When that first story finally comes together, it’s not the masterpiece you imagined. You wince at the phrasing, obsess over the structure, and brace yourself for feedback. Then you see your name in print and realize that your voice can reach an audience. It ignites a hunger to tell more stories, refine your craft, and chase the next byline, because now you understand the power of being heard.
It’s April 2024, and Shireen Ahmed is sitting in her parents’ home in Windsor, Ontario, her hijab draped loosely over her head. It’s a three-hour drive from Ahmed’s own home in Toronto, but these visits with her mother and father would be routine regardless of the distance. It’s a few months before the 2024 Olympics and Paralympics in Paris, for which Ahmed is to write and create video essays as part of CBC’s coverage, on top of her regular column. But a scheduled call with CBC Olympic executive producer Sherali Najak has Ahmed slightly apprehensive.
Have you ever nominated yourself for a journalism award and started second-guessing whether you made a typo? What exactly goes into picking a winner, anyway? Who decides? What does the competition look like? When will I receive my cash prize?
We are not the “enemy of the people,” we swear! I open my eyes to a beautiful morning. Despite my better judgment, […]
In the summer of 2024, thousands gather in downtown Toronto for Canada’s largest Pride celebration. The crowd surges forward, and for a moment I lose myself in the sea of colour, pressed shoulder to shoulder near Church-Wellesley Village. It’s then I see rainbow flags waving high in the air and hear the raucous cheers of spectators growing louder and louder. The parade has started. The air hums with excitement as performers in extravagant costumes twirl and dance on the floats. Food vendors and community booths line the streets, serving everything from rainbow popsicles to pamphlets on 2SLGBTQIA+ rights and resources.
Can journalism be objective in a complex world—and should it? Objectivity, as it’s commonly understood in newsrooms, is often considered a cornerstone […]
In August 1999, Karlheinz Schreiber sat in a corner of a bustling Toronto hotel restaurant, gesturing enthusiastically to National Post reporter Philip Mathias about an instant spaghetti cooking machine he was promoting. It was a strange scene for the German-Canadian businessman, whose name was synonymous with high-stakes deals involving planes, tanks, and whispers of political intrigue. Mathias, who had initially broken the story that connected former Prime Minister Brian Mulroney to the Airbus probe, listened carefully for the possibility that Schreiber might let something slip.
The evening begins in a cheery reception room. Lined with appetizers and sparkling wine, and framed by tall ceilings, it seems much too formal and well-orchestrated for a magazine event. It’s December 2, 2024, and the Rotman School of Management at the University of Toronto is welcoming attendees to The Walrus Talks, a national event series hosted by The Walrus.
If Brandi Morin had to place a bet on where she might get arrested, her home Treaty Six territories in Edmonton, Alberta, wouldn’t even make her shortlist. The moment the Indigenous journalist later described as “one of the darkest chapters” of her career began while Morin was covering an Indigenous-led homeless encampment on a cold, harsh winter night.
August 26, 2024, was one of the worst days of Pam Sword’s working life. The paper where she had been the web editor for over a decade—The Chronicle Herald, Halifax’s 150-year-old daily broadsheet—had been sold to Postmedia, Canada’s national news behemoth.
