For any readers who don’t live in Canada, you may not be aware of the recent ruling in the Hockey Canada Scandal and the subsequent trial. I can’t bring myself to regurgitate it word-for-word so you can read about it here, here, and here.

The gist is this: five professional hockey players were found not guilty of sexually assaulting a young woman in a hotel room.

For those of us who work in the gender-based violence space, it’s not surprising — but it is still deeply disappointing and heartbreaking.

Hockey culture in this country is steeped in misogyny and rape culture.

I have cried many tears over the last few days. Tears for the victim, E.M., and for every woman who has ever been sexually assaulted.

The tears are running as I write this.

So, what can I do — as a stepmother of two teenage boys — to make sure I’m doing everything I can to help prevent this kind of violence in the world?
I wasn’t sure.

But then it came to me: I would do what I do best.

I would write them a letter.

Today, I’m sharing that letter with you — a testimony of what’s in my heart. What I have shared with the boys. What I am hoping for is the world.

This is a letter from my heart.

I hope it helps someone else begin a conversation with their sons about the importance of consent.

Maybe we can make a difference — one letter at a time.

Hello boys…

I don’t quite know how to start this conversation. You’re both teenage boys, and I know I’ve always told you to talk to me if you had questions—but this is still awkward. I know that talking to your stepmom about sex and consent probably isn’t your idea of a fun conversation. But this week, more than most, I feel like it’s critical that I’m honest with you.

I don’t know what it’s like to be a teenage boy. But I do know what it’s like to be a teenage girl.

I know what it feels like to be both attracted to, and afraid of, the attention of young men. To think you should want it—and yet feel sick or scared when it comes. I know how quickly things can shift from being in control to feeling unsafe, confused, or powerless. How it feels to try to hold on to your autonomy in a world that treats your body like something to be taken or consumed. Something owed.

I want to tell you how it feels to be a woman in this world.

I haven’t shared with you the details of the physical and psychological abuse I’ve experienced. Part of me wants to keep the mask up—the one that says I’m brave, strong, independent. The one that says this world hasn’t broken me in the ways it has. I want you to see me as the loud, proud feminist I am most days.

But the truth is, like every woman I know, I live with fear. Fear of being too much or not enough. Too pretty, too ugly, too loud, too quiet. Fear of not being the “right” kind of victim. Of not being believed. Fear that the worst things that have happened to me will be dismissed because I wasn’t perfect enough when they happened.

That’s what it means to be a woman who’s survived sexual assault in a world that doesn’t always believe women. That finds ways to blame them. That asks what they were wearing, how much they drank, what they did wrong.

But this letter isn’t just about fear. It’s about hope.

It’s about the hope I carry that you will be different. That you’ll be better. That you’ll be the kind of men the world needs. The kind of men I needed.

You can be the boys who grow into men who see a drunk girl at a party and don’t laugh or look away. You help her get dressed. You help her get home. You don’t let anyone touch her. You speak up, even if it’s uncomfortable. Even if you’re the only one.

You can be the one who intervenes. Who stops it. Who doesn’t join in. Who pulls her out of the room, protects her dignity, and puts her safety above your social standing.

And if that ever happens—if you ever make that choice—I will be so proud of you. I will honour your courage. I will be grateful that you chose to be kind, decent, and strong when it mattered most.

I want you to be the kind of men who would have saved me.

I want you to be the kind of men who, when someone tells them they’ve been hurt, believe them. Support them. Tell them it wasn’t their fault.

Because consent isn’t just a buzzword. It’s the foundation of every safe, healthy relationship. It’s about more than asking—it’s about listening. It’s about paying attention. It’s about making sure every woman you’re with feels just as safe and respected to say no as she does to say yes.

It’s not about getting a green light. It’s about being the kind of man who wants her to feel safe enough to give it freely—or not give it at all.

Never let your desire to impress your friends override your desire to be a good person. Never stop striving to be the kind of man who women trust—whether they’re drunk, sober, dressed up, dressed down, loud, quiet, flirty, shy. Always be someone who makes others feel safe.

Be good people.

Make me proud.

I love you both. I believe in who you can become.

Liz LeClair is a gender-based violence advocate and activist based in Punamu’kwati’jk (Dartmouth, Nova Scotia). She is a member of the gender-based violence coalition.

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This article appears in Jul 1-31, 2025.