Trans activists tried to ruin my life. All they did was make it better.

My ongoing legal problems began in the fall of 2020.

Activists, all strangers to me, people I had never met, wanted to destroy my career as a nurse. They didn’t like that I was talking and writing about gender ideology in a way that challenged the tenets of their pseudo-religious, faith-based belief system in gender identities or the “female penis.” (Barf.)

The point of this article is not to rehash the timeline or story of my cancellation. I’ve spoken and written about it extensively—and the legal battle rages on. (And I assume that most, if not all, of my Substack readers are aware of the story.)

The point of this article is to express my sincerest gratitude towards those who attempted to destroy my life. Thank you.

I wouldn’t be the woman I am today without you.

I recently wrote a National Post piece for their “What We’ve Lost” essay series. The series was a deep dive into how Canada has changed over the past decade (approximately); it was about all of the things our country has tossed aside, forgotten, or had taken from us in the woke takeover of our institutions and culture. (I highly recommend the entire essay series.)

I covered resilience. I argued that we have lost the proper attitude towards existence.

“It’s not considered brave to overcome. Today, what’s considered brave is to simply expose our soft underbellies and publicly announce each of our weaknesses. Look no further than to the social media biographies that typical woke ‘progressives’ display as an encapsulation of their very selfhood: a list of diagnosed mental or physical illnesses, membership in oppressed communities or claims of having been traumatized by life’s predictable tribulations,” I wrote.

Before my cancellation, I, too, was suffering from a crisis of meaning and a lack of resilience. I often became overwhelmed with guilt, shame, and anxiety over minor setbacks or any kind of uncertainty.

And then this happened: I announced to my family that I was going to get a divorce (with one baby and one toddler at home) the same week that I received a letter in the mail notifying me that I was under investigation by my professional regulator for my off-duty speech. The floor dropped from under me, twice, in a short period of time.

That was the start of my cancellation.

I can laugh at this, now. At the time, I was only making it through the days by enveloping myself into motherhood and practicing mindfulness in the presence of my sons. It felt like chaos and ruin were lurking in the darkness outside of my immediate awareness.

Several very difficult years ensued. Practicing mindfulness, taking care of my sons, earning an income, and keeping a household running were all necessities. There was no one to depend on except for myself.

The type of setbacks and anxieties I once felt paralyzed by became quaint, pale little things. And while I got into this whole mess because I had been outspoken about women’s sex-based rights, I found an additional source of interest and meaning: free speech absolutism.

I often think of Richard Bilkszto, a former Toronto principal who tragically committed suicide during the course of his (similar to my own) cancellation. We even shared the same lawyer! Bilkszto’s death disturbed me greatly, both because of how sad it was—and how evil the persons who harmed him are—and because it suggested that what I was going through was exactly as terrible as I feared it was.

But here I sit.

My sons are healthy and happy. I’ve got a new career. I’ve found love. I’ve got stronger friendships—with principled persons. The way I perceive hardship has changed: it gives meaning, purpose, and clarity. Hardship doesn’t need to be avoided at all costs, nor should it fill your lungs as a noxious gas.

Woke puritans and the purveyors of cancel culture are rotten people. So it’s quite funny to feel grateful towards them.But I am.

Thanks, assholes!