Illustration by Marley Allen-Ash
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When I immigrated to Montreal in 2021, I brought with me three suitcases: one with clothes, one with credentials and the third full of confidence. I had over 30 years of global work experience, a post-graduate education and could fluently switch between five languages, depending on the dinner party. I even knew my way around a snow shovel. Surely, I thought, I was ready.
Enter the phrase: “You don’t have Canadian experience.”
At first, I thought I was missing something crucial – perhaps a course in Tim Hortons etiquette or Advanced Layering for -30 Temperatures? So, I asked, quite earnestly, “Could you please define what you mean by Canadian experience?”
What followed was a masterclass in vague squirming: fumbled papers, blank stares, nervous throat clearing. Not one person could give me a clear, logical answer. And just like that, my trust in the carefully polished system I’d once admired took a sharp nosedive.
To their credit, one interviewer tried. They said it was about “working in diverse teams, adapting to multicultural environments.” Interesting, I thought, since I grew up in Pakistan in a Hindu family, attended a Christian missionary school, lived in a Muslim-majority country, then spent 15 years working in the Middle East and four in Australia. My lunch table growing up looked like a UN summit. I can name more world religions than most hiring managers have LinkedIn endorsements.
The Canadian Dream is colder than I expected it to be
I thought diversity wasn’t just something I could adapt to – it was the air I’d been breathing all my life.
That’s why I now refer to this whole process as my unofficial Canadian initiation ceremony. Résumé? Overlooked. Languages spoken? Ignored. Experience? Filtered out with the dreaded “no Canadian experience” stamp. As for bilingualism, let’s just say: mais je parle cinq langues. I may not be fluent in French, but I’m fluent in English and Urdu, conversational in Hindi and Gujrati and can usually decode enough French to understand when someone is passive-aggressive and insulting me.
Despite all this, I did eventually get hired – only to discover that some workplaces still function like Windows 95: a bit slow, prone to crashing and resistant to change. Innovation was discussed as a theory. Feedback loops resembled echo chambers. Eventually, I realized I wasn’t just hitting a glass ceiling – I was stuck in a snow globe.
And so, I decided: I’d carve out my own path.
I didn’t come to Canada chasing the Canadian dream. I came here chasing my Canadian dream. One that didn’t involve white picket fences or climbing outdated corporate ladders. Mine was about exploration, contribution and building something of my own. Something that aligned with my values, not someone else’s template.
That’s why I chose self-employment. Not as a fallback, but as a liberation.
In Canada I found hard work, but also hope
It’s not that I don’t love Canada. I love it fiercely. I critique it not out of bitterness, but out of care. You only plant new seeds in a garden you believe will thrive. Yes, the winters are brutal, the squirrels oddly bold and the rent suspiciously high – but the potential? Enormous. The people? Diverse and kind. The future? Ripe for the taking – if only we’re willing to challenge a few outdated notions along the way.
The phrase “Canadian experience” may still be echoed in interviews and job portals but I hope one day it evolves. Because true Canadian experience isn’t measured in pay stubs or company logos. It’s measured in adaptability, empathy, grit and the willingness to build bridges – not just between cities, but between people.
Turns out, the most Canadian thing I’ve done is refuse to give up. If that’s not Canadian experience, maybe it’s time we redefine the term.
Kirtan Varasia lives in Montreal.
