What Happens When No One Listens

When our condo corporation decided to take legal action against our unit, we knew the law was on our side. That wasn’t arrogance—it was the conclusion we’d reached after reading the rules ourselves, after consulting the governing documents, after doing the kind of homework that self-reps learn to do when their home is on the line. We tried to communicate this to the board. We tried to explain it to the other owners. But none of them would hear us out.

By then, too many emotions were already strained. And when people feel they hold power, they dig their heels in. We warned everyone that this would not end well. We told them we would defend ourselves. We told them their case was weak. But reason had already left the building.

Talking to a Wall

I have to say, it was almost like trying to explain ourselves to cult members. There was simply no way to speak reason into the conversation. Every attempt to present facts was met with resistance. Every effort to clarify the rules was treated as aggression. The board had made up its mind, and the owners who bothered to pay attention had fallen in line behind them.

There were a couple of people who seemed to hear us. A few who nodded along, who asked thoughtful questions, who appeared to understand that maybe, just maybe, there was another side to this story. But their numbers were so small that it didn’t matter. They couldn’t shift the momentum. Eventually, those people either left the conversation entirely or walked away from their units altogether. The ones who stayed were the ones who had already decided.

The Aftermath No One Admits

Even when the condo lost their case—and they did lose—no one was willing to admit defeat. No one apologized. No one stood up and said, “We made a mistake.” Instead, each unit owner was slapped with a special assessment to cover the legal costs. The very people who had refused to listen, who had dug in their heels, who had treated us like the enemy—they all had to pay. And still, no one acknowledged what had happened.

There’s a particular kind of silence that follows a preventable loss. It’s heavy and hollow at the same time. You can feel it in hallways, in meetings, in the way people look away when you pass. No one says they were wrong. No one says they’re sorry. They just carry the cost and hope you’ll forget.

The Circle of Blame

What I realized from all of this is that condo accountability works in a kind of circle jerk of blame. No one is responsible because everyone can point to someone else.

The board holds all the cards. But most board members are volunteers with busy lives, and many are too overwhelmed or disengaged to truly understand what they’re signing off on. So they defer everything to property managers and lawyers. “The manager said this was necessary.” “The lawyer advised this course of action.” The board signs where they’re told to sign.

As an owner, you might try to hold the manager or lawyer accountable. But the law is clear: the board is responsible. Managers and lawyers are agents of the corporation. They advise; the board decides. The board signs off on every decision, even the ones they didn’t fully understand. So you go back to the board. And the board points to the manager and lawyer they relied on. Round and round.

But who gave the board this power? That would be the owners. The same owners who won’t come to meetings. Who won’t vote on issues. Who won’t read the documents or ask the hard questions until it’s too late. Condos are democracies, but democracies only work when people participate. When they don’t, power concentrates by default. And concentrated power, insulated from accountability, starts to behave in predictable ways.

The Democracy Problem

This is the part that haunts me. Not that our board was uniquely bad—they weren’t, not really. They were ordinary people who got caught in a system that made it easy to stop listening. The problem is structural. In a healthy democracy, decision-makers face consequences when they make bad choices. They get voted out. Their policies get reversed. Someone says, “We tried that, and it didn’t work.”

In condos, that feedback loop is broken. By the time a bad decision reveals itself as bad, the board members who made it may have already rotated off. The owners who funded it through special assessments have no mechanism for recourse beyond voting in the next election—if they even bother to show up. And the next board inherits the mess with none of the accountability.

What I Learned

I learned that being right isn’t enough. You can be right about the law, right about the facts, right about what’s coming. If no one is willing to listen, right doesn’t matter.

I learned that power protects itself. Not through conspiracy, usually, but through inertia. People who have decided they’re right don’t want to hear they might be wrong. They circle up. They shut down. They wait for you to go away.

And I learned that democracy is a participation sport. When owners check out, boards fill the vacuum. When boards defer to managers and lawyers, accountability dissolves. When no one wants to be responsible, everyone becomes responsible—by paying for mistakes they didn’t make and decisions they didn’t make.

The Bottom Line

Our condo lost their case. We paid our share. They paid everything else. And no one learned a thing.

I thought about this while writing Condozilla. Clara lives in a building where the same dynamics play out—the board that won’t listen, the owners who won’t engage, the lawyers who advise without consequence. Watching her navigate that world, holding onto her voice when everyone wants her to be quiet, became a way for me to process what we went through. She’s not always right. But she’s always paying attention. And in a system designed for people who aren’t, that might be the most dangerous thing of all.

If you’ve ever felt like the only one asking questions in a room full of people who’ve already decided, Clara’s story is for you. Condozilla is available now.

What Every Self-Rep Needs To Know

If you’ve spent any time in a courthouse hallway waiting for your number to be called, you’ve watched this scene play out. A frazzled litigant approaches the counter, clutching a stack of papers, desperate for guidance. The clerk listens, shifts uncomfortably, and delivers some version of: “I’m sorry, I can’t give you legal advice.” The litigant walks away defeated, no closer to understanding what they’re supposed to do next.

I’ve been that litigant. And I’ve also come to understand, over time, that the clerk’s response isn’t unkindness—it’s a boundary drawn by law, policy, and professional obligation. Knowing what sits on each side of that boundary can save you a lot of frustration.

What Clerks Can Do

Court office clerks are the administrative backbone of the justice system. Their role is to manage filings, process documents, collect fees, and keep the machinery running. Within that mandate, there’s a great deal they can help with.

Clerks can generally explain court procedures and deadlines as they appear on the face of the rules. They can tell you what forms are available for a particular type of filing. They can check your documents for completeness—ensuring all required fields are filled, correct fees are attached, and necessary copies are included. They can tell you how to calculate filing deadlines based on the rules of civil procedure. They can direct you to publicly available resources, like self-help centers, family law information desks, or court websites. They can confirm whether a document has been filed and provide access to the court file.

In Ontario, for example, the Ministry of the Attorney General provides guidance that court staff may assist with procedural questions, such as “What is the filing fee for a motion?” or “How many copies of this document do I need to file?” They can also explain the effect of checking certain boxes on standard forms, as long as they’re not telling you which box to check.

What Clerks Cannot Do

The line gets drawn at legal advice. Clerks cannot tell you what to do.

They cannot advise you on whether you should bring a motion or what arguments to make in it. They cannot tell you how to word your affidavit or what evidence to include. They cannot predict how a judge might rule on your matter or what strategy might improve your chances. They cannot interpret the law for you or explain how a statute might apply to your specific facts. They cannot recommend whether to accept a settlement offer or how to respond to opposing counsel’s demands.

This prohibition exists for good reasons. Clerks are not lawyers. They haven’t been trained in legal analysis, and they don’t carry professional liability insurance. More fundamentally, providing legal advice would compromise the court’s neutrality. If a clerk guided one litigant toward a particular strategy, and that advice affected the outcome, the entire proceeding could be challenged for lack of impartiality.

There’s also the appeal risk. If a judge appears to help a self-rep too much, the opposing party can appeal on grounds of bias or procedural unfairness. The same principle applies to clerks. Their role is to serve all litigants equally, not to advocate for any of them.

The Grey Area

Between administrative assistance and legal advice lies a grey zone that varies by jurisdiction and even by individual clerk. Some clerks will gently point out that a form appears incomplete or that a deadline seems to have been missed. Others will strictly limit themselves to accepting whatever you hand them without comment. Their willingness to venture into grey territory often depends on workload, temperament, and how many times they’ve been burned by litigants who later claimed they were given wrong information.

What feels like unhelpfulness is often self-preservation. Clerks work in a high-pressure environment where one misplaced comment can become the subject of a complaint, an appeal, or both. The ones who seem abrupt have usually learned the hard way that kindness can be mistaken for guidance, and guidance can become a liability.

What This Means for Self-Reps

Understanding these boundaries doesn’t make them less frustrating, but it does make them more navigable. When you approach the counter, know what to ask for. Ask about process, not strategy. Ask about deadlines, not arguments. Ask about form numbers, not what to write in the boxes.

And when you hear “I can’t give you legal advice,” recognize it for what it is: not a refusal to help, but a statement of legal limitation. The clerk isn’t saying they won’t help you. They’re saying they legally cannot cross a line that exists to protect the integrity of the system—and to protect you from receiving bad advice from someone not qualified to give it.

Where to Go for Help

If clerks can’t give legal advice, where do you turn? Self-help resources vary by jurisdiction. Many courts have duty counsel available for family law matters. Some have advice lawyers stationed in the courthouse. Legal clinics provide assistance for low-income litigants. Law libraries, where they still exist, offer access to texts and reference materials. And increasingly, courts publish detailed guides for self-reps on their websites—everything from step-by-step filing instructions to templates for common motions.

None of this replaces a lawyer. But for those of us who can’t afford one, or who’ve chosen to navigate this system on our own, knowing what help is actually available—and what isn’t—makes the difference between spinning in circles and moving forward.

I thought about this while writing Condozilla. Clara spends countless hours in courthouse hallways, watching these exchanges, learning which questions get answers and which ones get shut down. She figures out that the system’s boundaries aren’t arbitrary, even when they feel like it. And she learns to ask the right questions—not just of clerks, but of herself.

If you’ve ever stood at a counter wondering why no one will just tell you what to do, Clara’s story is for you. Condozilla is available now.

Being a self-represented litigant is, I have to say, one of the most stressful and loneliest experiences I think anyone can go through. It’s not just the stigma, though that’s real enough—the bias, the assumptions, the way people’s faces shift when you explain why you’re in court without a lawyer. It’s that the experience itself is fundamentally isolating in ways that are hard to convey to anyone who hasn’t lived it.

If your lawsuit involves a condo, the loneliness has a particular flavor. You will likely be hated by the other owners. Not in a dramatic, confrontational way necessarily, but in the quiet, everyday way of people who see you in the hallway and look away. They won’t want to understand your position. They’re busy with their own lives, their own problems, and yours is not something they have room for. Technically, if the condo loses, it affects them financially. But human psychology doesn’t work on technicalities. Most of them are secretly hoping you lose so they don’t have to pay. They won’t say it, but you’ll feel it. You’ll feel it every time you pass someone in the elevator who used to say hello.

Friends and family are their own kind of difficult. Even the supportive ones don’t know how to help you. If you’re lucky, they might be willing to listen while you talk through your problems. But the reality is that litigation is really boring stuff to anyone not living inside it. The deadlines, the procedural steps, the arcane disputes over document production—it’s the kind of detail that glazes eyes within minutes. Your loved ones want to be there for you, but they don’t know what to do with you. They can’t strategize with you. They can’t review your factum. They can’t sit beside you in court. They can make you tea and tell you it’ll be okay, and that matters more than they know, but it doesn’t change the fundamental aloneness of the work.

Then there are the people inside the system itself. Along the way, you will encounter moody office clerks who treat your confusion as inconvenience. You will face sharp conduct from lawyers who know exactly how to make you feel small. You will experience disrespect simply for being lost, for not knowing rules that were never designed for you to understand. Some of this is intentional; most of it isn’t. It’s just what happens when you move through a world built for insiders as someone on the outside. Every interaction carries an extra layer of friction, an extra reminder that you don’t quite belong here.

What makes it loneliest, I think, is that no one else can carry it with you. A lawyer carries the weight of a case for their client. They absorb the stress, manage the strategy, handle the sharp edges of opposing counsel. When you’re a self-rep, all of that is yours. Every motion, every deadline, every ambiguous email from the other side—it all lands on you. There’s no one to pass it to. No one to say, “Here, you deal with this.” The case lives in your head constantly, not because you lack discipline, but because there’s no one else for it to live in.

No one understands the self-rep experience until they’ve experienced it themselves. And they don’t understand how difficult it really is because it’s not widely talked about.

And yet, there are moments when the loneliness shifts into something else. Something quieter, but not entirely bad. You learn to rely on yourself in ways you never expected. You develop a kind of stubborn self-trust. You stop waiting for someone to validate your position because you realize no one is coming to do that. You become your own strategist, your own researcher, your own emotional support system. It’s not the same as having a team behind you. But it’s something.

I thought about this while writing Condozilla. Clara walks through her building feeling eyes on her, knowing what people are thinking, knowing they’re hoping she’ll just go away. She talks to friends who want to help but can’t, friends who listen politely and then change the subject. She stands across from clerks who sigh at her questions and lawyers who speak to her like she’s dumb for not hiring a lawyer. But she keeps going. Not because it’s easy, but because the alternative is walking away from the only person fighting for her mother’s case—and that person is her.

If you’ve ever felt completely alone in a fight that only you seem to care about, Clara’s story is for you. Condozilla is available now.

Expensive Mistakes Self-Represented Litigants Make

In my last post, I wrote about the costly lesson of missing a hearing because we didn’t trust the other side. But that wasn’t our only expensive mistake. Around the same time, we made another error that cost us just as much—and it came from the opposite instinct.

Instead of staying home when we should have shown up, we showed up to fight when we should have stayed home.

The Motion We Didn’t Understand

It started with a motion. The other side’s lawyer had filed a request related to moving the case forward—something about procedural matters that required our consent. I honestly can’t remember the exact details now. What I remember is how it felt.

It felt like an attack.

In our minds, every motion was a battle. Every filing was a fight. The lawyer was the enemy, and our job was to resist everything they did. So when this procedural motion landed, our instinct was immediate: fight it. Object. Say no.

What we didn’t understand was that some motions aren’t really about winning or losing. They’re about process. They’re about moving the case toward trial whether you’re ready or not.

The Mistake of Resisting Reality

Looking back, I realize what was really happening. We didn’t want to go to trial. We wanted the problem to go away. We wanted the other side to realize they were wrong and drop the whole thing. In our minds, as long as we kept resisting—objecting to motions, refusing to consent, digging in our heels—maybe the case would just… disappear.

But that’s not how it works.

Once a case is moving through the system, it doesn’t stop because you resist. It stops because a judge dismisses it, because you settle, or because you go to trial. Procedural motions are the machinery of the system. They’re how the court gets cases ready for trial. Fighting them doesn’t make the case go away. It just makes the process longer, harder, and more expensive.

The Consent We Mistook for Surrender

At one point, the other side asked for our consent on a matter. What I remember is our reaction: consent meant giving in. Consent meant admitting they were right. Consent meant losing.

So we refused.

We didn’t understand that consent in a procedural context isn’t surrender. It’s cooperation with the court’s process. It’s agreeing to move things along so the case can actually be decided. It’s not about who’s right or wrong. It’s about keeping the machinery running.

By refusing, we didn’t stop the case. We just made everything take longer—and ran up legal costs on both sides.

The Cost of Fighting the Wrong Battle

The motion proceeded. We prepared a response. We showed up. We argued.

And we lost.

Not because our argument was bad, but because the motion was never really about winning or losing. It was about process. The judge granted what the other side asked for, and we were left with a bill for their legal costs.

We had spent time, energy, and money fighting something that was always going to happen anyway. The trial was coming. The deadlines were coming. Resisting didn’t stop any of it. It just made us look like we didn’t understand how the system works—which, to be fair, we didn’t.

What I Wish I’d Known About Procedural Motions

Here’s what I understand now that I didn’t understand then:

1. Not all motions are created equal.
Some motions are about substantive issues—things that could decide the case. Those are worth fighting. But many motions are procedural. They’re about scheduling, disclosure, or trial readiness. Fighting them is often futile because the court’s priority is moving cases forward, not stopping them.

2. Resisting reality doesn’t change it.
If the case is going to trial, it’s going to trial. Procedural motions are how the court gets there. Fighting them doesn’t make the trial disappear. It just makes the path longer and more expensive.

3. Consent is not surrender.
Agreeing to a procedural request is not admitting the other side is right. It’s acknowledging that the case needs to move forward. Courts expect parties to cooperate on process, even when they disagree on substance. Refusing to consent without a good reason can backfire—and may even cost you in costs.

4. Ask yourself: can we win this?
Before fighting any motion, ask the hard question: What’s the likelihood the judge will rule in our favour? If the answer is low, consider whether it’s worth the fight. Sometimes the smartest move is to let it go and save your resources for trial.

5. Not every battle needs to be fought.
We were so used to being in fight mode that we forgot to be strategic. We fought everything because fighting felt like the only option. But litigation is a marathon, not a sprint. You have to pick your moments. You have to conserve your energy. You have to know when to stand your ground and when to let things pass.

The Lesson We Learned Too Late

We learned this lesson the hard way—by losing a motion we never should have fought, and by paying for it in costs and credibility. But we also learned something valuable: being a self-represented litigant means being strategic, not just stubborn.

It means understanding that the system has its own logic, and you can’t fight every part of it just because you’re angry. Sometimes, the best move is to step back, assess, and ask: does this matter? Can we win? And if not, what’s the smarter play?

We didn’t ask those questions soon enough. But I hope someone else can.

This Happens Everywhere—Especially in Family Law

Looking back, I realize our mistake wasn’t unique to condo disputes. This dynamic plays out in courtrooms every day, particularly in family law. In divorce cases, it’s common to see unrepresented parties refuse consent on procedural matters—not because they have a legal reason, but because they’re hurt, angry, or simply cannot accept that the marriage is ending.

They resist every filing, object to every motion, and refuse to cooperate on scheduling or disclosure. And like us, they often learn the hard way that the court’s machinery keeps moving whether you’re ready to let go or not. The system doesn’t stop because you’re in pain. It just keeps going—and leaves you with the legal bill.

Why I Wrote Condozilla

This mistake—fighting a motion we never should have fought, refusing consent because we mistook it for surrender—is exactly why I wrote Condozilla. The legal system doesn’t come with a manual, and self-represented litigants learn by doing. But doing means making mistakes, and mistakes can be devastating.

Condozilla takes you on the journey of Clara and her mother as they navigate the legal system without a lawyer, fighting to save their home. Through their story, you’ll see the pitfalls, the misunderstandings, and the hard lessons—so you don’t have to learn them the same way I did.

Because sometimes, the best way to prepare for the system is to see someone else walk through it first.

Mistakes Self-Represented Litigants Make

When you’re representing yourself, every step of the legal process feels personal. You’re not just fighting a case; you’re fighting against a system you don’t fully understand, against opponents who do it for a living. And when you’re already on edge, it’s easy to misinterpret what’s happening—especially when things change at the last minute.

I learned this the hard way. And it cost our family thousands of dollars.

The Date That Wasn’t Confirmed

It started with a motion. The other side’s lawyer had filed a motion—a request for the court to decide an issue before trial. They specified a date for the hearing and sent us notice. We marked it on our calendar and began preparing.

What we didn’t understand was that the date was just that: a proposal. In many courts, motion dates aren’t confirmed until they’re approved by the court and placed on the docket. Until then, they can change. But we didn’t know that dates on motions aren’t final. We assumed a date was a date.

Then we received word that the proposed date hadn’t been confirmed. The hearing would need to be rescheduled.

The Fire Alarm That Changed Everything

Before the new date could be set, something unexpected happened. On the day the motion was originally supposed to be heard—the unconfirmed date we’d been watching—the courthouse had a fire alarm. The building was evacuated. Any hearings scheduled that day were cancelled or postponed.

We heard about it through the grapevine. The other side’s lawyer sent communication indicating that the motion had been affected by the alarm and would be rescheduled.

But here’s where suspicion took over.

When Mistrust Clouds Judgment

By this point, we had been in dispute with the condo board and their lawyer for some time. We had seen tactics we didn’t understand. We had been on the receiving end of legal letters that felt designed to intimidate. Trust was not something we had in abundance.

When the lawyer communicated that the motion was being rescheduled, we didn’t believe them. In our minds, this felt like exactly the kind of gamesmanship we’d been warned about. Maybe the fire alarm was convenient. Maybe the lawyer was using it as an excuse to change the date for their own advantage. Maybe they were hoping we’d show up to an empty courthouse and give up.

We convinced ourselves that the smart move was to wait. To see what happened. To not let them control the narrative.

The Hearing We Didn’t Attend

What we didn’t realize was that the motion had been rescheduled—legitimately. A new date was set, notice was sent, and the hearing proceeded.

We weren’t there.

The other side’s lawyer stood before a judge, presented their motion, and because we weren’t present to respond, they won by default. The judge ruled in their favour—not because their argument was stronger on the merits, but because no one was there to oppose it.

And then came the bill. We were ordered to pay the legal costs for that motion. Not just their fees for the motion itself, but the cost of their lawyer’s time preparing and appearing. It was money we couldn’t afford, for a hearing we never should have missed.

What I Wish I’d Known About Court Dates

Here’s what I understand now that I didn’t understand then:

1. Proposed dates are not confirmed dates.
Until the court schedules a hearing and places it on the official docket, the date can change. Always confirm with the court directly, not just the other side.

2. Court dates change. Regularly.
Courts are busy. Emergencies happen. Judges get sick. Cases run long. A motion date can be moved for a hundred reasons that have nothing to do with you or your opponent. It is not unusual. It is not automatically a trick.

3. If you’re unsure, verify with the court.
A simple phone call to the court registry could have saved us thousands of dollars. You don’t need to trust the other side. Call the courthouse, ask if the hearing is proceeding, and get confirmation from the source that matters.

4. Default judgments are real.
If you don’t show up to a hearing, the other side can ask for a ruling in their favour. The judge will hear their argument and may grant what they’re asking for—simply because you weren’t there to object. It’s not personal. It’s procedural. But the consequences are very real.

5. Not every change is a tactic.
Lawyers do use strategies. But court scheduling is messy for everyone. Assuming bad faith at every turn can lead you to make decisions that hurt your own case.

The Cost of Mistrust

Our suspicion cost us money, time, and momentum. It set us back. And it could have been avoided with one phone call.

If you’re representing yourself, here’s my advice: question everything, but verify with the court. Trust your instincts, but confirm the facts. And when a date changes, pick up the phone and ask the one source that has no incentive to mislead you: the court itself.

Because missing a hearing shouldn’t be how you learn how the system works.

Why I Wrote Condozilla

This mistake—and so many others—is exactly why I wrote Condozilla. The legal system doesn’t come with a manual, and self-represented litigants learn by doing. But doing means making mistakes, and mistakes can be devastating.

Condozilla takes you on the journey of Clara and her mother as they navigate the legal system without a lawyer, fighting to save their home. Through their story, you’ll see the pitfalls, the misunderstandings, and the hard lessons—so you don’t have to learn them the same way I did.

Because sometimes, the best way to prepare for the system is to see someone else walk through it first.

What They Do, What Powers They Have, and How By-Laws Can Make Your Life Miserable

If you live in a planned community, a townhouse complex, or certain types of subdivisions, you may be part of a Homeowners’ Association (HOA). While less common in Canada than in the United States, HOAs do exist here—and they can wield significant power over your property and your peace of mind.

Although HOAs seem less problematic here, understanding what an HOA does, what legal authority it has, and how its rules can affect you is essential for any owner. Because when things go wrong, they can go very wrong.

What Is an HOA?

A Homeowners’ Association is a legal entity typically created by a developer when a subdivision or planned community is built. Its purpose is to manage and maintain common areas—things like parks, roads, landscaping, or recreational facilities—and to enforce rules that apply to all properties within the community.

Unlike a condominium corporation, which is governed by provincial Condominium Acts, HOAs are usually incorporated as non-profit corporations under provincial Corporations Acts. They are governed by a board of directors elected by the members (the homeowners), and they operate under a set of governing documents that typically include:

• Articles of Incorporation: The founding document that establishes the HOA.
• By-Laws: Rules governing how the HOA operates, including meetings, elections, and board powers.
• Covenants, Conditions, and Restrictions (CC&Rs): Legally binding rules that run with the land—meaning they apply to all current and future owners, regardless of when they bought.

What Legal Powers Does an HOA Have?

HOAs derive their authority from the legal documents registered on title to your property. When you purchased your home, you effectively agreed to be bound by these rules, whether you read them carefully or not.

Depending on the governing documents, an HOA may have the power to:

• Impose and collect fees: HOAs typically charge monthly or annual fees to cover maintenance and operating costs. These are often called assessments.
• Enforce rules: This can include everything from parking restrictions and pet policies to landscaping standards and exterior paint colours.
• Issue fines: Many HOAs have the authority to fine owners for violating rules.
• Place liens on property: If an owner fails to pay fees or fines, the HOA may register a lien against the property. This can affect the owner’s ability to sell or refinance.
• Pursue legal action: In some cases, HOAs can take owners to court to enforce compliance or collect debts.

How By-Laws Can Make an Owner’s Life Miserable

In theory, HOAs exist to maintain community standards and protect property values. In practice, the rules can sometimes be applied in ways that feel arbitrary, excessive, or outright unfair.

Here are a few examples of how by-laws can become a source of misery:

• Overreach into personal choices: Some HOAs regulate details like the colour of your front door, the type of curtains visible from the street, or how long guests can park in your driveway.
• Inconsistent enforcement: Rules may be enforced against some owners but not others, creating a sense of unfairness and favouritism.
• Escalating fines: A minor infraction—like putting out garbage bins a day early—can trigger fines that grow with each passing day, quickly becoming a significant debt.
• Lack of transparency: Owners may struggle to access HOA financial records or understand how decisions are made.
• Aggressive collection tactics: Some HOAs move swiftly to register liens or pursue legal action over relatively small debts, leaving owners facing thousands of dollars in legal costs.

What Legal Actions Can an HOA Take If You Don’t Comply?

If you fall behind on fees, refuse to pay fines, or violate a rule, the HOA has several tools at its disposal. The specific steps depend on the governing documents and the province, but common actions include:

1. Demand Letters: The HOA’s lawyer may send a formal letter demanding payment or compliance, often adding legal costs to your outstanding balance.
2. Fines and Penalties: The HOA may continue to levy fines for ongoing violations, which can accumulate rapidly.
3. Lien Registration: If you owe money and fail to pay, the HOA may register a lien against your property. This is a legal claim that secures the debt against your home. Once registered, you generally cannot sell or refinance without paying off the lien.
4. Court Action: In serious cases, the HOA may apply to court for an order compelling compliance or forcing the sale of your property to collect the debt. This is rare, but it happens.
5. Cost Recovery: Throughout any of these steps, the HOA may add its own legal fees and costs to what you owe, making the debt grow even larger.

A Note on Balance of Power

It’s important to understand that HOAs, like condominium corporations, are run by volunteers. Your neighbours are the ones making these decisions—or deferring to a property manager or lawyer who advises them. And as with condos, the professionals involved may have their own incentives.

Lawyers bill by the hour. Managers are paid for their services. A dispute that could be resolved with a conversation can sometimes escalate into a legal battle that benefits everyone except the owner.

What You Can Do

If you’re facing issues with your HOA, here are a few steps to consider:

• Read your governing documents: Know what rules you actually agreed to. Not everything the HOA claims may be in the by-laws.
• Keep records: Document every communication, every fine, and every decision.
• Request transparency: In many provinces, owners have the right to access HOA records, including financial statements and meeting minutes.
• Seek advice: Community legal clinics, tenant and owner advocacy groups, or lawyers specializing in property law can help you understand your rights.
• Consider mediation: Before heading to court, explore whether mediation could resolve the dispute.

Why I Wrote Condozilla

Stories of owners caught in legal battles with their own associations are more common than they should be. That’s why I wrote Condozilla—to show what it really looks like when a property owner is forced to fight back.

Condozilla takes you on the journey of Clara and her mother as they navigate the legal system without a lawyer, fighting to save their home from an unjust lien. Through their story, you’ll see how by-laws can be weaponized, how disputes escalate, and what it takes to stand your ground.

Because the more you understand about the system, the better equipped you are to protect yourself within it.

Who Really Runs Your Condo Corporation? The Hidden Dynamics of Power, What Every Owner Should Know

When you buy a condominium, you’re not just buying a home. You’re entering into a unique legal arrangement—one that allows multiple unit owners to collectively govern their building through a corporation. Decisions are made by a volunteer board of directors, elected by the owners. In the eyes of the law, it is the board that holds the authority and the responsibility.

But here’s the question every owner should ask: Who really runs the show?

The Volunteer Board

Serving on a condo board is, for most people, a volunteer role. Directors are your neighbours. They may have full-time jobs, families, and limited familiarity with the complex legal and financial obligations of running a corporation. They mean well, but they are often stretched thin.

This is where the dynamic begins to shift.

The Power Behind the Board

In practice, many boards rely heavily—sometimes almost exclusively—on two key professionals: the property manager and the corporation’s lawyer. These are the people who attend meetings, draft documents, interpret rules, and advise on decisions. And because board members often defer to their expertise, the manager and lawyer can end up wielding significant influence over the corporation’s direction.

On the surface, this makes sense. They are the professionals. They are paid to know the rules. But this arrangement also creates a fertile ground for conflicts of interest.

Where Conflicts of Interest Arise

Property managers and lawyers have their own interests. They are not volunteers; they are service providers. Their livelihood depends on maintaining their role with the corporation. And in many cases, the lawyer is someone the manager already works with regularly—someone brought in through an existing relationship, not through an independent search.

When a decision needs to be made, the board may defer to their advice. And if that decision later proves to be problematic—say, it leads to a dispute with an owner or escalates into litigation—the manager and lawyer can simply say, “The board made the decision.” The paper trail will show a motion, a vote, and a resolution. The board appears to be in control.

But were they truly informed? Did they understand the risks? Or were they guided down a path that served the interests of the professionals more than the owners?

The Financial Incentive

Let’s be honest about what drives professional service providers: money. Lawyers bill by the hour. Managers are paid for their time and expertise. Lawsuits are expensive, and they generate significant legal fees. If a condo corporation loses in court, the costs don’t disappear—they are passed on to the owners through a special assessment or increased common expenses.

This creates a troubling dynamic. A lawsuit can be framed as “defending the corporation’s interests” when, in reality, it may be driven by a lawyer’s advice to take a hard line—advice that generates billable hours regardless of the outcome. And because the board relies on that advice, they may not question whether litigation is truly in the best interests of the owners they represent.

Can you see how a lawsuit might be encouraged?

Not maliciously, perhaps. But the incentives are aligned in a way that can lead to decisions that benefit the professionals more than the corporation itself.

What Owners Should Watch For

If you are an owner—or worse, an owner in dispute with your corporation—it’s important to understand these dynamics. Here are a few questions to consider:

• Who is really driving the decisions in your corporation?
• Is the board receiving independent advice, or are they relying solely on the manager and lawyer?
• When legal action is threatened or taken, has the board truly considered the cost to owners?
• Is there a process for reviewing legal expenses and challenging decisions that seem excessive?

A Cautionary Tale

In my own case, we watched as our corporation—advised by its manager and lawyer—pursued a lien against our unit over a dispute that should never have gone to court. The costs mounted. The board, following professional advice, refused to back down. And when we finally won in court, the corporation’s legal fees were passed on to all owners through a special assessment.

The lawyer was paid either way. The manager kept their job. And the owners—including us—footed the bill.

Why I Wrote Condozilla

Stories like mine are more common than they should be. That’s why I wrote Condozilla—to pull back the curtain on what really happens when a condo corporation turns its legal power against an owner.

Condozilla takes you on the journey of Clara and her mother as they navigate the legal system without a lawyer, fighting to save their home from an unjust lien. It’s a realistic portrayal of the pressures owners face, the conflicts that lurk beneath the surface, and the courage it takes to fight back.

Because when you understand how the system works, you’re better equipped to protect yourself within it.

My Real-Life Experience As A Self-Represented Litigant in Canada

When I first started searching for information on self-representation in Canadian courts, I was struck by how little was available. There were a few books, yes, but nothing that spoke directly to what I was going through. Family law, on the other hand, had a wealth of resources. But what if your case was civil? What if you were an owner forced to defend yourself against your own condo corporation—without a lawyer?

The truth is, there’s a glaring lack of information for people navigating condo disputes on their own. I suspect most owners, when faced with unfair legal fees or liens imposed by their condo board, simply give in and pay. The alternative—fighting it in court—is long, draining, and expensive. But here’s what I’ve learned firsthand: it’s not impossible.

Still, the odds are stacked against owners. Condo law is a highly specialized field, and lawyers who don’t specialize in it won’t touch it. Those who do often charge exorbitant rates—and most prefer to represent condo boards over individual owners. It’s simple economics. The real money is in serving boards, not the people they govern.

After nearly a decade-long battle with my condo board, we finally won our case. And in the aftermath, I made a promise to myself: I would do something to push back against a system that’s fundamentally unfair. The scales are tipped against the little guy—not because the truth isn’t on their side, but because the information they need to fight is so hard to find.

That’s when the idea of writing a book began to take shape. But I quickly ran into a new obstacle: I’m not a lawyer. I can’t give legal advice. So how could I write something that would actually help people without overstepping?

Then I remembered how I prepared for my own day in court. During the pandemic, courtrooms were closed to the public, so I couldn’t sit in and observe. Instead, I turned to legal movies and TV shows. Not for legal strategy, but for something just as valuable: atmosphere, rhythm, and language. I watched how proceedings unfolded, how people spoke, how the environment felt. I absorbed the jargon. I learned what a courtroom might look and sound like—even from a scripted distance.

That’s when it clicked. I could write a novel. I could present legal information as entertainment. A realistic legal process experience story that will help readers to prepare for self-representing in court.

By weaving the realities of condo disputes and self-representation into a compelling story, I could show readers what the process looks like, what they might expect, and how others have navigated it—all without overstepping into legal advice. A novel could reach people where traditional resources have failed. It could inform, inspire, and empower—all while telling a story worth reading.

Because sometimes, the best way to teach is to tell a good story.

Which brings me to Condozilla.

When Clara’s mother is threatened with unjust charges, she must represent herself in Canada’s legal system with no lawyer, no experience, and everything on the line. Condozilla is a gripping story that doubles as a survival guide for anyone navigating legal disputes without professional help.

And the best part? It’s based on my real-life journey of winning in court. What happened to Clara happened to me. And if I can do it, so can you.