When wildfire smoke settles over a community, the danger can push past the front door.

Fine particles can enter homes, workplaces and community buildings, leaving people with respiratory conditions especially vulnerable. Commercial air purifiers can help, but they can also be expensive, difficult to find during wildfire season and costly to maintain.

The BREATHE Project offers a surprisingly straightforward alternative: Teach people how to build an effective air cleaner using a box fan, a high-quality furnace filter and duct tape.

“This project is great for people who are concerned about indoor air quality but can’t afford expensive machines or don’t want to be stuck continually buying costly replacement filters,” says project lead Dr. Anne-Marie Nicol, an epidemiologist and associate professor at Simon Fraser University (SFU). 

The project is a collaboration between SFU and the BC Lung Foundation. Its workshops aim to reach people who may be more vulnerable to poor air quality such as older adults, people with asthma or chronic obstructive pulmonary disease (COPD), and lower-income households.

But the project is doing more than clearing smoke from indoor spaces. Its hands-on approach is also providing a tangible way to take action, care for others and strengthen connections within communities.

From the pandemic to wildfire smoke

BREATHE grew out of research conducted during the COVID-19 pandemic, Nicol explains. As researchers learned more about airborne transmission, simple DIY air cleaners (also known as Corsi-Rosenthal boxes) were developed and used to remove COVID viruses from classrooms and other indoor spaces.

Realizing that the DIY cleaners could also help address the wildfire smoke so often seen in B.C., Nicol contacted Dr. Richard Corsi, one of the engineers behind the original design, to confirm that the concept could be adapted for wildfire conditions.

A small pilot workshop quickly showed the demand across B.C. communities. Nicol and her student team encountered packed rooms, lineups and more requests than they could accommodate. “The materials have always been free at the workshops and the response has been overwhelming,” she says.

The project eventually received provincial support to distribute materials for approximately 1,700 air-cleaner units and bring workshops to communities around the province.

Why men have embraced the project

Although BREATHE wasn’t created specifically for men, Nicol has noticed that men are often among its most enthusiastic participants and advocates.

Some are retired engineers, tradespeople, hobbyists or natural DIYers who enjoy the technical nature of the workshop. The basic construction process gives them a clear task, a useful finished product and knowledge they can pass along to others.

More importantly, it offers a sense of free will.

“Climate-related emergencies can leave people feeling anxious and powerless,” Nicol says. “Wildfire smoke is visible, difficult to escape and increasingly common. Building an air cleaner gives people something practical they can do to protect themselves and the people they care about. For men in particular, it’s about agency and being able to take on some responsibility and control over what is happening.”

Men have frequently arrived at workshops with wives or family members who have COPD, asthma or other health concerns. In seniors’ complexes, some participants have gone on to build additional units for neighbours who could not easily make their own.

Nicol says she repeatedly sees tech-savvy men become unofficial workshop assistants by helping older adults or participants with arthritis assemble their units. “It’s about agency and compassion and equity,” she says.

That combination matters. Men are often encouraged to support their health through habits such as exercising more, eating well or seeing a doctor. BREATHE shows that health-promoting action can also be communal: learning a skill, protecting a family member and using your abilities to help someone else.

One man’s lasting contribution

Among the participants who stand out to Nicol is Rick Medley, who is living with advanced COPD and needs a double-lung transplant.

Despite his own serious condition, Rick became deeply committed to helping others breathe more easily. He and his daughter waited for materials to go on sale, built six air cleaners and donated them to children with asthma.

“He was so taken with this project,” Nicol says. “He has continued to do this while he’s still alive.”

His story captures the spirit BREATHE can inspire. A person facing an overwhelming health challenge found a manageable, meaningful way to improve the lives of others.

The workshops have also attracted support from firefighters and fire chiefs. At one recent event on Cortes Island, fire trucks were moved out of the hall so tables could be set up for community members. Some of the completed units were then donated to people who had difficulty leaving their homes.

Nicol believes fire departments have the potential to play a larger role in teaching people how to protect themselves from smoke.

More than an air cleaner

A BREATHE workshop provides a physical product, but its benefits don’t stop there.

Participants work beside neighbours, ask questions and share their own experiences with wildfire smoke and its risks. Organizers have learned to book rooms for longer than the project requires because people often stay afterward to talk. “People are lonely, and they’re not used to seeing their neighbours. This brings people together in an unthreatening way,” Nicol adds.

The project has also worked with a Men’s Shed, part of a broader movement that brings guys together around tools, repairs and shared projects. These environments can support mental and social well-being without requiring men to directly discuss their feelings.

Instead, conversation develops naturally while people work toward a common goal.

“BREATHE workshops are tactile, and participants leave with the satisfaction of having solved an immediate problem,” Nicol says, adding that she frequently leaves the sessions feeling inspired by the cooperation and generosity she witnesses.

Taking action before the smoke arrives

When it comes to wildfires, Nicol’s most important advice is to prepare early. When smoke begins affecting a region, commercial air cleaners and replacement filters often sell out. People should purchase the necessary materials before conditions worsen, particularly if someone in the household has asthma, COPD or another respiratory condition.

The BREATHE design uses an inexpensive MERV 13 furnace filter — available in just about every home improvement store — matched with an appropriate fan. Nicol cautions that the specifications matter: a stronger filter or weaker fan will not necessarily produce better results. 

The project’s smaller units are generally suited to bedrooms or similarly sized spaces. Larger rooms may require multiple units or a larger Corsi-Rosenthal design with four filters and one fan.

Air filtration can also help beyond wildfire season by reducing pollen, dust and other small airborne particles. Canadians spend much of their lives indoors, yet indoor air quality is frequently overlooked.

“There’s this concept that your house is a safe space,” Nicol says. But smoke from wood stoves, cooking emissions, candles, incense, outdoor traffic pollution, and other contaminants can all affect indoor air quality.

A model that could spread across Canada

Nicol would eventually like to see free BREATHE workshops offered every spring in wildfire-prone communities across Canada.

The project has already developed a train-the-trainer model so municipalities, nonprofit organizations, community groups and local leaders can host workshops themselves. Its resources are designed to be shared, adapted and put into practice without Nicol or her immediate team having to lead every session.

Scaling the model would help address a growing health problem: Wealthier households tend to have an easier time purchasing AC systems and/or travelling away from smoke, while lower-income homes meet more barriers when doing the same. Seniors and those living with disabilities or chronic health conditions also tend to have fewer options.

“One fan, one filter and one roll of tape may seem like modest tools,” Nicol says, “but in the hands of an engaged community they can become a powerful expression of care.”

Every year when Pride Month rolls around, I’m reminded of something I once heard a friend say: for many gay men, Pride is our Christmas.

On the surface, the comparison sounds lighthearted. Pride is a season of celebration. There are parades, festivals, really cool parties, reunions and chosen family gatherings. People travel across countries and continents to be with friends. There is no shortage of colour, good music, anticipation, genuine joy and always lots of glitter!

But the analogy resonates for another reason. Like Christmas, Pride can also be emotionally complicated and rooted in stress and anxiety – even dread.

Because for every queer person celebrating with friends and loved ones, there is someone feeling lonely and “lesser” in the crowd. For every smiling photo posted to Instagram, there is someone wondering why they still feel disconnected. For every person dancing in the streets, there is another carrying grief, rejection, uncertainty or a nagging sense that they still haven’t quite found where they belong.

It’s not uncommon for queer people to question their existence. Recent research shows that among Canadian men, those who are Two-Spirit, gay, bisexual, transgender and queer are disproportionately impacted by suicidality.

Coming out was just the beginning

This Pride Month is especially meaningful for me because it marks 10 years since I came out and began living authentically as a gay man. In some ways, it feels like yesterday. In others, it feels like a lifetime ago.

When I came out in 2016 on the cusp of my 30^th birthday, I believed the hardest part was behind me. I imagined that once I accepted my sexuality and shared it with the world, everything else would naturally fall into place. I assumed I would quickly build a large network of gay friends. I thought dating would become easier. I believed I would finally feel like I belonged.

But life proved more complicated. In hindsight, coming out wasn’t a destination, but rather the beginning of a long, difficult, yet exciting journey.

Today, I can say with confidence that living authentically has brought freedom, growth, community and countless opportunities that would never have been possible had I remained in the closet. Yet becoming more authentic hasn’t erased my struggle; it has changed the nature of it.

One of the most surprising lessons for me over the past 10 years is that loneliness doesn’t disappear simply because you come out. In fact, many queer people discover that coming out introduces entirely new questions about identity, belonging and connection.

Two years ago, I wrote a personal essay sharing that I’ve often felt like a misfit within my own community. Even after embracing my sexuality, I struggled to find where I fit: I wasn’t the person who came out in high school, nor do I share many of the formative experiences that shaped the lives of other gay men my age. In short, I’ve often felt like I arrived late to a party that everyone else already understood.

For years, I worried there was something wrong with me. But as I approach 40, I’m at peace with who I’ve become. There are countless ways to be gay, queer or trans. There is simply no single way of belonging. The older I get, the more I understand that authenticity isn’t about fitting into a community’s expectations; it’s about having the courage to show up as yourself.

More connected than ever, yet more alone

This lesson feels especially relevant today. We live in a world that is simultaneously more connected and more disconnected than ever before.

The pandemic fundamentally changed how many of us relate to one another. Remote and hybrid work reduced everyday opportunities for social interaction. Many physical community spaces struggled or disappeared altogether. At the same time, our lives have become increasingly digital.

Today, we can communicate instantly with people around the world, yet many of us have never felt more alone. This paradox is especially pronounced within queer communities in big cities like Toronto where I live. 

Dating and hook-up apps have become community spaces while social media often functions as our primary source of connection. We are constantly observing one another, liking one another’s content, messaging one another and comparing ourselves to one another.

But observation isn’t the same thing as connection; visibility isn’t the same thing as belonging; and attention isn’t the same thing as intimacy.

The reality behind the Instagram grid 

I know this because I’ve lived it. There have been moments over the past decade when I’ve felt deeply connected to the queer community while serving in volunteer leadership roles that have brought me purpose: roles like Chair of the Fife House Board of Directors or spokesperson for Toronto’s iconic Pride and Remembrance Run. 

These rich experiences have grounded me in something much larger than myself.

But there have also been moments when I’ve sat alone scrolling through social media during Pride Month, wondering why everyone else appeared to be having a better experience than I was. The truth, of course, is that social media rarely tells the whole story. Behind the perfectly curated Pride photos are insecurities, heartbreaks, anxieties and struggles that most people never post online. 

Pride can bring many of those emotions to the surface. For some people, Pride highlights a lack of connection. For others, it reinforces body image pressures that have long existed within parts of the gay men’s community. Many gay men feel immense pressure to attend every event, every party and every gathering. I’ve certainly been no stranger to these pressures in recent years.

Others struggle with the realities of a nightlife culture that often places a premium on alcohol and recreational drug use. The reality is that when it comes to this month, two things can be true at the same time: Pride can be the most affirming time of year, but it can also be the most alienating.

Why Pride still matters

There is still a common misconception among many Canadians that because we achieved marriage equality two decades ago, the struggle for 2SLGBTQ+ inclusion is largely over.

It isn’t. Yes, we have made extraordinary progress. But queer and trans people continue to navigate family rejection, workplace discrimination, social isolation and growing political hostility directed at our communities. Across North America and around the world, we are witnessing a resurgence of anti-2SLGBTQ+ speech, particularly toward transgender people.

Many young people are still asking themselves the same questions I asked myself a decade ago: Will my family accept me? Will my friends stay? Will I still belong? Will my life be okay?

What I would tell my younger self

If there is one message I could offer my younger self, it’s this:

You don’t need to have it all figured out, or fit neatly into someone else’s definition of queer just to deserve love, friendship and a sense of belonging. The goal isn’t perfection — it’s authenticity.

As I mark a decade living authentically, I find myself reflecting less on visibility and more on connection. Less on fitting in and more on showing up honestly. Less on being accepted by everyone and more on accepting myself.

Maybe that’s what Pride is ultimately about. Not so much about the cool parties or the sexy photos, but about genuine connection and the courage to see one another fully and be seen in return. Because at its best, Pride isn’t merely a celebration. It’s a reminder that none of us were ever meant to navigate this journey alone.

Being a gay man is one of my life’s greatest blessings. Making the extremely difficult decision to come out and live authentically a decade ago was the best decision I’ve made in my 40 years.

Navigating the twists and turns of the gay experience has been both challenging and extremely rewarding. But through it all, I feel enriched, more empathetic and grateful for what my community has taught me as I continue down my journey of seeking connection. 

About a year ago, I started a grueling cross-country marathon that pushed my body past its breaking point. Today, I’m finally feeling what I call “back to normal”.

Running across Canada for mental health ironically took a massive toll on my own wellbeing. For a long time after the finish line I was physically and mentally exhausted. But the recovery process taught me a hard lesson: sometimes the most productive thing you can do for your health is to completely stop, rest and reset.

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That’s why I’m joining the Canadian Men’s Health Foundation (CMHF) as a National Champion. For me, this role isn’t a vanity badge or a pat on the back. It’s a partnership built on credibility and collaboration.

Facing hard things face-first

Going back even further —  to 2019 — my life looked very different. I was navigating a career in border security, a difficult divorce and immense life stress. Like a lot of guys my primary outlets were purely physical. Lifting weights and training in jiu-jitsu were my go-tos.

Then the pandemic hit and those outlets changed dramatically overnight. Without the gym or the mats I found myself relying on drinking to cope. Realizing I needed a drastic change as well, I grabbed a copy of David Goggins’ book Can’t Hurt Me. The core message about chasing adversity really stuck with me.

I didn’t start running because I loved it. I started because I absolutely hated it, but I wanted to face my own adversity head-on. While the average guy might not relate to bodybuilding or martial arts, I knew everyone could understand the raw struggle of running even a single kilometre.

And boy did I ever run with that idea. From 2020 to 2025 I ran a total of 21,000 kms. That included tons of training to get me ready alongside the big race challenges I also took on.

When I started my run last year it was meant to be a coast-to-coast trip of 7500 kms. Then my crew chief, Glen, and I made a drastic shift. Instead, we dropped the daily distance from 100 to about 55 kms a day across 55 cities so we could run to people, not past them. Even with that I still ended up running over 70 ultramarathons worth of races in one go.

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The result? Strangers began approaching our RV at every stop, eager to open up about what’s been weighing on them. I didn’t think we’d have that many people come. We were just there to listen.

To date I’ve been able to collect roughly $300,000 donations for mental health. True to my own style, I don’t plan on stopping there.

Deconstructing my mental health toolkit

During my own recovery I dove deep into mental health practices. From there, I began looking at things like anxiety and depression differently. I began to realize they aren’t a permanent, unchangeable state of existing — they’re complex responses to life challenges.

I sometimes struggle with these things still. I’ve been diagnosed with depression and it reminds me that I need to pay attention to my own body and mind with whatever I do.

When it comes to treating those challenges we need to remove the shame around tools like therapy or prescriptions from your doctor. If you break your leg you need a cast and crutches to heal. Medication can be a vital, short-term support when you’re in a dark place. Eventually, the cast comes off and you need a long-term lifestyle program to keep you moving forward.

Here’s what my daily mental fitness toolkit looks like:

• Varying Physical Discipline: I change my activities every now and again to help introduce new and exciting challenges.
• Nature Immersion: Getting outside helps me clear my mind and restore mental fatigue.
• Structured Mindfulness: Making quality time to sleep or reset helps me manage anxiety spikes and regulate myself.
• Honest Human Connection: Sitting down with like-minded guys over a coffee or on the jiu-jitsu mats breaks down the walls of loneliness.

Fatherhood at the halfway mark

At 48 years old, I’m a single dad to a nine-year-old daughter. Recently, it hit me that I’m exactly at the halfway mark of her childhood before she turns 18.

Knowing that a child’s psychological foundation forms heavily during the early years, I’ve shifted my priorities. I live just five minutes away from her and actively protect my parental schedule. Grand public gestures have taken a backseat to the small, vital moments like showing up for soccer practices, and going to her games while making sure I’m really there when I show up.

Balancing community-level advocacy with family presence is how I choose to model what it means to be a capable man while prioritizing connections that mean the most to me.

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Progress over perfection

I didn’t figure everything out overnight. My path has been full of mistakes. I used to think being a “hard charger” meant going full throttle 100% of the time, but strength also means knowing when to pause.

Improving your overall health can be simple, if you allow it to be. For me it began with the willingness to stop running away from my problems. Whether that means connecting with a friend, stepping outside or asking for help, you just have to start today.

In 2020, John Armstrong made a deal with a colleague. The colleague had been putting off seeing a doctor, and so had John. They made a simple pact: if you go, I’ll go.

Turns out, the appointment that followed caught John’s prostate cancer just in time.

That pact is a part of why the Canadian Men’s Health Foundation (CMHF) is asking people to put their Suspenders On this men’s health month. Listen to what John, and others, had to say about it. These aren’t fundraising stories. They’re stories about men who knew, or whose families knew and waited too long anyway.

Guys can be known for staying quiet and holding everything in. That can lead to important things going unnoticed, and their health shouldn’t be left to chance. Just like trying to rely on your pants to stay up by themselves, sometimes you need a little extra reinforcement before things fall apart.

The story behind the suspenders

The idea was created with the help of John Armstrong and Graham Love. While brainstorming a fun way to raise funds for the cause, Graham was hit with a memory of his late grandfather — a Scottish shipbuilder who famously lounged on the beach in nothing but oversized trousers and a trusty pair of suspenders.

It clicked instantly. “Suspenders. We’ll ask people to wear suspenders.”

Whether you’re a high-performing corporate executive, a professional athlete or a tradesperson swinging hammers on a job site you can identify with the pressure to maintain a tough exterior. Often men see self-reliance and grit treated as badges of honour. In reality, ignoring problems can cost you your health, your family, or your life.

The truth? You can be high-performing and struggle. It isn’t a sign of weakness to admit it; it’s a sign of leadership.

They work because people ask

Suspenders get noticed. And when someone asks why you’re wearing them, you’ve already started the conversation most of us never have — about a friend who should see a doctor, someone you’ve lost, or just the fact that men’s health matters. That’s the whole idea. The suspenders start it. You take it from there.

Who are you wearing them for?

But the campaign’s deeper meaning came from what people started wearing them for.

Graham Love is wearing his suspenders for his late brother, Andrew, who passed away from liver cancer — a tragedy that might have been prevented with an earlier checkup.

John Armstrong is wearing his for the men living on our streets who never got the support they needed. John is also a prostate cancer survivor who only caught his illness because he made a pact with a worried colleague to go get checked together.

Andrew Jackson of Jackson Events,  who’s rallying NHL alumni to the cause, wears his suspenders in memory of his close friend, Dale Hawerchuk, who passed away from stomach cancer. Dale made Andrew promise he would go see a doctor. Andrew thinks about that promise every day.

From hockey players in Moncton to construction crews on local job sites, people are noticing that when it comes to the well-being of guys, the cracks are starting to show. It’s time we lift each other up.

No suspenders? No problem.

You don’t need to buy a brand-new pair of fancy suspenders to participate. The spirit of this campaign is all about improvisation and leveraging what you’ve got.

• Got an old pair of bungee cords? Throw ‘em over your shoulders.
• Not playing hockey this weekend? Repurpose those skate laces as suspenders.
• Want the real deal? Grab a pair from Lynn Valley Manufacturing (the official Canadian makers who once made suspenders for the Red Green Show!), where $10 from every pair sold goes directly to CMHF.

Take action this month

We don’t have to struggle alone. This month, let’s turn a groundswell of awareness into a tsunami of real action.

1. Snap a photo rocking your suspenders and post it with #SuspendersOn
2. Donate to the Canadian Men’s Health Foundation to fund vital health programs.
3. If a buddy opens up to you, you don’t need to fix anything. Just listen.
4. Wear them somewhere people will ask.

Let’s bring back suspenders, listen to that little voice in the back of your head, and give your health the support it deserves.