Not to Win, but to Take Part

There are moments in life when belonging doesn’t arrive as a document or a promise, but as a feeling that settles in your chest and says, this is home now.

For me, one of those moments came on a January morning in my fifth year of teaching at the University of Manitoba.

It was January 8th—one of those Manitoba days when the cold doesn’t just nip, it claims the air. The kind of cold that makes you aware of every breath, every step. That morning, I had the honour of representing my students as a torchbearer for the Vancouver Olympics. Not for winning anything. Not for being the fastest. But for showing up—for carrying something larger than myself.

We drove to Portage la Prairie from Winnipeg together—my Canadian Mama beside me, quiet, steady, proud in that way parents are when words would only get in the way. And there, in a moment I still hold close, I received the Olympic flame from an Indigenous flame keeper from the host community. I was the first to run that leg of the journey.

The fire was small, but it carried centuries of meaning. In the bitter cold, it didn’t flicker or shrink—it held its warmth. And somehow, so did I.

That flame was never about medals or podiums. It was about participation. About dignity. About showing young people that being part of something—taking part—matters just as much as being first. That the heart matters more than the outcome. That shared values can travel farther than any one person ever could.

After that day in 2010, the torch didn’t stop. Thanks to my students, it traveled to schools across Manitoba. Together, we spoke about Olympic principles with glowing hearts—about respect, perseverance, fairness, and community. We talked about what it means to run with others, not ahead of them. About how fire is meant to be shared, not possessed.

Years later, that same torch now rests in Kamloops. And the fire is still going.

Recently, while traveling through Europe, I landed in Milan. By chance—or maybe by quiet design—I stepped into an exhibition at the airport about the Olympic Games. Standing there, I was reminded that the next Olympics will be held in Italy, and that somewhere, someone will soon be running again with the torch—feeling its weight, its warmth, its responsibility.

During that journey, I met many Ukrainian educators living and teaching in Italy. People who carry knowledge, language, memory, and care under unimaginably heavy conditions. I found myself hoping—deeply—that they too will be given the opportunity to carry the flame one day, just as I was granted that honour in Canada. Because carrying the torch changes you. It reminds you why teaching matters. Why passing knowledge from one generation to the next is an act of faith.

It teaches you that students will keep you going—and that those who support you will remain beside you, no matter how many challenges you face, no matter how cold it becomes.

And it reminds you of something simple and enduring:
that even in the harshest conditions, the warmth of Love, Care, and Share will keep you moving forward.

When I decided to become a Canadian citizen, it wasn’t because of paperwork or timelines. It was because I had already been trusted with something sacred. I had carried a flame across frozen ground. I had watched it multiply in classrooms, in conversations, in young people finding their own sense of purpose.

Becoming Canadian meant choosing to keep passing that fire forward—to my students, to my communities, and to those still finding their footing in new places. To keep teaching not just knowledge, but care. Not just excellence, but participation. Not just success, but solidarity.

I didn’t come to Canada to win.
I came to take part.
And to make sure the fire never goes out.

And time has tested that promise.

Today is January 8, 2026.
Sixteen years have passed since I carried the Olympic flame through the cold of Portage la Prairie. Thirteen years have passed since I became a Canadian citizen. And yet, the fire has never felt distant.

I am still teaching.

What began in one University has now become something wider. Alongside students from the University of Manitoba, I now taught students from Dalhousie University, the University of Northern British Columbia, Wilfrid Laurier University, Cherkasy National University, and Thompson Rivers University—many of them learning through online education, across distance, time zones, and life circumstances. What connects us is not proximity, but purpose.

Remarkably, some of the same people from Social Work and Family Social Sciences who supported me years ago continue to stand beside this work today. That continuity matters. It reminds me that institutions are not buildings; they are people who choose to care, to mentor, and to keep values alive.

Together, these students are learning about social development, community, and responsibility. They are carrying forward the torch that was shared with me in 2010—not as a symbol of achievement, but as a commitment to participation, dignity, and care.

The form has changed. The classrooms look different. The reach is wider. But the purpose remains the same.

The fire moves from one generation to the next—through teaching, through trust, through relationships that endure. And as long as students are willing to learn, and educators are willing to pass the flame forward, the warmth will continue.

Not to win.
But to take part.