I never realized how impossible it is to navigate the justice system until I was thrown into it myself. You would think there would be one place to go for answers, or at least a central point of information, but that simply isn’t the case. Instead, the justice system is a patchwork of different departments, programs, and agencies—each handling their own piece of the puzzle, but not always communicating with one another.
And here’s the kicker: you don’t even know what to ask for unless you already know it exists.
The Hidden Rules No One Tells You About
I learned, for example, that there were publication bans on some of the criminal trials I am involved in (as a witness and as a mother). No one told me. No one explained what that meant. I only found out much later, as if it were something I should have just known. But unless you’ve been through this before—or gone to law school—how would you know?
Most of the stories we absorb about court and justice come from American TV shows or movies. They look dramatic, but they don’t reflect Canadian law at all. So when you finally face the system here, you’re already at a disadvantage, fumbling through rules you didn’t know existed.
Too Many Courts, Too Many Doors
Right now, I’m juggling:
- Criminal court – where i am the victim
- Civil court – for control of the corporations that we own.
- Family court – for custody and child protection.
- Children’s criminal court – for abuse and threat cases.
And that’s just the courts themselves. On top of that, there are:
- Victim Services
- The VWAP program (Victim/Witness Assistance Program)
- Court support workers
- Police services
- CAS (Children’s Aid Society)
- Social workers
- Therapists (for me and for my children)
- 3 set of lawyers – one for each court
Each of these plays an important role. But they all operate independently, using different systems, schedules, and software. What one agency knows, another doesn’t necessarily know. And I’m left as the person trying to connect the dots, when what I actually need is clarity and support.
Layering in Real Life
On top of all that, I have children in school—originally four kids in four different schools. I’ve managed to consolidate, but it’s still three schools I have to keep track of.. Some programs are in French, others in English, which means even the education system feels like another maze layered on top of the justice one.
So while I’m trying to piece together updates from courts, police, and victim services, I’m also trying to juggle school forms, bus schedules, afterschool sports and activities, kids with jobs and the daily logistics of raising kids who are already dealing with the fallout of trauma.
The Scheduling Maze
Even just figuring out when your case will actually be heard is another battle. I fired my previous family lawyer after he ignored me seven times when I asked him to file an emergency travel order for my daughter. In the end, I took it to court myself—just days before she had to fly overseas—because I couldn’t wait any longer.
After that, the next family court motion was adjourned because I had just changed lawyers. I thought the next date would be for actually hearing the motion, but no—it’s just to set another date to hear the motion. The court literally brings everyone in, only to give you another date, so you can come back again just to get a real date.
The same thing happens in criminal court. My ex-husband’s criminal case was adjourned because of a lawyer switch, and instead of setting a trial date right then and there, the court set a new date just to set a trial date.
Why can’t they just pull out the judge’s calendar, have a trial scheduler they can call up and assign the next date while everyone is in the courtroom? Why waste time with a date to set another date? It adds more stress, more confusion, and more delays for the people who are already hanging on by a thread.
The Language Problem
Even the language of the justice system can feel belittling. Recently, I heard the phrase: “he will be spoken to.”
That made me laugh, because it sounded exactly like being called into the principal’s office when you’d been naughty at school. Back when I grew up in the UK, we called it being sent to the headmaster’s office to be spoken to.
But this is court. This isn’t a classroom discipline issue, it’s people’s lives. Using a phrase like “to be spoken to” doesn’t sound like a professional legal process. It sounds like you’re going to get told off, then sent back to class.
And here’s the bigger issue: what does “to be spoken to” actually mean? If the court wants to check on paperwork, schedule a case conference, or assign an administrative date, then just say that. Make it plain. Make it something people can look at and immediately understand.
Because “to be spoken to” doesn’t tell you anything. It doesn’t explain what’s happening, why you need to show up, or what the outcome will be. It just adds another layer of confusion to a system already full of them.
Why We Need a Central Hub
What’s missing from the justice system is a clear, centralized hub for information. Something as simple as an online flowchart could make a world of difference. Imagine if you could log in and follow a pathway:
- Have you been to court before?
- Is this a criminal case, family case, or civil case?
- Are you a victim, a witness, or an accused?
You click through the options and, step by step, it explains:
- This is what’s going to happen.
- These are the people you will see.
- This is the paperwork you’ll need.
- These are the resources you can reach out to.
- Here are the questions you might want to ask.
It would take so much of the guesswork out of the process. Victims wouldn’t be left trying to piece things together from scraps of conversations, scattered phone calls, or conflicting answers depending on which office they spoke to that day.
Same Province, Different Worlds
What makes it worse is how inconsistent it is, even within the same province. I know someone in my own community — we met at group coffee social event — who, like me, is a victim. But her case is being tried down south, while mine is up north.
Her trial is set for next month. She only found out about the date three weeks ago, giving her just two months’ notice. She has no VWAP worker until now, hasn’t spoken to the Crown Prosecutor, and has no idea what questions to ask or what to expect from the trial itself
Meanwhile, my trial is set for January. I’ve already started thinking about the 101 things I want to ask when we meet in within the next few months: What will they ask me? What can’t they ask me? Do I have to take the stand? Can I ask for a break? What should I wear — a suit, something casual, makeup, no makeup? What sentencing is he looking at? Can he plea deal? Is the trial by judge or judge and jury – because he gets to choose. I have no idea what to expect apart from I expect it to be traumatic.
The fact that she and I live in the same province, under the same justice system, but have such drastically different experiences within the judicial system, shows how fragmented everything really is. Your access to information depends not only on what region you’re in, but on how many times you push, how often you ask questions, and how proactive you are.
And then there’s the practical barrier: her trial is three days long. She doesn’t live in the area. She has to travel, stay in a hotel, and cover expenses she can’t afford. Will she be reimbursed? Does she have to pay first? Who does she even ask? There are no clear answers – because who do you ask?
This isn’t just broken. It’s discriminatory against victims.
Even I Can’t Figure It Out
I like to think of myself as fairly smart. I have a degree and a professional accreditation. But trauma changes everything. “Baby brain” has nothing on survivor-victim-trauma brain. It’s ten times worse.
I’m putting myself back together. I’m getting stronger. I’m asking questions. I’m standing up and saying, “this is wrong.” And even with all that, I am still struggling to figure out what is happening in my own cases.
And it’s not just one case. I’m navigating:
- My own criminal case against my ex.
- The children’s criminal case against him, with different youth services and processes attached.
- Family court, with a brand-new lawyer and endless layers of settlement conferences, motions, and hearings.
- Civil litigation, where staff turnover has meant my file gets shuffled from one assistant to another.
Things are adjourned, and then adjourned again. Lawyers are too busy. Judges push things forward. And I’m left chasing down updates, writing my own litigation briefs just to keep the process moving.
Even the Crown Prosecutor admitted to me that my ex was released on a bail breach because his lawyer had given him “wrong information” on a technicality. The Crown shrugged and said, “This almost never happens, but there’s nothing we can do about it.”
How is that justice? And I have no idea where to start on holding someone accountable because ‘they can’t give advice’…..
Reform Needs to Start With Victims
The whole process is messy, confusing, and unfair. Reform is desperately needed — but not the kind designed in a government office far removed from the people who live through it. Reform has to start with the voices of survivors and victims.
Why isn’t there a feedback system? Imagine if, after your case, you could say:
- This part of the process helped me.
- This part left me in the dark.
- Here’s where I felt supported.
- Here’s where I felt abandoned.
That feedback could be used to make the system clearer, kinder, and more consistent. Instead, victims are silenced, shuffled, and left in the dark, expected to survive a maze they didn’t choose to walk into.
Where I Go From Here
This is why I’ve decided that at some point, I am going to write an open letter to the Minister of the Attorney General, write to advocacy groups, write to newspapers and post on social media. Because this system is broken, and reform is not optional anymore — it’s urgent. It might not do anything but I need to know I have tried.
Right now, even just trying to find out what’s happening in my own case costs me time, energy, peace of mind, and honestly, a little piece of my soul each time I have to chase another unanswered question.
There has been progress. Recent reforms around publication bans, for example, have started to give victims more control and stopped the practice of punishing us if we speak out about our own experiences. That’s a step in the right direction. And I know there are new bills in the works — ones for coercive control that, if passed, will mean that even more of the abuse I’ve experienced could finally be recognized in law.
But it isn’t enough. The reality on the ground is still a nightmare. Victims like me, and the women I meet through groups where we meet for coffee, are still left confused, exhausted, and without clear answers. We’re still paying the price — not always in money, but in time, in stress, in fear, and in the constant erosion of peace of mind.
When I do sit down to write that open letter, I will be writing it not just for me, but for every victim and survivor who has ever felt lost in this maze. Because justice isn’t just about what happens in the courtroom. It’s about whether we are given the information, the clarity, and the support we need to survive the process.
