When Maricel Reyes collapsed on the sidewalk outside her son’s daycare in Scarborough, she thought it was stress or skipped breakfast. She’d never imagined a heart attack—she was 42, active, and juggled three jobs to support her family. “I didn’t see it coming because I didn’t know what to look for,” she recalls, eyes misty. Her story echoes that of thousands across Canada, especially women and people of colour, who live with undiagnosed risk factors every day. According to the Heart and Stroke Foundation, barely half of Canadians recognize the most common threats: high blood pressure, smoking, and unhealthy diet. It’s a gap in knowledge with life-altering consequences.
This knowledge gap becomes fatal when paired with unequal access to preventive care in marginalized communities. From long clinic waitlists to language barriers and lack of culturally safe spaces, the road to prevention is not paved equally. Dr. Farah Ibrahim, a family physician in Winnipeg’s North End, sees this daily. “Our patients aren’t ignoring their health. They’re simply trying to survive. It’s hard to prioritize cholesterol tests when rent is overdue.” And when heart symptoms manifest differently in women or don’t align with textbook descriptions, they’re often dismissed or misdiagnosed. The result? Later diagnoses, worse outcomes.
Public health messages tout the importance of prevention, but who are these messages reaching? In health educator Stephanie Molina’s workshops with newcomer families in Surrey, B.C., the disconnect is palpable. “We’re still using brochures written in medical jargon, delivered occasionally to neighborhoods already underserved. We need community-led education—neighbours teaching neighbours, in their own language, grounded in lived experience.” Stephanie believes we need fewer pamphlets and more conversations. Our national heart health strategy should be rooted in relationships, not broadcasts.
The numbers show a heartbreaking divide: women, Indigenous populations, Black Canadians, and the working poor bear the greatest burden of heart disease, and yet are the least informed about its risks. This isn’t just a medical issue—it’s a social one. When funding cuts target school health programs, when food deserts hit low-income areas, when employers don’t offer sick days for check-ups—we design a society where prevention is a privilege. For many, it takes a medical crisis to learn what they should’ve been taught years ago. It shouldn’t take a heart attack to know how to protect your heart.
Heart disease may be Canada’s leading killer, but its roots go far deeper than genetics. They grow in how we educate, how we care, and who we choose to prioritize. It’s time we stop seeing heart health as an individual burden and start treating it as a collective one. It begins by listening to the quieter voices—the Maricels, the Dr. Ibrahims, the Stephanies—who live and work closest to the heart of this issue. Because every beat counts, especially the unheard ones.
