Self-discovery is a continual process (I was going to use journey but I feel like that, along with spectrum, is one of the most overused words of the past year).

We never truly leave behind our collective pasts; because those moments and experiences are what help shape the decisions of the future, but being able to let go of the negative emotions that cloud judgement and slow progress often prove more difficult than anyone would care to admit (see Israel and Palestine and the near continual cycle of war-ceasefire-war-ceasefire that plagues that region).

In recent months I have taken additional steps to learn and understand my past, by not only taking the time to reflect on decisions and mistakes I’ve made, but also to examine how I even came to exist. This has meant opening up a new form of dialogue with my parents; revealing more personal details from my life than I previously cared to admit, while allowing my innate curiosity to blossom in respect to asking questions about their lives.

In the case of my mother, this isn’t a new or revolutionary a proposition, as she was my primary caregiver growing up and we’ve had a relatively open relationship since I entered adulthood.

My father and I however have never really opened up to each other, and when I was recently home for a weekend in Ottawa, we took steps to mend and enhance our relationship. I should note that my dad lost his father when he was only six months old; my grandfather tragically passed away when his tractor flipped, leaving my grandmother to raise both my father and his older sister in the small town of Orangeville, Ontario alone.

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