🇨🇦 Canada, I Love You — A 50-Year Love Letter From an Immigrant Son

On your 158th birthday, I want to thank you - for everything...

July 1, 2025

Dear Canada,

I love you.

There’s no other way to say it, really. No way to capture what you’ve meant to me, to my family, to everyone who’s ever stepped off a plane or a boat with nothing but hope in their pockets and a dream for something better.

And yet, I’m going to try—because if there’s ever been a day to say it out loud, it’s today. On your 158th birthday, I want to thank you - for everything.

I came here in 1974 with nothing but my parents’ belief in you.

My dad made boxes in a factory. My mom cut hair. After a lifetime in England, they came to Canada looking for something more—for peace, for possibility, for a shot at something their parents never had.

They weren’t rich. They weren’t powerful. But they were right.

Because 50 years later?

My dad retired as a respected media executive. My brother is a doctor. My sister is a nurse. There are eight grandkids running around—great-grandkids on the way. My sister married a man whose family came here from Egypt for the same reason we did. My brother’s son married a woman whose family came from Kenya. I married into a Maltese family with the same story: hardship turned hope, thanks to you.

We’ve all lived the promise that Canada makes—and more importantly, keeps.

Canada is not perfect, but it is principled.

It doesn’t pretend to be a utopia. But it damn well tries to be fair. Here, we don't live in fear of losing our basic rights. We don’t wonder whether someone’s freedom will come at the cost of our own. Because we live by a simple code: your rights stop where mine begin. And that balance? It’s sacred here.

In Canada, we’re free to practice any faith, speak any language, raise any flag, and love whoever we love—as long as it doesn’t hurt the people next to us. That’s the deal. That’s the Charter. That’s what binds us together.

We don’t scream about freedom while stepping on someone else’s. We define it by how we share it.

We are the quiet ones. The steady ones. The ones who show up.

We led America into both World Wars—not because we had to, but because we should.

We cured polio, then gave the vaccine away for free.

We welcomed the sick, the huddled, the tired, the terrified—and we didn’t do it for headlines. We did it because we meant it. Because “bring us your masses” wasn’t a slogan—it was a promise. It still is.

We walk softly and carry a big stick. And we only use it when we see something unjust—whether it’s tyranny, cruelty, or the slow erosion of democracy in the places we used to count as allies.

And when Trumpism crept north, we said NO—loudly, clearly, proudly.

We didn’t let fear win.

We didn’t let disinformation divide us.

We elected Mark Carney, and in doing so, we said: “You don’t get to take our future. Not here. Not now. Not ever.”

We stood at the edge of something ugly, and we locked arms, turning our backs to it. Together.

Because that’s who we are.

Today, Canada is more than a country. It’s a global symbol.

A refuge for those who believe in science, sanity, and social justice.

A lighthouse for Americans watching their rights crumble, wondering where to run.

A beacon for families looking for safety. For education. For peace.

And for me? It’s still the place that took a box-maker’s son and let him dream bigger.

It’s the reason I have a voice. A platform. A life I love

So on this Canada Day, I want to say… thank you.

Thank you for taking us in.

Thank you for protecting our freedoms.

Thank you for giving me the kind of pride that can only come from belonging to something good.

I’ve never been prouder to be Canadian than I am right now. And I’ll never stop fighting for this country to live up to its promise—for the next generation, and the one after that.

So to every Canadian around the world—and to those who see in us a flicker of hope:

Happy Canada Day.

We’re still here. We’re still kind. We’re still strong. And we’re still free.

And nothing—nothing—makes me prouder than that.

Love,
Dean