I believe everything is political.
Not because I want everything to be political.
But because, at some point, you realize that some of the things you have experienced personally are connected to decisions much bigger than you.
I think becoming an adult has made me understand that more.
I came to Canada as a child from Jamaica. I grew up here, went to school here, built my life here, and learned what it meant to navigate this country as someone who was Black, a woman, and an immigrant child.
But growing up, I don’t think I had the language to understand how political some of my experiences actually were.
I just thought I was figuring life out.
I thought everyone had to figure things out.
I thought everyone had to learn how to navigate institutions, education, employment, money, housing and adulthood.
Then I got older.
And I started realizing that the ability to “just figure it out” isn’t distributed equally.
Some people have family members who can help them financially when things get difficult.
Some people can call their parents when they need somewhere to stay.
Some people have someone who can help them get their first job.
Some people have a safety net they don’t even realize they have because they’ve never had to live without one.
And then there are people who become adults and realize that they are the safety net.
I know what it feels like to have to think about money, housing, education, employment and my future all at the same time.
I know what it feels like to have responsibilities that don’t always wait until you feel ready for them.
I have had to learn how to advocate for myself because there isn’t always someone standing behind me who can do it for me.
And I think those experiences changed the way I see politics.
Because eventually, you start realizing that the things we call “personal problems” are sometimes connected to much larger systems.
Housing isn’t just about whether an individual can budget properly.
Education isn’t just about whether someone works hard enough.
Employment isn’t just about whether someone is ambitious.
Immigration isn’t just paperwork.
Poverty isn’t always a matter of poor choices.
And opportunity isn’t distributed simply based on who wants it the most.
There are policies, institutions and systems sitting behind all of these things.
And those systems have consequences.
That realization hit differently for me because I am a Black woman.
I cannot separate my Blackness from my womanhood.
I cannot separate either of those things from the way I experience the world.
There are things I notice because I am Black.
There are things I notice because I am a woman.
And there are things I notice specifically because I am a Black woman.
Sometimes I walk into a room and wonder whether I am being underestimated.
Sometimes I question whether my voice is strong enough.
Sometimes I wonder whether what I have to say actually matters.
And sometimes I have to remind myself that the fact that I am questioning my right to be in the room doesn’t mean I don’t belong there.
Maybe that’s why representation has become so important to me.
Because when you don’t always see people who look like you in positions of decision-making, you start wondering whether those spaces were ever meant for you.
And I don’t want to spend my life wondering that.
I want to be in those spaces.
Not because I think being Black or being a woman automatically makes someone a better leader.
It doesn’t.
But because our experiences shape the questions we think to ask.
They shape the problems we notice.
They shape the communities we think about when decisions are being made.
And I want people like me to be part of those conversations.
I think about my family too.
My mother is still in Jamaica.
So are other members of my family.
And there is something strange about building a life in Canada while people you love are still somewhere else.
Immigration can sound like a policy issue when you’re reading about it in the news.
But it feels completely different when your family is on the other side of the policy.
That’s when you realize that these aren’t just political debates.
They are people’s lives.
They are mothers.
Children.
Families.
People waiting for opportunities.
People waiting to be reunited.
People trying to build something better.
And that is why I struggle when people tell me that politics shouldn’t matter so much.
Maybe it doesn’t have to matter to everyone in the same way.
But it matters to me.
Because I have experienced what it feels like when the systems around you don’t necessarily make life easy.
I have had to learn independence earlier than I would have liked.
I’ve had to make decisions about my future while still trying to understand who I am.
I’ve had moments where I’ve been scared that I wasn’t doing enough, that I wasn’t successful enough, or that maybe I simply wasn’t capable enough.
And yet, the more I learn, the more I realize that resilience shouldn’t be romanticized.
Sometimes people aren’t “strong” because they wanted to be.
Sometimes they were strong because they had no other choice.
And I don’t want a society that constantly praises people for surviving circumstances that could have been prevented in the first place.
I want us to ask why those circumstances existed.
That’s political.
I want us to ask why some people have safety nets and others don’t.
That’s political.
I want us to ask why some communities have resources and others are constantly fighting to be noticed.
That’s political.
I want us to ask who is sitting at the table when decisions are being made.
That’s political.
And maybe that’s why I believe everything is political.
Because once you have had to figure out certain parts of life for yourself, you start seeing the connections.
You realize that your personal story exists within a much larger story.
My story is not just about me.
It’s about immigration.
It’s about race.
It’s about gender.
It’s about family.
It’s about opportunity.
It’s about education.
It’s about economic security.
It’s about belonging.
It’s about what happens when someone has to build a life without always having the same safety nets as everyone else.
And I’m still figuring out what I want my role in all of this to be.
I still have moments where I’m afraid of my own voice.
Moments where I wonder if what I have to say is important enough to make a difference.
But maybe that’s exactly why I need to keep speaking.
Because someone who has spent so much time wondering whether their voice matters should not spend the rest of their life silent.
I don’t want to simply complain about the systems that affect me.
I want to understand them.
I want to question them.
I want to participate in them.
And maybe one day, I want to help change them.
Because I don’t believe I came this far just to learn how to survive.
I want to learn how to build something better—for myself, for my family, and for the people coming after me.
And if that makes me political, then so be it.
Dose Of Chevvi 
Leave a comment