Mary in Vancity

Let me start by saying this: I love Canada.

I love the wide-open skies in Manitoba, the soft fog rolling over the mountains in BC, and that first sip of Tim Hortons on a freezing winter morning (even if the coffee’s mid, we all know it’s about the ritual). I love that this country gave me safety, opportunity, my kind-hearted husband, and my beautiful son. I get emotional just thinking about the life I’ve been able to build here.

But every year, when Canada Day rolls around, I feel… complicated. And if I’m being honest, a little emotionally bloated. Like I ate too much maple-flavoured cognitive dissonance.

You see, I’m Indigenous. I’m also an immigrant. And I came to this country as a refugee, fleeing violence and instability. Canada welcomed me in ways my birth country never could. But it’s hard to wave a little red-and-white flag without thinking about who paid the price for all this “freedom” in the first place.

I don’t say this to be a buzzkill at your BBQ. (Please pass the hot dogs.) But it’s weird to celebrate a country’s birthday when your ancestors never got an invite to the party—and were actually the ones who built the venue. Colonization didn’t just happen a long time ago; it’s not historical—it’s current. It’s generational. And it’s personal.

I started really questioning how I felt about Canada Day after the unmarked graves of Indigenous children were found at former residential school sites. That shook me. Not because I didn’t already know what had happened in those places—we always knew. But because now, the rest of the country had to look, too.

So yeah, when July 1st comes around, I’m not rushing to buy face paint or light up sparklers. It’s not because I’m ungrateful. Quite the opposite. I’m deeply thankful for what Canada has given me. The safety. The healthcare (most of the time). The long walks in Stanley Park. My family. A chance to heal.

But healing means telling the truth. And the truth is that Canada is built on Indigenous land, Indigenous labour, and Indigenous pain. Same story in other colonized countries—just different accents. So when people ask, “Aren’t you proud to be Canadian?” I say: Yes, but I want my pride to come with justice. I want reconciliation that isn’t performative. I want joy that doesn’t require silence.

So what do I do on Canada Day?

Sometimes I go for a walk. Sometimes I attend a vigil. Sometimes I eat cake and feel weird about it. Sometimes I talk to my son about what the day means—and what it could mean if we were brave enough to face our past.

If you’re feeling the same way, you’re not alone. You can love your country and still hold it accountable. That’s not unpatriotic—that’s the most honest kind of patriotism there is.

Happy complicated Canada Day. Be safe, be kind, and tell the truth. Always.