A year ago, I knew very little about Public Relations. At least, not in the way I understand it today. After more than twenty years working across media, marketing, growth, and strategy, I joined a new kind of agency with a simple goal: to learn. I wanted to immerse myself in a discipline that sat adjacent to my own experience, absorb new ways of thinking, develop new skills, and better understand the intersection of earned media, culture, influence, and social impact.

Twelve months later, I found myself in London, sitting on the D&AD Awards jury for the PR category alongside some of the brightest minds in our industry. The experience was both humbling and inspiring.

For most of my life, I believed leadership was something you earned. A title. A seat at the table. A signal to others that you had proven yourself capable of guiding people, shaping decisions, and carrying responsibility at scale. Leadership, as I understood it, lived in boardrooms and presentations, in strategy and performance, in the external markers that told the world you were ready. And then I became a father.

There is a persistent omission in how value is defined across our institutions. It rarely appears in budgets or performance metrics, and it is often the first thing quietly reduced when pressure mounts. Arts and culture are framed as supplemental, important in theory, expendable in practice. This omission is not accidental. It reflects a narrow understanding of what sustains societies, organizations, and people over time.

For much of my early life, I did not question the structures around me. Like many men, I inherited a world where certain advantages felt natural simply because they were familiar. My voice was rarely questioned in professional rooms. My safety in public spaces was something I assumed rather than calculated. My ambition was encouraged without the quiet skepticism that women often encounter when they take up space or authority. What felt natural to me often obscured the inequities experienced by others.

There is a particular kind of forgetting that happens slowly, beneath the surface of a functioning life. It does not announce itself as crisis. It arrives disguised as competence, reliability, and momentum. You wake up each day, move through the hours, meet expectations, and call it living, while something essential inside you quietly recedes.

For a long time, I believed that this erosion was simply the cost of adulthood. That to be serious in the world, to provide, to contribute, to matter; required a gradual departure from the self. I mistook this departure for maturity. I believed that if I could endure enough, override enough, surrender enough of my inner life, I would eventually be rewarded with stability or peace.

When I think about the challenges Indigenous and First Nations communities face in Canada today, it feels less like a checklist of social issues and more like a long shadow cast by history, one that stretches across generations and still falls over the present. It is a shadow shaped by choices made deliberately, systems built intentionally, and values imposed without consent. Among the most damaging of these impositions was patriarchy, a foreign social order enforced through colonial rule, law, and religion, and weaponized to dismantle Indigenous systems of balance, governance, and care.

Colonialism did not merely occupy land; it restructured society. In many Indigenous nations, women held central roles as leaders, decision-makers, knowledge keepers, and stewards of land and kinship. Authority was relational rather than hierarchical, rooted in reciprocity, accountability, and collective well-being. The imposition of European patriarchy disrupted this balance, replacing it with male-dominated governance systems that devalued women’s authority and severed them from power, land, and status. This was not accidental. It was strategic…