Why I care so much about delivering high-quality mental health care to small, rural, and remote communities

I was sitting in the cafeteria at the London Health Sciences Centre on a sunny spring afternoon when I made one of the biggest decisions of my life.

In a few short weeks, I was going to begin my PhD. I had just given birth to my premature daughter. She was still in the NICU. My son was only two and a half years old. My husband and I had decided to keep him in daycare so he could keep his spot while we tried to navigate what felt like complete chaos.

People probably thought I was crazy.

Truthfully, there were moments when I thought so too.

I was terrified at the thought of starting a doctorate while raising a medically fragile baby. But underneath the fear was something much stronger. I knew I could do it. Call it determination. Call it stubbornness. Call it grit. Maybe even a little insanity. Whatever it was, I felt it deep in my bones.

So I did it.

That first residency is a blur. I don't remember much about lectures or assignments. What I remember are hospital rooms, pumping schedules, bedtime routines, sleepless nights, and trying to be fully present for two little humans who needed me more than anything. I completed my fall courses. Then my winter courses. Then I went back to my full-time job.

The following May, I took another month away from work to attend my second residency in St. Catharines. This time was different. My daughter was older. Stronger. We weren't living minute by minute anymore. For the first time, I had enough mental space to think deeply about my research. I wasn't just being asked to write a proposal.I was being asked to answer a much bigger question.

Why?

Why pursue a PhD in Educational Studies?

Why spend years researching?

Why did any of this matter?

As a clinical social worker, I could have studied almost anything.

But the answer kept bringing me home.

Literally.

Back to Northern Ontario.

Back to Longlac.

Back to the communities that raised me.

Back to the places where resilience isn't something people talk about—it's simply how people survive.

As I travelled back and forth between Southern Ontario and the North, I couldn't stop noticing the contrast.

Urban centres had specialists everywhere.

Psychologists.

Psychiatrists.

Children's hospitals.

Programs.

Clinics.

Research centres.

Every corner seemed to have another resource.

Then I'd drive home.

Back to the North.

Back to roads that stretched for hours.

Back to communities where people routinely travel six, eight, sometimes ten hours just to access specialized care.

Where families leave work.

Pull children out of school.

Pay for hotels.

Pay for gas.

Pay for meals.

All while carrying the emotional weight of whatever brought them there in the first place.

That shouldn't be normal.

And yet for so many people living in rural and remote communities, it is.

People often describe Northern Ontario by what it lacks.

I don't.

I describe it by what it has.

Fresh air that smells like morning dew.

Dark skies filled with stars.

Wild grass under your feet.

Quiet that settles your nervous system.

Communities where people know your name.

Neighbours who shovel each other's driveways without being asked.

Families that show up.

Resilience.

Strength.

Connection.

The beauty here isn't something you visit.

It's something you live.

So why should people have to leave that beauty behind just to access specialized mental health care?

That's the question that changed everything for me.

It became the foundation of my PhD.

It continues to shape every decision I make as a psychotherapist.

It's why I built Oak & Rose Counselling.

It's why I'm expanding into communities like Longlac.

It's why I'm exploring opportunities in places like Hearst.

It's why I spend hours driving highways that many people avoid.

Because I don't believe excellence in mental health care should depend on your postal code.

I want a future where specialized care comes to the North—not the other way around.

Where people don't have to wait months or travel hundreds of kilometres to see someone with expertise in trauma, PTSD, eating disorders, body image, grief, anxiety, or EMDR.

Where bilingual care is available close to home.

Where families can access specialists without sacrificing an entire day of work or school.

Where children grow up believing that high-quality mental health care belongs in their community too.

Maybe that's an ambitious dream.

Maybe some people will say it's unrealistic.

But I remember sitting in that hospital cafeteria years ago, holding onto another dream that probably seemed just as impossible.

And somehow, that one came true too.

So no—I don't believe the North deserves "good enough."

I believe our communities deserve exceptional care.

Not because we are rural.

Not despite being remote.

But because every person deserves access to high-quality, evidence-informed mental health care, regardless of where they call home.

And if I can play even a small part in helping make that happen, then every kilometre driven, every early morning, every late night, and every difficult decision along the way has been worth it.