The idea for P2P came from a conversation between Wilson and McConnell, who saw a lack of resources for LGBTQ Torontonians coping with addiction. The pair, who both use they/them pronouns, understand addiction intimately. Wilson, 29, is a mixed Filipinx genderqueer zinester and identifies as a sober addict. McConnell, 29, is a transmasculine person who resided and worked at Portage, a youth rehabilitation centre in Cassidy Lake, N.B.

Coming from these backgrounds, the two trans youth shared a mutual frustration over addiction support woes faced by their social circles. Neither of them could recommend services to friends—no pre-existing organizations seemed culturally aware enough to care for the needs of LGBTQ users. And there are many: queer and trans people are up to four times more likely to experience addiction than the general population, according to Rainbow Health Ontario. No matter how inclusive a program could get, none were organized by queer and trans youth with lived experience, either.

For many service participants hoping to undergo treatment or recovery services, their ideal health care would be best provided by those who know exactly what they’re going through, because they’ve gone through it themselves.

Often, Wilson found that organizations valued peer workers with addiction experience less than workers from clinical backgrounds. “If you gave me a choice between going to a queer and trans program or a non queer-specific program, I will always choose [the] specific program,” Wilson says. “We built this program around lived experience and that being the central feature.”

Since that conversation, the duo have worked tirelessly to make P2P a reality. Their efforts resulted in a Toronto-wide survey of LGBTQ youth. It revealed that more than 65 percent who had gone to counselling or used services reported being treated negatively because of their LGBTQ identity. More than half surveyed didn’t feel safe coming out while receiving treatment. The survey precedes a pilot program and ongoing office space with Breakaway Addiction Services in the city’s Parkdale neighbourhood.

It’s important to Wilson and McConnell that P2P disrupts how addiction services are offered on a structural level. For one, they believe in harmony between abstinence and harm reduction groups, which are often viewed as contradictory recovery routes. Abstinence calls for cutting out drugs entirely, while those who practice harm reduction want to continue using on their own terms, aiming to reduce or curb unsafe consequences. To combat the clinical-peer divide, the group’s roster of staff members are all LGBTQ locals with addiction experience (with the exception of P2P’s project manager, who is McConnell’s mother and a seasoned professional in the addiction field).

Success for addiction centres and recovery for addicts isn’t linear. In the nine years since McConnell left Portage, they know of only one other person out of hundreds of fellow residents who remained abstinent. It’s why Wilson and McConnell are measuring P2P’s triumphs through personal goals set by participants, and not by industry-standardized relapse rates. “When I first got sober, therapists asked ‘What do you want your life to look like in a year? Five years? 10 years?’ I’m coming from an experience of just trying to survive every day. I actually can’t think that far ahead,” McConnell says. “I think folks coming in here get to determine what constitutes success for them. We can try to help them define themselves.”

For this new initiative, Wilson knows making a lasting impact for LGBTQ communities will come slowly. They cite the decade it has taken for homelessness researcher Alex Abramovich’s advocacy to finally bring about corporeal change, with the opening of two LGBTQ youth transitional homes in Toronto.

P2P doesn’t have permanent funding secured yet, and the group has had to close its doors whenever money ran out. Thanks to a large private donation, the program will be running for half a year in 2017. In that time, youth will be able to receive case management and individual counselling. Three weekly drop-in groups are also available, themed around abstinence, harm reduction, and one specifically for racialized participants. These services are based on the access gaps LGBTQ youth reported in P2P’s survey. On the basis of their race, 64 percent of LGBTQ youth said their needs were not met. Those needs, McConnell and Wilson hope, will be recognized by P2P.

“I knew the road would be bumpy and inconsistent, but knowing the clear goal is that we want to get this permanently funded,” Wilson says. “Being able to connect with people and hearing their stories with substance use has reminded me why I actually do this work.”

This year, the 30-year-old took a leap of faith and enrolled in the University of Victoria in B.C. to pursue her master’s in law focused on Indigenous governance. She was determined to fight against cultural injustice within her community. “It came to a point where I had to choose between a career where I did great work and had a great pay, and something that truly interests me,” she says. “There was certainly a risk, but this is where my heart is.”

Udy’s interest in human politics started at a young age. Growing up she struggled with her own cultural identity. She was French but rarely spoke the language and felt left out within her circle. This issue influenced her decision to pursue a career in governance. “At the time, when I went to public school, there was so much diversity and I had a group of diverse friends,” she says. “Seeing the issues with them such as racism, sexism, and language, I very much felt for them when they were going through those things and did what I could to support them.”

As a result of her experiences as a youth, Udy has a different way of understanding others. Both of her parents were social workers, which made her think more about the challenges her peers faced. In her mind, there is no sense in questioning why some people are mistreated. Instead, she works to find solutions and fights back. Whether it is through personal support for women dealing with past relationships or helping groups find their voice in society, she is all about making a change.

In early 2006, Udy got involved in the world of non-profits. Since then, she has been a key member and co-founder of several organizations. She has worked at the McGill legal information clinic as a volunteer, and at Dress for Success Montreal, Batshaw Youth and Family Centre Foundation, and La Fédération des Femmes Du Québec as a committee member. In 2015, she also became a Young Québecers Leading Way advisory committee member, supporting the development of new projects and shaping the engagements of youth in our country.

But most recently, Udy helped found Québec Inclusif, a not-for-profit and non-partisan organization that advocates for respect and inclusion of minority groups. The group was established in 2013 when Quebec’s Bill 60, a charter that would “affirm the values of state secularism,” was tabled. Many believed the bill caused an infringement on the rights of religious freedom, as it would limit government workers from wearing “conspicuous” religious symbols. In particular, it would stop some women from wearing hijab.

It was Udy’s job to write a manifesto to oppose the law, and she quickly became the main point of contact in the group. Her hard work with Québec Inclusif paid off when the manifesto turned into a petition, which garnered much-needed public attention and support. “Everything we worked for was now coming into plan. It was a great moment of togetherness and community,” Udy says.

The bill was killed after the 2014 Quebec election, when the Quebec Liberal Party proposed a new law in its place, Bill 62. “The [new] law was much more moderate than Bill 60,” says Udy. “It wasn’t perfect but that bill represented a fairer balance of the values of state secularism and freedom of religion.” Today, Québec Inclusif continues its pursuit to battle other problems in the system.

Udy has also balanced all these opportunities while still working a full-time job. She mentions that she hasn’t perfected the act of management but is still working on finding a balance between both worlds. “As much as we like to think there is equality, there are still a lot of emotional expectations as women being caregivers,” she says. “It’s a part of the reason why a lot of people disclose things to me.”

Udy will continue her education this year, and she also hopes to start her own consulting business. But even after her work with Quebec Inclusif, Udy still thinks she could be doing more. She plans on leaving her mark behind, to keep on fighting.

When the job first came up online, Straker thought, “That sounds terrible, and I also am really under-qualified for that,” she says. She applied anyway, hoping to make a positive change. “Two weeks later I was starting the job.”

Straker began reading and learning about land-based education when she was 17. She completed an intensive immersion course at the Northwest Territory’s Dechinta Bush University, where she camped in a small isolated group, studying decolonization and experienced her first moose hunt. “Seeing the way that being on the land informs your decolonization process and your identity was what made me decide that that was what I wanted to do,” she says.

When the new position required bringing absent students back to school, Straker decided instead to go about creating something new. But it wasn’t easy. In her first days on the job she inquired about her budget. The response: “You don’t have one.” As the only person in a job that no one had ever done, Straker turned her focus toward getting what she wanted: money to improve cultural education for youth. Though she had never filled out a funding application before, she raised enough to buy a snowmobile and other supplies, and gave birth to the Traditional Mentorships Program.

The program’s purpose was to connect youth more deeply with land-based ways of life, and nurture cultural resilience. Run by and for Indigenous people, Straker saw it as an opportunity to create something she didn’t have when she was young. At first, she wrestled with questions about the school system: “Is a conventional colonial space really a space for decolonization?” she asked. “But whether or not I think that it’s the appropriate place, it’s where the kids are.”

Most teachers and parents were supportive. The students in the program would leave class from half a day to overnight to take part. “The teachers were not worried about them missing their book work,” Straker says. “It didn’t mean they got extra homework. It was just part of their week, and it was valued just as much as their science class.”

Although most of her students had some traditional knowledge, Straker noticed it was patchy. She wanted the program to give youth tangible skills they could use into adulthood. “The whole point of our knowledge systems is to pass them on,” she says. From trapping and fishing to Inuit games, the students immersed themselves in opportunities, including a week-long moose-hide tanning camp. “We also wanted to give the students the opportunity to see that the land isn’t far off, it’s not way out there somewhere,” she adds. “We live in Yellowknife. You walk across the street and you’re on one of the biggest lakes in the world.”

Straker was able to grow the program and hire one of her own former instructors, Kyle Enzoe, to teach. “It was an opportunity for us to also create jobs within the community for people who have knowledge that you can’t put a number on,” says Straker. “It’s very hard to get paid to share your traditional knowledge.”

Enzoe’s involvement gave the kids in grades 6 to 8 an opportunity to connect with someone not much older— Enzoe was 33—who was both deeply traditional and modern at once. Enzoe holds the most knowledge of anyone she knows when it comes to the land and trapping. At the same time, “He has Facebook,” Straker says.

Since its inception, the Traditional Mentorships Program has had a far reach. Straker often presents about land-based education at conferences. After seeing the positive changes this type of education had in her own life, she wants to do the same for others. “I’ve seen my life completely transform and change the more that I’ve fostered my reciprocal relationship with the land,” she says.

Although land-based education can seem trivial to some, without it Straker says she wouldn’t have ever understood why land matters. “I didn’t see myself within the land, and I didn’t see the land within myself,” she says.

She has seen similar transformations in others. “All of our collective issues within the Indigenous community—none of them exist without the land, and without land disputes.” Any conversation meant to further reconcilitation or create spaces for Indigenous youth must involve a land base, she says. Still, there is a lack of funding for such education.

If the government wants to make more money, Straker says, educating people puts them in a higher tax bracket, and that’s what land-based education has the capacity to do. “It can change our economy and our knowledge economy in the North,” she says.“Funding is really, really necessary, and it’s hard to get our hands on.”

Aside from her work at the school board, Straker also spends time making jewelry from animals she and Enzoe have harvested using traditional protocol. She’s also part of a collective called ReMatriate that works to interrupt culturally appropriative fashion and take back control over Indigenous women’s visual identities. Straker’s work is a powerful reminder of the importance of the land and its place in people’s lives—another reason for greater education.