A Recap of 2025 Lanark County Events
In Solidarity!
Transgender Day of Remembrance - November 2025
Over 40 people came out to show their support in Perth
Over 40 people came out to show their support in Perth
Words from 2025 Transgender Day of Remembrance
Good evening everyone.
My name is Olsen Bonnar, and I want to begin tonight by taking a moment to recognize why we are here.
Today — Transgender Day of Remembrance — we gather to honor the lives of transgender and gender-diverse individuals who have been taken from us far too soon. Their absence reminds us of the work that still needs to be done, and the courage it takes simply to exist as who we are.
I’d like to take a brief moment of silence to honor those we’ve lost — to remember their names, their stories, and the love they brought into this world.
Thank you.
……………………………………………………….
I grew up in Stittsville, Ottawa — your classic suburb. Hockey was my world from the time I could walk. I fell in love with being a goalie — there’s something about the focus, the pressure, and the calm you have to hold when everything is coming at you. I played competitively with the Kanata Rangers and later for the Junior Lady Flames, traveling all over for tournaments. My dad was often behind the bench as an assistant coach, my brother played too, and my mom — who many of you might know as a radio host on KISS 105.3 — was always our loudest cheerleader.
From the outside, everything looked picture-perfect. But for as long as I can remember — truly, from the moment I became aware of myself — I knew I was different.
I didn’t have the language for it back then, but I knew the way people saw me didn’t match how I saw myself.
I didn’t fit in with the girls on my team or my female cousins. My style was backwards hats, plaid shorts, and anything with the Boston Bruins logo on it. I remember being eight years old and refusing to wear the fitted team T-shirt because it had short sleeves that were “too girly.”
………………………………………………………….
By elementary school, those feelings turned from confusion into isolation.
I had friends, sure, but no one truly understood what I was going through. The comments — “he/she,” “it” — they stung more than anyone realized. I had short hair, I played sports with the boys, and I developed crushes on girls the same way they did.
I was obsessed with Justin Bieber, not because I wanted to date him — but because I wanted to be him.
I watched how he dressed, how he moved, how he carried himself, and I’d imagine what it would feel like to live in his shoes — free, confident, comfortable in his skin.
………………………………………………………………..
In seventh grade, I finally found the language to describe what I’d always felt.
I had an old iPod Touch and used to watch science shows and YouTube videos late into the night. Back then, the transgender community online was small, but there were people like Jazz Jennings and Chaz Bono sharing their stories. Watching them was like watching myself for the first time. It clicked: This is who I am.
When I told my parents, they weren’t shocked — they just wanted to help me find the care I needed. My mom took me to our family doctor, and soon after, I was referred to the CHEO Gender Diversity Clinic, where I began hormone blockers.
That same year, I closed out my final girls’ hockey season and joined a boys’ team in eighth grade. At first, I was proud — I’d earned my spot fair and square. But soon, the bullying started. I was targeted online and in the locker room.
There was even a group chat made about me.
I wish I could tell you I brushed it off, but I didn’t.
It broke my heart. Hockey — the thing I loved most — suddenly felt like it didn’t love me back. And because no one knew how to handle it, no one stopped it. The coaches told me, “That’s just how boys are.”
But I deserved to be there just as much as anyone else.
Eventually, I dropped to house league and then quit entirely. I lost my passion for the game — not because I stopped loving hockey, but because I didn’t feel safe in it anymore.
After that, I found a new passion — veterinary medicine.
Animals didn’t judge. They didn’t care what your name used to be or who you were becoming. They just knew kindness.
I got a high school co-op placement at a local vet clinic, and from the first day, I knew: This is it. This is what I’m meant to do.
I had my dog, Bruin, since my 11th birthday, and she’s been my best friend ever since — now 13 years old. Working with animals reminded me that I could still make a difference in the world, even if my path had changed.
My medical transition started in Grade 9, when I began testosterone. At 16, I had top surgery, and at 18, I underwent a total abdominal hysterectomy. In 2023, I was approved for gender-affirming surgery, which I’m currently preparing for.
For the first time, I could look in the mirror and see the person I had always known myself to be.
Through all of this, my family has been my foundation. My parents drove me to every appointment, fought for my access to care, and now help me manage the long and expensive process of surgery preparation — including the hair removal that, frustratingly, isn’t covered by OHIP. They’ve always understood that this isn’t cosmetic — it’s essential to my well-being.
At home, I’m simply their son. Not a headline. Not a label. Just Olsen.
Today, I work as a veterinary assistant, and I plan to go back to school to become a veterinary technician. The empathy I’ve developed from my journey helps me every day — not only with animals, but with people. I notice when someone’s anxious, when they’re quiet, when they’re struggling — because I’ve lived those feelings.
I try to bring light and laughter into the room, to be the reason someone smiles, even if it’s just for a moment. Because everyone deserves to feel seen.
Days like today remind us that being transgender can be dangerous — that visibility can come with risk. But they also remind us of our strength, our resilience, and our shared responsibility to protect one another.
To the young people who might be sitting in the audience tonight — feeling lost, or scared, or unsure — I want you to know this:
You are not alone.
Your story matters.
And there is a future waiting for you that is worth every ounce of the fight it takes to get there.
To everyone else in this room — allies, friends, parents, coworkers — please keep showing up. Keep learning. Keep speaking up when it’s uncomfortable. Because remembrance without action is not enough.
As we honor those we’ve lost, let us also celebrate those who are still here — living, growing, and thriving. Let’s move forward with hope, with compassion, and with the understanding that kindness is not weakness — it’s the strongest force we have.
Thank you.
Good evening everyone.
My name is Olsen Bonnar, and I want to begin tonight by taking a moment to recognize why we are here.
Today — Transgender Day of Remembrance — we gather to honor the lives of transgender and gender-diverse individuals who have been taken from us far too soon. Their absence reminds us of the work that still needs to be done, and the courage it takes simply to exist as who we are.
I’d like to take a brief moment of silence to honor those we’ve lost — to remember their names, their stories, and the love they brought into this world.
Thank you.
……………………………………………………….
I grew up in Stittsville, Ottawa — your classic suburb. Hockey was my world from the time I could walk. I fell in love with being a goalie — there’s something about the focus, the pressure, and the calm you have to hold when everything is coming at you. I played competitively with the Kanata Rangers and later for the Junior Lady Flames, traveling all over for tournaments. My dad was often behind the bench as an assistant coach, my brother played too, and my mom — who many of you might know as a radio host on KISS 105.3 — was always our loudest cheerleader.
From the outside, everything looked picture-perfect. But for as long as I can remember — truly, from the moment I became aware of myself — I knew I was different.
I didn’t have the language for it back then, but I knew the way people saw me didn’t match how I saw myself.
I didn’t fit in with the girls on my team or my female cousins. My style was backwards hats, plaid shorts, and anything with the Boston Bruins logo on it. I remember being eight years old and refusing to wear the fitted team T-shirt because it had short sleeves that were “too girly.”
………………………………………………………….
By elementary school, those feelings turned from confusion into isolation.
I had friends, sure, but no one truly understood what I was going through. The comments — “he/she,” “it” — they stung more than anyone realized. I had short hair, I played sports with the boys, and I developed crushes on girls the same way they did.
I was obsessed with Justin Bieber, not because I wanted to date him — but because I wanted to be him.
I watched how he dressed, how he moved, how he carried himself, and I’d imagine what it would feel like to live in his shoes — free, confident, comfortable in his skin.
………………………………………………………………..
In seventh grade, I finally found the language to describe what I’d always felt.
I had an old iPod Touch and used to watch science shows and YouTube videos late into the night. Back then, the transgender community online was small, but there were people like Jazz Jennings and Chaz Bono sharing their stories. Watching them was like watching myself for the first time. It clicked: This is who I am.
When I told my parents, they weren’t shocked — they just wanted to help me find the care I needed. My mom took me to our family doctor, and soon after, I was referred to the CHEO Gender Diversity Clinic, where I began hormone blockers.
That same year, I closed out my final girls’ hockey season and joined a boys’ team in eighth grade. At first, I was proud — I’d earned my spot fair and square. But soon, the bullying started. I was targeted online and in the locker room.
There was even a group chat made about me.
I wish I could tell you I brushed it off, but I didn’t.
It broke my heart. Hockey — the thing I loved most — suddenly felt like it didn’t love me back. And because no one knew how to handle it, no one stopped it. The coaches told me, “That’s just how boys are.”
But I deserved to be there just as much as anyone else.
Eventually, I dropped to house league and then quit entirely. I lost my passion for the game — not because I stopped loving hockey, but because I didn’t feel safe in it anymore.
After that, I found a new passion — veterinary medicine.
Animals didn’t judge. They didn’t care what your name used to be or who you were becoming. They just knew kindness.
I got a high school co-op placement at a local vet clinic, and from the first day, I knew: This is it. This is what I’m meant to do.
I had my dog, Bruin, since my 11th birthday, and she’s been my best friend ever since — now 13 years old. Working with animals reminded me that I could still make a difference in the world, even if my path had changed.
My medical transition started in Grade 9, when I began testosterone. At 16, I had top surgery, and at 18, I underwent a total abdominal hysterectomy. In 2023, I was approved for gender-affirming surgery, which I’m currently preparing for.
For the first time, I could look in the mirror and see the person I had always known myself to be.
Through all of this, my family has been my foundation. My parents drove me to every appointment, fought for my access to care, and now help me manage the long and expensive process of surgery preparation — including the hair removal that, frustratingly, isn’t covered by OHIP. They’ve always understood that this isn’t cosmetic — it’s essential to my well-being.
At home, I’m simply their son. Not a headline. Not a label. Just Olsen.
Today, I work as a veterinary assistant, and I plan to go back to school to become a veterinary technician. The empathy I’ve developed from my journey helps me every day — not only with animals, but with people. I notice when someone’s anxious, when they’re quiet, when they’re struggling — because I’ve lived those feelings.
I try to bring light and laughter into the room, to be the reason someone smiles, even if it’s just for a moment. Because everyone deserves to feel seen.
Days like today remind us that being transgender can be dangerous — that visibility can come with risk. But they also remind us of our strength, our resilience, and our shared responsibility to protect one another.
To the young people who might be sitting in the audience tonight — feeling lost, or scared, or unsure — I want you to know this:
You are not alone.
Your story matters.
And there is a future waiting for you that is worth every ounce of the fight it takes to get there.
To everyone else in this room — allies, friends, parents, coworkers — please keep showing up. Keep learning. Keep speaking up when it’s uncomfortable. Because remembrance without action is not enough.
As we honor those we’ve lost, let us also celebrate those who are still here — living, growing, and thriving. Let’s move forward with hope, with compassion, and with the understanding that kindness is not weakness — it’s the strongest force we have.
Thank you.
QUEER CONNECTION LANARK respectfully acknowledges that we are meeting on the unceded traditional territory of the Algonquin People. We acknowledge and honour the traditions and roles of Two Spirit People in Indigenous life and offer our gratitude to the First Peoples for their many teachings about the care of the Earth and respect for all living things.
