Ten years ago tomorrow, Canada stopped for a few hours.

On August 20, 2016, The Tragically Hip walked onto a stage in their hometown of Kingston for what we all understood might be the last time. Gord Downie had terminal brain cancer. He knew what was coming. We knew what was coming. And somehow, together, they gave us one final night.

An estimated 11.7 million Canadians watched some or all of that concert—roughly one-third of the entire country at the time. Thousands more gathered in public squares and parks across Canada. Think about that for a moment. For a rock concert. One band. One night. A country watching together.

The Hip were often called “Canada’s band,” and perhaps that was because they never seemed particularly concerned with becoming America’s band.

They sang about us.

About Bill Barilko disappearing on a fishing trip after scoring the goal that won the Leafs the Cup. About the 1972 Summit Series. About small towns, frozen lakes, prairie skies and the hundredth meridian. “Wheat Kings” told the story of David Milgaard, who spent 23 years imprisoned for a murder he did not commit. “Courage” carried in its very title a dedication to Canadian novelist Hugh MacLennan, with lyrics inspired by The Watch That Ends the Night.

They didn't sing about a postcard version of Canada. They sang about its beauty, its oddities, its history, its injustices and its contradictions. They made our own stories feel worthy of rock and roll.

And then there was “Courage.”

On that final night, it was only the second song they played.

Watching Gord sing it now is almost unbearably poignant.

Here was a man standing before an adoring hometown crowd, with millions of Canadians watching, knowing that the time left to him would be measured not in decades but in months. He would die just fourteen months later.

And there he was, singing a song called Courage.

Not retreating. Not asking us to look away. Performing for nearly three hours. Dancing. Laughing. Pushing himself. At one point he thanked the audience simply for “keeping me pushing.”

There is something about that moment that has stayed with me.

Because courage isn't the absence of knowing what comes next.

Sometimes courage is knowing exactly what comes next—and walking onto the stage anyway.

Gord used that final national spotlight for something larger than himself, too. He spoke about Indigenous people in Canada's North and the injustices Canadians had been taught to ignore, foreshadowing the work on Truth and Reconciliation that would consume so much of the time he had left.

And finally, after three encores, came “Ahead by a Century.”

The last song.

The band stood together, arm in arm. The crowd roared. And five guys from Kingston walked off the stage.

Ten years later, it still feels like more than the end of a concert.

For those of us who grew up with The Tragically Hip, their songs became little pieces of Canada stitched into our lives. Road trips. Cottage radios. University bars. Weddings. Campfires. Hockey dressing rooms. Friends we haven't seen in years. People who aren't here anymore.

For one extraordinary night, millions of us shared the same songs, the same sadness and the same gratitude.

We knew we were saying goodbye.

And Gord, somehow, found the courage to lead us through it.

“Courage, it couldn't come at a worse time.”

Ten years later, Gord, we're still listening. 

And we're still grateful.