i’ve done it again -
i know not why.
with tethered wings,
i sought to fly:
my feathers dye crimson
in the grips of disquiet;
a sworn enemy now,
though once an ally.

i fight the urge
to be myself.
yet, sometimes -
i get overwhelmed
by a sense of futility,
so strong, and lovely;
i’d trade the world for,
and all its wealth.

i hurdle through life
with a beacon un-flamed -
a blackbird through seasons,
with a spirit untamed.
i urge for someone to
light the torch,
so i may sew - the
verses i maimed.

and though i’m weary -
but not for worse;
i must prepare to die again.
tonight, i chase the truth -
for tomorrow -
i must lie again.

a fog, i saw,
in the mist of night.
humble, it led me
to the ***** of the beast -
who pet me, and held me, and licked me,
until it, and i, were one.  
my restless heart would not let the
beast be at peace…
‘what lies into the night?’, i insisted.
‘i must know. tell me now, i say.’
and the beast shook its head - nay.
‘travel not, nor inquire, into the sea of despair’,
it groaned, ‘it leads good men astray’.

‘but i’m not scared’, i said.
‘look at me… i’m you. i’m mighty.’
‘what could possibly hurt you?’
‘what could possibly hurt… us?’

‘you mistake me for my appearance, young man’,
the beast hummed from within.
‘i am but a vessel.’
‘i do not possess the might you seek.’
‘i was sculpted in your image,
and scores of such valiant seekers
who carrowed their poise for pride’.
‘but if you must -'
'i’m obliged to warn you, as they would -’
‘you may not forget what you see;’
‘you may not like what you hear;’
‘the sea is not forgiving to men
who trespass upon the realms of solitude’
‘hope you’re ready - ’  
‘it gets colder as we get nearer.’

and as we passed the bay of deadly sins,
where tales of woe would barren lay -
sure enough, i heard a faint
rallying cry from far away;
‘the captain must’ve lost his wits...’,
sighed the beast -
‘his compass must’ve failed to obey.’
a requiem followed the shipwreck,
as the shallow winds kissed the
waters grey.

In quiet fields, I stand where winds have blown,
My petals scattered, seeds once brightly sown.
The world has tried to tear away my core,
Still, I root to live this life I abhor.

The sky is heavy, clouds a pressing weight,
I’ve stood in shadows, weathered storms of fate.
And though I bend, my roots remain below,
To find the strength that others seldom show.

Each gust has taken more than I could keep,
My dreams, like seeds, were carried while I sleep.
But still, I bloom, though weary in the light,
For even fragile blooms can hold their fight.

The years have left me cracks I cannot mend,
But in each scar, a lesson to defend.
I’ve learned to face the wind, though I may fall,
And fly again, even without control.

In every fall, I’ve found a quiet grace,
The kind that only time can now embrace.
For every step that took away my past,
I’ve grown in ways I never thought would last.

A dandelion, weathered by the years,
I wear my scars, but let go of my fears.
Though bent, I stand, a fragile bloom in air,
A flower rooted deep in quiet care.

On days like these, I pause and look within,
To measure all the distance I have been.
The seasons turn, and I have felt their mark,
Yet here I bloom, a flower in the dark.

In cracks I find the strength to greet the day—
The roots I’ve grown, no wind can pull away.
No light ahead, though I can clearly see,
That even in the dark, I’ll still be me.

I have struggled so long, but I have thrived,
Now that acceptance keeps my will alive.
And though the world may see me worn and torn,
I'm THEJHONDELION who walked through thorns.

In my journey as a father, I have come to appreciate the profound interplay between masculinity and feminism, two forces often misunderstood as opposing but which, in truth, are deeply intertwined. Raising my spirited 9-year-old daughter has made this understanding both urgent and intimate. I see the questions in her bright eyes, her quiet determination to navigate a world that does not always favor her, and I feel the weight of my role in shaping a future where she can thrive; unapologetic, unburdened, and unbound by the limits of societal expectations.

Feminism, I’ve realized, is not a challenge to masculinity but its complement, offering a lens through which our shared humanity becomes clearer. To embrace it is to deepen our collective understanding, to confront privilege without shame, and to extend empathy as a bridge between differences. As I teach my daughter about respect and equality, I encourage her to see the world not only through her own eyes but also through the eyes of others, understanding both the struggles women face and the unspoken pressures placed upon men. This dual awareness fosters a harmony where all genders can flourish.

The extraordinary women in my life have been my greatest teachers in this. Mentors who guided me with wisdom, a sister whose resilience inspires me, colleagues who challenged and elevated me, and friends whose strength and grace embody the courage it takes to reshape the world. They have shown me that liberation is not merely an abstract ideal but a lived practice; a daily act of courage, care, and connection that transforms everyone it touches.

Their stories, and my daughter’s unfolding one, have taught me that equity requires more than admiration or education. It demands action. I must unlearn the biases I inherited, redefine love as a force for transformation, and actively contribute to dismantling the interconnected systems of oppression that stifle our potential. True liberation cannot exclude anyone; it must honor every voice, embrace every struggle, and envision a world where my daughter’s humanity; and that of all women; is celebrated rather than questioned.

To create this world, I am redefining traditional gender roles within my home, encouraging my daughter to explore her passions free from the weight of convention. I aim to nurture her belief that she can forge any path, whether it aligns with societal norms or not. This empowerment is essential not only to her independence and resilience but also to her capacity to challenge stereotypes and advocate for herself and others.

As I reflect on these lessons, I see that this journey is not mine alone. It is a collective effort; a tapestry woven from love, strength, and shared purpose. Looking into my daughter’s eyes, I am reminded that the work begins with us, with the choices we make daily to foster understanding, support, and empowerment. Change begins with love and ends in freedom.

Equity is not just an aspiration but a necessity, a vision of a world where every individual is valued for who they are, where collaboration replaces competition, and where justice is not an ideal but a reality. By embracing this philosophy, I hope to nurture a future leader who will navigate life with wisdom, empathy, and strength, carrying forward the torch of transformation that will illuminate the path for generations to come.

— Sincerely, Boris

Growing up as an immigrant from São Paulo, Brazil, I was eager to assimilate into what I thought of as the quintessential Canadian life; road hockey, the Toronto Blue Jays, the peaceful multiculturalism I heard so much about. My early years in Canada were shaped by the simple desire to belong, to be seen as a regular Canadian kid. I was proud to be here, in what I viewed as a land of opportunity and kindness. But as I grew older, so did my understanding of this country’s complicated history, one that runs deeper than the friendly stereotypes I had once embraced.

It took time to see that this land I was so eager to call home had a much darker past, particularly in its relationship with Indigenous communities. There’s a truth in this country’s story that unsettled me as I learned more about the legacy of colonization, residential schools, and the continued struggles of Indigenous peoples. At first, it was hard to reconcile these facts with the Canada I thought I knew; a nation that promised fairness, equality, and respect for all. But the more I learned, the more I realized that this sanitized version of Canadian history was a privilege, one that ignored the voices of those who had suffered most under colonial policies.

The discomfort I felt wasn’t just about acknowledging the wrongs of the past; it was about realizing how deeply ingrained these issues still are. Education systems, for example, continue to perpetuate narratives that erase or distort Indigenous perspectives. This wasn’t just a problem of the past but a reflection of the ongoing challenges in how we talk about reconciliation, truth, and justice. How can we truly reconcile when the systems that shape our understanding of the world; our schools, our media, our public discourse; still operate from a place of ignorance or denial?

I’ve come to see that my immigrant experience, my desire to fit in and feel a part of this country, is a small part of a much bigger conversation. I wanted to be “Canadian,” but I didn’t fully understand what that meant. Now, I see that being Canadian isn’t just about belonging to a multicultural mosaic; it’s about recognizing the responsibilities we all share in addressing the injustices that continue to affect Indigenous communities. It’s about asking ourselves what kind of future we want to build; a future that is truly inclusive, one that honors the truth rather than glosses over it.

For me, this journey of learning has been about more than guilt or shame. It’s been about responsibility. It’s not enough to simply know the truth; we have to ask ourselves what we’re going to do with it. How do we challenge the systems that have caused harm? How do we ensure that education becomes a tool for real understanding and change, rather than a means of maintaining the status quo?

As someone who has benefited from the opportunities Canada provides, I feel a deeper sense of accountability to help create space for the stories that haven’t been told; stories that are central to what this country truly is and could be. We owe it to ourselves, to our children, and to the generations of Indigenous peoples who have carried these burdens for far too long. This isn’t just a matter of reconciliation; it’s a matter of reimagining the very foundations of what it means to be a part of this place, to learn from its past and work toward a future that is genuinely just.

In many ways, the more I understand this history, the more my love for this country has deepened; not in spite of its flaws but because the path forward requires all of us to engage with the truth. It’s a love rooted in the hope that we can do better, that we can build a nation that not only acknowledges its past but works actively to heal from it. That, to me, is the essence of what it means to belong to this land.

–

On this first National Day
for Truth and Reconciliation,
I stand with all Canadians,
bearing the guilt of a history
marked by loss and silence,
the innocent lives of Indigenous children
whose spirits still call for justice.
We are bound by the obligation
to grieve, to remember,
and to carry the weight of remorse,
for the lives lost, the futures stolen,
and the deep scars left behind.
In this moment, we commit
to accountability and retribution,
to the work that remains;
to heal, to rebuild,
a society where all are seen,
and the echoes of the past
no longer go unheard.

— Sincerely, Boris

Seeds, too, were surrounded by darkness
before they became anew—
held close by the quiet earth,
pressed into silence so deep
it swallowed the memory of the sky.

Did they mourn the light they had never known?
Did they fear the weight above them,
or trust the unknowable forces
that buried them so?

And when they split themselves apart,
breaking open to grow,
was it with joy,
or was it pain
that gave way to life?

What, then, of us?

There is an animal beneath the skin,
soft-footed and silent.
It does not howl or claw;
it listens,
ears tuned to the pulse
of roots moving underground.

It does not speak our language,
but it hums to the rhythm
of wind slipping through leaves,
to the measured breath of the ocean
meeting the shore.

When you sit still enough,
you can feel it stir:
a gentle shifting in your chest,
a reminder of what you once knew—
the scent of rain before it falls,
the way the earth holds you
even when you forget its name.

It is patient,
this quiet creature,
its heartbeat slow and steady,
a tether to a time
when nothing needed to be said
to be understood.

But it waits,
not for anger,
not for hunger,
but for the moment
when stillness becomes unbearable—
when the weight of silence cracks
and the soft becomes sharp.

One day, it will claw its way free,
not with violence,
but with certainty,
a slow emergence from the dark.

You will feel it rise,
not as a battle,
but as a birth.
It will stand, uncoiling,
and you will find yourself
on your knees,
pressing your face to the ground,
finally remembering
what it means
to belong.

For much of my life, I found myself overextended, giving in to requests and demands that left me drained and resentful. My energy was siphoned away by others, leaving me little time or space to tend to my own needs. In the pursuit of approval, or perhaps the avoidance of confrontation, I became a servant to the expectations of those around me. Yet, I realized that this servitude was not born out of obligation, but from my own inability to say “no” — a simple word, yet one that carries profound weight.

Learning to say “no” is, at its core, an act of self-preservation. It is not a rejection of others, but a reclamation of my time and energy. It is a statement of my boundaries, a way of asserting that my needs, desires, and well-being are just as valid as those of the people who ask for my help. The first step was recognizing that I am not responsible for meeting every expectation placed upon me. In fact, every time I said “yes” out of guilt or fear, I was betraying my own priorities, eroding my own autonomy.

The key to refusing others lies not in bluntness, but in clarity and conviction. To decline with grace, I needed to acknowledge that I am entitled to protect my time. By doing so, I discovered that I can offer more to the world when I am not constantly exhausted or overwhelmed. In reclaiming my ability to say “no,” I opened up a reservoir of energy that could be redirected toward the things and people that matter most to me. It was not selfishness, but rather a conscious decision to steward my own resources wisely.

I also learned that guilt has no rightful place in this equation. The discomfort that arises from setting boundaries is temporary, and it pales in comparison to the long-term depletion caused by over-commitment. Others may not always understand, but their approval is not what defines my worth. There is immense power in standing firm, in recognizing that I cannot be everything to everyone. Saying “no” is an act of integrity; to myself, and in turn, to those who truly depend on me.

By understanding the limits of my own capacity and cultivating the courage to enforce those limits, I now live with greater intention. Every “no” is a door that I close so that I may focus on the doors that truly lead to the life I want to create.

–

If you could hear the music once more,
Would you take my hand to the dance floor?
Would we recall each step we knew,
Or falter on the path we never grew?

Would I grasp at the chance,
To share with you this last dance?

I shouldn’t.
I couldn’t.
I won’t.

For this last dance belongs to a heart worthy of my embrace.

— Sincerely, Boris