The word lobbyist has been poisoned by decades of misuse. It conjures images of corporate boardrooms, quiet lunches, and whispered deals that bend government policy to private will. But lobbying, in its legal sense, isn’t inherently corrupt—it’s simply the act of trying to influence government decisions. And in a democracy, citizens have the right, even the duty, to do exactly that.

I register as a lobbyist not because I’m seeking advantage, but because I’m seeking transparency. My work is pro bono and adversarial. I don’t offer carrots; I bring the stick—public accountability, evidence, and policy critique.

There’s an important distinction between carrot lobbying and stick lobbying.

Carrot lobbying is transactional: it offers access, goodwill, or potential benefit in exchange for cooperation. It depends on relationships and persuasion. Stick lobbying is confrontational by design: it applies pressure, exposes contradictions, and demands compliance with law or ethics. One courts power; the other challenges it.

When I lobby, I use the stick. I don’t promise rewards; I remind decision-makers of obligations. And I register those efforts precisely so there’s no confusion about intent. Transparency is the defense against suspicion.

Canada’s Lobbying Act was written to make influence visible, not to criminalize civic participation. It requires anyone communicating with public office holders about policy, regulation, or funding to record those interactions. Paid or unpaid, the principle is the same: democracy works best when influence is declared, not hidden.

This is also where journalism enters the picture. Journalism’s first obligation is to the truth, and its first loyalty is to the public. Those of us who straddle both worlds—advocacy and reporting—must keep those roles separate. When I lobby, I am a participant in the process. When I write, I’m an observer and analyst. The line between those roles is bright, and it exists to protect credibility.

Yet for Indigenous journalists, that line can’t always be so clean. The reality is that Indigenous media in Canada operates with limited resources, often without the institutional power to secure access to government on its own. In these cases, wearing both hats isn’t a choice—it’s survival.

When Indigenous journalists lobby, it isn’t for profit or political favour; it’s to secure a voice in rooms where decisions are made. It’s advocacy for representation, for visibility, and for the right to tell our own stories. That necessity doesn’t undermine journalistic integrity—it simply demands honesty about context. The duty is to be transparent about when one is acting as an advocate and when one is reporting as a journalist.

Indigenous journalists are often participants in their own liberation. When they lobby, they do so to open the very doors that journalism later walks through. The ethical responsibility isn’t to abstain from power—it’s to wield it openly and accountably.

By registering, I acknowledge that balance. It demonstrates that any advocacy I conduct is done within the law and under public scrutiny. It is not an attempt to purchase access or trade favours; it’s an insistence that access belong to everyone.

In a time when public trust in both government and media is fragile, the most radical thing any citizen can do is act in daylight. Registering as a lobbyist isn’t a confession—it’s a commitment to democracy’s core value: that influence should never hide in the dark.