This First Person column is the experience of Venkat Ravulaparthi, who lives in Edmonton, and is part of a Canada Day series exploring what Canada means to people across this country. For more information about First Person stories, see the FAQ.
It was the first whisper of dawn, crisp as a glacier’s breath laced with pine.
My friends and I stood on a small point of rock high above Alberta’s Peyto Lake just as the sun began to spill over the ridge behind us. The trees were awash in the golden yellows of autumn, the rocky slopes rose above them and the lake itself was still sky-blue.
We had been driving since 4 a.m. to catch this moment, and as I looked out, I caught my breath as a stillness settled inside me.
Standing there, I knew. This is what I love. No matter how much I agree or don’t agree with other Canadians around me, we always have this: a land of incredible beauty where I feel at home.
I grew up living in four countries and seven cities before the age of 15 and always struggled to figure out where home was. My father is a project engineer specializing in designing massive infrastructure, such as train lines and highways. As we moved from city to city and project to project, I left behind a life half-built, friendships paused, routines undone, accents adopted and then forgotten.
I became the kid who was good at adapting — who would start a conversation with a stranger on a hike, on a plane, literally anywhere and stay in touch. But I never reached the point of feeling like I belonged.
We moved to Canada twice: first in 2009, when my dad became one of the designers for Edmonton’s Anthony Henday-Stony Plain Road interchange and then in 2015, when my dad got a job in Toronto.
By this time, I was in high school. To fit in, I pushed myself to become more social, more talkative, more outgoing. I started volunteering for school events and setting up tables with a South Indian cultural group. Later, in university, I ran for student council, handled communications for the local student political association, and had long conversations with friends from all backgrounds.
That helped. I started to feel more rooted in Canada — not because I had all the answers but because I finally had a stake in the conversation.
I also started to find my moments of quiet, attaching a lens to my old iPhone to discover beauty through photography. I found stillness in unexpected places — the patterns in buildings, the colours of the sky, the expressions on strangers’ faces. That helped me connect to this place.
Then my family moved again, this time to Calgary, when my dad signed on as one of the executives on the Green Line LRT project. I joined them by driving across the country.
I had just graduated from my undergraduate degree, so I followed, and this time, went all in on using politics as my way to get connected. I followed a local potential Alberta NDP candidate on Twitter and then started volunteering on his nomination campaign by knocking on doors and handing out flyers. When he lost his nomination, several others encouraged me to run in a riding that was still open.
My first instinct was to say no since I was in my 20s and new to the city. But I yearned to understand Canada, not just as a place, but as a community I could help shape.
During that election, I knocked on around 20,000 doors in three months in the riding of Calgary-Lougheed. I talked with everyone I could — newcomers, longtime residents, students, parents. I listened to their stories and frustrations. For some, that included a growing frustration with Alberta’s place in this country and its treatment by Ottawa. Others saw the problem differently — issues in health care and education. Regardless, they shared a longing for a better future and a commitment to this community. I heard them all and I wanted to be part of building something better.
Then I lost the election, and it hurt. I felt the help I offered and the hope I saw were rejected.
The next morning, I sat at my computer, staring at an email offering acceptance from the University of Melbourne’s Law School. Part of me wanted to leave Canada but something else pulled me back. I was connected with my team, volunteers, and the community now; I couldn’t run away.
I continued my legal education in Edmonton instead, where I also learned about the way Indigenous people feel their connection to this place through a blanket exercise with the local Enoch Cree Nation.
As a non-Indigenous person, standing there, physically moving across the room as the blankets representing land were gradually taken away, I felt that history within me for the first time.
And then I took that hike.
It came at a time when my family was on the move again, this time leaving me behind with my doubts.
Standing on that rock, looking out over Peyto Lake as the sun rose and cold air filled my lungs, I saw the person I want to become. Someone who keeps showing up, even when the path is unclear. The sting of that election loss, my family moving away, and the deaths of two people who were close to me all left me shaken.
In that stillness, I understood: belonging isn’t about winning or being chosen. It’s about choosing to stay. To care. To keep trying.
That’s what Canada is to me. Not perfect, but mine. A place where I’ve laughed, lost, learned and begun again. A place that’s beautiful and speaks to my heart, and a country I want to serve, understand and help grow. No matter where I go or what I do, I will always call Canada home.
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