Sticker shock has become a painful new normal for many Canadians. When single mother Kristina Kennedy saw the sausages she usually buys had jumped by $1.50, she knew it wasn’t just a bad week—it was another reminder of how hard it has become to feed a family.
As the sole caregiver to four children, Kennedy says rising grocery prices have turned every shopping trip into a test of survival. Living with multiple health issues that limit her ability to work, she depends on social supports and meticulous meal planning to stretch every dollar. “And this is like the bargain grocery store,” she says with disbelief.
Her life took a devastating turn after the sudden death of her husband, just before she discovered she was pregnant with twin girls—now seven years old. With two older sons, ages 12 and 16, Kennedy has tried to maintain stability and hope, often supplementing her pantry with food bank visits during school breaks or the holidays. “When I first went, I felt like a failure—to my children and to myself,” she says. “I grew up in a nice family. I went to school. I never imagined I’d end up here.”
Her story is not unique. A new Food Banks Canada report shows monthly visits to food banks have reached 2.2 million, up five per cent from last year and nearly double since before the pandemic. The report’s author, Richard Matern, says many low-income Canadians now spend over half their income on housing and about 30 per cent on food. “When you’re already stretched thin, a single setback—a job loss or a health crisis—can push you from struggling to desperate,” he explains.
The data paints a sobering picture: 19 per cent of food bank users are employed, compared to just 12 per cent in 2019, and 23 per cent are two-parent families—an increase of four points over the same period. Children still make up one-third of all food bank users, but their absolute number has ballooned to more than 700,000 visits per month. Seniors, too, are feeling the squeeze, now representing eight per cent of all clients.
“Food banks are no longer a temporary solution,” says Matern. “For many, they’ve become essential for survival.”
That’s a reality Leisa Muthra, 57, knows all too well. A stylist and decorator who once ran her own business, Muthra says a series of personal losses and financial shocks—losing her husband, grandmother, and pet in the same month, a severe COVID-19 infection, and a $10,000 Facebook scam—left her life in ruins. She lives with her 23-year-old daughter in a subsidized apartment, surviving on disability support and a small benefit. “I worked hard all my life, went to school, did everything right,” she says. “Now I feel like the system turned on me.”
After paying $900 for rent, Muthra has less than $600 left for phone, internet, bus fare, and food. She admits that pride kept her from asking for help sooner. “My sister had to push me to go to the food bank. I cried the first time,” she recalls. “But now it’s a lifeline.”
Across Canada, food inflation has outpaced general inflation, rising four per cent compared to the overall 2.4 per cent increase. Fresh vegetables are up nearly two per cent, and sugar and confectionery prices have surged nine per cent, according to Statistics Canada.
In Toronto, a joint report from the Daily Bread Food Bank and North York Harvest Food Bank warns that hunger is “shifting from a short-term emergency to a long-term reality.” More than one in ten Torontonians now rely on food banks, and for the first time since 2020, the majority of visits—nearly 60 per cent—came from returning clients. In total, over 4.1 million visits were recorded between April 2024 and April 2025, an 18 per cent increase from the previous year.
Despite this surge, Daily Bread CEO Neil Hetherington sees a sliver of optimism: the rate of growth in food bank usage has slowed from 38 per cent to 18 per cent. “It’s not a victory, but it’s a sign that maybe the worst of the acceleration is behind us,” he says, urging governments to strengthen income supports, improve Employment Insurance, and fast-track the Canada Disability Benefit.
For Kennedy, the challenges remain personal and immediate. Her rent is $1,979 a month, and she spends roughly $400 weekly on groceries for her family—leaving little room for anything else. Living on about $4,200 in monthly social supports, she says the rules around the Ontario Disability Support Program (ODSP) make it hard to work her way toward stability. “Wouldn’t you want to encourage people to work more, to gain that stability?” she asks.
Kennedy says what hurts most is seeing politicians use stories like hers for political gain without real change. “They talk a big game, but there’s very little action,” she says. “They use our struggles as slogans, but at the end of the day, we’re still here trying to make rent and feed our kids.”
As food prices continue to climb, more Canadians like Kennedy and Muthra are finding themselves caught in a cycle they never expected—where survival depends not on ambition or effort, but on whether the next meal can fit into what’s left of the budget.
Courtsey Insauuga