuality has never been criminalized or pathologized. You've never had to "come out" as straight. You've never worried about being disowned for bringing your opposite-sex partner home for the holidays.Pride is the collective decision to reject shame and celebrate authenticity—not just for a month, but as a way of life.“Pride rejects shame. Loudly.”How Allies Can Engage with Pride (Beyond Buying the T-shirt)If you're a straight, married woman wondering how to meaningfully engage with Pride, here are some thoughts:Recognize your privilege, then use it. Having your relationship recognized and respected by society is a privilege. Use that security to speak up for those who don't have it.Listen more than you speak. Pride is first and foremost about LGBTQ+ voices and experiences. Be willing to learn without centering yourself.Talk to your kids. Children understand fairness and love instinctively. Explaining that some families have two moms or that some people feel different on the inside than they look on the outside is much simpler than adults make it out to be.Speak up in uncomfortable spaces. The most valuable allyship often happens in spaces where LGBTQ+ people aren't present—like when someone makes a homophobic joke at a dinner party or when your relative starts on a transphobic rant.Support LGBTQ+ causes and communities year-round. Pride isn't just for June, and neither is discrimination.Remember that Pride can be messy. It's a complex, sometimes contradictory space with internal disagreements and evolving conversations. That's okay. Human rights movements aren't meant to be perfectly packaged and pleasant.Finding My Own PrideI remember my first Pride. I was terrified, exhilarated, and completely overwhelmed. I worried about being seen by the wrong person. I worried about not being "gay enough." I worried about what my family would think.But then I saw families with children, straight allies holding supportive signs, elderly couples holding wrinkled hands, and teenagers with purple hair and undefinable genders just existing freely. I saw all the colors of human experience, not just rainbow flags.That's the beauty of Pride: it creates space for all of us to exist fully, without apology. It declares that diversity isn't just tolerable—it's essential, beautiful, and worth celebrating.Now, as a parent, Pride has taken on new meaning. I want my daughters to grow up in a world where they never question their worthiness of love, regardless of who they become or who they love. I want them to know that fighting for others' dignity is as important as securing your own.Pride gives me hope that we're moving, however imperfectly, toward that world.Beyond the RainbowWhen June ends and the rainbow merchandise disappears from store windows, Pride continues. It continues in LGBTQ+ youth centers, in policy advocacy, in quiet conversations at family dinner tables, and in every small act of authenticity.Pride continues when a scared teenager finds the courage to live truthfully.Pride continues when a parent chooses love over prejudice.Pride continues when communities stand together against discrimination.Pride isn't just a parade or a product line. It's a movement, a history, a future, and an ongoing invitation to create a world where nobody has to fight for the right to exist as they are.And that's something worth celebrating—rainbow vodka or not.“Pride began with a riot—and it still marches with purpose.”SIDEBAR: Quick Pride History FactsThe rainbow flag was designed by Gilbert Baker in 1978, with each color having symbolic meaning (red for life, orange for healing, etc.)The first official Pride march was held in New York City in 1970, one year after the Stonewall uprisingThe Stonewall Inn is now a National Monument, designated by President Obama in 2016In many countries, Pride marches are still met with violence and arrestsThe acronym has evolved over time from "Gay Pride" to LGBT, LGBTQ, LGBTQ+, and various other iterations as communities strive for greater inclusion
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Joseph Tito
Identity & Culture
The Weight of Being First: How Chelsee Pettit Built an Indigenous Empire from a Triangle That Wasn't There
"Detachment is a good thing. When you release things, it's because you're allowing yourself to carry more. Sometimes carrying it all isn't actually the best way to get what you want."The triangle changed everything.Walking through downtown Toronto in June 2021, Chelsee Pettit thought she saw someone wearing Indigenous syllabics on their shirt—those distinctive shapes that form the writing system for many Indigenous languages across Canada. For the first time in her life living in the city, she felt represented."I was shocked to see Indigenous languages being worn," she tells me over Zoom, her voice carrying the weight of someone who's built something from nothing. "I thought, 'Holy, somebody thinks Indigenous languages are as cool as Korean or Japanese across a shirt.'"But as she got closer, reality hit. It was just a triangle."I felt disappointed. But I'm a very solution-oriented person. Immediately I was like, 'I need to become an Indigenous Nike.'"Three days later, aaniin was born. That first week? $3,000 in sales from a crappy Shopify site, zero followers, and a story posted on Instagram about a triangle that wasn't what it seemed.The $70K ProblemBut let's back up, because Chelsee's origin story isn't the sanitized entrepreneur fairy tale you're used to. At 20, she was $70,000 in debt, a college dropout working retail for $38,000 a year with a credit score of 200.The wake-up call came when she moved in with her boyfriend (now ex-husband). "He looks over at me and goes, 'So how much debt do you have?' I was like 'I don't know.'" After adding up credit cards, loans, and that car she thought she owned, the number was staggering."He was like, 'You're insane. You make $14 an hour and dropped out of several college programs. You're not paying that off before you're 50.'"Challenge accepted. Chelsee took a second job as a hotel night auditor, working three nights a week while managing a Sunglass Hut during the day, destroying her sleep schedule and nearly her sanity. In six months, she paid off $10,000. "I was like, 'I'm going to have a heart attack or fall asleep driving home.' I need to figure something else out."A job at Bond Look, a Montreal-based eyewear startup, changed her trajectory. She increased store sales by 46% in six months and met Sophie Belange, a female entrepreneur who showed her what was possible. "That was the first time I ever experienced a female entrepreneur in my entire life."By 25, Chelsee was debt-free. By 26, she was building an empire from a triangle that wasn't there.What makes aaniin different isn't just the Indigenous languages emblazoned across streetwear—it's the tiny QR codes tucked inside every piece. The idea came from her white mother asking, "Can I wear that? I don't know how to pronounce it.""I was like, 'It's a hat. You put it on your head. Why wouldn't you be able to wear this hat?'" But she understood. The QR codes solve everything: they educate without requiring Indigenous people to constantly play teacher, and they let non-Indigenous people engage authentically without fear of getting it wrong."Indigenous people don't have to spend time educating other people about our languages. It's just self-study, and you can pass it on."It's brilliant, actually. Cultural appreciation facilitated by technology, removing barriers for everyone involved.The Hidden Cost of Being FirstWhat the success stories don't tell you is that being first is exhausting. Over four years, aaniin has generated over $2 million in revenue—but half of that has gone to supporting other Indigenous businesses. Chelsee spent years doing everything for free: business consulting, marketing advice, mentoring."For four years I was doing everything for free because I figured out how to make a hat that doesn't fall apart for $45, and people don't question why."The weight of representation is real. When you're the first Indigenous retailer in downtown Toronto's for-profit space, when you're housing 40+ Indigenous brands at the Eaton Centre, when you're literally creating space that never existed—you carry more than your own success."We have such a high standard for ourselves to represent our community in thoughtful and intentional ways," she explains. "But we also do things the way we do them because we have no other options sometimes."Those other options? They often don't exist. When Chelseewanted to curate Indigenous brands for her department store pop-up, she couldn't just order from a catalog. "There's like five brands that are actually retail-ready. Everybody else is very small artisan brands where I had to pick up the phone, jump on weekly calls, making sure they don't feel confident in their product."She became business therapist, financial backer, and cheerleader while building her own brand. "My brand is trying to support 50 other Indigenous brands while I'm also just trying to make it through day-to-day in my own brand."The Bear's Lair MeltdownThe call came September 1st, 2023: Vancouver, September 11th, film Bear's Lair. Chelsee's response? "Nope. I'm not going."Orange Shirt Day was September 30th. She had a $25,000 inventory order coming from China, her first major investment ever, plus a Truth and Reconciliation event, plus a business development day with Shopify, plus five new interns starting.They convinced her to go. Then her orange shirts got stuck at the border."I'm about to board the plane, and I'm like, 'I'm not boarding this plane. I'm going home.'" Her husband's response: "The shirts are going to be late or on time no matter what you do. You're not driving the UPS truck. Get on the fucking plane."She wrote her first pitch ever on the plane, recorded it on voice memo, then duplicated it 700 times in CapCut to listen on repeat for three days straight. "I gave myself a migraine. I was throwing up the day before."On camera, she forgot everything and had to read from her script. She won anyway. The second episode was worse—they took her paper away. She looked at the ceiling every time she forgot something, then back down to continue.For the finals? She stopped preparing entirely. "I listened to Taylor Swift's 'The Man' on repeat for three hours straight." She crushed it. "Her songs have spells in them for sure."$100,000 later, validation finally came. But it took Taylor Swift's magic and three rounds of public vulnerability to get there.The Future Is FinanceHere's where Chelsee's story gets really interesting. She's done chasing individual success. "I know that I've taken this business as far as I humanly possibly can."The next phase isn't about selling more hats—it's about becoming what she calls "Indigenous BlackRock." Impact investing, private equity, venture capital funding for Indigenous businesses."If we take investment from non-Indigenous contributors, we're going to be colonized out of our own business essentially. It's happened quite a few times with other Indigenous brands."Her solution? Build the financial infrastructure herself. "My goal is to become like Indigenous BlackRock. There's not going to be change unless we're actually creating these financial structures ourselves."It's the kind of systems thinking that goes way beyond feel-good entrepreneurship stories. Chelsee isn't just building a brand—she's building the foundation for others to build on, creating the structures that should have existed all along.The Last PageWhen I ask what would be written on the last page if aaniin were a book, she doesn't hesitate: "Detachment is a good thing. When you release things, it's because you're allowing yourself to carry more. Sometimes carrying it all isn't actually the best way to get what you want."It's advice that applies to more than business. In a world that tells us to hustle harder, lean in more, never give up, Chelsee's learned that sometimes the most radical thing you can do is let go—of the perfect pitch, of doing everything for free, of carrying the weight of representation alone.The triangle that started it all wasn't real. But everything Chelsee built from that moment of disappointment is. And she's just getting started.aaniin continues to operate online and through pop-up locations. Chelsee is currently focused on developing Indigenous-led financial structures and investment opportunities.Confidence is Everything. Smooth skin helps you feel it.Effortless confidence starts with the skin you’re in. Learn why, at Freedom, you see real results. Buy 5 laser sessions and receive 3 FREE when you mention BTC. Offer valid until Oct 31, 2025. Not valid with any other offers.
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Identity & Culture
LOCAL SPOTLIGHT Life Designed by M
Where Motherhood Meets Meaningful DesignWelcome to our very first Local Spotlight—a new monthly feature in Between the Covers dedicated to celebrating small businesses with big heart. We’re kicking things off with a local favourite whose creativity and candour remind us what community is all about.Meet Emilie.The Ontario-based powerhouse behind Life Designed by M and the Instagram handle @customize_this_, Emilie is more than just a small business owner. She’s a mom, maker, and master of turning relatable chaos into curated charm.Through her brand, Customize This, Emilie creates custom lifestyle products that strike a perfect balance between function and feel-good. Think mugs that make you laugh through the sleep deprivation, signs that actually reflect your messy reality, and hacks that make parenting just a little bit easier. Her catalogue—available through Instagram highlights—is packed with everyday essentials made with personality.What we love most? Emilie’s content isn’t just polished—it’s personal. She shares the laughs, the meltdowns, the DIY wins (and flops), and the unfiltered side of parenting that often goes unsaid. Her reels are like quick chats with your brutally honest, hilarious best friend.But Life Designed by M isn’t just a brand—it’s a space. A space where mothers feel seen, where followers become friends, and where authenticity is always in style. Emilie has built more than a business; she’s built a movement grounded in joy, humour, and real talk.So here’s to Emilie—for reminding us that even in the thick of it, we can still make space for creativity, community, and maybe a custom wine glass or two.Follow her journey at @customize_this_Want to see your business featured? Email us at info@jeopublishing.com and tell us your story. Let’s build this community, one spotlight at a time.
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Identity & Culture
BUILDING HOPE FROM BROKEN PIECES An Interview with Alex Rivera, Founder of Lighthouse Youth Project
You don’t have to be fully healed to be someone’s lighthouse. Sometimes the most powerful thing you can do is show up, broken pieces and all.” — Alex RiveraJoseph: Let's start with the origin story. What made you create Lighthouse Youth Project?Alex: [laughs] The short answer? Pure survival instinct that eventually turned into something bigger than me. I aged out of foster care at 18, and the statistics for kids like me—especially queer kids—aren't great. Homelessness, addiction, isolation. I was determined not to be a statistic, but I also knew I hadn't been given many tools.There was this day when I was 23, sitting in my first apartment that actually felt safe, and I realized I'd spent my whole life searching for a lighthouse—some sign that I could navigate safely to shore. That's when the idea hit me: what if I could be that for someone else? Not because I had all the answers, but precisely because I didn't. Because I was still figuring it out myself.JT: You've built a program that's about so much more than just "helping youth." It's about identity, belonging, mental health. Can you talk about that holistic approach?Alex: We live in a culture obsessed with fixing problems rather than understanding people. When I was in the system, everyone wanted to "fix" my behaviour, my sexuality, my trauma responses—without ever addressing the underlying realities of what I was experiencing.At Lighthouse, we start with the assumption that these young people aren't problems to be solved. They're complex humans navigating impossible circumstances with whatever tools they have. Our job isn't to "save" them; it's to walk alongside them, to help them find and trust their own internal compass.Identity is central to this work. When you're young and queer and system-involved, you're often made to feel like every aspect of your existence is problematic. Your queerness is "confusing" adults. Your trauma responses are "disruptive." Your need for authenticity is "attention-seeking."We create spaces where their identities aren't just tolerated but celebrated. Where they can explore who they are without judgment. Where they can try on different versions of themselves and find what feels like home.JT: The program pairs LGBTQ+ youth with mentors who've had similar experiences. Why was that model important to you?Alex: Because representation isn't just about seeing yourself reflected in media or at Pride parades—though that matters. It's about having someone look you in the eye and say, "I get it. I've been where you are, and look—I'm still here." That's powerful beyond words.When I was sixteen and newly placed with my fifth foster family, I had this social worker—a lesbian woman in her forties who'd been through the system herself. She never sugar-coated anything, but she'd slip me books with queer characters and text me on holidays. Just knowing she existed made me feel less alien.That's what our mentors do. They don't have magic solutions, but they have survival stories. And sometimes that's exactly what these kids need—proof that survival is possible.JT: You talk openly about mental health being central to your work. Why is that especially important for LGBTQ+ youth?Lighthouse was never about having the answers. It was about creating what I needed when I was younger—a place where you could show up messy, confused, hurting, and still be met with love. I didn’t build it because I was healed. I built it because I wasn’t—and I knew I wasn’t the only one.”
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Joseph Tito
Identity & Culture
Fashion: The Art of Self-Expression
Fashion isn’t just about clothes—it’s a statement, a reflection of who we are, and a way to connect with the world around us. Every outfit tells a story, whether bold and daring or understated and classic, and fashion allows us to communicate without saying a word. It’s a form of self-expression that evolves with us, adapting to our experiences, emotions, and aspirations.And while trends come and go, the essence of fashion—self-expression—remains timeless. It’s not just about following the latest styles; it’s about embracing what makes you feel confident and authentic. The beauty of fashion lies in its ability to transform us, whether it’s the power suit that makes you feel invincible or the cozy sweater that wraps you in comfort after a long day.In recent years, fashion has embraced a much-needed evolution. Sustainability and inclusivity have taken center stage, redefining what it means to be stylish. Designers are challenging outdated norms, creating pieces that celebrate individuality and cater to all body types, cultures, and identities. Fashion is also becoming a force for change, with brands prioritizing eco-friendly materials, reducing waste, and promoting fair labor practices.As we step into Spring 2025, fashion continues to push boundaries, blending timeless elegance with modern innovation. It’s a season of bold choices, playful experimentation, and a celebration of individuality. Here are the Top 10 Fashion Trends for Spring 2025 that will have you feeling confident, empowered, and on-trend:Top 10 Spring 2025 Fashion TrendsCandy-Colored HuesSoft pastels like butter yellow, pistachio green, and icy blue dominate the palette, adding a playful and fresh vibe to wardrobes. These shades are evident in pieces like the Alice + Olivia Adley Sleeveless Dress and Stuart Weitzman Nudist 50 Wrap Sandals.'70s Bohemian RevivalThe boho aesthetic returns with billowing blouses, ethereal maxi dresses, and suede accessories. Incorporating items like the Alice + Olivia Millie Tweed Jacket offers a subtle nod to this free-spirited style.'60s GlamStreamlined miniskirts, longline vests, and bubble-hem silhouettes make a comeback, channeling the mod elegance of the 1960s. Key pieces include the Veronica Beard Lois Vest and AQUA Strapless Midi Bubble Dress.Denim-on-DenimDouble denim remains a strong trend, with items like the Cinq à Sept Khloe Denim Blazer and Rag & Bone Dre Low-Rise Cuffed Baggy Jeans leading the way. This versatile look can be dressed up or down for various occasions.Sheer and Transparent FabricsAiry materials like organza are prevalent, offering delicate, see-through layers that add depth and intrigue to outfits. Designers have incorporated these fabrics into blouses, dresses, and skirts, balancing transparency with wearability.Bold FloralsFloral patterns take center stage, with exaggerated silhouettes and vibrant motifs. This season's floral pieces are both groundbreaking and quintessentially spring.Lingerie-Inspired PiecesDelicate lace and corsetry elements transition from intimate wear to outerwear. Camisoles, slip dresses, and structured corset tops add a romantic and feminine touch to everyday ensembles.Oversized BlazersOversized blazers offer a modern take on power dressing, providing a chic and commanding presence. Labels like Loewe and Victoria Beckham showcase fluid tailoring that balances structure with ease.Track JacketsAthleisure continues to influence high fashion, with track jackets emerging as versatile staples. Brands like Prada and Ralph Lauren pair them with unexpected items, elevating the sporty aesthetic.Bohemian AccessoriesComplementing the '70s revival, accessories like studded bags and slouchy boots enhance the bohemian vibe, adding a luxurious yet free-spirited touch to outfits.
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Joseph Tito
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Winning Her Way: How Melissa Grelo Redefines Success
THE NOTE WAITING IN HER HOTEL ROOMMelissa Grelo was on the brink of one of the boldest moves of her career - a wellness retreat built on her Aging Powerfully platform, the passion project she’s nurtured alongside running a podcast, parenting an 11-year-old, and hosting The Social, Canada’s most-watched daytime talk show. Her daughter, Marquesa, had tucked a note into her bag with strict instructions: Don’t open until you get there.Alone in her hotel room, minutes before leading a room full of women who’d come to learn from her and the group of experts she had curated, Melissa finally opened it. On the first page, in her daughter’s unmistakably confident handwriting:I am so proud of you.“It was a very long letter,” Melissa laughs now. “She’s a very prolific writer. Her vocabulary is fabulous.”But the message was simple: Go. Do this. I’m good. I’m cheering for you.This is what it looks like when a woman builds a life that supports her joy - and raises a daughter who sees and celebrates it.THE GAME IS RIGGED. SHE PLAYS IT ANYWAY.Let’s get something straight: Melissa Grelo hasn’t come undone. She’s building a life, a career, and a rhythm that reflect her strengths, not society’s expectations. What she has done is thrive in an industry where women, especially those on camera, still face extra layers of scrutiny: age, appearance, composure, perfection. Viewers often expect media personalities to be flawless, polished, and ever-present, even when their lives are evolving behind the scenes.And still, Melissa moves forward with clarity and confidence.When The Social finally premiered, it wasn’t just another show for her. It was something she had dreamed up, pitched, and championed for years. So even though she was only 11 weeks postpartum, she chose to be there - excited, grateful, and fully aware of the significance of stepping into a project she had helped bring to life.“I went back to work really fast after I had her,” she says calmly. Not apologizing. Not justifying. Simply acknowledging that the moment mattered to her. She wanted to show up for something she had helped build.Men call this dedication. Women are often told it’s “balance.” But the truth is simpler: Melissa followed her ambition and trusted herself.WHEN HER BODY HIT PAUSE, SHE HIT RESETA year and a half after Marquesa was born, Melissa was hosting Your Morning and The Social. Early mornings, long days, big interviews, and two live shows that demanded focus and energy. Her career was expanding quickly, and she was embracing every opportunity that came with it. Mid-flight to Calgary, her body signaled it was time to calibrate - dizziness, racing heart, the kind of symptoms that demand attention. Doctors checked her vitals: all perfect.The lesson wasn’t “slow down,” it was “support yourself.”She did exactly that. Therapy. A later call time. And a more intentional approach to her already full life.“I’m very bad at resting,” she admits with a smile. “I’ve always been foot-to-the-floor.”But instead of pushing harder, she adjusted smarter. She didn’t crumble; she evolved.THE MATH OF MODERN PARENTHOODMelissa had Marquesa at 36, and like many parents who have children later in life, she occasionally does the quiet calculations – how old she’ll be at major milestones, how life stages might line up. “Always, always,” she says. “Everybody does the math.”But here's what the math doesn't consider: wisdom. Experience. A fully formed self."What we feel like we might be behind in or losing in age, we've gained in wisdom," she says. "We're bringing a whole different self to parenting."Her daughter gets the version of Melissa who knows who she is. Who lived a full life first. Who built a career and collected stories and mistakes and victories before motherhood.This Melissa doesn't crumble when the culture whispers that she's "aging out." She launches a podcast called Aging Powerfully and fills a retreat with women who want what she's modeling: strength without shame."I'm going to be the youngest version of my age at every step of the way."CHOOSING A FAMILY PLAN THAT FITS THEIR LIFEAfter four years of fertility treatment and two clinics, Melissa conceived naturally the very summer The Social was greenlit.Later, when she and her husband Ryan discussed having a second child, they communicated honestly and without pressure.“I’m not slowing down,” she told him. “If we have another, lead caregiving will fall on you.”They talked it through. They both had ambitions. They chose one child. A thoughtful, mutual decision.No guilt. No external expectations. Just a family designing a life that makes sense for them.“I’m very proud of how I’ve navigated the challenges,” she says, recognizing her own growth and the strength in choosing intentionally.RAISING A DAUGHTER WHO KNOWS SHE BELONGSPeople often ask ambitious mothers how they teach their daughters that they can “have it all,” but Melissa reframes the question. For her, the focus is helping her daughter understand that when challenges arise, the issue isn’t her, it’s the world she’s moving through.The approach in their household is simple and open. “There are no secrets in our family,” she says. “Just living life.”Marquesa knows the real stories behind Melissa’s journey - the fertility challenges, the anxiety attack, and the truth of what ambition can cost and give. She also sees something her mother developed later in life: strong boundaries.“She has boundaries very clear in a way I didn’t figure out until my mid or late 30s,” Melissa says. “When my daughter sees me pushing myself too hard because I don’t have good boundaries, she already does.”Their connection is built in everyday moments. At bedtime, Melissa asks: “What makes you feel loved?” and “What moments matter most?” And the answers are always the same - braiding her hair, cuddling on the couch, the rituals that make her feel safe and seen.It’s presence over perfection. Consistency over performance. Love woven into the ordinary parts of life.THE COSTUME AND THE TRUTHEvery morning, Melissa puts on the polished on-air version of herself. Every night, she settles into sweatpants on the couch.“This is who I am,” she tells her daughter. “Work-Mommy is a costume.”Marquesa prefers the no-makeup version.Melissa even built a clothing line - MARQ, named after her daughter, because she wanted kids to feel free before the world labels them.“I’m not throwing gender expectations on a child who still has placenta on her,” she jokes.Their house uses RuPaul’s Drag Race and Love Island as jumping-off points for conversations about character and confidence.“What’s more important than being pretty?” Melissa asks.Marquesa never hesitates: Being smart. Being kind.CHOOSING A FAMILY PLAN THAT FITS THEIR LIFEAfter four years of fertility treatment and two clinics, Melissa conceived naturally the very summer The Social was greenlit.Later, when she and her husband Ryan discussed having a second child, they communicated honestly and without pressure.“I’m not slowing down,” she told him. “If we have another, lead caregiving will fall on you.”They talked it through. They both had ambitions. They chose one child. A thoughtful, mutual decision.No guilt. No external expectations. Just a family designing a life that makes sense for them.“I’m very proud of how I’ve navigated the challenges,” she says, recognizing her own growth and the strength in choosing intentionally.RAISING A DAUGHTER WHO KNOWS SHE BELONGSPeople often ask ambitious mothers how they teach their daughters that they can “have it all,” but Melissa reframes the question. For her, the focus is helping her daughter understand that when challenges arise, the issue isn’t her, it’s the world she’s moving through.The approach in their household is simple and open. “There are no secrets in our family,” she says. “Just living life.”Marquesa knows the real stories behind Melissa’s journey - the fertility challenges, the anxiety attack, and the truth of what ambition can cost and give. She also sees something her mother developed later in life: strong boundaries.“She has boundaries very clear in a way I didn’t figure out until my mid or late 30s,” Melissa says. “When my daughter sees me pushing myself too hard because I don’t have good boundaries, she already does.”Their connection is built in everyday moments. At bedtime, Melissa asks: “What makes you feel loved?” and “What moments matter most?” And the answers are always the same - braiding her hair, cuddling on the couch, the rituals that make her feel safe and seen.It’s presence over perfection. Consistency over performance. Love woven into the ordinary parts of life.THE COSTUME AND THE TRUTHEvery morning, Melissa puts on the polished on-air version of herself. Every night, she settles into sweatpants on the couch.“This is who I am,” she tells her daughter. “Work-Mommy is a costume.”Marquesa prefers the no-makeup version.Melissa even built a clothing line - MARQ, named after her daughter, because she wanted kids to feel free before the world labels them.“I’m not throwing gender expectations on a child who still has placenta on her,” she jokes.Their house uses RuPaul’s Drag Race and Love Island as jumping-off points for conversations about character and confidence.“What’s more important than being pretty?” Melissa asks.Marquesa never hesitates: Being smart. Being kind.WINNING LOOKS DIFFERENT THAN THEY TOLD USOur interview took place on Melissa’s train ride home, a quiet moment in her busy day. As the train pulls into the station, Melissa gathers her things. Ryan is on pickup duty. Tomorrow she’ll do it all again, the work she loves, the routines she cherishes, a life she’s built intentionally.Tonight, she’ll braid Marquesa’s hair. She’ll ask the questions that matter. She’ll settle into the couch as her real self.The version that is fully present.The version that embraces every part of her life with intention.The version showing her daughter what’s possible when you follow your own path.And someday, when another letter comes, it won’t say I miss you.It will say:I see you. And I’m proud.
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Joseph Tito
Spotlight
The Fire That Forged Her: The Unbreakable Power of Leslie Al-Jishi
I’ve known Leslie Al-Jishi long enough to say this with absolute certainty — she doesn’t just survive things. She transforms them.We met years ago in Bahrain, long before hashtags and hero narratives made resilience fashionable. Back then, the world was shifting under our feet. Women were finally being allowed to drive, and the Gulf was pulsing with a quiet revolution — change moving in whispers, not shouts.Leslie was already ahead of it. She wasn’t waiting for permission; she was building her own road.We built one of the first performing arts schools in Bahrain together — something that sounds simple now, but at the time felt radical. It wasn’t just about music or movement. It was about freedom. About giving young people — especially girls — a place to be seen, to move, to speak without fear.Leslie understood that before anyone else. While most people saw risk, she saw necessity. She was — and still is — the kind of woman who walks straight into resistance and says, “Fine. Watch me.”The Weight of LegacyLeslie comes from a family whose name carries weight. The Al-Jishi legacy runs through hospitals, medical fields, generations of service and innovation. But don’t mistake inheritance for ease.Leslie didn’t sit back and coast on family prestige. She expanded it. Reimagined it. Made it hers. In a landscape that still measures women by how quietly they move, she made sure her footsteps echoed.Her power isn’t loud — it’s disciplined. It’s the kind that doesn’t need to announce itself because it’s already in motion. The kind that sits at a boardroom table and changes the entire temperature of the room with one sentence.When the World StoppedAnd then — the unthinkable.Her son, Baddar, passed away.Even now, writing that sentence feels impossible. Because as a father, I can’t even begin to comprehend it. I don’t want to.I was there for her then — at least I thought I was. I showed up, I tried to comfort, I tried to hold space. But I realize now, I didn’t truly understand. Not until I became a parent myself.Back then, I saw the grief from the outside — the strength, the composure, the way she held everything together when her entire world was breaking.Now, I understand that you don’t carry that kind of pain — it becomes part of you. It never leaves. It shapes every breath, every choice, every silence.Leslie didn’t “move on.” She learned to move with it.And that’s where her power comes from — not from grace or endurance, but from the sheer will to keep showing up in a world that took everything from her and still demanded more.There’s strength you perform for others — and then there’s the kind that lives in your bones. Leslie’s is the latter.The RebirthOut of that darkness, she rebuilt. Not just herself, but the lives and futures around her.Today, Leslie Al-Jishi is a woman who can walk into any room — in Riyadh, in London, in Marbella — and command it without saying a word. There’s something magnetic about her energy: calm, assured, unflinching.She’s evolved from a regional powerhouse into a global force — a connector, a creator, a quiet architect of progress.You don’t see her name splashed across headlines or trending hashtags — because she’s too busy doing the work. The kind of work that outlives applause.What Power Really Looks LikeWhen people talk about “strong women,” they often picture loudness — defiance, bravado, Instagram quotes in gold cursive. Leslie’s power doesn’t look like that. It’s quieter. More dangerous. It’s the kind that doesn’t ask to be seen — but once you do see it, you can’t look away.She is, quite simply, a woman who will stop at nothing for what she believes in. Whether it’s culture, art, education, healthcare, or justice — she doesn’t just join the cause; she becomes the pulse of it.And through it all, she remains deeply human. Warm. Grounded. The kind of woman who will hold your hand in silence because she knows words aren’t enough.Leslie Al-Jishi doesn’t live in the past, but she carries it with her — like a compass. Every choice she makes honors the boy she lost, the man she’s raising (yes, Yousif — Amm Joseph is talking about you!), the women who came before her, and the countless ones who’ll come after.She is proof that grief can be both an anchor and a set of wings.I’ve seen powerful people fall apart over far less. But Leslie — she rose, again and again, until the ashes became her armor.And maybe that’s the secret: she never set out to inspire anyone. She just refused to stop moving.From Saudi roots to Bahraini milestones to Marbella’s sun-soaked coastlines, Leslie Al-Jishi remains what she’s always been — unstoppable, unshakable, and utterly unforgettable.This is Leslie Al-Jishi: the fire that forged itself.
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Joseph Tito
Identity & Culture
THE DIVORCE THAT BROKE THE INTERNET
How Sheikha Mahra Al Maktoum Turned Her Broken Marriage Into a Masterclass in Modern PowerThe Instagram post lasted exactly 47 minutes before going viral worldwide."Dear Husband," Sheikha Mahra Al Maktoum typed on July 16, 2024, "As you are occupied with other companions, I hereby declare our divorce. I divorce you, I divorce you, and I divorce you. Take care. Your ex-wife."In less than 50 words, the daughter of Dubai's ruler hadn't just ended her marriage—she'd detonated a centuries-old power dynamic, invoked Islamic law through Instagram, and given roughly 3 billion women worldwide a moment of vicarious satisfaction. The post has since been deleted, but screenshots live forever, especially when they're saved by millions.Here's what most Western media missed: This wasn't just a spurned wife going rogue on social media. This was a calculated power move by someone who understands exactly how modern influence works.The SetupLet's be clear about who we're discussing. Mahra bint Mohammed bin Rashid Al Maktoum isn't your average royal. Half-Greek, half-Emirati, educated between Dubai and London, she's been walking the tightrope between tradition and modernity since birth. At 30, she runs her own perfume line, commands 500K+ Instagram followers, and manages to be both a devoted mother and a social media force—all while navigating one of the world's most scrutinized royal families.Her (now ex) husband, Sheikh Mana bin Mohammed bin Rashid Al Maktoum, is her father's advisor and technically her cousin. Their 2023 wedding was peak Dubai excess—the kind where nobody posts the budget but everyone knows it could fund a small nation's healthcare system.Less than a year later, it was over. Publicly. Brutally. Brilliantly.The Real StorySources in Dubai (who unsurprisingly prefer anonymity) paint a different picture than the "woman scorned" narrative. Mahra had been building her exit strategy for months. The perfume line? Launched weeks before the divorce announcement. The name of her first fragrance? "Divorce." I'm not making this up."She knew exactly what she was doing," says a Dubai-based luxury brand consultant who's worked with several royal family members. "The triple talaq [saying 'I divorce you' three times] is traditionally a male prerogative in Islamic law. For a woman to use it, publicly, on Instagram? That's not emotional. That's revolutionary."The timing was surgical. Posted during peak Middle East social media hours, tagged strategically, worded to go viral. Within hours, she'd transformed from "another Gulf princess" into a global feminist icon—whether she intended to or not.The Business of Being BrokenHere's where it gets interesting. While Western influencers turn divorces into reality shows, Mahra turned hers into a luxury brand. Her perfume "Divorce" sold out in Dubai within 72 hours of launch. The follow-up fragrance? "Moving On." The third? "New Beginnings."This isn't just marketing—it's alchemy. She's taken the most private pain and transformed it into the most public power.The numbers are staggering:Perfume sales up 400% post-divorce announcementInstagram engagement rates that would make Kim Kardashian weepSpeaking requests from every major women's conference globallyA reported book deal worth seven figures"She's done what no royal has done before," explains a Middle Eastern social media analyst. "She's monetized authenticity in a culture that usually pays for silence."The Marbella ConnectionWhich brings us to why Mahra matters to Marbella, beyond the obvious fact that she probably owns property here (the Al Maktoums own property everywhere that matters).Marbella has always been where Middle Eastern royalty comes to be Western—to drink champagne, wear bikinis, and pretend the rules don't apply. But Mahra represents something different: she's bringing Eastern power moves to Western platforms, using Islamic law as a feminist tool, turning tradition into disruption.She's reportedly considering a Marbella boutique for her fragrance line. But more interesting are the whispers about a potential investment in a female-only members club here—a place where divorced women can network, not commiserate. "Think Soho House meets group therapy meets venture capital fund," says someone familiar with the plans.This makes sense. Marbella isn't just where you go to escape your divorce—it's where you go to plan your next act. The Costa del Sol has always been a place for reinvention, where new money can wash away old scandals. For someone like Mahra, it's not a hideaway—it's a laboratory.The Uncomfortable TruthLet's address what everyone's thinking: Is any of this real? Is the divorce final? Does Islamic law even recognize Instagram as a valid platform for religious declarations? Is this all just performance art with a luxury goods tie-in?The answer is: it doesn't matter.What matters is that a 30-year-old woman from one of the world's most patriarchal societies just showed every woman watching that power isn't given—it's taken. And sometimes, it's taken in public, with excellent lighting and a strategic hashtag.Her father, Sheikh Mohammed, hasn't publicly commented. But sources say he's "not entirely displeased" with his daughter's business acumen. After all, Dubai wasn't built on tradition—it was built on ambitious people who understood that controversy, properly managed, is just another word for marketing.What Happens NextThe Marbella boutique, if it happens, won't just sell perfume. Sources suggest it's part of a larger play—a lifestyle brand that speaks to women navigating what she calls "conscious uncoupling with unconscious wealth." Think Gwyneth Paltrow's Goop but with actual money and fewer jade eggs.But here's the real disruption: Mahra is building a business model for modern royal women. No more suffering in silence behind palace walls. No more choosing between tradition and independence. Instead, she's showing that you can honor your heritage while hashtagging your liberation."Every wealthy woman in an unhappy marriage is watching her," says a Marbella-based divorce attorney who's seen a spike in "Mahra-inspired" inquiries. "She's proved you can leave loudly and profit from the noise."The Last WordWhen I reached out to Mahra's team for comment, they sent back a single line: "The Sheikha's fragrances speak for themselves."And maybe that's the point. In a world where every celebrity divorce comes with competing PR narratives and leaked text messages, Mahra Al Maktoum did something radical: she controlled her own story, named her own price, and literally bottled the experience for $250 per ounce.The masculine way to handle divorce? Lawyers, NDAs, and financial settlements. The feminine way? Turn your pain into a product, your breakdown into a breakthrough, and your ex-husband into a marketing strategy.She's not coming to Marbella to hide. She's coming to expand.And honestly? The Costa del Sol could use more women who understand that sometimes the best revenge isn't living well—it's living publicly, profitably, and completely on your own terms.Welcome to Marbella, Sheikha. You're going to fit right in.Joseph Tito is the Editor-in-Chief of Between the Covers and writes the magazine’s unapologetically unhinged “Bitch Fest” advice column. He is currently researching the legal validity of Instagram divorces under Islamic law and accepting early applications for his upcoming divorce-themed fragrance line, tentatively titled “Irreconcilable Differences.”
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Joseph Tito
Bitch Fest
Bitch Fest: Marbella Edition
You write it. I bitch it. We heal (sort of).🪩 Welcome to Bitch FestWelcome to Bitch Fest — Marbella’s new emotional support group disguised as a column.Think of me as your slightly judgmental best friend who always tells you the truth, even when you didn’t ask for it.Here’s how this works: you write in with your chaos, your cringe, your “did that really just happen?” moments — and I respond with brutal honesty, affection, and just enough sarcasm to sting.This isn’t therapy. It’s survival with better lighting.Because if there’s one thing we’ve learned, it’s that even under the Spanish sun, the mess still shows up — it just tans better here.💌 Letter 1: “Golden Mile Ghosted”Dear Bitch Fest,I met a man at Nobu. Gorgeous. Divorced. Smelled like Tom Ford and said he splits his time between Marbella and London.He sends voice notes that sound like poetry, but every time he’s “back in London,” I don’t hear from him for a week.He told me he’s not ready for labels, but he texts me every night at 11:11.Is this a sign from the universe or a sign I’m an idiot?— Manifesting but MadDear Manifesting,Oh honey. Oh no. Oh absolutely fucking not.“Splits his time between London and Marbella” is code for “has a wife in Kensington and a coke dealer in Puerto Banús.” This man isn’t mysterious — he’s married. Or worse, emotionally constipated with a frequent flyer fetish.Let me paint you a picture: right now, while you’re checking your phone for the fifteenth time today, analyzing that 11:11 timestamp like it’s the Da Vinci Code of dick, he’s in London having missionary sex with someone named Philippa who owns horses and says “darling” like it’s a tax deduction.You know what 11:11 really means? It means he’s consistent about exactly one thing: breadcrumbing you at bedtime. That’s not divine timing — that’s a man with a Google Calendar reminder that says “text the Marbella one.”I’ve been you. I dated a man whose career was “travel.” Cool—he toured the world disappointing gay men. I spent €400 on an outfit for a dinner he canceled by WhatsApp voice note while I was already sitting there.Delete him. Block him. Sage your phone. Burn some palo santo. Hell, burn his memory. Because baby, the only thing worse than a man who won’t commit is a woman who keeps waiting for him to.The universe isn’t testing you. It’s begging you to raise your standards above “texts back sometimes.”💌 Letter 2: “Puente Romano Parenting”Dear Bitch Fest,We came to Marbella for a “family reset.” The kids are sunburned, my husband’s emailing from the cabana, and I’m hiding in the bathroom Googling “can Aperol count as hydration?”The mom at the next table is doing yoga in a bikini and I haven’t meditated since 2014.Am I failing motherhood?— Namaste-ishDear Namaste-ish,First of all, yes — Aperol is hydrating if you believe hard enough. It’s called manifesting electrolytes.Now, let’s talk about bikini yoga mom. You think she’s enlightened? She’s not. She’s disassociating. That’s not inner peace — that’s Xanax and a prayer. I guarantee she went to her car afterward and screamed into a beach towel.Here’s the truth: every “family reset” in Marbella is just rich people discovering you can’t outrun dysfunction — it just gets a tan.Your husband’s not “working remotely,” he’s remotely present.Your kids aren’t feral, they’re just honest. They know this whole charade is bullshit, and they’re acting accordingly.I watched a woman at Trocadero Beach Club yesterday FaceTime her therapist while her kids destroyed €200 worth of calamari. She kept saying, “I’m practicing presence,” while her son practiced violence on his sister. We made eye contact. We both knew.Here’s your permission slip: you don’t need to meditate. You don’t need to journal. You don’t need to pretend that family time in paradise isn’t sometimes a gold-plated nightmare.You need that Aperol, a kids’ club that doesn’t ask questions, and the number of that yoga teacher who really just lets everyone cry for an hour.You’re not failing motherhood. You’re surviving it — with a better view. The only difference between a “good” mother and a “bad” one in Marbella is the SPF level and whether you packed iPads.Pour another drink. The vitamin D will balance it out. That’s science. Probably.💌 Letter 3: “Group Chat Hell”Dear Bitch Fest,Every Marbella WhatsApp group is like emotional CrossFit.If I don’t respond within five minutes, someone adds a passive-aggressive emoji.I left the group once and got added back ten minutes later.Is there any escape?— Emoji OverloadDear Emoji,Oh God, you joined one of those groups. Let me guess the cast:Sharon, who sells “healing crystals” (it’s meth energy, not amethyst).Jennifer, who posts daily affirmations at 6 a.m. (cocaine or insomnia — place your bets).Maria, who “doesn’t do drama” but screenshots everything.That one woman who replies to every message with a voice note longer than a podcast episode.The admin who has “Founder / CEO / Spiritual Warrior” in her bio but actually just day-drinks and does damage control.These groups are where optimism goes to die. It starts with “sisterhood” and ends with someone crying about a borrowed Hermès bag that came back “with energy.”I was in one. Once. Someone asked if anyone knew a good therapist. Sixteen women recommended sound baths, and one tried to sell her a course on “womb wisdom.” I said, “maybe try an actual licensed psychologist,” and got removed for “negative vibrations.”You can’t leave gracefully. You can’t leave at all. These groups are the Hotel California of estrogen — you can check out, but your notifications never leave.Here’s what you do:Mute for 365 days.Change your profile pic to something spiritual (sunset, yoga pose, glass of wine).Never respond, but occasionally heart-react to maintain proof of life.If anyone asks where you’ve been, say “soul-searching.” They’ll assume rehab or Ibiza — both are more respectable than admitting you just couldn’t take another sunrise quote from Eckhart Tolle.And start your own group: “Women Who Understand That Sometimes Life Is Just Shit And That’s Okay.”Entry requirements: at least one public crying incident, no vision boards, and wine counts as a food group.💋 The Ugly Beautiful TruthWe all came to Marbella for the same reason — we thought geographical distance from our problems meant emotional distance too.Surprise, bitch: your issues got upgraded to first class and followed you here.After three years, two divorces (not mine, but I was heavily involved), and approximately €47,000 in “healing experiences,” I’ve realized something:We’re all just damaged goods in better lighting.And that’s perfect.Because the women who admit they’re a mess in Marbella? Those are my people.The ones crying in their G-Wagons at school pickup.The ones who brought their therapist’s number to brunch “just in case.”The ones who moved here for a fresh start and ended up fresh out of fucks to give.You know why I started this column?Because I got tired of pretending my reinvention was working.It wasn’t. Still isn’t.I’m typing this in yesterday’s dress at 3 p.m., slightly buzzed, highly caffeinated, and my biggest achievement today was not texting my ex back.Tomorrow, I’ll probably do better. Or worse.Either way, I’ll do it in paradise — with excellent bone structure and questionable judgment.That’s the Marbella way.💌 Send Me Your DamageGot a confession? A crisis? Caught your husband texting someone saved as “Gym”?Don’t text your ex. Don’t drunk-DM. Send me your damage.📧 bitchfest@btcmag.comSubject line: “Help Me, Joseph,” “Am I The Asshole?” — or just keyboard smash. I’ll understand.The Joseph Tito Guarantee:I’ll be meaner than your inner critic but kinder than your mother-in-law.I’ll tell you the truth you need to hear, wrapped in the joke you need to laugh at.And I will never — ever — suggest meditation as a solution.Because babe, if deep breathing actually fixed things, we’d all be enlightened by now instead of entitled.
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Joseph Tito
Spotlight
The Woman Who Wouldn't Giggle: Elvira Caria's Four Decades of Refusing to Play Nice
After 40 years of fighting for her voice in broadcasting, Elvira Caria lost the only title that ever mattered to her: Matthew's momThere's a street named after Elvira Caria in Vaughan. She didn't pay for it, she'll tell you right away. Awards line her walls—forty years' worth of recognition for lifting up her community, for being the voice that shows up at every damn event with her phone and her genuine give-a-shit attitude.But when I meet her at The Roost Café on a grey autumn morning, she says the work that matters most is the stuff nobody sees."My real satisfactory work?" She pauses, weighing whether to trust me with this. "I help young girls escape human trafficking. You can't put that on social media."This is Elvira Caria: the woman who refused to be radio's giggling fool, who chose late-night shifts over morning show glory so she could be home when her son's school bus arrived, who now sits across from me one year after burying that same son at 25."I wouldn't be here if it wasn't for the community," she says. And she means it literally.The Day She Found Her Voice by Refusing to Use ItPicture this: a young Elvira in a radio control room, told by a well-known male broadcaster that her job was to giggle. To be the pretty voice that makes him sound better."I don't do giggling fool," she says now, decades later, the Southern Italian fire still in her voice.She stopped showing up to giggle on cue. Got fired on a Friday. Instead of folding, she handed her termination papers back: "If you can find a better reason to fire me on Monday, I'll accept it. If not, I'm coming back."Monday passed. So did Tuesday. By Friday she expected another dismissal—everyone fires on Fridays. But a month later the man who told her to giggle was gone. Elvira stayed for six more years."I found my value voice," she says. "I wasn't going to bend for someone else's value."The Choice That Looked Like SacrificeAt the height of her career, being groomed for a morning show at one of Canada's top stations, Elvira walked away."Nobody quits Rock Radio," her boss said."Well, I just did."She took the shifts nobody wanted—weekends, evenings, 3 a.m. hits at Yonge and Dundas. People called it sacrifice. She calls it choice."While others were sleeping, I was talking to the people we now call homeless. Nobody wakes up saying, I want to be on the streets when I grow up. Nobody."The choice meant she was home when Matthew got off the school bus. It meant knowing his friends, his teachers, his world. For 25 years, it meant being Matthew's mom first, Elvira Caria second.The Irony That Breaks YouHere's the part that will gut you: she spent decades insisting she was more than just Matthew's mom. She was a broadcaster, a journalist, a voice for the voiceless. She built a career on authenticity when authenticity could get you fired.And then, in 2024, Matthew was gone— twenty-five years old and on the edge of everything. Suddenly all Elvira wanted was the one title that had been stripped away."Matthew never saw me as a radio announcer," she says, voice steady, eyes somewhere else. "He saw me as his mom. And that's all he cared about."The Part Where She Stops Pretending Everything's FineLet's talk about not getting out of bed. About hygiene being optional when grief is bone-deep.Her sister-in-law was the one who finally broke through: "They need you. My boys need you! You're more than their Zia." So Elvira took small steps. A shower became a victory. Coloring her hair, an achievement. Looking in the mirror and trying to recognize whoever stared back."I'm mad at God," she admits. "People say everything happens for a reason. What's the fucking reason? Why take away a kid who never did anything wrong, who was just starting his life?"The Community That Saved Her When Awards Couldn'tTen people can tell Elvira she's wonderful. One critic cuts deeper at 3 a.m. That's human.She'll admit some awards now feel hollow—accolades in a season of loss. The recognition doesn't heal the absence.But the community? They showed up in ways that mattered. The woman from her coffee shop who just sat with her, no words needed. The neighbor who mowed her lawn without asking, week after week, because grief means grass keeps growing when you can't. The radio colleague who took her shifts without question when she couldn't form words, let alone broadcast them. The mothers from Matthew's old baseball team who still text her his jersey number on game days. Or the Baseball league who named an umpire award after him."Someone left groceries at my door every Tuesday for three months," she tells me. "Never found out who. Just bags of real food—not casseroles, not sympathy lasagna—but the exact brands I buy. Someone paid attention to what was in my cart before. That's community."The vigils, the legacy fund in Matthew's name, the quiet notes slipped under her door—that's what kept her standing."The real work happens in shadows," she says. "Helping a girl escape trafficking. Watching her graduate two years later. That's when I think—okay, maybe I've done enough to meet my maker."The Wisdom of Not Giving a FuckAfter decades of answering every critic, she's learned the most radical act: indifference."You don't have to react to everything," she says. "Not everything requires an explanation."She still hates small talk, still loves a stage. The influencer economy baffles her. "People think having a phone makes them reporters. Broadcasting is an accreditation—you're trained how to interview, how to fact-check, how to smell bullshit."Who She Is NowA year later, she's still figuring it out. Still showing up at community events with her phone and her give-a-shit intact. Still ironing her underwear (yes, really) because some control is better than none.The street sign with her name stands in Vaughan, but she lives in the in-between—between public recognition and private purpose, between the veteran broadcaster and the grieving mother."The evil grows faster than good," she says. "We're always catching up."So she keeps going. Not because grief eases—it doesn't. Not because she's found a new purpose—she hasn't. But because stopping isn't her style.She refused to giggle back then. She refuses to perform now. And maybe that's the lesson: sometimes the most powerful thing you can do is keep showing up, even when you don't know why you're still here. Especially then.Elvira Caria continues to support multiple charities across the GTA while maintaining her broadcasting career. She's still mad at God, still helping girls escape trafficking, still learning who she is now. She does not need your sympathy. She might need you to know that grief has no timeline, authenticity isn't content, and sometimes the bravest thing you can do is refuse to play along.
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Joseph Tito
Spotlight
The Dentist Is Between My Legs: Bif Naked on Heart Surgery, Picking Felons, and Why She's Just Getting Started at 54
The punk icon who found euphoria on an operating table talks death doulas, divorce gratitude, and why her failing marriage hurt more than cancerBy Joseph Tito | Between the Covers | November 2025Bif Naked is cutting up her dog's food with her hands when I ask how it feels to be a legend.She looks at me like I've asked her to explain quantum physics in Swahili. "I'm a dog mom," she says, and goes back to mincing. Her fingers work methodically, tearing dog food into smaller and smaller pieces. The woman who once spit on audiences from punk stages now performs this daily ritual of care with the focus of a surgeon.This is going to be that kind of conversation—where every expectation gets shredded like dog food.The Operating Table High"So I was wide awake," Bif says, settling into her Toronto condo couch, miniskirt riding up as she crosses her legs. She's talking about her heart surgery like most people describe a spa day. "They thread a little camera through your leg all the way to your heart, and they can see what they're doing on the screen."She leans forward, eyes bright with the memory. "The surgeon is wearing a pineapple hat—like, the surgical hat had cartoon pineapples on it. And they're listening to William Shatner singing. Have you ever heard him sing? Who knew this album existed?"This is a woman describing having a hole in her heart closed with what she calls "a little umbrella device," conscious the entire time, finding it all hilarious and profound in equal measure. Her voice gets almost reverent: "I thought, this is the coolest shit ever. How is it possible that in this lifetime, I can listen to these people talking about their day jobs, which is fixing my stupid heart?"Then comes the moment that gives this article its title. They need to inject Novocaine into her leg to make the incision. You know that heavy, aching feeling from the dentist?"I said, 'Oh! It feels like the dentist is between my legs.'"She covers her face, laughing and mortified simultaneously. "The nurses started howling. This patient is on the table, making what they think is dirty talk. But I just meant—" she gestures helplessly "—the Novocaine!"Her whole body shakes with laughter now. "Of course that's what I said. How fucking funny is that?"God's Rejection and Other Love Stories"God is not going to choose me for whatever reason," she says, the laughter suddenly gone. "I'm going to stay here on earth and have to deal with it. Because I'm not learning my lessons yet."The shift in energy is palpable. She's talking about her pattern now—the violent men, the criminal boyfriends, the marriages to liars. "If there's a wrong guy, send him my way. If he is a criminal, if he's a violent felon, send him my way. I'm going to fall in love with that idiot every time."She delivers this like a weather report, no self-pity, just fact. When I ask why she got divorced, she doesn't hesitate: "Because I married liars." Then, catching herself: "But I have to look at what my fault was."She discovered what healthy relationships actually look like at 54. Fifty-four. After two failed marriages, cancer, and enough medical trauma to kill most people twice. "I had no idea relationships were supposed to be healthy," she says, and the wonderment in her voice is genuine. "I think that I've always been chasing true love. I'll never give up on love, ever."The contradiction sits there between us: the woman who picks monsters still believes in fairy tales."My emotional crisis of my failing marriage trumped my cancer experience."She says this so matter-of-factly that I almost miss it. The dissolution of her marriage during treatment hurt more than the actual cancer. Her hands, which had been still, start moving again—straightening pillows, adjusting her jewelry."Which was good," she adds quickly, "because it forced me to throw myself into volunteering."The man who married a rock star got a cancer patient instead, couldn't handle the plot twist. Now she trains as a death doula, works in palliative care. "If I was told tomorrow that I could not be a performer anymore," she says, her voice steady, "I think I would go into hospital administration."The Stage She Was Always SeekingBefore Bif Naked existed, there was a theatre kid at the University of Winnipeg who'd taken ballet for 13 years. She demonstrates a position, her leg extending with muscle memory from decades ago. "I wanted to be an actress and a ballet star."Then a drummer named Brett needed a singer. Suddenly she had a vehicle for all her poetry, all her rage about El Salvador and Indigenous treatment and misogyny. Whether it was ballet slippers or combat boots, she was always searching for a stage—just took her a while to find the right one."I got to stand up there. I got to spit on the audience. I got to say, fuck you, you can't objectify me." Her voice rises with the memory, that old fire flickering. "I didn't even have to sing very well. And believe me, I could not. I sounded like a dying cat."She pauses, grins. "And I don't mean the band Garbage."They opened for DOA. NoMeansNo. Bad Religion. She dropped out of university, and here's the kicker—"I'm still waiting to go back to school," she laughs, thirty-something years later, like she might actually do it.The same rage that fueled her screaming about El Salvador now targets Doug Ford's Ontario. "I couldn't figure out why I moved here," she says. "Then Ford got elected and I thought, 'Oh. I'm here to use my big mouth.'"The Children She'll Never Have (Or Will She?)When she cuts up that dog food with such maternal precision, I have to ask about kids. Her whole body language shifts—shoulders dropping, a softness creeping in."My ovaries were taken out at 36. So breast cancer didn't just cut up my tit." She says this with the same directness she uses for everything else, but her hand unconsciously moves to her stomach. "I've been in menopause since I was 36 years of age."People ask about adoption—she is, after all, adopted herself. The sarcasm returns, protective: "Oh yeah, let me get right on that. Let me turn around as a divorcee who's working nonstop as a self-employed artist in Canada and get right on the adoption train."But then, unexpectedly: "Now in my mid-50s? Yeah, I suppose I am ready."The possibility hangs there. Not this year. But the door isn't closed.Tina Turner's Miniskirt Ministry"I look to women like Tina Turner," she says, smoothing her miniskirt with deliberate intention. "Tina Turner didn't start playing stadiums till she was in her 50s."At 54, she genuinely believes she's just getting started. The documentary premiering across Canada this month (November 12 in Toronto, November 4 in Vancouver). The album finally released after she shelved it during the George Floyd protests because "the world didn't need a fucking Bif Naked record" during that summer of unrest."The sky is the limit," she says, and means it.When I ask who she's fighting for now, what her voice stands for at 54, she barely breathes before answering."When I was singing 'Tell On You' on my first record, I wasn't the only girl who was sexually assaulted," she says, her voice dropping to something harder, older. "I was the only girl with a microphone."The room goes quiet. Even the dog stops moving.She calls herself "a square" now—no cocaine, no partying. "I can be thoughtful and intelligent. I can try very hard to be a voice for the voiceless."But square doesn't mean silent. She's angrier about politics than ever, advocating for animals, healthcare inequality, LGBTQ+ rights rollbacks."Unfortunately," she says with a grin that's pure punk rock, "I'm still the one holding the mic."What's Next Is What She WantsThey're making a feature film about her life. The documentary's touring. When I ask what's next, she almost defaults to "that's a Peter question"—her manager's domain—then catches herself, takes ownership."We're working on the feature film based on the book."But really, what's next is whatever the fuck she wants. She's earned that.I ask what she'd tell a young girl starting out in music today. She thinks, really thinks, her face cycling through decades of memory."Never take it personally. Never take anything personally, no matter what."Then she says something that makes me stop writing: "There's room for everybody."This from a woman who had to claw for every inch of space. Who quit drinking partly to avoid being "misinterpreted" by men who'd use any excuse to discredit her. Who's been assaulted, dismissed, divorced, nearly killed."Anybody can make music on their computer, anybody can learn piano on YouTube, anybody can upload a song and send it to their nona," she continues, and she means it. "That's actually a gift."As I'm leaving, she's back to cutting up dog food, this ritualistic care that anchors her. I think about what she said about God not choosing her yet, about having to stay here and deal with it.But watching her hands work—the same hands that punched stage divers, that held microphones during cancer treatment, that reached for violent men who couldn't love her back—I realize something.She keeps saying she hasn't learned her lessons. But maybe she has. Maybe the lesson is you can marry liars and still believe in love. You can lose your ovaries at 36 and mother the whole world anyway. You can tell your surgical team the dentist is between your legs and still become a legend.She looks up from the dog bowl, catches me staring."I wasn't the only girl who was sexually assaulted," she says again, quieter this time but somehow louder. "I was the only girl with a microphone."Bif Naked's documentary tours Canada this month. Her album "Champion" is available now. She still wears miniskirts and heels. She's just getting started.
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