By this point in my journey, I had already started making changes at home.
The shampoo bars, laundry strips, refillable products. The endless research into how things were made, packaged, and transported. I thought I was doing pretty well. Then I got hired on what would become my final television production.
The show was called Arctic Vets, a CBC series following the incredible veterinarians and conservationists working to protect some of Canada's most iconic northern animals. Polar bears, beluga whales, muskoxen, seals, animals whose survival depends on some of the most fragile ecosystems on Earth.
I was story producing and directing episodes, which brought me to Churchill, Manitoba. Churchill is a fascinating place.
It's nestled along the edge of Hudson Bay and sits directly on the polar bear migration route. Every year, bears make their way through the area as they wait for the bay to freeze over so they can head out onto the ice and hunt seals through the winter. We spent a lot of time with the Polar Bear Alert Team, whose job is to keep both people and bears safe. Because the reality is, they're roommates now.
The bears were there first. The town came later. We also spent time documenting the incredible beluga estuary nearby. Every summer, thousands of beluga whales gather there to mate and raise thier young. It felt magical. Polar bears gathering at the edge of the bay, belugas filling the water. An ecosystem perfectly designed to support life.
The estuary itself is remarkable. Not only does it provide food and protection for the whales, but also the shape of the bay helps amplify their communication. Their echolocation bounces off the walls of the estuary, helping them navigate, socialize, and care for their calves. It was one of the most extraordinary places I'd ever worked. One day we caught on camera a polar bear swimming across the estuary, imagine that, a polar bear in the belugas element!? It was a moment I will never forget.
And then came another moment I couldn't ignore.
The reason Churchill exists at all is because of its shipping port. Large cargo ships come and go, bringing supplies and moving goods across the North. Which sounds reasonable enough. Until you start thinking about those belugas.
The constant noise from ship engines interferes with their communication. Their ability to hear one another, to navigate, connect and bread. And worse, the injuries the whale incurred being struck by propellers. Then there were the bears. Mother bears and cubs simply trying to reach the coastline. A journey they've been making long before people arrived. Only now, that route cuts through neighbourhoods, roads, fences, and backyards. The animals haven't changed. We have.

And standing there, watching it all unfold, I found myself feeling something familiar. The same feeling I had in Nairobi. The same uncomfortable realization that sometimes it's embarrassing to be human. Not because people are bad. But because we're often so focused on our own needs that we forget we're sharing this planet with millions of other living things.
Everything we build, everything we buy and everything we consume. It all has consequences somewhere. When filming wrapped, I came home knowing something else had changed. The little refillery Andrew and I had started in a 200-square-foot tire shed couldn't just be a store. It had to mean something. It had to stand for something. It had to become a place where people could make choices that aligned with the kind of world they wanted to create. Not because one refill saves a whale, not because one shampoo bar saves a polar bear. But because every action is a vote. A vote for the systems we want to support. A vote for the future we want to build.
And for the first time, I realized I no longer wanted to tell stories about change. I wanted to help create it.
So when Arctic Vets ended, so did my television career. And we began building The Keep, which by definition means: the central, most heavily fortified tower within a castle. Designed as a final stronghold and refuge of last resort to fight back.
