text: The SARS-CoV-2 virus is unthinking and unfeeling. It goes without saying that the virus doesn't have a gender equality agenda. Nonetheless, it has managed to upend every historical and cultural reference we have for who should lead us through crisis, and how. Across Canada, and in countries around the world, compassion, kindness, and collaboration rose like cream throughout the first year of the pandemic—largely thanks to the women leaders who embraced these traits. We gravitated toward people like Hinshaw, B.C.'s Bonnie Henry, the federal government's Theresa Tam, and P.E.I.'s Heather Morrison precisely because they seemed to eschew the bravado, brashness, and unwavering ego that makes many male leaders so popular, in both the present and past. These women were neither certain nor infallible; they were honest and human. It made them all the more compelling, all the more comforting. Arguably, their fanbase grew not because they were untouchable or because they gave rousing, ear-blistering speeches, but because they communicated clearly, consistently, and with others' best interests at heart. Their lives felt attainable. They struggled just like you, broke just like you, knew it was hard and impossible, just like you. If this vulnerability and relatability felt surprising, it also felt necessary.
  
  Alison Van Rosendaal, an assistant principal in Calgary, said of Hinshaw, "I just love watching her." Van Rosendaal believes that media, government, and plain general discourse have conditioned many of us to expect populist rhetoric and, in return, to fit our own response to any issue, no matter how complex, into equally rigid camps. She appreciated that Hinshaw didn't turn all the crowded fear into a blunt instrument, that she seemed uninterested in both soundbites and easy solutions. "She let the things that were messy, stay messy," said Van Rosendaal, explaining what drew her to the unofficial Hinshaw fan club. "She repeatedly said, 'We don't have the solution. We don't have the knowledge base. We don't have the research.' " Rather than that feeling frustrating, however—as in, "Well what do you have?"—it felt refreshing. Van Rosendaal had only to look at the U.S. to see what could happen when political agendas infiltrated infectious disease management, how false claims and disingenuous solutions could ransack a country's response. Hinshaw might have to apologize for getting public policy wrong every now and then, but at least nobody was drinking bleach.
  
  Van Rosendaal remembered the March 16 briefing, before Hinshaw announced her (first) negative COVID-19 test, as the one that won her over. That day, Hinshaw had addressed the province from home, via a flat screen, seated in front of walls lined with book shelves. She talked about how she was isolating herself from her family and about the configuration of her house, acknowledging how tough it was and recognizing her privilege for being able to do so. It struck Van Rosendaal, who has three children, including one teenager, and also three grandchildren, that Hinshaw was doing a difficult, demanding job within the same constraints she'd asked everyone else to work within—and that she wasn't afraid to admit it. At the time, Van Rosendaal was watching the briefing across the street at her sister's house (though within two weeks, she and her sister would be staying isolated in their own homes). The two joked that they needed Hinshaw T-shirts. As they talked about how much they appreciated Hinshaw and batted around ideas on what, exactly, those shirts would look like, and what a tagline might be, a lightbulb clicked on for Van Rosendaal: "What Would Dr. Hinshaw Do?"
  
  Her sister loved it, and Van Rosendaal decided she'd actually get one made, solely because it would be amusing. They'd laugh, and have a fun shirt to wear with their new hero on it. Shortly after, she was awake in bed at 2:30 a.m. on a Wednesday, staring at her ceiling, thinking about the shirt. Unable to sleep, Van Rosendaal went to her computer and transformed a screenshot photo of Hinshaw with her hands open wide. She gave her sunglasses and a rope of necklaces, centring the cheeky, and not-quite-rhetorical, question on the black-and-white rendering. She got ten shirts made, keeping one for herself and giving the others to her sister, as well as to some local health heroes. Her delighted sister, Julie, a cookbook author and food editor, posted a photo of the shirt on her social media accounts, where her followers all immediately seemed to want one. One person posted, "I am very, very, very jealous right now." Others suggested the design should go on an infinity scarf (another favourite Hinshaw fashion choice) or should come with a periodic table print. One comment in particular seemed to sum it all up: "I know everyone's asking, but are these for sale?"
  
  "It was this common sentiment bubbling up of, 'Oh, we love her,'" Van Rosendaal told me. She found a small manufacturer in nearby Red Deer and decided to make a few shirts, sell them, and give the proceeds to some local food banks. She picked ten organizations across Alberta, including several located in Indigenous communities. It would be easy enough, she thought, to do this one good thing. In fact, she was volunteering at a 5 p.m. shift at a food bank shortly after announcing the shirt sale when her phone started chiming notifications. Safety precautions meant she couldn't touch her phone during the shift, so Van Rosendaal had to listen and wonder. Ching, ching, ching. By the end of the shift, she'd already sold two thousand dollars' worth of shirts. The next day, sales had climbed so high she thought, This is no longer a lark and Shit, I should have asked Dr. Hinshaw if this was okay. She reached out, and Hinshaw gave an uncomfortable blessing. Within four days, Van Rosendaal had sold more than twenty thousand dollars in T-shirts. She can't be sure why the shirts were so popular, but she thinks it was because, to many people, Hinshaw felt like hope.
  
  "These new heroes that are coming out of the pandemic are such a positive for the world," said Mandy Stobo, "not just for the pandemic, but forever." Stobo is a Calgary-based artist who is known for her Bad Portrait series—bright pop-art watercolour-and-Sharpie portraits of people she admires. She created one of Hinshaw first, inspired by the doctor's bravery, determination, and poise. Soon after, Stobo started creating portraits of other healthcare workers and health officers. "Once you look past Alberta," she added, "it was pretty consistent: the theme of these incredible women taking the pandemic by the horns and steering us in the right direction." She created colourful portraits of Henry and Tam, then added Newfoundland's Janice Fitzgerald, Ottawa's Vera Etches, and Toronto's Eileen de Villa. To her, each woman had become a modern icon worth lauding. Stobo decided to license the portraits for free to people who were doing fundraisers, helping however she could. In doing so, she joined Van Rosendaal and countless others who had decided to publicly honour Canada's new set of leaders with T-shirts, art, shoes, fundraisers, songs, graffiti, fan clubs, signs, coffee mugs, stationery, and more. The accolades vibrated against the fear, an undercurrent of appreciation, admiration, and support.
  
  It isn't often we see women leaders so widely celebrated during a crisis—in part because it's still far too uncommon for us to see women lead communities and countries at all (not to mention companies, courtrooms, civil organizations, media rooms, and the list goes on). The reversal did not go unnoticed in Canada and beyond. In addition to Tam's chief spot at the federal level, six of the top doctors in the country's thirteen provinces and territories were women. So too were many health officers at the municipal level. Together, they showed us a new way to lead. They defied hate, deliberate misinformation, partisanship. Tam openly, repeatedly condemned anti-Asian racism. (Whereas some male leaders, such as Ontario Conservative MP David Sloan, who asked "Does [Tam] work for China?" and tweeted "Dr. Tam must go! Canada must remain sovereign over decisions," instead focused on sowing division.) Henry's signature phrase, "Be kind, be calm, be safe," became the country's unofficial mantra. We connected so deeply to these women of the pandemic not because they were perfect or unhindered, but because, in so many ways, they were us: frazzled and afraid, determined and compassionate, facing down an unfathomable future, each of them simply doing the best that they could. Under pressure, these women were graceful and stoic, but also tired, sad, and keenly aware of loss.
  
  Their voices broke when they talked about missing their families. They choked back tears when they acknowledged just how hard it all was, and asked us to keep doing everything that made it hard. "I ended up showing some emotion in public—not because I wanted to, but because it happened. It made it real for all of us," Heather Morrison, P.E.I.'s chief health officer, told me, referring to a press conference during which she asked Islanders to continue being patient, to continue being kind. "I wouldn't recommend crying on TV, but it happened." The honesty only made people love her more. An MLA named a new calf after her. Kids hosted a virtual superhero-themed party and some dressed up as her. Like with other leaders, people made T-shirts with her likeness on them—a thing that Morrison said she would never have believed, not in a million years, if you'd told her at the beginning of 2020. She has tried her best to be a calm voice in the storm. Similar to Hinshaw, she has not shied away from admitting errors and has been upfront about what she does, and does not, know. She too led with compassion, kindness, patience, and common sense. She too put everyone else—her entire province—first.
  
  This near-universal approach from women leaders wasn't just humane; it was effective. When I spoke to Morrison in early August, for example, her tiny province had experienced no COVID-19 deaths; that remained the case into October. At the international level, studies of the world's 194 countries have shown that women national leaders fared better in terms of both infection and mortality rates. One possible reason, researchers found, is that, unlike men, women appeared to approach the crisis with one top mandate: to save lives. On average, they announced lockdowns twenty-five deaths earlier than their male counterparts. For better or worse, during the first wave, they prioritized health over the economy. These leaders totalled fewer than twenty and notably included Germany's Angela Merkel, New Zealand's Jacinda Ardern, Denmark's Mette Frederiksen, Taiwan's Tsai Ing-wen, and Finland's Sanna Marin. (To account for the disparity in numbers, the study compared each woman-led country with an analogous, nearby male-led one.) As the Guardian put it, "Plenty of countries with male leaders…have done well. But few with female leaders have done badly." In April, the Atlantic even posited that Ardern might be "the most effective leader on the planet" for the way she was handling the pandemic. In the early months, she exemplified empathy but also an unbreakable commitment to valuing human life before anything else. As Ardern herself said when she announced increased mass shutdowns in her country, "The worst-case scenario is simply intolerable. It would represent the greatest loss of New Zealanders' lives in our country's history. I will not take that chance." And neither would many others.