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Trigger warning: this text contains mention of suicide. Find resources for suicide and crisis care helplines. __________________________________ There have always been mental health issues in my family. My father had many problems associated with compulsive obsessive disorder such as an excessive dislike of many foods.  He would never eat poultry of any kind.  The only vegetables he ate were potatoes, but they had to be either baked in the oven or fried.  As for salads, he would only eat the tender leaves at the heart of a salad, celery and tomatoes with their skins and seeds removed.  He didn’t eat soup, stews, pasta or beans.  He did like roast beef provided he could get the roasted outer layer.  He never touched pork or lamb but would eat cured meat such as bacon (just streaky), ham and even tongue. He like rice pudding but it had to be dried up and served with the skin at the top.  As for fish, he would only eat plaice and it had to be battered and deep fried.  He didn’t like eggs except in an omelette but did like cheese.  My grandmother (who was an excellent cook) didn’t know what to do with my father and sent him off during the vacations to spend time with her sister who had a boarding house near the sea and prepared him bacon sandwiches “Southampton way”!  My mother (who was not a good cook) obviously found my father’s food choices very difficult to deal with. I remember from a young age my father throwing his plate of food on the floor, resulting in my mother losing her temper.  In retrospect, this has its comical side, but at the time, this deeply affected me, and most probably my brother, and led me to run away to my grandparents’ house each time it happened.  Another reason I spent so much time with my grandparents until I went to secondary school was because I also had a problem with food.  I wouldn’t eat. My mother also had mental health issues, stemming from the fact that her mother died when she was ten.  Since her father was not able to cope after the death of his wife, the family was split up and she and one of her sisters ended up on a desolate hillside sheep farm with no amenities and having to walk several miles to school in all kinds of weather.  After finishing school at 17, she trained as a nurse but had to give this up when she developed tuberculosis.  After leaving the sanitarium, she had nowhere to go, so she told me that she ended up marrying my father, although she was warned not to by my grandmother.  Despite all these hardships and challenges, she developed resilience and determination.  However, her childhood experiences deeply affected her and resulted in depression, difficulty with relationships and lack of empathy at times. My brother, when in his teens, started to develop traits of obsessive compulsive tendencies.  He loved geology and would fill his father’s small car with so many rocks that the boot would almost touch the ground.  When using the bus, he would take a newspaper to sit on.  He also had issues with food and smells.  He couldn’t tolerate the smell of cooking fish and would get very angry with anyone preparing it.  An artist, he went to several art colleges but could not stay; he was unable to get on with his professors.  Despite being very intelligent and knowledgeable, he never had a salary and lived with his parents until my mother could no longer stand his constant flareups, his abusive behaviour, and his hoarding: he would fill the small house with boxes of books, model cars, planes, trains.  My mother gave my father an ultimatum and they bought another house.  However, this didn’t solve the problem completely because my brother would still go to prepare his food at their house every day and he filled it with his boxes.  They never succeeded in keeping him away.  When I used to go to see my parents with my two daughters, we would dread my brother turning up because we knew he would soon start getting angry.  This affected my children because my brother could be very cruel. Growing up, my children did not seem to have many problems with mental health, although we all suffered to some extent from anxiety.  My elder daughter decided to study medicine.  An excellent student, her anxiety worsened and she started getting panic attacks.  Because of this, she decided to shorten her residency and study family medicine.  That was probably not a good choice for her.  After graduating, she decided to work in the hospital Emergency department.  An avid cross country skier and cyclist, she injured her knee which led to chronic pain. Depressed with her boyfriend, her profession and her chronic pain issues, she was given antidepressants and opiates.  A combination of all these factors led to her taking her life. My granddaughter, who was born three months before my daughter’s death, helped both my younger daughter and myself to deal with our grief and guilt.  The death of a child is something a parent never gets over.  It’s a tragedy and we all bear part of the guilt.  We can’t avoid it, but we have a choice between giving up or carrying on and making the most of the life we still have left – that is a gift in itself.   By Margaret Brunelle

I was born in France, not far from Paris. I have a sister who is three years older than me. As a young girl, I struggled with severe dyslexia and asthma. When I was 9, my parents decided to move to the south of France. Once we settled in, my mother found a private school for me and my sister; it was an English-speaking school (Anglo-American school), and my sister and I learned English from a very young age. When I was 12, my back problems began; I was diagnosed with scoliosis, I wore a brace to correct the scoliosis for four years, but unfortunately, the scoliosis was progressing too quickly, so the decision was made to have surgery. However, I had to wait until I was fully grown, so I had spinal surgery at age 15; they inserted two titanium rods and screws into my spine. Much later, when I was 21, I had another health problem – this time with my eyes – and I almost lost my sight. Luckily for me, I had a very good friend from school who happened to be Dutch; I liked her a lot. She was very positive, which helped me forget my problems because she would pick me up and we’d go to the club, and I’d sleep over at her place from time to time. My vision problems resolved, but I had to be hospitalized and given very strong cortisone. Eventually, my vision returned, but one eye sees less clearly than the other. When I was 25, I was still living with my parents. Then my parents decided to leave the south of France to immigrate to Québec. Much later, I was hospitalized, but this time for a mental illness: bipolar disorder. Ever since then, to keep myself busy, I’ve been volunteering at senior living facilities, and it’s been about 11 years now. I live alone in a one-bedroom apartment and rely on welfare because I have a severe disability that limits my ability to work, though I can still work – just part-time. So now I’m looking for a job, and in the meantime, I’m volunteering at Saint Brigid’s Home. I never lose hope because people have always been there to help me, and that really helps me stay positive. I hope my story helps you stay hopeful, because even when problems arise, there will always be someone or something to help us.   By Clémence Carrizey

A Joyful Life Together

I was living a happy life with my wonderful partner, Denyse, and our five adult children. Most of our children lived in Québec City, and after I retired from the Canadian government as a Customs Investigator, Denyse and I chose to move there as well. Our days were filled with happiness, and we often travelled together. Family outings and festive gatherings for various events were common and brought us closer. In Québec, I found fulfilment teaching English and working part time as a journalist for the Québec Chronicle Telegraph.

The Onset of Dementia

Dementia slowly found its way into our home when Denyse began to show signs of forgetfulness. She would put things in the wrong places and occasionally experienced hallucinations. As her condition progressed, I found myself needing to be present around the clock to ensure her safety and well-being. To monitor her while I continued my part-time work as a journalist and writer, I installed a transmitter in the living room so I could hear her activities. Sometimes, I would hear her talking and discover she was having imaginary conversations with her parents while gazing at an empty sofa. Everyday tasks became more challenging: I would find cutlery in the garbage and soiled clothes in dresser drawers. To prevent accidents in the kitchen, we started purchasing prepared meals. The demands of attending to her physical and emotional needs became increasingly stressful for me.

Transitioning to Assisted Care

On professional advice, we moved to Logidor in October 2019, located in the Sainte Foy district of Québec City, so that Denyse could receive the care she needed. On Christmas Eve morning, December 24, I heard Denyse crying and found her on the floor by the bed. I immediately called for the medical team, and a nurse arrived quickly. It was determined that she had fractured her hip, and an ambulance was called. Denyse spent 42 days in hospital, during which a metal rod was placed in her leg. Her stay was extended to allow for mental assessments. I was invited to meet with the medical team, who informed me that Denyse had Alzheimer’s disease and explained that I could no longer care for her on my own. It became clear that she needed to be placed in a care facility.

A New Chapter at Saint Brigids

Fortunately, a place became available at Saint Brigid’s Home in the Sillery district of Québec City. For the first three years, I regularly drove to visit Denyse. In May 2024, I was accepted at McGreevy Manor, conveniently located next door to Saint Brigid’s, with an adjoining tunnel and wheelchair-accessible lift. This proximity allowed me to see Denyse daily, and I took comfort in knowing she was well cared for by medical staff and the activity coordinators. I could bring her to my apartment at McGreevy Manor, where she was warmly received by the residents who had come to know her. We would look at videos and photos of our family and the vacations we had enjoyed, before I brought her back to Saint Brigid’s for her meals. This routine continued until March 29, 2025, when Denyse passed away. Our family recently gathered to mark the first anniversary of her passing.

Family Support and Lasting Memories

The support of my children was crucial to my own health and resilience during this period. Denyse and I shared 73 years of marriage, were blessed with five children, nine grandchildren, and ten great-grandchildren. Despite the challenges of Alzheimer’s, our years together were filled with happy memories. At 93 years of age, I continue to drive my car and am writing this on my computer. I suppose dementia may not affect me for a while yet, if ever.   By Charles William (Bill) Cox

Since last year, my journey began when I left my country and my family after the war in 2024 and came to live with my sister in Québec. As an English speaker in a mostly French-speaking environment, I often felt even more isolated, as even simple daily tasks became stressful and overwhelming. The beginning was not easy. Everything around me was unfamiliar: the language, the harsh winter, and the people. I didn’t know anyone, and this deeply affected my mental health. I felt fear, loneliness, and confusion almost every day. The first month was the hardest. I was afraid to go outside because of the cold, and winter made everything feel heavier. I remember missing the bus once and crying because I didn’t know what to do. Another time, I took the wrong bus and ended up far from the city. In those moments, I felt completely lost and alone. At first, I was very hard on myself. I thought I was failing because I couldn’t adapt quickly. But slowly, I began to understand what self-compassion means. I realized that it is okay to feel lost, and that adjusting to a new life takes time. Instead of blaming myself, I started treating myself with patience and kindness. I began taking small steps to take care of my mental health. I explored the city on my own, discovered new streets, walked every day, and spent time reading. These simple self-care activities helped me feel calmer and more grounded. One of the most important turning points was connecting with the community. I started volunteering, which helped me meet people and feel less alone. It reminded me that even in a new place, support and kindness exist. Later, I began working at Walmart, which helped me integrate more into society, build connections, and improve my confidence. Over time, I started to feel like I belong and that I have a new kind of family here. This journey has taught me that mental health is deeply connected to our sense of belonging and the people around us. It has also taught me resilience, the strength to keep going, even when things feel uncertain. Today, I believe mental health matters because it shapes how we see ourselves and the world. Healing doesn’t happen all at once; it happens in small steps, through self-compassion, and through the support of a community that reminds us we are not alone.   By Rabab Husseiny

Trigger warning: this text contains mention of suicide. Find resources for suicide and crisis care helplines. __________________________________ I wouldn’t wish a day inside my head on anyone. It’s often bonkers, with boundless creativity (good!) but also boundless overthinking (less good!). I sleep with a noise machine on because for me, complete silence is the loudest thing of all…    My mental health journey peaked during my teenage years, notably with clinical depression, anxiety and insomnia. Couple that with school and family issues and it culminated with a suicide attempt at…16? I don’t fully remember, that time was kind of a blur. I ultimately beat most of those issues for two reasons: 1) music – the greatest thing in the world 2) realizing at 17 that I wanted to go to college for radio – because having a goal to strive for saved my life Fast-forward to now, a 41-year-old anglophone from Halifax, Nova Scotia who’s been living in Québec City for the last three years. Upon arrival I had basic French: the ability to get myself around as a tourist but not hold a full conversation. As someone who literally used to talk for a living, not being able to properly communicate verbally was wild. I’ve improved immensely because, despite living alone and working mostly in English, I embrace this incredible francophone city and bust my hump to do so. But of course, it’s a work in progress: at times I still struggle, still get frustrated, still get treated like an idiot by (mostly well-meaning) people. It’s going to be a while, if ever, before all that changes. You know what’s funny to think about when it comes to living here? I’m a straight, white, cis male, and… I’m a minority. For the first time in my life, I, a member of basically the only demographic on Earth that doesn’t face discrimination and/or oppression, am included in a marginalized group. When people compliment me on finally saying YOLO and taking this leap, I thank them, but add that immigrants are the real brave ones. Moving from much farther away, entering a completely different culture, having to change official documentation and other stuff that shouldn’t be as difficult as it is, not having a support system at hand …that is an adjustment. I still experience a good amount of generalized anxiety. One delightful thing about that is, I often replay social interactions in my head and then curse myself when something didn’t necessarily go ideally. You know what’s even better? That, but in my second language! Yay! Mental health issues come for everyone at some point. What I try to remember – as simply a human being living on this beautiful mess of a planet – is that I can’t control what other people do or think, and that’s freeing in itself. Now, do I worry about making other people look bad somehow? Absolutely, I try desperately not to hurt anyone. If I go down, no one needs to come with me. I know that the things that pick me up when I’m down are music and laughter.  As I write this, I’m listening to a song called “Empty Like the Ocean” AND just rocked “Puits sans fond” by Québec’s own Vulgaires Machins, a title that means “bottomless pit” – like where mental health issues can send you.  That’s probably my cue to wrap this up, isn’t it? Good luck to you, and one thing I pride myself on: Even if I can’t help, I’ll listen. Thank you for reading my story.   By Kevin Bottaro