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Personal Growth
Personal Growth – Your Journey to Self-Improvement and Fulfillment Personal growth is more than just a buzzword — it’s a lifelong journey of self-discovery, learning, and evolution. It’s about intentionally shaping who you are, striving toward your goals, and building a life filled with meaning and fulfillment. At its core, personal growth is the ongoing process of becoming the best version of yourself while embracing the ups and downs along the way. We all have areas where we want to improve — maybe it’s advancing in a career, building stronger relationships, or finding a deeper sense of inner peace. The beauty of personal growth is that it touches every part of life. It’s not limited to one stage, skill, or milestone. Instead, it’s about choosing to keep moving forward, no matter where you are right now. Setting Goals That Inspire Growth One of the most effective ways to nurture personal growth is by setting clear, achievable goals. Goals give you direction, structure, and motivation. They turn abstract dreams into concrete steps you can follow. These goals can be big or small, long-term or short-term. For some, it might mean learning a new skill or habit. For others, it could mean improving communication, developing emotional intelligence, or becoming more resilient in the face of challenges. The key is to set goals that feel meaningful to you. Personal growth is not about comparison — it’s about defining success in your own terms. Every step forward, no matter how small, brings you closer to the life you envision. Self-Improvement in Daily Life At the heart of personal growth lies self-improvement. It’s not about perfection, but about progress and consistency. Self-improvement can take many forms, such as: Cultivating healthy habits like regular exercise, balanced nutrition, or consistent sleep routines. Seeking new experiences that challenge your perspective and push you outside your comfort zone. Practicing mindfulness and reflection to connect more deeply with yourself and your emotions. Learning continuously through reading, listening, or engaging with mentors and teachers. Small, intentional choices add up over time. By making self-improvement a daily practice, you create steady growth that transforms your confidence, your mindset, and your life. The Benefits of Personal Growth Why does personal growth matter so much? Because it enriches every part of who you are and how you live. When you prioritize growth, you: Strengthen your confidence and self-esteem. Build resilience to face life’s inevitable challenges. Develop adaptability in a constantly changing world. Enhance your relationships through better understanding and empathy. Gain clarity on your values and purpose. Personal growth is not just about personal success — it has a ripple effect. When you grow, you impact those around you. You become a source of inspiration, support, and strength in your community, family, and friendships. Support Along the Journey Sometimes, the journey feels overwhelming. That’s when guidance and support can make all the difference. Personal growth coaching, counseling, or simply connecting with a supportive community can provide fresh perspectives and encouragement. Having someone to help you set goals, track progress, and reflect on challenges can accelerate growth in powerful ways. But remember — the most important commitment is the one you make to yourself. Even without external support, your willingness to keep showing up for your own journey is what makes growth possible. Progress, Not Perfection It’s easy to fall into the trap of striving for perfection, but personal growth isn’t about flawless results. It’s about moving forward one step at a time, learning from your mistakes, and celebrating your small victories. Some days will feel like leaps ahead, and others may feel like stumbles — both are part of the process. The truth is, personal growth never ends. As long as you’re open to learning and evolving, you’ll continue to uncover new layers of strength, wisdom, and possibility within yourself. Final Word Personal growth is a journey that belongs uniquely to you. It’s about becoming more aware, more intentional, and more connected to the life you want to live. By setting meaningful goals, embracing self-improvement, and celebrating progress, you invest in yourself and the world around you. Remember: every effort counts. Every challenge teaches. Every victory, no matter how small, is worth acknowledging. Embrace the journey of personal growth — and discover how it can transform not only your own life, but also the lives of those around you.
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Latest Articles in Personal Growth
Sonia Koren
Personal Growth
Becoming Both: The Fear of Losing Myself to Find the Rest of Me
Sometimes the only way forward is through the unraveling.When I was a little girl, I thought identity was a declared truth — a neat little box you checked once and carried forever. I chose my mother’s.She was everything I wanted to be: an embodiment of resilience. A Russian Jewish immigrant who could, and did, make something out of nothing. I hoped with every fiber of my being to mirror her courage in any way possible.Around my fourth birthday, I ran to the park, magic wand in hand, ready to play princess. Another little girl quickly ruined that dream when she told me I didn’t fit the role because my skin was too dark. And I believed her.All I knew were heroines like Belle and Cinderella — pale and golden. That night, my mom sat me down and played Rodgers and Hammerstein’s Cinderella with Brandy and Whitney Houston. She called it “curly-hair Cinderella.” We watched it hundreds of times. That version taught me something the first one didn’t — that girls like me deserved a crown too.Growing up, my mom made sure I was connected to my Eritrean roots. She took my sister and me to gatherings where the air smelled like berbere and laughter rolled through rooms to the rhythm of Tigrinya music. She learned to cornrow my hair — painfully, lovingly — before I decided I wanted box braids instead. So she learned that too.Still, I felt a distance, like pressing my face against the window of a home that wasn’t fully mine.As a child, I didn’t question it. My mother was my compass, and I followed her unquestioningly.The suburb we lived in prided itself on diversity. My friends and I looked like a walking United Nations poster, or so we liked to say. But somewhere between middle school and high school, that illusion started to crack.It began with jokes — the kind that sliced and disguised themselves as laughter. The first racial slur I ever heard wasn’t whispered; it was shouted across my ninth-grade music class. The laughter that followed made it worse.I laughed too. A beat too late.I laughed until I didn’t recognize the sound.That became my defense — silence and small smiles. It felt safer than exposure. I thought maybe if I leaned into my white side, I’d fit better. It was easier to blend in than to risk visibility.But laughter is a poor disguise. Every chuckle chipped away at something. And soon, the ache of assimilation became a constant hum under my skin.By the time antisemitic jokes started echoing through the hallways, I knew the choreography by heart. Smile. Shrug. Stay quiet.It worked — until it didn’t.In my first week at Queen’s University, a friend encouraged me to join a Black student group. I said no. Then I went home and sat on my dorm bed, trying to understand why.It hit me like a confession I didn’t want to say out loud:I was scared of being perceived as Black.I stared at my reflection — my curls bleached and broken from years of straightening, my Magen David necklace tucked deep in a drawer — and realized how far I’d drifted.I had spent years trying not to lose myself, and somehow that’s exactly what I’d done.The unraveling came slowly. It didn’t look brave. It looked like crying in a dorm mirror, wondering if there was still something left to find.Then came the shift. I studied under a professor who changed everything — a man who made authenticity feel safe. His classroom became a sanctuary where Blackness wasn’t something to shrink from but to stand inside of.Through his courses, through long talks and harder truths, I began piecing together what I had buried. I started wearing protective hairstyles again — not as armor, but as celebration. I took Black Studies classes and stopped pretending to be a guest in my own skin.At the same time, I reconnected with my Jewish community. I joined a campus group that reminded me that faith doesn’t require explanation or apology. That Jewishness and Blackness didn’t cancel each other out — they coexisted. They belonged together in me, as I belonged to both.That old box I’d once ticked as a child couldn’t contain me anymore.“The fear of losing myself was never about loss. It was the fear of finally finding me.”When fear fell away, all that was left was freedom — messy, beautiful, overdue freedom. The kind that doesn’t come from perfection, but from surrender.The girl who once laughed too late stopped performing. She picked up her Magen David again. She wore her curls loud. She prayed and protested, sometimes in the same breath.Because identity isn’t a fixed place — it’s a living thing, constantly reshaping itself as we dare to be seen.“If you hide long enough, you forget how to look for yourself.” “Identity isn’t a label — it’s a conversation between who we were and who we’re becoming.”Today, I am both — my mother’s daughter, my father’s roots, my own voice. I am Russian and Eritrean. Jewish and Black. I am proud of every part of me.The journey wasn’t clean. It wasn’t easy. It was an unraveling — and that’s where the power lived.Sometimes, you have to lose yourself just long enough to meet the version of you that was waiting to be free.
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Christina Ciampaglia
Personal Growth
We Never Made It to the Beach
I used to think happiness was bullshit. Not the concept—I believed it existed out there somewhere, for other people. I just didn't think it was something you could actually hold onto. In my early twenties, I disappeared into a relationship like it was a full-time job. My family got the voicemail version of me. My friends got rain checks. I was present, technically, but not really there—you know that thing where you're nodding along in a conversation but your brain is doing that staticky TV screen thing? Yeah. That.When I finally got tired of performing happiness instead of feeling it, I did the bravest thing I'd ever done: I left. Just walked out of a long-term relationship and into the terrifying, liberating unknown. I felt like I could do anything. Like I'd finally figured out the cheat code to my own life.And then I became a mom.Look, they warn you that having kids changes everything. What they don't tell you is that "everything" means your entire concept of who you are gets shredded and reassembled while you're running on 90 minutes of sleep and someone else's bodily fluids are on your shirt. But I was still that person who walked away, right? Still strong. Still capable.Then my son was diagnosed with leukemia. He was two years old.That's when I learned there's a version of yourself you don't meet until your toddler needs chemotherapy. A version who can hold a vomit bucket with one hand while Googling "port infection symptoms" with the other. Who memorizes which nurses are gentle with the needle sticks. Who develops a sixth sense for when the fever is just a fever and when it's time to drive straight to the ER, do not pass go, do not wait for morning.We made it through. He went into remission. I thought we'd survived the worst thing that could happen to us.And then, a few months later, we became "Sick Kids" parents all over again.My daughter—my oldest—had a tumor. 11 centimeters, lodged in her leg muscle. And here's the fun part: to this day, nobody knows what the fuck it is. Not the origin, not the why. Just that it's there, and we're watching it, and living in this permanent state of medical limbo where every scan could change everything.The past five years have been a masterclass in drowning. Not dramatically, not all at once—just that slow, steady kind where you keep your head above water but you're so tired your arms are shaking. You learn words like "myositis" and "immunoglobulin" and "undifferentiated soft tissue mass" and which insurance rep to call when you need to get aggressive. You become fluent in medical jargon you never wanted to know. You develop strong opinions on pediatric oncologists. You can recite medication dosages in your sleep—when you actually sleep, which isn't often.I lost myself again, but this time it felt different. Worse, maybe, because I was supposed to be the strong one. The one who walked away and started over. The one who could handle anything. But how do you handle two kids who've both had the kind of diagnoses that make other parents hug their children a little tighter when they hear about it?I started canceling plans. Then I stopped making them altogether. It was easier to stay in my bubble of worry than to pretend I was fine when someone asked how the kids were doing. Every cough became a crisis. Every fever, a countdown. Every bruise, a reason to hold my breath. I was pulling away from everyone who loved me because being scared alone felt safer than being scared in front of them.My husband—who has made it his life's mission to see me happy even when I can't remember what that feels like—started doing these small things. Planning little moments designed to make me smile. And it was working, sort of. Slowly. Until one day he came to me and said, "I booked us a trip. Just us. No kids. Five years, and we haven't done this."I was terrified. But also? I wanted it. Desperately. I needed a break from being Mom, needed to remember I was also a person, also his wife. So I said yes.We packed. We made the plan: pick up the kids from school, drop them at my parents', head to the airport. That Friday morning, I was drinking coffee and mentally preparing myself for the guilt of leaving, when my phone rang.The tumor. They'd finally agreed to do another scan—after I'd fought for it, because of course I had to fight for it—and now they were calling with results. That 11-centimeter mystery that still has no name, no clear explanation, no roadmap.You know that feeling when you're on a roller coaster and your stomach just… drops? Imagine that, but it doesn't stop. It just keeps dropping.We unpacked the suitcases. Cancelled the flights. Picked up the kids and told them the trip wasn't happening anymore. My daughter's face when we told her—I can still see it. She didn't ask why. She just said "okay" in that small voice kids use when they know something's really wrong.I was scared. Obviously. That's the easy emotion—the one that shows up first and loudest when someone says your daughter has a tumor nobody can explain. But underneath that, I was furious. Why did I have to fight so hard just to get them to do this scan in the first place? Why do I have to scream and stamp my feet for someone to listen? Why does advocating for your kids have to feel like going to war?And then, underneath that: I was just so fucking sad. We were supposed to be on a beach. We were supposed to be eating dinner slowly, having actual conversations that didn't involve medication schedules or doctor's appointments. We were supposed to remember what we were like before we became the crisis-management team.I let myself feel all of it. I cried ugly tears in my husband's arms. I screamed into a pillow. I covered my kids' faces with kisses until they squirmed away, laughing. And somewhere in that mess of emotions, something shifted.We were still home. We caught this before we left the country. The appointments got scheduled because we cancelled the trip. We never got on that plane.I'm not going to say the universe was looking out for us, because honestly? Fuck the universe. The universe let my son get leukemia at two years old and then threw in a mystery tumor for good measure. But I will say this: I was grateful we were there. Present. Together. Not getting a panicked phone call from 30,000 feet up with no way to get back fast enough.I'm still learning how to do this—how to live with the fear without letting it swallow me whole. How to make plans without waiting for the other shoe to drop. Some days I'm better at it than others. Some days I still want to cancel everything and hide in the safety of my worry.But here's what I know now: My strength isn't the adrenaline-fueled "I can do anything" energy I had in my twenties. It's not about conquering or being unstoppable. It's quieter than that. It's the ability to take the next breath even when you don't want to. To show up even when showing up feels impossible. To find something beautiful in the wreckage—not because it makes the wreckage disappear, but because both things can be true at once.I'm tired of being scared all the time. I'm tired of missing out on my own life because I'm too busy bracing for disaster. So I'm trying—some days more successfully than others—to choose something different. Not happiness, necessarily, because that word still feels too big and too simple for what this is. But presence, maybe. Connection. The messy, complicated, terrifying gift of being here.The strength I have now isn't the strength I thought I'd need. It's better. More real. And I didn't find it by walking away this time.I found it by staying put.
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Teresa Bird
Personal Growth
The Woman I Became When I Finally Stopped Holding It Together
Trigger Warning: This article contains content about suicideThere’s a fear that no one really talks about. Not to illness, heartbreak or grief, but to the deep, silent unraveling that happens when life as you know it begins to fall apart… bit by bit.For me, that unraveling came wrapped in pain.For most of my life, I used strength as armour. The kind of strength that keeps you going when you're tired, smiling when you're about to break, and saying "I'm fine" when you're not. I thought that being brave meant holding everything together; the tighter I held on, the safer I would be. But the truth is, I didn't realize how much I was losing myself while trying to hold everything together. I got out of bed every morning, even though my whole body hurt because that's what "strong" women do. I got my girls ready for school, smiled, and then sat down at my desk for work. During the day, I was always racing against the clock, and at night, I was working on my healing business. All while trying to be the loving wife and mother I wanted to be.My body told me to rest, but I didn't listen. Doctors told me to push through it. Family told me to keep going. And I did. I thought that was what strength was. I thought that if I worked harder, prayed harder, and made myself grateful enough, everything would eventually fall into place. But it didn't. The pain just got worse. I was falling apart in every way: physically, emotionally, and spiritually. Every pain came with guilt. Feeling guilty for not doing enough, for not being enough, for not spending enough time with my girls, for not growing my business fast enough, for not being the wife I thought I should be… And underneath that guilt was a deeper kind of pain, the kind that comes from the spirit. My ego told me, "You're a healer. You should be able to meditate yourself out of this.” But I couldn't. My faith was slipping away. Then the universe got involved. I had a really bad kidney stone attack. I have a condition called medullary sponge kidneys, but I hadn't had a stone attack in four years. I knew deep down that this was my wake-up call. This was what the universe was telling me… STOP. But I told myself I would rest later… when I finished one more task… sent one more email… helped one more person. And then I couldn't move. I was on the couch, not working, walking with a cane, high on painkillers, while I waited for surgery. (My stone was too big to pass and so I needed surgery to have it removed). When the painkillers wore off, I felt everything. I realized how much I had been avoiding. The physical pain I had been numbing for years, the emotional exhaustion, the hopelessness.I felt like I was hit by a truck. It hurt so much that one night I didn't want to be here anymore. I remember looking at a bottle of pills and thinking about how easy it would be to end it all. And the only thing that stopped me was the thought of my daughters… their faces, their laughter, and their faith in me. I couldn't let them hurt like that. I couldn’t be the reason their lives changed. So instead of ending it, I picked up the phone and said one of the hardest thing I've ever said: "I need help." Those three words made everything different. I agreed go on medication… which I had been against for years because I believed in natural healing. I also saw what meds had done to people I loved, and I swore I’d never go down that path. But this time, I wasn’t trying to escape. I was trying to survive. The days that came after were some of the darkest I've ever had. I cried all the time. I prayed for the pain to stop. Sometimes, I wished for something to happen to me that would take the choice away from me. From the outside, I probably looked okay… smiling, functioning, “doing life.”But I was falling apart on the inside. I couldn't tell my husband about it. As a police officer, he sees the worst parts of mental health every day. When I tried to open up, instincts and fear took over and he threatened to take me to the hospital. He wasn't being cruel… he was scared. But his response made me pull back even more and I hid behind a mask because I didn't want to be a problem. I didn’t believe I was worth worrying about.And my relationship with my body? Non-existent. When I looked in the mirror, all I saw was my pain, my weight, the redness in my face… disappointment. I hated what I saw. Angry at my body for betraying me, for not getting better despite everything I tried.It wasn’t until I was forced to surrender that things began to shift.At first, it was little things like showing up to my doctor appointments, meditating… even when my mind was racing. I even started seeing a psychologist who specializes in chronic pain. Little sparks started to show up slowly. Life began whispering back to me.Little signs started showing up. Synchronicities like Angel numbers 11:11, 12:22, 2:22, 3:33, 5:55, etc. They started to show up everywhere, on license plates, receipts, clocks, house numbers… even sale prices. I didn't pay much attention to them at first. But then I realized these were the universe's gentle reminders that I wasn't alone and to keep going. That’s when I started feeling faith again.I won't say I’m “healed… whatever that means. I still feel pain. I still have hard days. But I’ve learned how to find peace within the pain. Surrender isn’t giving up, it’s allowing something greater to carry you when you can’t carry yourself. You can only rebuild in a way that fits with who you really are when you stop holding everything together and let yourself fall apart. The hardest part of this rebirth was letting go of the woman I used to be. She needed to be in charge, thought that worth was based on how much work she did, who thought she had to be perfect to be loved.I'm learning to live one day at a time. Someone once said to me, "Give yourself the space to be a beginner." That's exactly what I'm doing. I'm starting over… softer… slower… more open. I don't push through pain to show how strong I am anymore. I am the woman who listens, who rests, who trusts that healing isn’t linear but cyclical just like life.My younger self would be so proud of me. She'd see a woman who didn't give up, who turned her pain into purpose, and who came home to herself. Even the most shattered pieces can be put back together. Even when you think it’s over, life still has more for you. The ego will tell you to stay stuck, to fear change. But your soul? Your soul is waiting for you to remember who you are beneath all the noise.You’re allowed to evolve. You’re allowed to start over. You’re allowed to change your path at any age and at any moment. Because we only get this one life, in this one body. So why not make it a peaceful one?Sometimes the only way forward really is through the unraveling.And when everything falls apart, that’s when your true self finally has the space to rise.If you or someone you know is experiencing suicidal thoughts or a crisis, please reach out immediately to the Suicide Crisis Helpline at 9-8-8 (call or text). These services are free and confidential.Teresa Bird is a somatic healing guide. After walking through years of chronic pain, burnout, and deep emotional healing, Teresa now helps other women release the weight of who they think they “should” be and reconnect with the truth of who they are.Through her soul-led approach that blends breathwork, energy healing, and intuitive guidance, Teresa creates safe spaces for women to soften, surrender, and rise again.You can connect with Teresa and explore her meditations, workshops, and offerings at www.empoweredhealingwithteresa.com or on Instagram @empowered_healing111.Because healing isn’t about fixing yourself, it’s about remembering that you were never broken.
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MaryAnn Perri
Personal Growth
When the Universe Says ‘Bet’ From Snowstorms to Siestas
July marks the anniversary of new beginnings and big changes for my family.You know what they say: "Be careful what you wish for." And let me tell you—when people talk about manifesting things by sending them out into the universe? I’m basically the universe’s favorite case study. I still remember that moment like it was yesterday: November 2003. I had just gotten home from work after being stuck in bumper-to-bumper traffic during a snowstorm of biblical proportions. I was trudging through knee-deep snow, juggling grocery bags and a purse that weighed more than a small child, all while trying to find my keys with frozen fingers I could no longer feel. Somewhere between almost wiping out on black ice and muttering every swear word I knew, I mumbled to myself, “Please, God, get me out of here. I don’t care where—just somewhere warm and less chaotic.”The universe said, “Bet.”Flash forward one year later: we were unpacking boxes in Hermosillo, Sonora, Mexico—where the only white stuff on the ground was sand, and the only storm we had to deal with was trying to find decent air conditioning.Just a few months after my dramatic “my-hands-are-freezing-get-me-out-of-here” meltdown, the universe clearly decided to throw me a bone—or maybe a taco—because my husband Vince was presented with an incredible job opportunity in Mexico. Before I could even say “¿Una cerveza por favor?”, we were packing our bags and heading off to the land of sombreros, tacos, and glorious afternoon siestas. We made the decision to drop everything and move for a couple of years—no turning back (couple of years turned into almost 15 years). Our house? Sold.Our belongings? Packed. Our lives? Shoved into cardboard boxes with the hope they’d magically reappear in the right country (and in one piece).As thrilling as it all sounded, I was secretly terrified of this change. At the time, I was in the thick of building my career in Toronto - always busy, always moving. And suddenly I found myself thinking, “What am I going to do with my time in Mexico?”The following morning, I turned on my work computer and received a random message on the screen - like a digital fortune cookie. It read: "Three grand essentials to happiness in this life are: something to do, something to love, and something to hope for."Naturally, I did what any deep-thinking person would do - I panicked slightly and overanalyzed it for the next three hours. I thought, Okay… something to love? Check. I had a husband and an amazingly supportive family. Something to hope for? Absolutely. I was about to move to Mexico and was really hoping I wouldn’t melt or accidentally offend someone with my beginner Spanish.But something to do? Ummm, I was clueless. I was the queen of structure and a master planner. The thought of having a blank schedule made me extremely anxious. Was this quote trying to tell me that without “something to do,” I was missing the key essential to happiness in my life? Was I destined for unhappiness? After a few more minutes of inner drama (and one very unnecessary Jalapeno chip break), I took it as a sign, a powerful nudge. I had the language skills and the patience (sort of), so all I needed was ‘something to do’ that didn’t involve eating tacos and drinking tequila all day. I decided; I would become an English teacher. I went online and applied to several different private schools and landed a job – teaching grade 4. And just like that, my happiness level was – restored, with a side of lesson plans!“Change is good, change is absolutely necessary. Life isn’t about settling, dwelling and waiting. It’s about making things happen and always maintaining a positive outlook while experiencing all that’s different and new in this world.” I was ready to make every moment count. That was the goal as we dove headfirst into our new adventure. And let me tell you—our experience in Mexico did not disappoint.I began teaching Grade Four at a private bilingual school near our home. Suddenly, I was “Mees Perri,” living my best life. My first week, I showed up to the teacher’s meeting bright and early - Canadian punctuality in full force. Half hour later, the rest of the staff casually wandered in, laughing, chatting, and not a care in the world. No one was stressed. It was like walking into an alternate universe where chill vibes and relaxed timelines ruled the magical pueblo.I’ll be honest—after nearly 15 years of that energy, it became very contagious. I try to keep that same carefree spirit alive since moving back to Toronto... “try” being the key word since everything here is about deadlines, timelines and a scheduling nightmare.But life in Mexico? It was incredible. And this July marks eight years since we returned. I won’t say I’m thrilled to be back... but I’m also not hiding in my closet sulking with a bottle of Don (although sometimes it’s tempting). It’s just… different.Coming back gave me a whole new perspective on life.I remind my kids all the time: life is an adventure. It’s not always sunshine and street tacos. Change, challenges, and even the “what on earth am I doing?” moments are what shape us. It’s about taking chances, even if it makes us uncomfortable. At times we are happy and at times we are not, but we are constantly learning and growing as individuals. The truth is, we all need to zoom out and look at the bigger picture and not be afraid to try something new and accept changes with an open mind."You have to count on living every single day in a way you believe will make you feel good about your life -- so that if it were over tomorrow, you'd be content with yourself." Jane SeymourI remember once seeing an elderly couple leaving the mall, walking hand in hand. I smiled and held the door for them, feeling all kinds of wholesome, when the gentleman looked at me and said, “You’ll be just like us one day, dear.” Most people might panic at the thought—wrinkles! dentures! orthopedic shoes! - but I smiled and said, “I hope so, sir. What a blessing that would be.” And I meant it, because growing old isn’t scary - it’s a privilege.That said, it’s not really about how long we stick around, but how we live while we’re here. So go ahead & close your eyes. Picture yourself old and gray—rocking chair, fuzzy socks, telling the same stories on loop. Now ask yourself: what’s the one thing you’d be proud of? Would it be the jobs you had? The cars you drove? The fortune you built—or tried to build? Or would it be the good stuff—the traveling, the deep belly laughs, the memories that stuck like glitter? My guess? It’ll be the moments, not the mileage. The chances you took, the changes you made, the story you wrote –all in your own narrative.Moral of the story? Comfort is a place to rest, not a place to live. Don’t be afraid of change – instead – be afraid of staying stuck in what's simply comfortable. Take the risk. Make the move. Change the job. Say yes to the things that may scare you a little, because the only way we evolve as individuals, as professionals and as humans—is by stepping outside the box and believing there’s more waiting for us on the other side. And also - wish wisely when walking through that snow storm one day, the universe is always listening—and sometimes, it too has a sense of humor.
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Hae-won Jeon
Personal Growth
THE ART OF SHOWING UP WHEN YOU FEEL LIKE FALLING APART
There are days when I can't find matching socks for anyone in this house, including myself, and the emails are piling up like a digital Tower of Pisa threatening to topple and bury me alive. Yet somehow, I'm expected to show up—at work meetings, at family dinners, at life—looking like I've got my shit together.Spoiler alert: I don't.None of us do, really. We're all just various stages of fraying at the edges while trying to hold the center. Life doesn't come with an instruction manual, but if it did, the first page would just be "HAHAHAHA" written in crayon by someone who clearly had a mental breakdown mid-sentence.The Beautiful Devastation of Being Everything to EveryoneLast Tuesday, I found myself sitting in my car outside the grocery store, having a complete existential crisis over whether to buy the organic chicken that would make me feel like a responsible adult or the cheaper alternative that would allow me to maybe pay my electricity bill. I sat there for twenty minutes, not crying but not not-crying either, caught in that liminal space we know too well—the space between who we thought we'd be and who we actually are on four hours of sleep and seventeen competing priorities.Here's what nobody tells you about modern existence: it's not the big crises that break you. It's the constant, grinding pressure to be everything all at once—professional, partner, parent, friend, activist, informed citizen, and somehow still a whole-ass human being with needs and dreams of your own."The real art isn't in perfection. It's in showing up anyway, sticky shirt and all."The mental load isn't just heavy; it's fracturing. It's remembering deadlines and birthdays and that weird sound the car is making and whether you've had water today and did you respond to that urgent email and oh god is that a rash on your arm or just dirt?Yet we show up. Somehow.We show up because there isn't another option, but also because buried beneath the exhaustion and the doubt is a fierce commitment to the life we're building—messy and imperfect as it may be.The Permission to Be Gloriously Imperfect"You make it look so easy," someone said to me recently at a work event.I laughed so hard I nearly pulled a muscle. Then I told them the truth: that morning, I'd used dry shampoo for the fourth day in a row, eaten a leftover Pop-Tart for breakfastand had a complete breakdown over finding an unidentifiable sticky substance on my last clean shirt.There's this pervasive myth that we should be gliding through life with grace and wisdom, when most days I'm just a sleep-deprived disaster barely keeping the wheels from falling off this metaphorical bus. And that's on my good days.The real art isn't in perfection. It's in showing up anyway, sticky shirt and all. It's in admitting that you're barely holding it together sometimes, and that's not failure—it's just the honest landscape of being human.The Radical Act of Self-CompassionThe turning point for me wasn't finding some magical system that made everything manageable. It wasn't a planner or an app or outsourcing or even therapy (though therapy helped, and if you're not in it, maybe consider it?).The turning point was the day I looked in the mirror—eye bags like bruises, hair a mess, wearing yesterday's t-shirt—and instead of the usual litany of self-criticism, I simply said: "You're doing your best, and your best is enough."It felt like bullshit at first, to be honest. But I kept saying it. On the days when I showed up late. On the days when dinner was cereal. On the days when I snapped at people I love because my patience had worn thinner than my favorite threadbare t-shirt.You're doing your best, and your best is enough.Slowly, almost imperceptibly, I started to believe it. And that belief—that shaky, uncertain permission to be imperfect—has become my North Star on the days when showing up feels impossible."You're doing your best, and your best is enough."
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Joseph Tito
Personal Growth
Time: The Slippery Bastard You’ll Never Catch
The other morning, I had one of those rare, magical moments where the stars aligned, and I woke up before my kids. If you’re a parent, you know how rare this is. My kids have an uncanny ability to sense the exact second I even think about sleeping in. But not that day. That day, the universe handed me a gift—a quiet house, a hot cup of coffee, and a sunrise peeking through the kitchen window. It felt like I had all the time in the world.I thought, Today’s the day. I’m going to crush my to-do list. Emails? Done. Content? Shot. Laundry? Folded. Maybe I’d even squeeze in a quick workout (okay, probably not, but the optimism was there). I was ready to conquer the world.Fast forward eight hours, and I’m back in the kitchen, staring at the clock like it just betrayed me. The sun’s already setting, the kids are arguing over who gets the iPad, and I’m still in the same clothes I slept in. My to-do list? Untouched. My coffee? Cold. The only thing I managed to accomplish was deep-cleaning the junk drawer because, obviously, that was my top priority.How does this happen? How does an entire day disappear without warning? Time, my friends, is a sneaky little bastard. One minute, you’re basking in the glory of a quiet morning, and the next, you’re standing in the kitchen wondering how you’re supposed to make dinner out of three ingredients and a prayer. Shouldn’t there be somekind of alarm system? Like, “Hey, just a heads up—it’s already 4 PM, and you’ve accomplished exactly none of your plans. Good luck with that.”The Myth of Time ManagementI love how people talk about time management like it’s a skill you can just master. Oh, just color-code your planner! Use this app! Wake up at 5 AM! As if waking up earlier magically gives you control over a chaotic life. Let me tell you something: waking up earlier just means you’re tired and behind schedule.And don’t even get me started on those Instagram overachievers. You know the ones. By 8 AM, they’ve run five miles, made a green smoothie, and posted a motivational quote about “seizing the day.” Meanwhile, I’m over here celebrating the fact that I brushed my teeth before noon. Do these people live in some alternate universe where time moves slower? Do they get bonus hours in their day? Because I’d like to file a complaint.The truth is, no amount of planners, apps, or early mornings can tame the beast that is time. It’s slippery, unpredictable, and, frankly, kind of a jerk. And yet, we keep chasing it, convinced we can somehow wrangle it into submission.Letting Go of the To-Do ListSomewhere along the way, we all bought into this idea that our worth is tied to how much we get done. If we’re not ticking off every box on our to-do list, we feel like we’ve failed. But who decided that finishing every task was the gold standard for a life well-lived? Sometimes, just surviving the day without losing your mind is a bigger win than crossing off ten to-dos."Time is a pickpocket—gone before you even notice."Here’s the thing: time is never going to slow down. The days will keep slipping by, and the to-do list will keep growing. But maybe the trick isn’t about trying to control time. Maybe it’s about learning to dance with it—messy, offbeat, and imperfect as it may be.The Small Wins That MatterAt the end of the day, it’s not about the big wins. It’s about the small joys that keep us moving forward: the first bite of your favorite meal, an unexpected text from an old friend, or the relief of finally taking off your shoes after a long day. Life isn’t just the grand gestures—it’s all the little brushstrokes that create the masterpiece.So, maybe I’ll never master time management. Maybe my to-do list will outlive me. But if I can find five minutes to laugh at the absurdity of it all—or organize one damn junk drawer—maybe that’s enough. Because time, sneaky bastard that it is, will keep moving no matter what. And tomorrow? Tomorrow, I’ll try again.
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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 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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Joseph Tito
Spotlight
New York Fashion Week: The Good, The Meh, and The What-The-Actual-Fuck
When the Fashion Capital Serves You Dreams, Disappointments, and One Designer Who Needs a Reality CheckBy: Joseph TitoThere's something about New York that makes you feel alive even when it smells like hot garbage and betrayal. Maybe it's the way the concrete seems to pulse with ambition, or how even the pigeons strut like they're on a runway. I went to Fashion Week expecting to see the future of fashion. What I got was a masterclass in both how to do it right—and a stomach-turning lesson in how catastrophically wrong it can go.Let me start with the good, because Runway 7 deserves their flowers before I burn down someone else's garden.The Organization That Actually Gives a DamnIn a world where fashion events often feel like you're crashing a party where nobody wants you there, Runway 7 was different. Three women in particular made magic happen: Diane Vara—the PR & Marketing Director who, despite handling all PR and managing a team of marketers, still took a second to make you feel welcomed with a simple, genuine smile; Christina Kovacs, Director of Brand & Sponsorships who refreshingly didn't know how she could help but still tried; and one more angel whose name I'm tracking down because my notes app crashed—fashion week, am I right?This matters more than you think. When you're surrounded by people who look like they subsist on green juice and contempt, having someone treat you like an actual human being feels revolutionary.The Designers Who Understood the AssignmentLet's talk about Melissa Crisostomo from Unique Custom Threads. This woman gets it. Every piece that walked down that runway was a one-of-a-kind statement that made you stop mid-scroll and actually look. She's been at this for three and a half years, self-taught, originally a fine artist—and it shows. There's something about designers who come to fashion from other art forms. They're not trying to recreate what's already been done. They're creating what doesn't exist yet."Every time I approach a fashion collection, I try and create something new," Melissa told me backstage, and honey, she wasn't lying. That back-open number? Even the straight guys were taking notes.The models themselves were a revelation. Karan Fernandes, 29 but looking like she could play a high schooler on Netflix, flew in from Boston just for visibility—no hotel, no payment, just pure hustle and hope. Levana, a women's-only personal trainer who teaches self-defense on the side, strutted that runway like she was teaching it a lesson about power. These weren't just pretty faces; they were stories on legs.When New York Felt Like New YorkThere were moments when Fashion Week lived up to its promise. The energy backstage—"boobs, makeup, lashes, everything flying everywhere," as Levana perfectly put it. The grandmother from Alabama watching her 10-year-old granddaughter work the runway with equal parts pride and protective terror. The writer and her plus-one BFF who dressed like she was the main character (because honestly, she was).Even the city itself played its part. That particular New York magic where just walking the streets makes you feel like you're part of something bigger, even when you're dodging mysterious puddles and men who think "hey beautiful" is a conversation starter.But Then Came Rhinestone Sugar CoutureAnd this is where I need you to put down your coffee and pay attention.I had to walk out of a fashion show. Me. The person who sat through an entire experimental theater piece about sentient tampons. But this? This broke me.Picture this: Seven, eight, nine-year-old girls. High heels. Makeup that would make a Vegas showgirl blush. Outfits that—and I'm going to be very careful with my words here—made them look like miniature versions of something no child should ever be asked to embody.I'm a dad of six-year-old twin girls. Progressive as hell. No filter. Judge-free zone, usually. But when I looked over at two bodyguards watching that runway and saw something in their eyes that made my skin crawl? When a 62-year-old photographer from Brooklyn—a woman who's probably seen everything—put down her camera and whispered, "This feels like child trafficking"?That's not fashion. That's not art. That's exploitation wrapped in sequins and sold as empowerment.The Uncomfortable Truth About Dreams and DangerHere's what kills me: I don't blame the kids. They're kids. I don't even fully blame the moms, sitting there with stars in their eyes, dreaming of their daughters' names in lights. We all want our children to shine. But there's a difference between letting your child shine and putting them on display like that.The designer—whose name I won't give the dignity of printing—chose to put those children on that runway in that way. In an industry already riddled with predators and problems, she chose to serve up vulnerability on a silver platter and call it fashion.One grandmother I interviewed put it perfectly: "I'm happy and I'm a little scared... I think about the times we're in and what could happen." She was talking about her granddaughter doing regular pageants, fully clothed, age-appropriate. Imagine how the parents of those Rhinestone Sugar girls should feel.What Fashion Week Should BeFashion Week should be about innovation, not exploitation. It should be about Brianna from Bri Romi, marketing her brand through social media and refusing to believe she needs traditional runways to be successful. It should be about models like Anya Patel, whose mom is in the front row being her "biggest fan," fixing her hair and taking pictures. It should be about designers who understand that making people feel something doesn't mean making them feel sick.The truth is, for all its pretension and $25 cocktails, Fashion Week at its best is about dreams taking shape. It's about self-taught designers getting their shot. It's about models from Brazil and Boston and Alabama converging on Sony Hall to walk for visibility, not pay, because they believe in something bigger.The VerdictRunway 7 did something beautiful. They created a space where emerging designers could show their work, where models could build their portfolios, where fashion felt accessible and exciting. They treated people like humans. They made magic happen on a budget and determination.But they also hosted Rhinestone Sugar Couture. And that's a stain that no amount of sequins can cover.Fashion Week is supposed to be the dream factory, the place where art meets commerce meets culture. When it works, it's transcendent. When it fails, it fails spectacularly. And when it crosses the line from fashion into exploitation?That's when we need to stop clapping and start calling it out.Because those little girls deserved better. We all did.
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Joseph Tito
Bitch Fest
Bitch Fest: Unfiltered. Unapologetic. Unbothered.
LETTER 1Dear Bitch Fest,I'm 34, recently divorced, and my ex-husband is already engaged to someone he met three months ago. Meanwhile, I'm over here trying to figure out how to use dating apps without wanting to throw my phone into traffic. Everyone keeps telling me I should "get back out there" and "you're so strong," but honestly? I feel like a garbage person most days. How do I not hate myself for taking longer to bounce back than apparently everyone else on the planet?—Slow & Steady Loses the RaceDear Slow & Steady,First off, fuck everyone who's clocking your healing timeline like you're running a marathon they have money on. Your ex-husband didn't "bounce back"—he ricocheted directly into another person's life because sitting alone with his feelings was scarier than a horror movie marathon. That's not recovery; that's emotional whiplash with a ring attached.Here's what nobody tells you about divorce: there's no prize for speed-healing. You're not "losing" because you need more than a season to figure out who you are without someone else's dirty socks on your bedroom floor. You're being a goddamn adult about it.Let me paint you a picture of what's actually happening here. While you're doing the hard work of untangling years of shared everything and figuring out which version of yourself exists without his commentary, he's playing house with someone new. That's not strength—that's avoidance dressed up in wedding planning. He's using this poor woman as a human band-aid, and honestly? I feel sorry for her.Meanwhile, you're over here having actual feelings about the end of something that mattered. You're grieving not just the relationship, but the future you thought you were building and the comfort of knowing someone's coffee order by heart. That's not weakness—that's being human with a capital H.Here's what I want you to do: take all that energy you're spending on feeling like a "garbage person" and redirect it toward something that actually matters. Learn to cook that one dish you always wanted to try. Buy yourself flowers on a Tuesday for no reason other than you're still breathing. The goal isn't to become someone new—it's to remember who you were before you became half of a "we."Those dating apps? They'll still be there when you're ready to swipe through the wasteland of men whose entire personality is "I love The Office." Right now, your job is to remember that you're a whole person, not half of something broken. And for the love of all that's holy, stop measuring your progress against someone who clearly makes decisions the way a toddler picks breakfast cereal. You're not slow—you're thorough. There's a difference.LETTER 2Dear Bitch Fest,My best friend of 15 years has become completely obsessed with wellness culture. She won't shut up about her morning routine, her supplements, her "toxic" job (which pays well and she actually likes), and how I need to "align my energy." Last week she tried to sell me a $300 course on "feminine leadership" and got genuinely offended when I said no. I miss my friend, but I don't know how to talk to this MLM wellness robot she's become. Help?—Missing My Actual FriendDear Missing,Your friend didn't find wellness—she found a very expensive way to avoid her actual problems. That $300 course? It's not about feminine leadership; it's about buying a sense of purpose when you're too scared to examine why you feel empty.Here's the thing about wellness culture: it's designed to make you feel like you're constantly failing at being human. Your friend has found a community that tells her she's "awakened" while everyone else is "asleep," which is both incredibly seductive and incredibly isolating. She's not trying to hurt you—she's trying to save you from the same existential dread that's eating her alive.You have two choices: set boundaries harder than a prison wall, or have one brutally honest conversation about what's really going on in her life. Try this: "I love you, but I need you to hear me. I don't want to buy anything, join anything, or optimize anything. I just want my friend back. Can we hang out without talking about your morning routine?"If she can't do that, then you're grieving someone who's still alive, and that's its own kind of hell. But sometimes people need to get lost in the wellness sauce before they find their way back to being human.LETTER 3Dear Bitch Fest,I'm a 28-year-old woman who just started a new job at a company I actually love. The problem? My manager is a woman in her 40s who seems to hate me for no reason. She's supportive of everyone else on the team, but with me, she's cold, dismissive, and finds fault with everything I do. I've tried being extra friendly, staying late, bringing coffee—nothing works. I'm starting to think she just doesn't like young women, but I don't know how to handle this without looking like I'm playing the victim. What do I do?—Trying Too HardDear Trying,Stop tap-dancing for someone who's already decided not to clap. You're not imagining this, and you're not being dramatic. Some women absolutely do hate other women, especially younger ones, and it's usually because they're projecting their own insecurities about aging, relevance, or missed opportunities onto your unsuspecting face.Here's what you're going to do: document everything. Every dismissive comment, every impossible deadline, every time she treats you differently than your colleagues. Keep it factual, keep it dated, and keep it detailed. You're not playing victim—you're collecting evidence.Then stop trying to win her over. Seriously. No more coffee runs, no more staying late to prove your worth, no more performing the "cool, agreeable girl" routine. Do your job well, be professional, and let her weirdness be her problem, not yours.If it gets worse, you have options: HR, her boss, or finding a new team within the company. But first, try showing up as yourself instead of as a people-pleasing machine. Sometimes the only way to deal with a bully is to stop giving them the reaction they're looking for.LETTER 4Dear Bitch Fest,Okay, so I don't have a problem, but I can't fucking stand when people put their phone on speaker or FaceTime in public. It bugs the shit out of me. I don't care to hear about other people's conversations. People need to be more considerate of others around them. No, I'm not a Karen, but fuck, I feel like I'm getting there... lol—Almost KarenDear Almost Karen,Welcome to the club, baby. Population: everyone who's ever been trapped on public transport listening to someone's entire family drama unfold at maximum volume. You're not becoming a Karen—you're becoming someone with boundaries, and there's a difference.Here's the thing: people who blast their personal business in public spaces are the same people who think the world is their living room. They genuinely don't understand that the rest of us didn't sign up to be extras in their life documentary. It's not malicious; it's just breathtakingly self-absorbed.The real tragedy? These phone-blasters have somehow convinced themselves they're being "authentic" and "real" by turning every grocery store aisle into their personal therapy session. Meanwhile, you're standing there trying to pick out yogurt while learning intimate details about someone's UTI symptoms.You have three options: invest in noise-canceling headphones and join the rest of us in our protective bubbles, master the art of the pointed stare (works about 20% of the time), or embrace your inner petty and start loudly commenting on their conversation like you're providing live commentary. "Ooh, she should definitely dump him!"Just remember: wanting basic courtesy in shared spaces doesn't make you a Karen. It makes you someone who understands that civilization is held together by the thin thread of people not being complete assholes to each other.LETTER 5Dear Bitch Fest,I'm 29 and just found out I'm pregnant with my first kid. I'm excited, but I'm also terrified about what this means for my career. I work in marketing at a tech startup, and while they talk a big game about "work-life balance," I've watched two other women basically disappear after having babies. One got "restructured" out during her mat leave, and the other came back to find her responsibilities had been "redistributed." My manager keeps making jokes about how I'll "probably want to take it easy now" and asking if I'm "still committed to the big projects." I haven't even told them my due date yet. How do I protect myself without looking like I'm expecting special treatment?—Pregnant and ParanoidDear Pregnant and Paranoid,Welcome to the fucked-up world of pregnancy discrimination, where companies hang motivational posters about "supporting working mothers" while quietly pushing pregnant women toward the exit. Your paranoia isn't paranoia—it's pattern recognition, and you're absolutely right to be worried.First, start documenting everything immediately. Every "joke" about taking it easy, every comment about your commitment, every meeting you suddenly stop getting invited to. Keep a paper trail that would make a lawyer weep with joy. Email yourself summaries of conversations, save texts, screenshot everything. You're not being dramatic—you're being smart.Here's what your manager's "jokes" actually are: illegal interview questions disguised as casual conversation. They're fishing for information about your plans while pretending to be supportive. Don't take the bait. When they ask about your commitment to projects, respond with something like, "I'm fully committed to delivering excellent work, just like I always have." Keep it professional and give them nothing to twist later.The unfortunate reality is that pregnancy discrimination is rampant, especially in tech startups that love to talk about disruption but can't figure out basic human decency. Your company's track record speaks louder than their diversity statements. But here's the thing: knowledge is power, and you now know exactly what you're dealing with.Talk to an employment lawyer now, not after something goes wrong. Many will give you a free consultation to understand your rights and options. Know your provincial employment standards inside and out. Connect with other working mothers in your industry—they've navigated this bullshit before and can be invaluable allies.And remember: you're not asking for special treatment by expecting not to be discriminated against. You're asking for basic human rights and legal protections. The fact that this feels revolutionary says everything about how broken the system is, not about your expectations.A Note from the EditorThe inbox is overflowing with your workplace nightmares, family drama, dating disasters, and general life chaos, and honestly? I'm here for all of it. Your willingness to share the real, unfiltered truth about your lives is what makes this column worth reading. Before we go any further, let me be crystal clear: I am not a therapist, counselor, or any kind of licensed mental health professional. My advice should be taken with a massive grain of salt and the understanding that what works for one person's dumpster fire might not work for yours. If you're dealing with serious mental health issues or abuse, please seek help from qualified professionals who actually know what they're talking about.What I can offer is perspective, solidarity, and the occasional reality check delivered with zero filter. Think of this as advice from your most brutally honest friend—the one who loves you enough to tell you when you're being ridiculous and supports you enough to help you burn it all down when necessary. If you have something to bitch about, contact us at info@jeopublishing.com.
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Joseph Tito
Spotlight
From Rock Bottom to Sephora Shelves: How Jenn Harper Turned Sobriety Into an Indigenous Beauty Revolution
"I'm proudly a recovered alcoholic and I'm no longer going to feel ashamed. Shame will kill us - it almost killed me."Jenn Harper had been selling seafood for over a decade when three little Indigenous girls covered in lip gloss changed everything. The dream came in January 2015, just two months into her sobriety—brown skin, rosy cheeks, giggling and laughing while covered in colorful gloss. When she woke up, she wrote down what would become the business plan for Cheekbone Beauty."It was so real to me that building a cosmetics company was the next thing on my path," Harper reflects. "It's crazy when I think about it now—I'm embarrassed about how much I didn't know about this industry."What she didn't know could fill a warehouse: product development, supply chains, ingredients, retail merchandising, the crushing competitiveness of beauty. What she did know was this: a brand representing Indigenous people deserved to exist in the world.Ten years later, that naive conviction has built something unprecedented—the first B Corp certified Indigenous beauty brand to hit Sephora shelves, a company that's donated over $250,000 to Indigenous communities, and a new category Harper calls "Indigenous Beauty" that puts sustainability and cultural values at its core.But the real revolution? How Harper transformed the same addictive patterns that nearly destroyed her life into the obsessive focus that built an empire.When Shame Nearly Killed Her"I'm proudly a recovered alcoholic, and I'm no longer going to feel ashamed," Harper says with the directness that's become her trademark. "Shame will kill us—it almost killed me."Harper's battle with alcoholism lasted years, marked by rehab attempts, relapses, and a marriage hanging by a thread. In 2014, her husband delivered an ultimatum: get sober or he was leaving. It was the first time in their marriage he'd drawn that line."I had this moment of surrender. I had to believe truly that I could get well," she explains. The timing wasn't coincidental—2015 was also when Canada's Truth and Reconciliation Commission released its report on residential schools, finally giving Harper language for the generational trauma that had shaped her family."I used to believe I was just this person who comes from a completely dysfunctional family—we're just screwed up people," she admits. "Then I learned that this was systematically designed to take down a culture."Her grandmother had been taken from their community at six years old, forced into residential school until sixteen, beaten for speaking their language. Suddenly, Harper's family dysfunction had context—and a path to healing.Replacing One Addiction With AnotherTraditional recovery wisdom warns against substituting addictions, but Harper had a different plan. "I became obsessed with building this business, and maybe as an addict with an addict's brain, I'll never be fully healed from that in this life. But how can I use that power of obsession for doing something good versus destroying my life?"She admits the approach isn't typical AA advice, but it worked. Harper channeled her addictive patterns into something constructive: reading over a hundred books on entrepreneurship and Indigenous culture, diving deep into formulations and supply chains, obsessing over every detail of building a sustainable beauty company."That you can climb any mountain and get to the top," Harper says when asked what sobriety taught her about business. "You really can't see it unless you can see it—that line is so important for people from BIPOC communities. If you didn't see yourself represented out there, how are you supposed to think you can do those things?"Building Indigenous Beauty From NothingWhat Harper calls "Indigenous Beauty" isn't just marketing—it's a fundamental reimagining of how beauty products should be made. Where Korean beauty focuses on skincare and French beauty means perfume and red lipstick, Indigenous beauty centers sustainability and connection to the earth."Indigenous people have truly lived and breathed sustainability since the beginning of time," Harper explains. "We want to add that into how we make and create our products."At Cheekbone, that means formulas that actually biodegrade back into ecosystems, sustainably sourced packaging, and transparencyabout every ingredient. Harper spent years studying formulations to replace conventional ingredients with biodegradable alternatives—swapping propylene glycol for propendol, using only post-consumer recycled plastic, creating products that can serve multiple purposes."The truth is, true sustainability means we buy nothing and use what we have," Harper acknowledges. "We're still a consumer-based business. But can we do it so that the choice someone's making is a better choice they can feel good about?"The Cost of RepresentationHarper's drive for visibility became even more urgent after losing her brother BJ to suicide. "When you lose someone to suicide, you really spend a lot of time thinking about the what-ifs," she says quietly. "What I learned from my brother is that he really felt represented in these last few years. He would send me messages about Indigenous people on red carpets or athletes coming up."Those messages became proof of representation's power—and its absence's danger. Harper knows the statistics: Indigenous communities face suicide rates far above national averages, often linked to disconnection and lack of belonging."You really can't be it unless you can see it," Harper repeats. "For me, being able to represent our communities and help them see that entrepreneurship is an option—if I can figure it out and I wasn't a great student, I didn't have a university degree—if I can do this, they can too."Revolution, Not ActivismHarper's approach to change differs from traditional activism. "I feel like going and yelling at someone with a sign is never going to change their heart," she explains. "We need activists for many things, but I believe the way I love to connect with people is: can we change people's hearts?"Instead of protests, Harper builds. Cheekbone's scholarship fund has deployed 30 scholarships since 2021. Two percent of all revenue goes to Indigenous education initiatives year-round, with special Orange Shirt Day campaigns raising additional funds."We use the system," Harper says of their Orange Shirt Day strategy. "People arethinking about those things on that day, so of course we're using it. The algorithm of the world works on days now—if you're not speaking to the big things happening, no one cares because no one's going to see it."The approach extends to retail partnerships. When Sephora committed to Harper's "Glossed Over" campaign—featuring lip glosses named "Luscious Lead" and "E. Coli Kiss" to highlight water crises in Indigenous communities—it gave profits from Cheekbone sales to water treatment organizations."Sephora is really great—they take risks in that way," Harper notes. "They're truly the heroes in that story because they used their platform, and that's not easy to do on a bigger scale."The Real Beauty IndustryHarper envisions an industry transformation that goes beyond Indigenous representation. "Real people, no more editorial stuff," she says when asked what would make beauty actually beautiful. "We deserve to see real people wearing the products with real skin imperfections, acne, textured skin, hair on their face—let's just be real about it."It's a radical vision in an industry built on manufactured insecurity, but Harper's betting consumers are ready. As the first B Corp certified cosmetic brand in Sephora, Cheekbone legally prioritizes people and planet over profit—paying living wages, providing mental health benefits, and taking company-wide mental health weeks."Everyone at Cheekbone makes over a living wage for the area of the world they live in," Harper explains. "We take a whole week off every summer as an entire business so that it's a real mental health break for the entire company."What Her Grandmother Would ThinkWhen asked what her grandmother would think of seeing Cheekbone in Sephora, Harper pauses. "I think she would be proud. We're a humble group of people, a humble nation. We don't do the bragging thing—it's cultural. But there would be a lot of joy and happiness because I'm her granddaughter."That humility runs through everything Harper builds. Despite Cheekbone's success—Sephora shelves, B Corp certification, six-figure donations—she insists they're just getting started."I literally feel like we're just getting started," she says of the ten-year journey. "Over the last two years is finally when I feel like we've built something that's going to have value and matter."The Revolution ContinuesHarper's vision extends beyond Cheekbone to building an Indigenous beauty conglomerate—acquiring skincare brands, hair care lines, creating an entire ecosystem centered on Indigenous values and sustainable practices.“Cheekbone pioneered a category we call Indigenous Beauty," she explains. "What we intend to do is build this with that long view in mind."For women watching Harper's journey—especially those with their own healing to do—her message is clear: "I am no longer going to feel ashamed. If we've made past mistakes, big ones or small ones, you have to remove that shame part of it. Anyone can turn their lives around at any given moment."It's advice born from experience, spoken by someone who turned rock bottom into revolutionary business, addiction into empire-building, and personal healing into community transformation."If your heart's in something, there's nothing that can stop you from reaching that goal," Harper concludes. "I have regrets, many, many regrets. But shame will kill us. And I refuse to let shame win."Harper's story represents a new generation of Indigenous entrepreneurs building businesses that honor their heritage while challenging industry standards. As Orange Shirt Day approaches this September, her work reminds us that real reconciliation happens not through performative gestures, but through sustained action, authentic representation, and the radical act of building something beautiful from the ground up.When Jenn Harper talks about changing hearts instead of holding signs, she's describing a partnership that puts real money behind Indigenous education. For four years, Cheekbone Beauty has worked with Indspire, Canada's largest Indigenous-led registered charity, transforming lip gloss sales into life-changing scholarships."They're the one that we do our scholarship fund in collaboration with," Harper explains. "They're a not-for-profit, we're a for-profit business, so we get them to do all of our scholarship fund work."The partnership makes perfect sense: Harper brings platform and profits, while Indspire brings three decades of experience. Since 1996, Indspire has distributed over $200 million in scholarships to more than 54,000 Indigenous students across Canada.The collaboration has deployed 30 scholarships since 2021, with Cheekbone contributing 2% of all revenue year-round to their "For Future Generations Scholarship Fund." During Orange Shirt Day campaigns, that jumps to 100% of profits after operational costs."This year will be the fourth year," Harper notes. "The people at Cheekbone love their jobs because everything we do is about supporting and giving back to the community."What makes this powerful isn't just money—it's visibility. Harper's Orange Shirt Day campaigns educate consumers about funding gaps, systemic barriers, and why Indigenous education matters. Her customers learn while they shop."Education is powerful," Harper emphasizes. "Whatever path a young person can choose, it's going to help."Indspire's approach aligns with Harper's philosophy. Rather than charity creating dependency, they provide tools for self-determination. Scholarships support everything from trades programs to PhD studies, recognizing that Indigenous communities need leaders in every field.Harper's story—building a multi-million dollar company without a university degree—proves success comes in many forms. But systemic change requires Indigenous people in boardrooms, courtrooms, research labs, and government offices."Meeting people that have been impacted—they're a beautiful organization, and people should be supporting them in every which way they can," Harper says.The partnership creates a feedback loop: Cheekbone's success generates scholarship funding, which creates Indigenous graduates, who become role models for the next generation—the representation Harper wishes she'd had growing up ashamed of her identity.This isn't charity for charity's sake. Harper sees education funding as business strategy, community building, and cultural preservation. Every scholarship recipient represents potential future leadership and entrepreneurship."It's all about what are we doing here for the next generations," Harper explains. "That's part of our complete ethos as a brand."As Cheekbone grows into an Indigenous beauty conglomerate, the Indspire partnership ensures success lifts the entire community. It's capitalism with conscience, business as resistance, and proof that revolution can happen one scholarship at a time.
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