Is advocacy part of your skill set?
That question might feel hard to answer. Before I started working in
non-profit and social impact, advocacy wasn’t a common word in my
vocabulary. It was this abstract thing that political groups do. I
didn’t understand it the way I do now — I wasn’t aware of it when it was
being practiced, or when it was being neglected.
As early as grade school, I remember being a bit of a debater. I had
that annoying habit of asking questions, pointing out inaccuracies,
and
making adults “work for it” before I’d follow instructions. Although
I had great relationships with my teachers — and would even be called a
teacher’s pet — my sass and respectful defiance were always there. From
early on, I heard comments about how I’d make a great lawyer because I
enjoyed an argument. It wasn’t framed as advocacy back then, just a
natural tendency to debate and question.
Growing up with those comments made my next steps feel clear: I was
going to be a lawyer. In my head, law was where you practice justice —
where you make sure the world keeps up to a certain moral compass. That
was my goal and focus for most of my school years. I was going to be a
lawyer, to make the world a better place. Sounds naive and ideological,
I know — back then, both were fair descriptors. Although I did attend
law school, my future was not there. To avoid going deep on my
frustrations with the legal system, I’ll summarize: working within the
constraints of the law often does not bring fairness or justice.
When my naivety and ideology were broken, business management offered
a path forward. I started thinking that working with social impact and
non-profit organizations would be my way of contributing to a better
world.
It was only when I entered that world that “advocacy” became part of
my daily vocabulary. We weren’t just debating access to healthcare or
human rights — we were advocating. That means something different.
Advocacy doesn’t happen only in the halls of Queen’s Park, or in angry
and controversial social media threads. It happens through research,
evidence-informed recommendations, and meaningful, collaborative
conversations. It happens slowly, in back rooms without cameras, or
through media engagements and public information campaigns. It’s a
journey of showing people how something — a system, a process, a
policy — could work better for the people it impacts. It’s telling a
story so clear and so logical that it doesn’t make sense to block it.
Advocacy is also bravery. Standing up to systems that are built for
self-preservation rather than evolution. It’s emotional intelligence —
facing aggravating barriers without becoming an aggravating person.
Maintaining your emotional regulation and maturity, proving your point,
and reminding stakeholders, decision-makers, and the public that we
should all be striving for something better.
Over ten years in the non-profit sector has shown me that advocacy is
a powerful professional skill. It’s the constant nudging that pushes
society forward and reminds us that just because a process or policy
exists, doesn’t mean it can’t be improved.
But there’s another type of advocacy I didn’t learn until I became a
parent: personal advocacy. Advocating for one specific individual, one
specific family. What happens before the gaps in a system are visible —
before non-profits and associations are formed, before enough people
have fallen through the same crack to build a cause around it.
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When my daughter was younger, she was very scared of water. She
wanted to swim and play, but if the pool water hit her face she would
scream. She worked very hard in her swimming lessons, progressed
steadily, and even though she was deeply anxious, she passed the exam
required to swim in the big pool.
The next day, she proudly walked up to the swimming desk to get her
bracelet. They told her the exam hadn’t been entered into the system.
She would need to take it again.
She cried. She was so anxious, and had worked so hard for that
accomplishment, that she didn’t want to do it again. The swimming
instructor said the test would be quick — there’s no harm in doing it
again, right? My first instinct was to agree. We know you can do it now.
It won’t be hard.
My daughter didn’t scream, or argue, or have a tantrum. She sat down,
shoulders curled, eyes watering, and said: “I don’t want to swim
anymore.” In that moment, I understood the weight of what I did next. My
response would help shape how my daughter sees the world. And I couldn’t
let her believe that when something wrong happens, we either surrender
or simply move on.
I pulled myself together and gently pushed back. The instructor
repeated that the exam wasn’t in the system — they couldn’t issue the
bracelet; it was a liability. I politely explained that this was not my
daughter’s error. We had witnessed her pass the test. She should not be
penalized for a gap in the swimming team’s process.
After a few minutes, she got her bracelet. The pass was entered in
the system. Years later, she’s a confident swimmer who spends most of
the summer in the water.
Seeing my daughter shut down was a wake-up call. And it introduced a
new goal to my parenting: teaching self-advocacy.
I never wanted her to sit like that again. I never wanted her to feel
so helpless that she’d choose to give up something she loves rather than
speak up. And I never wanted her to depend on someone else to advocate
for her. Since then, we’ve been working on her “big girl voice” —
teaching her that her needs matter, that when something is wrong she can
speak up, and that asking for what she thinks is fair is not only
allowed, it’s important.
I’ve realized that self-advocacy is not something we encourage or
nurture in children — and it wasn’t something we were taught growing up
either. We teach children to listen to adults, to follow instructions,
to fall in line. In doing so, we quietly smother that inner voice that
speaks up when something feels wrong. And that shapes everything that
comes later: how they advocate for a job, negotiate their salary, push
back when a system fails them. What we teach at a young age determines
how comfortable they’ll be standing up for themselves as adults.
Being a parent has forced me to be an advocate — not only at the
macro, professional level, but on a deeply personal one too. We advocate
for our children’s access to education, and for that education to be
quality. For access to healthcare, and for that care to be
comprehensive, responsive, and functional. We advocate for them when
institutions and authorities make decisions that invalidate, exclude, or
neglect them.
It’s powerful to model that. To show by example that speaking up, and
defending what we think is fair, is not only acceptable — it’s
necessary. But I’m also learning that unless we teach our children to
advocate for themselves, we create an unintended helplessness. An
unspoken belief that advocacy is something that happens to you when
someone else witnesses the wrong. That’s only part of the answer.
We need people to stand up and engage. To raise their voices when
systems are broken. Associations and advocacy groups exist to amplify
those voices — not to take their place.
Self-advocacy is a vital skill. One we should all feel more
comfortable exercising. One we should feel confident claiming as our
own. So — how comfortable are you advocating for what you think is
right? And how might you add your voice to making the world a little
better?
