A Campaign Lost, A Family Fractured: Reflections on Defeat and Distance
In 2014, Bill and I made the bold decision to run for North Vancouver City Council—both of us. It was an unusual move for a married couple, but not unprecedented. We were deeply committed to the idea of fostering a livable community. Our platform focused on affordable opportunities for renters, addressing traffic and parking concerns, and tackling pressing environmental issues.
We knew it was a long shot. And as it turned out, it wasn’t in the cards. We both lost.
Losing an election is never easy. We’ve been through it before—the highs and lows of political life. When you lose, there’s a unique sting: the hours spent campaigning, the personal money invested, the hopes pinned on a vision you believe in. But typically, the hurt fades, and you reflect on the race, thanking those who stood by you, and then you move on.
This time, though, was different.
On election night, after the results came in, our 26-year-old son Adam unexpectedly paid us a visit. He watched as the numbers were broadcast and saw the disappointment settle on our faces. And then, without warning, he started to speak.
His words were not what we expected.
Adam was angry. He told us we were out of touch and that we should have listened to him. He hadn’t been involved in the campaign—not a single meeting, not a single strategy discussion. He had stayed busy with his own life, as he should have. But now he stood there, berating us for what he saw as our failure.
I need to add some context here. All of our kids have worked on our campaigns over the years. They’d delivered pamphlets—and yes, we paid them for their efforts. But they weren’t involved in the big decisions. They weren’t tasked with speeches, media releases, or policy planning. This was the first time that we even had an indication that he was interested in the political side of our lives.
That night, though, Adam’s anger boiled over. He called our campaign a joke. He called us losers. And then it clicked for me. This wasn’t really about Bill or me. It was about how our loss reflected on him.
“So, you’re ashamed that we didn’t win?” I asked, my voice steady despite the turmoil inside.
“Yeah… Duhhh,” he shot back.
I couldn’t believe it. This wasn’t how we had raised him—or so I thought. But here he was, standing in our living room, insisting that our loss somehow diminished him. I felt a deep ache in my heart. We had worked so hard, not just on this campaign but on everything in our lives, to build something meaningful. And now, to hear him say he was ashamed of us?
We asked him to leave. Reluctantly, he did. As he walked out, he continued defending his position, but we were done listening, at least for this evening. When the door finally closed, I sat down on the couch and cried, not about losing the election but about how callous my son had become.
Moving Forward
That night was a turning point, not just for me but for all of us. After the tears dried, I realized something important. The pain wasn’t just about losing the election. It was about the disconnection we had somehow allowed to grow within our family. Adam’s reaction hurt deeply, but it also shone a light on a gap we hadn’t fully acknowledged.
We tried to rebuild that bridge. We reached out, offered open communication, and shared our feelings. But Adam, for the most part, remained distant. Over the years, the separation between us has grown even wider despite our best intentions, including taking him and his little sister on a European vacation paid for by us. He’s built a life that feels disconnected from ours, and though we’ve made efforts to mend the relationship, the closeness we once had hasn’t returned.
It’s a difficult reality to accept, but one we’ve come to live with. Not every wound can be healed, not every relationship repaired. Still, Bill and I hold onto the hope that time will bring understanding and perhaps even reconciliation. For now, we take solace in the love and support we have for each other and our other children and grandchildren, and in the knowledge that we did what we believed was right—in the campaign and in life. And sometimes, that has to be enough.