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How Canucks hockey helped me turn grief into a voice after my mother’s passing

Photo credit: Tyler Gibbs

By Tyler Gibbs

Nov 7, 2026, 12:08 EST

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To most people, sports are just a distraction. A way to kill a Tuesday night. A convenient excuse to grab a beer with friends or yell at a screen for a few hours. But when I watch the Vancouver Canucks, I don’t just see a hockey franchise. I see my living room. I hear my mom’s voice. I see the lifeline that pulled me out of the darkest year of my life.

For as long as I can remember, the Canucks were our shared language. Every game was an event, every goal a shared celebration. My mom and I rode the emotional rollercoaster that comes with loving this team together. It didn’t matter what else was going on in the world, what stresses we were carrying, or what arguments we might have had earlier in the day. When the puck dropped, we were on the exact same page. We analyzed the plays, cursed the bad calls, and celebrated the victories. The Canucks were the backdrop to our relationship, a constant, comforting rhythm in our home.

Then came May 2024, and the rhythm stopped.

Losing my mom suddenly to an overdose was a shock to the system that words can barely capture. The person I shared my loudest cheers with was gone, without warning. Suddenly, the living room felt entirely too quiet. The world stopped making sense, and I didn’t know how I was going to move forward, let alone care about something as trivial as hockey. The idea of watching a game without her felt impossible. The silence was deafening.

But then, almost in defiance of the heaviness in my chest, came the 2024 playoff run.

I didn’t think I had the emotional capacity to care. I fully intended to tune it out. But as the city buzzed with that familiar, infectious playoff energy, I found myself drawn back in. I sat in our living room, alone this time, and turned on the TV.

The Canucks provided an escape I didn’t know I desperately needed. For three hours every other night, I wasn’t drowning in grief. I was just a fan again. During those tense overtime moments, my heart pounding in my chest, I felt her presence next to me. I could almost hear her groaning at a missed opportunity or cheering a huge save. That playoff run didn’t cure my heartbreak — nothing could — but it gave me a place to put my energy when I had nowhere else to turn. It was a bridge back to myself, and back to her.

As the playoff run ended in heartbreak for the Canucks and the offseason began, that temporary escape began to morph into something else. I realized that my passion for this team wasn’t just a distraction; it was a driving force. I didn’t just want to watch anymore; I wanted to talk about it, analyze it, and share it. I wanted to turn this grief, this heavy, immovable thing, into something productive.

That realization is what pushed me to step in front of a microphone. It’s what led me to create The Line Change. Taking that leap of faith — starting a podcast and a YouTube channel, diving headfirst into sports journalism — was terrifying, but it felt entirely necessary. It was a way to channel the energy I used to spend talking hockey with my mom into something tangible. It made me realize that I don’t just want to watch this team from the living room anymore; I want to be in the room. I want to ask the questions, write the stories, and cover this franchise with the same passion we brought to every puck drop.

I hit record now because it’s what she would have wanted. She wouldn’t have wanted me to be consumed by the silence; she would have wanted me to chase this dream. Every script I write, every podcast episode I put out, and every time I break down a game, I’m doing it with her in mind. The Vancouver Canucks saved me when I was at my lowest, but it was my mom who gave me the love for the team to begin with. I want to take that love to the press box, to the page, and beyond, making sure it lives on in everything I write.