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Restaurant Reviews A great meal is more than just food—it’s an experience. In our Restaurant Reviews section, we serve up the full story, from the first bite to the final bill. Whether it’s a cozy neighborhood gem, a family-friendly spot, or one of the hottest fine-dining trends, we give you the real scoop: the flavors worth savoring, the atmosphere that sets the mood, and the service that can make—or break—a night out. Honest, detailed, and taste-tested, our reviews help you decide where to spend your next date night, family dinner, or casual brunch with friends. What You’ll Find Here Flavor & Food Quality: We don’t just list menu items — we dive into the flavors, textures, presentation, and how well each dish delivers on its promise. Whether it’s a signature dessert, a simple pasta, or an ambitious tasting menu, our reviewers assess every mouthful. Ambience & Atmosphere: The decor, lighting, music, crowd, noise level, and comfort all matter. A restaurant might serve excellent food, but if the lighting is harsh or it’s unbearably loud, that changes the experience. We describe what you’ll feel when you walk in. Service & Hospitality: Was the staff attentive, knowledgeable, friendly? Did they accommodate special preferences, dietary needs, or requests? How swiftly did food arrive? We note all these things because true hospitality adds value to every meal. Value & Final Impressions: The price tag counts. We compare what you pay vs what you get — portion sizes, quality of ingredients, plating, extras like bread, amuse-bouche, etc. Then, we wrap up with whether the overall experience felt worth it. Best Occasions & Recommendations: Not every place is perfect for every event. Some spots shine for casual brunches, others are better suited for romantic dinners or business dining. We’ll suggest what occasions each restaurant is ideal for, based on vibe, pricing, and menu. Local Flavour & Regional Insights: Food culture is local. We often explore how restaurants include local ingredients, serve regional specialties, or put a twist on traditional dishes. This helps both visitors and locals discover places that reflect the city’s character. Why Read Our Reviews Trusted Opinion: We eat there; we taste it. No fluff, no hype. We try to be objective, honest but fair. In-Depth & Useful: Instead of vague praise or blanket criticism, we give details: what stood out, what surprised us, what disappointed. That way, you know what to expect — or what to avoid. Discover Hidden Gems: Some of the best meals are found off the beaten track. We like to uncover under-the-radar places that deserve more attention — not just the popular or well-advertised ones. Helps You Make Informed Choices: Whether you’re celebrating something special or just looking for a quick, satisfying bite, our reviews give you enough information to decide where to spend your time and money.
Sometimes you need dinner. Sometimes you need an experience that makes you forget you have to do laundry tomorrow.Aera delivers the latter—perched on the 38th floor of The Well like it's auditioning to be Toronto's main character. This isn't just dinner; it's dinner with a backdrop that makes your Instagram stories look like they were shot by a professional who actually knows what they're doing.The Reality CheckYes, you'll spend more than your grocery budget. Yes, you'll probably overdress and still feel underdressed when you see the woman at table twelve who clearly shops somewhere I can't pronounce. And yes, you'll take seventeen photos of your drink before you actually taste it.Worth it? Absolutely.What You're Actually GettingThe 5oz beef tenderloin arrives like it went to therapy and worked through all its issues—perfectly cooked, confident, with nothing to prove. The sushi doesn't try to reinvent the wheel, which is refreshing in a world where everything needs to be "elevated" or "reimagined." Sometimes fresh fish on good rice is exactly the flex you need.That seafood tower? It's not subtle. It's not trying to be. It sits there like edible architecture, daring you to take a photo and tag your ex.The Drinks SituationThe "Amelia" tastes like summer decided to get its act together—vodka, elderflower, blackberry, and just enough sophistication to make you feel like you have your life figured out. The "Gilgamesh" is for when you want to tell people you drank something with miso and shiitake bitters, because honestly, when else are you going to get that opportunity?The Truth About the ExperienceHere's what they don't tell you: the view does half the work. You could be eating a decent sandwich up here and still feel like you're living your best life. But Aera doesn't coast on the scenery—the service moves like they actually want you to enjoy yourself, not like they're doing you a favor by taking your order.The lighting hits different when you're thirty-eight floors up. Everything looks better—your date, your food, your questionable decision to order the most expensive thing on the menu because "it's a special occasion" (it's Tuesday).The Bottom LineAera isn't where you go to grab a quick bite. It's where you go when you want to remember that sometimes life can feel as good as it looks on other people's social media. It's expensive, yes. Worth it for the right moment? Also yes.Just make a reservation, wear something that makes you feel like you belong there, and prepare to eat really good food while pretending you always dine with the entire city spread out below you.Some nights deserve to be elevated. This is the place that does the elevating.Sometimes you need dinner. Sometimes you need an experience that makes you forget you have to do laundry tomorrow."Pro tip: Go for sunset if you can swing it. The city lights coming on while you're working through that wagyu is the kind of moment that makes you understand why people write poetry about dinner.
Location: 1451 Royal York Rd, Etobicoke (aka where I didn't expect to find actual Italian food)The vibe: Your nonna's approval wrapped in pizza doughOkay, so as someone who was literally born in Rome and has spent years explaining to well-meaning Canadians that no, Olive Garden is not "close enough," finding Crudo felt like discovering a twenty-euro note in an old jacket pocket. This place doesn't just bring out your inner Gino—it validates the Gino you actually are.The Panuozzo Situation (Or: Finally, Someone Gets It)When I heard "Toronto's first panuozzo," my Roman cynicism kicked in hard. I've seen what this city does to Italian food—it's usually a crime against my ancestors. But these guys? They actually know what they're doing. The bread has that perfect texture that only comes from people who understand that panuozzo isn't just "pizza sandwich"—it's an art form that requires actual skill.Their mortadella with pistachio cream made me momentarily homesick in the best way. It's not trying to be some fusion nonsense or "elevated" version—it's just good, honest panuozzo like you'd find in any proper Roman pizzeria. The kind that makes you realize how much you've been settling for sad Canadian interpretations of Italian food.The porchetta version? Chef's kiss Perfect. Finally, someone in this city who knows that marinated eggplant isn't just a random vegetable you throw on because it sounds Italian.Pizza That Doesn't Insult My HeritageLook, I've been disappointed by "authentic Italian" pizza in Toronto more times than I care to count. Places that think adding some basil makes it Neapolitan, or worse, those spots that proudly serve thick-crust monstrosities and call them "Italian-style."But Crudo's pizza? Actually respectable. The dough has the right chew, the San Marzano sauce tastes like it should (shocking, I know), and they're not drowning everything in cheese like they're trying to hide something. At $23 for a 12-inch, it's more expensive than what I'd pay in Rome, but this is Toronto—I've learned to adjust my expectations along with my budget.The Reality Check (From Someone Who Knows Better)The atmosphere is simple and unpretentious, which is exactly how it should be. Good Italian food doesn't need mood lighting and exposed brick—it just needs to be good. The fact that they've got Euro Cup on and everyone's clearly comfortable just hanging around? That's more authentic than half the "rustic Italian" places downtown charging double.Service is efficient without being rushed, and watching them slice everything fresh in front of you reminds me of home in ways I didn't expect. It's those little details that tell you these people actually understand Italian food culture, not just the Instagram version of it.The Brutally Honest OpinionHere's the thing—as an Italian living in Toronto, I've become an expert at managing expectations. Most "Italian" food here is Italian the way Tim Hortons is French cuisine. But Crudo? It's actually trying to do things right, and mostly succeeding.Is it exactly like being back in Italy? No, obviously. But it's close enough to make me stop complaining about how "nobody in Toronto knows how to make proper Italian food." The owners clearly give a damn about authenticity, and in a city where people think carbonara should have peas, that's worth celebrating. Look, I went in expecting decent pizza and left questioning why I've been settling for mediocrity my entire adult life. "My fellow Etobicokians, if you haven't tried Crudo Pizza & Panuozzo you aren't living"—and honestly, they're not wrong.This place doesn't need Instagram-worthy neon signs or Edison bulbs to prove it's good. It just quietly serves food that makes you want to kiss the chef (in a purely platonic, "thank you for showing me the light" kind of way). It's the kind of spot that makes you feel like you've discovered something special, even though you're basically just eating really good Italian food in a strip mall.The Final VerdictCrudo brings out your inner Gino in the best possible way—suddenly you care about the quality of your tomatoes, you have opinions about cheese, and you might catch yourself gesturing more enthusiastically while talking. It's authentic without being pretentious, delicious without breaking the bank (okay, it'll dent it a little), and hidden just enough to make you feel like you're in on Toronto's best-kept secret.Rating: ★★★★☆ (would be five stars but they don't deliver to my couch)Will I be back? Già prenotato for next week.Crudo Pizza & Panuozzo 1451 Royal York Rd, Etobicoke (647) 694 6284 | crudoto.com
At 52, this Italian-Canadian entrepreneur walked away from a lucrative tech career to create something that actually feeds the soul—and it's working.When Enza Cianciotta tells you she's "loving" her late-in-life pivot to entrepreneurship, you believe her. After three decades as a software executive, traveling between Canada and London every three weeks, Enza did what most people only dream about: she walked away from the money to chase her passion. But this isn't your typical "follow your dreams" story. This is about a woman who saw a problem in our food system and decided to fix it, one authentic product at a time.Living in London for 12 years opened Enza's eyes to something most North Americans don't realize we're missing. "Coming from Europe, all the grocery stores here were laden with products full of high fructose corn syrup, emulsifiers, stabilizers," she explains. "In Europe, GMOs are banned." The revelation that hit hardest? Learning that a tomato could contain shrimp genes—meaning someone with a shellfish allergy could have an anaphylactic reaction to what should be a safe, natural product.This European perspective, combined with her Italian heritage and nutritional education, became the foundation for SOLENZI—her "free-from" food brand. When Enza told her Scottish husband she wanted to start a business while working AND attending nutrition school, his response was beautifully blunt: "Pick one. You can't do all these three things and do them well." That advice transformed everything.Enza's approach isn't just about removing the bad stuff—it's about elevating the good. She traveled to Puglia, where her family originates, meeting with artichoke growers and farmers. The goal: marry convenience with nutrition, creating meals you could prepare in 30-40 minutes without sacrificing quality or authenticity.SOLENZI's pasta line breaks all the rules. While most brands mix flours, Enza took a purist approach: one pasta that's 100% red lentil (26 grams of protein per portion), another that's 100% chickpea, another that's 100% green pea flour. When featured on "The Good Stuff with Mary Berg," her lentil pasta was voted best alternative pasta, and sales quadrupled overnight.Her newest creation might be the most exciting yet: pasta made with Italian durum wheat and Lupini bean flour. The result? Double the protein of regular wheat pasta, three times the fiber, and 50% fewer net carbs, all while tasting exactly like traditional pasta.Sometimes the best discoveries happen by accident. Preparing for a food show, Enza had a can of coconut cream in her kitchen. On a whim, she combined it with her Boscaiola mushroom mix, simmered for 20 minutes, and brought it to the show. "They didn't care about anything else. They wanted to know where to buy the sauce." That accidental creation became her number-one selling product.Today, SOLENZI products are sold at Farm Boy, Healthy Plant, Fortinos and other major retailers. The brand includes artisanal pastas, gourmet sauces (all sugar-free and gluten-free certified), pestos, and antipastos—all made with simple, authentic ingredients. "We're all passionate about food and nutrition, family. We're authentic, and we believe in integrity and transparency," she says.At 52, Enza proves the best time to start something new might be when you finally know exactly what you stand for: marrying convenience with healthier eating to bring gourmet, delicious food that makes meal-making easy. She's giving us permission to eat well without the guilt, confusion, or compromise. And honestly? It's about time.
I'm sitting across from Lilly Vona at Bar Locale just days before opening, and even in this final preparation stage, you can feel the energy she and partner Frank Facciponte have built into this space. The music system is being tested, the bar is being stocked, and small plates are being perfected in the kitchen. It's exactly the sophisticated yet genuinely fun atmosphere they envisioned when they first laid eyes on this landmark location.Between the Covers: So you're about to open. How does it feel to see your vision finally coming to life?Lilly: It's incredible. This has been something I've always wanted to do. Through my travels, all through my young life, at home when my parents were big entertainers—this is what I've always enjoyed. Sharing plates, small plates, it's collaborative. It invites social connection. Food is so many things to so many people, but at the end of the day, it's family, it's love, it's culture.BTC: So what made Newmarket the right fit for this concept?Lilly: Actually, Newmarket wasn't even on our radar initially. We were actively looking at locations in midtown Toronto when we got approached to look at this property. It's a town-owned landmark location, and we only had one hour to view the space before deciding if we wanted to go through the whole RFP process—business plan, presentation, financials, the works. But honestly, the moment we saw it, we knew. And then when we learned about Main Street's accolades and what this community has built, we got really excited about being part of both the community and the business community here. It's such a unique opportunity to be in a landmark location that has this incredible heritage and significance to the town.BTC: You and Frank are business partners AND life partners. How do you not kill each other when the restaurant is having a shit day?Lilly: laughs We're both Geminis, so we're like the nicest four people you'll ever meet! But Geminis make exciting lovers, exciting partners. Exciting doesn't always mean easy—it's intense sometimes. We play hard, we work hard, we love hard. It's just who we are. And somehow through this crazy life we live, we raised three of the most amazing, well-balanced young men. That's my proudest achievement.BTC: What's been the biggest learning curve in expanding to three locations?Lilly: Learning to step back and trust our team. It took years—me and Frank worked on site 24/7 for years—for us to be able to oversee operations without micromanaging. Now we can go to our own restaurants and enjoy them as guests. Well, mostly. I still notice dust and fingerprints on the walls—you can't help it!BTC: Let's talk about that renovation. You literally stripped this place to the bare bones.Lilly: We did! It was a massive undertaking, but we had this vision of a space that could effortlessly transition from relaxed daytime lunch and brunch to a vibrant nighttime hotspot. That required completely rebuilding and redesigning everything. Every detail matters when you're trying to create an experience that lets people fully immerse themselves from the moment they walk in.BTC: How are you planning to balance creating that vibrant energy while still making it a place people can actually connect?Lilly: The music's going to be loud. When people come from our other Locale locations and say "the music's too loud," we're gonna be like "Crank it!" People should know that before coming in. But trust me, it will work. I'm 60, and I want to go to a place with loud music and crafted cocktails on date night. Sometimes you don't want to talk so much to your partner—you listen to the music together. It's gonna be vibrant, it's gonna give you energy.BTC: Your team seems ready to launch.Lilly: I could not do this without my core team. Steve Oletic will be our restaurant manager here—what he's achieved to make sure Aurora's in good hands while dedicating himself 24/7 to getting this place ready is incredible. Chef Michael Dadd is our head chef, and Eli Rosch is our bar manager. We've collaborated on everything together, and I can't wait for people to experience what we've built.The relationship between restaurant owner and chef is like a very complex dance. When you find that balance with somebody, you fucking go with it. Michael had so much potential beyond what he was doing—small plates, ingredient-driven cooking—this is his niche. And when I let him go, this is what we got.BTC: Chef Michael, tell us about your approach to the menu.Chef Michael Dadd: It's all about Mediterranean inspiration using local ingredients. We're doing everything from scratch—sardines we'll be cleaning and marinating in-house, 40 pounds a week. The patatas bravas, which we introduced at Beer Fest, went over really well. And the croquettas—very Spanish traditional but with a Scotch egg element, so there's a beautiful soft poached egg in the middle.I grew up 15 minutes north of here, so using local produce from the Holland Marsh has always been engrained in everything I do. I can't wait for guests to discover these flavor combinations.BTC: What's the hardest part about getting ready to open this concept?Lilly: Honestly? The hardest part has been navigating the delays and supply chain issues. Post-COVID, everything is more expensive—30 to 35% more—and nothing arrives on time. A simple barstool turns into a six-week delay. But we push through because growth isn’t just about opening another space—it’s about creating opportunity. For our team, our community, and the vision we believe in.I can't wait for our regular customers from King and Aurora to discover this different side of what we do, and to welcome new faces to the family."Food is so many things to so many people, but at the end of the day, it's family, it's love, it's culture."BTC: The design here is stunning. Tell me about those details.Lilly: Every single detail has been thought of, from the bathrooms to the little fringe on the barstools. The glass chandeliers are hand-blown from England. The moth wallpaper—I wanted something edgy. But here's the crazy part: when we first got in this place during construction, I went into that dusty, ugly washroom, and a moth landed on the wall. I was thinking about a logo representing transformation—of Locale, of this space, of myself. Moths are attracted to night and light, and this is the night. Everything just clicked.BTC: What's next for the Locale empire?Lilly: We're going to go RV for a month, because that's what we do. Montreal's been calling, so... I don't know. Let's end it with that.As our conversation winds down and the final preparations continue around us, it's clear that Lilly is about to achieve exactly what she set out to—a place where food is love, where collaboration happens naturally, and where every detail serves the bigger vision of bringing people together. Bar Locale is ready to open, and Newmarket is about to discover something special.
I've reached that age where leaving my house requires a compelling reason. Not just a good reason—a seismic, tectonic-plate-shifting reason that overrides my primal desire to remain horizontal on my couch, binge-watching shows while eating takeout straight from the container. La Baracca in Kleinburg provided exactly that reason, and trust me when I say it was worth putting on real pants for.Don't let the name fool you. "Baracca" means "shack" in Italian, a humble nod to what stood on this spot before renovation. But there's nothing shack-like about this place except perhaps the warm, unpretentious welcome that wraps around you like your favorite sweater the moment you step inside.The Space: Historic Charm Meets Modern BeautyHoused in a beautifully renovated historical home in the heart of Kleinburg village, La Baracca strikes that impossible balance between sophisticated and comfortable. The clean, bright interior is punctuated with modern art pieces that keep the space from feeling stuffy or dated. It's elegant without being intimidating—the kind of place where you could propose or just celebrate making it through another work week.But the real magic happens in what they call their "secret garden." Tucked behind the main building, this lush outdoor space transforms ordinary meals into occasions. Strung with twinkling lights and surrounded by greenery, it's the kind of setting that makes even a Wednesday night dinner feel like you've stumbled into someone else's anniversary celebration. I watched a woman actually gasp when she walked out there—a full-bodied, hand-to-chest gasp that wasn't even slightly performative.In a world of overpriced mediocrity, there's something refreshing about paying for something that actually delivers.”Let's be honest—we've all lowered our service expectations lately. The bar is so low that when a server remembers to bring water, I'm ready to nominate them for humanitarian awards. But La Baracca's staff operates in a different universe.Our server greeted us with genuine warmth and the kind of menu knowledge that can only come from actually eating the food, not just reciting descriptions from training. He described specials with such passion I half expected him to break into interpretive dance. When I couldn't decide between two pasta dishes, he didn't give the standard "they're both good" cop-out but instead walked me through exactly how each would taste and which would pair better with my wine.Speaking of wine—the collection is extensive without being overwhelming, and nobody made me feel like an idiot when I mispronounced the Italian varietals. Our server suggested a regional wine that wasn't even among the most expensive options, a rare act of beverage integrity that deserves recognition.It was worth putting on real pants for.”The Food: This Is Why You're HereI could write poetry about the bread basket alone—crusty, still-warm bread served with olive oil that tastes like it was pressed approximately twelve minutes ago. But that would leave no room to tell you about everything else, and trust me, you need to know.The calamari appetizer made me question my life choices. Why have I suffered through so many rubbery, over-battered versions when this tender, lightly coated perfection exists in the world? It's served with a lemon aioli that's somehow both rich and light, a culinary magic trick I'm still trying to deconstruct.For mains, the "blue crab pasta with lobster bisque" deserves every bit of its reputation. The pasta (handmade, because of course it is) has that perfect bite, and the sauce strikes a balance between creamy and light that should be scientifically impossible. The seafood is fresh and abundant—none of that sad "two shrimp and a mussel" situation that plagues lesser establishments.But the wild boar gnocchi? That's the dish I'm still having flashbacks about. The gnocchi themselves are cloud-like pillows that somehow maintain their structure, and the wild boar ragu has depth that comes from actual slow-cooking, not just dumping in tomato paste and hoping for the best. It's rustic and refined at the same time, like the culinary equivalent of someone who can discuss philosophy but also knows how to change a tire.Save room for the white chocolate lava cake with pistachio filling. When cut open, that vibrant green center flowing into the pool of vanilla gelato created a moment so sensual I felt like I should've bought it dinner first. The contrast between the warm cake and cool gelato, the sweet white chocolate and slightly bitter pistachio—it's the kind of dessert that ruins you for other desserts.The Verdict: Worth Every Penny (And You'll Need Several)Let's address the prosciutto-wrapped elephant in the room: La Baracca isn't cheap. Your credit card will feel the burn. But in a world of overpriced mediocrity, there's something refreshing about paying for something that actually delivers. The portions are generous, the ingredients clearly high-quality, and the execution skilled enough to justify the price tag.This isn't everyday dining unless your last name is Bezos or Musk. But for those nights when you need to remind yourself that pleasure still exists in the world—celebrations, romantic evenings, or just Tuesday nights when existential dread hits hard—La Baracca offers a genuine experience rather than just a meal.In a sea of restaurants that feel like they were designed by algorithms and staffed by people who would rather be anywhere else, La Baracca stands out as passionately, authentically human. It's as if someone took all the elements that make dining out special and concentrated them in one historical building in Kleinburg.So yes, put on real pants. Drive to Kleinburg. Spend more than you planned. You'll leave with the kind of food memories that pop up months later, making you smile inappropriately during boring meetings. And isn't that worth a little credit card anxiety?I think so. And if you don't trust me, trust the woman who gasped at the secret garden. That kind of genuine delight can't be faked.Rating: 4.7 out of 5 perfectly paired wine glassesLa Baracca is located at 10503 Islington Avenue in Kleinburg. Open Tuesday through Saturday for lunch (12–3pm)and dinner (5–10:30pm). Reservations strongly recommended for weekend dinners and the garden seating area.
Alex: [takes a deep breath] Because trauma compounds. Being removed from your home is traumatic. Being in a system that shuffles you around is traumatic. Being queer in spaces that may not affirm or understand your identity? Another layer.The statistics around mental health for system-involved LGBTQ+ youth are heartbreaking. Higher rates of depression, anxiety, suicide attempts. But those aren't just numbers to me—they're kids with names and dreams and favorite songs.We build mental health support into everything we do, not as an add-on but as the foundation. You can't build a future if you're constantly in survival mode. Healing has to come first.But here's what's important: we don't pathologize their responses to trauma. When a kid has a panic attack because they're being moved to their seventh placement in two years, that's not a disorder—that's a reasonable response to an unreasonable situation. We validate that. We teach them to understand their own responses rather than being ashamed of them.JT: Your work embraces the messy, non-linear reality of healing and identity—something we talk about a lot in Between the Covers. How do you approach that messiness with Lighthouse?Alex: [smiles] Oh, we're all about the mess. Transformation isn't linear. Healing isn't Instagram-worthy. Growth often looks like two steps forward, one step back, three steps sideways, and occasionally a complete faceplant.We have this cultural narrative that recovery or growth should be this beautiful, inspiring journey with a clear before-and-after. The reality? It's complicated and contradictory. You can be making huge strides in therapy while your external life is falling apart. You can look like you're thriving to everyone else while fighting internal battles they can't see.At Lighthouse, we celebrate tiny victories—the kid who made it to school three days this week instead of two, the teen who spoke in group for the first time, the young adult who went to a job interview even though anxiety nearly kept them home. We honor backslides and mistakes as part of the process, not failures.“Where tradition meets the table—and every dish tells a story.”Step into Vivo and you’re instantly wrapped in the warmth of rustic charm, rich aromas, and a love for food that feels like coming home. This isn’t just a place to eat—it’s a place to linger, to laugh, to connect.Rooted in Italian tradition, Vivo brings a modern twist to classic recipes that have been passed down through generations. Whether it's their hand-stretched pizza, house-made pasta, or the kind of tiramisu that makes you believe in love again, every bite is a reminder that good food takes time—and heart.The space is cozy yet elevated, with open kitchens that invite you to be part of the experience. Families, first dates, and foodies all gather here for one simple reason: it’s authentic. From the first pour of olive oil to the last swirl of espresso, Vivo delivers comfort without compromise. Come hungry, leave full—in more ways than one.BTC: What's been the most surprising part of this work for you?Alex: [smiles] How much the kids end up helping me. There's this narrative that mentorship is one-directional—wise adult helps struggling youth. But these young people have taught me more about resilience and authenticity than any self-help book ever could.Last year, we had this 14-year-old, Jamie, who'd been in seven placements. At our summer retreat, we were doing this activity about belonging, and Jamie said, "Sometimes family isn't who you're born to; it's who you refuse to give up on." I think about that every day.The other surprise is how much joy there is mixed in with the hard stuff. We laugh a lot. We celebrate every tiny victory. Found family can be as messy and complicated as biological family, but there's something beautiful about choosing each other anyway.BTC: What would you tell adults—especially those struggling with their own identities or mental health—about what you've learned from this work?Alex: [leans forward] That it's never too late to find your people. To reshape your story. To heal old wounds.So many adults I meet—especially queer adults—are carrying these deep beliefs that they're fundamentally broken or unworthy of connection. They've internalized messages from childhood, from society, from religion, from everywhere telling them they're wrong somehow.What I've learned from our youth is that unlearning those messages is a lifetime practice. It's not about reaching some perfect state of self-acceptance; it's about noticing when those old stories arise and gently challenging them, over and over again.Also? Community matters. We aren't meant to heal in isolation. Finding spaces where you can be your authentic self—messy, contradictory, evolving—is essential. Whether that's therapy, support groups, chosen family, creative communities... find your lighthouse, the people who can help guide you safely to shore.BTC: Last question—what gives you hope on the hard days?Alex: [quiet for a moment] Two things. First, the change I've witnessed. When we started Lighthouse seven years ago, we had twelve mentors and twenty kids. Now we have over a hundred pairs across three counties. That growth tells me something about our collective capacity for care.“Healing isn’t about becoming someone new. It’s about remembering who you were before the world told you to shrink—and choosing, every damn day, to take up space anyway.”But honestly? It's the text messages. The ones that say "I got through today" or "I used that coping strategy" or just "thank you." Small moments of connection that remind me why we do this work.There's this kid, Tyler, who graduated from our program last year. They're in college now, studying social work. They texted me recently:"Sometimes I still feel like I'm falling apart, but then I remember that's just part of being human. And I keep going anyway."That's it, right there. We're all just falling apart and putting ourselves back together. But we don't have to do it alone.“You don’t have to be whole to be worthy.”
Located at 10200 Keele Street, 9Baci Restaurant is a charming spot that brings authentic Italian flavors to the heart of Maple. Known for its warm ambiance and inviting atmosphere, it’s the perfect place for a casual dinner or a celebratory night out. Their menu features Italian classics like wood-fired pizzas and handmade pastas, with the truffle gnocchi and stone-baked pizza often stealing the spotlight. The outdoor patio adds an extra layer of coziness, making it an ideal setting for enjoying a glass of wine with your meal.What truly sets 9Baci apart is its dedication to creating a welcoming experience. The staff’s warmth and passion make every guest feel like family, ensuring attentive service from start to finish. While the food consistently earns praise for its quality and flavor, the restaurant’s community-focused vibe and occasional themed nights, like karaoke or Latin evenings, make it a unique dining destination. If you’re in Maple and craving a true taste of Italy, 9Baci is a must-visit spot that delivers on all fronts.
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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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
"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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