What If There's More to the Story?

 Living in Manitoba, October is a reminder that winter is approaching and there are jobs to be done. The camper needs putting to bed, the golf clubs need to be put away (a day I always dread), the yard needs cleaning up, and the lawn equipment needs to be stored. Then there's the garage, which in my case often looks like a windstorm has blown through it.

This year was no different. My organized wife makes extensive to-do lists, and cleaning the garage kept appearing on hers. Each time I saw that I would insist that was my job and needed to come off her list. And I had my reasons for biding my time

Yesterday morning I was in the kitchen and noticed the “to do” list. Again, the garage was on it. I was somewhat miffed by that but had this feeling that she might actually do it. Right after lunch I went for a haircut. When I came back an hour later, there she was. Cleaning the garage.

Without saying much, I just went in the house.

Now here is the thing. I had already been thinking about writing a piece on turning judgement to curiosity. I was taught that phrase many years ago when I took my conflict resolution training. And I wanted to explore that.

So despite the hamster wheel going with all kinds of thoughts, I found that I was not getting angry like I would have in the past. Rather I found curiosity kicking in. The question uppermost in my mind was why would she do that?

After an hour or two of very little being said between the two of us, we sat down and had a conversation. She started it by saying she knew I was upset with her. I then asked a simple question. Why did you do that?

She explained that much of the stuff laying around in the garage was gardening stuff. Various tools she had used for gardening. There were plants she had pulled that she wanted to deal with. And on top of that she knew that sweeping the garage created a lot of dust which she knew would bother my lung condition.

That took the wind out of my sails rather quickly. And then she asked why I was so upset. And she understood when I explained my rational for not having done the job yet.

I quickly understood two things. I had been judgemental with her but also with myself.

When I went into the house the judging started. Obviously, I was not happy and the hamster wheel started up. She never listens to me. What my opinion is doesn’t matter. She obviously thinks that I won’t get around to it or am avoiding it. I just don’t matter around here. I am just a useless waste of skin.

But perhaps the biggest lesson for me was recognizing how quickly I had gone from being annoyed about a garage to questioning my own worth. Think about that for a minute. My wife cleans the garage, and somehow my mind manages to conclude that I am a useless waste of skin. That's quite a leap, even by my standards!

But that's what judgement can do. We make assumptions about other people's intentions, and then we make assumptions about what those intentions say about us.

What if, instead of jumping to those conclusions, we simply became curious?

I think there is a life lesson here that extends well beyond a messy garage.

We are all guilty of making judgements. We do it with our spouses, our friends, our neighbours, our colleagues, and sometimes complete strangers. We also do it to ourselves. We see a behaviour or hear a comment and quickly decide what it means without necessarily knowing the whole story.

Curiosity doesn't mean we have to agree with someone. It doesn't mean we excuse behaviour or abandon our own feelings. It simply means we are willing to pause long enough to understand another perspective.

Perhaps the next time I find myself getting frustrated with someone, I should take a breath and ask a different question. Instead of asking myself, "What is wrong with them?" perhaps I should ask, "I wonder what's going on here?"

And rather than simply making assumptions, perhaps I should have a conversation. Ask questions, listen to the answers, and give the other person an opportunity to share their perspective. Curiosity doesn't require us to agree with someone. It requires us to be willing to understand them.

And maybe, just maybe, I should extend that same courtesy to myself.

Wandering in the Labyrinth, A New Perspective

 For years I have been using the word labyrinth to describe the journey I am on, both in presentations and in my writing. As a matter of fact, the subtitle of my book is A Journey through the Labyrinth of Anxiety and Depression.

I clearly recall the day that started. I was writing a blog when the word just kind of appeared on the page. I hesitated a moment because, really, it isn’t the easiest word to spell but then thought I should probably look up the meaning of it before just freely using it.

Back in those days, when searching for the definition of words on my computer, the Encarta dictionary automatically popped up. The definition that came up for labyrinth was; “a place with a lot of crisscrossing or complicated passages, tunnels, or paths in which it would be easy to become lost.”

That resonated with me. It captured how I was feeling. The picture that definition created in my mind made so much sense. My journey seemed to be on a path that was taking me through some dark tunnels, forks in the road that left me feeling lost, leaving me confused about whether I was even traveling in the right direction.

When I sent the manuscript of my book to the publisher for editing, I was rather surprised at the response to the definition I was using. And suggesting I was surprised is rather a gross understatement. I was angry. The editor had the gall to say that that definition was not right. Really? They were telling me that the dictionary I was using was wrong? (I did check other dictionaries as well and many had similar definitions)

Instead, they said, a labyrinth has a clear and visible path to its centre, with no barriers of any kind, and is intended as a meditative walk, not a puzzle. It’s impossible to get lost in a labyrinth.

Looking back, I can smile a little at my reaction. At the time that definition did not resonate with me at all. Feeling some pressure, I did change the wording in my book to try to capture both definitions.

Today, I find myself looking at it differently.

In part that change in perspective came about when a friend posted a picture on Facebook about a labyrinth she had built on her farm. I spent some time in looking at that picture before it dawned on me that this version of a labyrinth made sense to me. Although in my visual the paths are defined by hedges not different than a maze, making it impossible to see the entire labyrinth. And who knows. That perspective may change as well.

I have begun to see the labyrinth not simply as a place where I might become lost, but as a path I am navigating on my journey through life. Perhaps not a mystery to be solved, but rather a path to finding meaning. Those paths are circular and complex, taking me through twists and turns, but have no dead ends.

The difference is that I no longer automatically interpret those moments as being lost. Instead, I am learning to see them as opportunities for discovery. Each turn offers the possibility of learning something about myself, understanding others a little better, or finding a different way of approaching a challenge. I may not always know where the path is leading, but that doesn't mean I have lost my way.

Perhaps that is one of the more important lessons I am learning. I don't need to have every answer or know what lies around the next corner to feel confident that I am still moving forward.

And maybe the real change isn't that I have found my way out of the labyrinth. Perhaps it's that I have learned to keep walking without being afraid of getting lost.

And maybe that is the real discovery to be made in the labyrinth. We may enter it feeling lost, but along the way we can discover strengths, connections, and ways of understanding ourselves that we never expected.

We don't need to know what lies around every corner. We don't need to have all the answers. Sometimes we simply need to keep walking, remain open to what we might discover, and remember that even the difficult parts of our journey can teach us something.

Golf, Good Memories, and Bad Hair Days

 First it was the camper. Now I am putting my golf gear away for the winter. As I do I find myself reflecting on the year it was. I had struggled with my game for some time. In August I was ready to give it up. But then in the last month things changed. There is a story there best left for another day. Let’s just say I was sorry to see the season come to an end.

June 1 was a memorable kind of morning. As per usual my friend and I hit the links just after the sun came up. The third hole at my golf course is a par 3. I teed off and watched as the ball landed on the green and then disappeared. I looked at my friend and said that it looked like it went in. He thought so as well. But at our age the vision just isn’t what it used to be.

As we quickly found out, it indeed had gone in the hole. You would think that a moment like that would produce an explosion of excitement. Surely a fist pump, a high five or even a little victory dance. After all, this is what golf dreams are made of.

Not me. The first thought in my mind was that I was going to die that day. It was an overwhelming feeling of doom.

I wish I was making this up. There I was having just accomplished something extraordinary and my brain decided that was the right time to suggest to me that my time on Earth was ending. No celebration. No euphoria. Just an inexplicable feeling that something terrible was about to happen.

In spite of those feelings, I did think I should get a picture taken. Surely at some point the reality of the situation would sink in and I would want the picture to commemorate the moment.

Now, I get it. I am not photogenic to begin with. Having a natural smile in a picture is completely foreign to me. I have no idea on how to pose. Most pictures of me need to be photo shopped. But you would think that having one of the greatest moments of my golfing life would at least show up in a picture. At minimum, a hint of happiness. Apparently, I was asking too much.

My hair looked like it had been in a windstorm. My facial expression was one of someone just having received bad news.

I promptly sent the picture to my wife and kids. One of my sons responded by saying, quite sarcastically, there is the face of a man doing his favorite thing with the greatest possible outcome.

Fair enough. I couldn’t argue with that assessment.

I posted the picture on social media. Maybe that was a mistake. And then again maybe I thought that congratulations and accolades might bring about some excitement in me. I was upfront about having a bad hair day. Most responses were great with messages that my hair was a minor detail.  

There was one friend who was quick to point out that his hair was “stronger” and his legs not as white. I suggested to him that I would concede on the hair but asked that he quit looking at my legs.

Another congratulated me but then made the comment that “you look pumped, at least I think that’s your pumped look.” What could I say?

In retrospect, today I feel good about that hole in one. I feel good about the time I spent on the course. I feel good about the social aspect of it. I feel good about the time spent in the early morning, watching the sun come up and enjoying what mornings have to offer.

And as far as the hole in one goes? I beat odds of 12,500 to 1. Apparently, the odds of getting good hair and decent legs on the same day were considerably worse.

It could have been worse. I could have missed the hole.

Now to wait till spring. The good news is that in less than two months the days start getting longer. There is hope.

Sometimes We Just Need Someone Who Gets It

 Over the years, as I have shared the story of my journey, one of the questions I am most frequently asked is, “How can I support someone who is struggling?”

I have always found that question difficult to answer. Perhaps I was so absorbed in my own challenges that I hadn't given it much thought. Or maybe I was unsure of how I could be the person lending a listening ear.

I believe there is something uniquely powerful about peer support. It can mean reaching out to someone who has walked a similar path, someone who understands the realities of farm life: the pressure, the uncertainty, the financial stress, and the feeling that everyone is counting on you.

But peer support is also about being that person for someone else. Sometimes we need someone to listen, and sometimes we need to be the person who notices that someone else is struggling and simply asks, “Are you okay?”

Counsellors provide knowledge, tools and professional guidance, and those things are incredibly important. But there is also something powerful about knowing that the person sitting across from you doesn't just understand mental health; they understand your world. Sometimes, that connection can be the first step toward feeling a little less alone.

I often share the following story because it reminds me just how powerful it can be when someone takes the time to listen.

Many years ago, not long after I was first diagnosed with anxiety and depression, I experienced a life event that pushed me to what felt like the edge of an abyss. I struggled to function. Even the simplest things seemed difficult, and I had very little enthusiasm for life. I remember telling a family member that I wasn't sure the sun would ever come up for me again. The future seemed bleak, and I was having a hard time seeing my way through it.

But life doesn't stop just because we're struggling. I still had a farm to look after, animals to care for, and responsibilities that weren't going to disappear simply because I was having difficulty coping. So, a few days after the event, I made my way to the farm.

Before I even had a chance to go into the barn, my neighbour showed up. I suspect he could see that something wasn't right. He didn't make any assumptions or offer any advice. He simply asked me how I was doing.

Now, we all know how that conversation usually goes. Someone asks how we're doing, and we automatically respond, “Fine.” Or “Just plugging along.” One of my favourites has always been, “Just another day in paradise!”

We say these things almost out of habit, regardless of what's actually happening inside our heads. For years, that's exactly how I responded. It was easier to say I was fine than to explain that I wasn't.

But for some reason, that morning was different. Instead of giving my usual answer, I began to talk. And talk. I poured out the thoughts, fears, frustrations and emotions that had been swirling around in my head. Things I had been carrying around, perhaps hoping that if I ignored them long enough, they might somehow go away.

For the next hour, my neighbour sat and listened. He didn't try to fix me. He didn't offer a list of solutions or tell me what I should do. He didn't minimize what I was experiencing or suggest that I simply needed to look on the bright side.

Instead, he allowed me to talk. He helped me recognize that my reactions were understandable and that what I was experiencing wasn't something I had to be ashamed of. He made me feel heard.

That conversation brought me relief. I finally had an opportunity to release some of the emotions I had been carrying around. I felt comfortable sharing things I had been reluctant to discuss, particularly with those closest to me, because I didn't want to burden them.

My neighbour didn't solve my problems that morning. But by listening without judgment, he helped me feel less alone. And that conversation encouraged me to reach out for additional help and support.

That, to me, is the essence of peer support.

I think we sometimes fall into the trap of believing we need to have all the answers. We worry about saying the wrong thing or not knowing how to respond. And because of that uncertainty, we hesitate to help.

The good news is that we can learn how to become better at supporting others. We don't need to be counsellors, and we certainly don't need to have all the answers. But we can develop the skills and confidence to listen, recognize when someone may be struggling, and help them find the support they need.

The Manitoba Farmer Wellness Program in partnership with The Stigma Free Mental Health Society, is offering Peer Support training in Brandon on November 14 and 15.

Whether you're looking to support a neighbour, a friend, a family member or someone else in the agricultural community, this training is an opportunity to learn how to make a difference when someone needs it most.

If you're interested in attending or would like more information, visit www.ruralmindsmatter.com.

I'm planning on attending to learn more. Hope to see you there!

Love It, Hate It, or Both?

 Many years ago, when our kids were growing up, we spent a fair bit of time camping at Spruce Woods Provincial Park. It was less than half an hour from the home which made it quick to get to. But it was also close enough to the farm in case something went wrong.

I often ask: when a farmer goes away, are they really away? I know I wasn’t. There was always that little part of my brain wondering what was happening back at the farm. Was everything running properly? Was there a problem with the livestock? Was someone going to call? Did I remember to leave instructions for everything? I might have been sitting around a campfire, but mentally, I was never more than 30 minutes from the farm.

Eventually, the kids got older, and we stopped camping altogether. Nobody talked about camping for years. And I certainly wasn't going to bring it up.

Then the grandkids came along, and my wife started dropping hints about how great it would be to take the kids camping. I resisted. The thought of hot campers, mosquitoes, uncomfortable beds and trying to keep everyone organized wasn’t exactly appealing.

A few years ago, my daughter sent a text to the family. They had booked a group campsite at Spruce Woods and wanted to know if anyone wanted to join them. My wife was at work. I was sitting in my office thinking about it. I knew how much she'd enjoy being with the kids and grandkids. Maybe I needed to make an effort. So I borrowed a pop-up camper, and off we went.

Something happened that I didn't expect. I enjoyed it. More importantly, I felt good. There was something about getting away from home, sitting around a campfire, spending time with family that seemed to do something for me.

When we got home, I told my wife that I thought the weekend had been good for my mental health. Her response surprised me. She said she could tell. Apparently, I seemed more relaxed and happier. So we have got back into camping.

Which brings me to a question I sometimes ask myself. Why do we do this?

We have a perfectly comfortable house. A comfortable bed. A kitchen. Running water. Air conditioning. No mosquitoes inside. Yet every summer, we spend days packing, organizing, checking, loading and hooking everything up. Then we arrive and the work begins again, just in reverse. And eventually, after all that work, we sit down. And that's when I remember why we do it. Camping slows me down.

At home there’s always another email, another phone call or another job on the list. Camping changes that. Breakfast takes longer. Coffee takes longer. Conversations take longer. We might sit around a campfire for hours without accomplishing anything whatsoever. And somehow, that feels like an accomplishment.  

There is something about sitting around a fire that is difficult to explain. Conversations wander. Someone tells a story. Someone remembers something from years ago. There is laughing, teasing and occasionally a conversation that gets a little deeper than anyone expected. And sometimes we don't talk at all. We just watch the fire.

The grandkids have probably played a bigger role in this than they realize. Give them some trees, a stick, a ball, a bike, a fire and a little freedom, and they can create an entire day out of it. They explore. They get dirty. They argue. They laugh. They come back hungry. And then they do it all over again.

Maybe adults could learn something from that. Our brains don't get much quiet anymore. Notifications, news, emails, social media, work and our own problems keep them running even when we are sitting still.

Camping gives my brain permission to stop. It's not necessarily because I slept better. Some nights I don't. It's not because I ate better. I probably didn't. And it's certainly not because I was more comfortable.

I think I come home feeling better because, for a few days, I’m not worrying so much about what needs to be done next.

We often think taking care of ourselves means doing more: exercising, eating better or accomplishing something. But maybe sometimes it means doing less. Sitting in a lawn chair with a coffee. Watching the grandkids run around. Staring into a fire for no particular reason.

Camping has reminded me that I don't always have to be productive. I don't always have to solve something. I don't always have to think about what's next. Sometimes I can just be where I am.

Camping wasn't therapy. It wasn't a treatment plan. I didn't start doing it because I thought it would improve my mental health. I went because my family wanted to go.

Somewhere along the way, I discovered that getting away from the things I thought I needed to be doing was actually good for me. It reminded me that spending time with people we love isn't time wasted, and that being present can be more important than being productive.

So, do I love camping? Do I hate it? Honestly, probably both. I still don't love the packing, unpacking, mosquitoes, weather, sand and general inconvenience. But I definitely love what it does for me.

Sometimes the thing we resist most is exactly what we need.

When Gratitude Finally Found Me

 Let me start with an admission.

Since New Year’s, I have been dealing with a lot of anxiety. I have found it puzzling and incredibly frustrating because, on the surface, life has been good. Work has been busy, but it is work I enjoy. My days have purpose. There was no obvious reason why I was waking up with that familiar feeling of anxiety. And that was the part that bothered me the most.

Let me digress for a minute.

Over the years, as I suspect many of you have, I have heard that gratitude is a tool that can help when dealing with anxiety or depression. I always struggled with that idea. I would try to think of all the things I should be grateful for. And there were some. I am not convinced that my mind was always ready to go there.

And as soon as I stopped thinking about that list, the anxiety would return. Sometimes with a vengeance. The things I was worried about seemed to have more power than the things I was grateful for.

A lot of gratitude advice can feel like someone is handing you a band-aid when you are dealing with a wound. When anxiety is connected to real pain, being told to “just be grateful” can feel dismissive.

So back to my own anxiety. As difficult as the winter was, I kept telling myself things would get better. Spring was coming. The warmer weather would help. I was looking forward to golf season. I knew getting outside, being active, and doing something I loved would make a difference.

But it didn’t happen the way I expected. Every morning I would wake up with anxiety. I often did not feel like getting out of bed, even though I knew staying there would not help. I forced myself to get on my golf cart and head out, because I knew that once I stepped onto the first tee box, things would improve.

And, as I usually do, I analyzed what was happening. That is what I do. I try to figure things out. I look for the cause. I search for the solution. But this time, I came up empty.

There was no obvious reason. I couldn’t rationalize it. I couldn’t make sense of it. And the more I tried to solve it, the more frustrated I became. It even started affecting golf. Something I had always enjoyed was becoming another source of frustration. At one point, I wondered if I should just give it up.

Then earlier this week, as I pulled out of the yard, something changed. I started noticing what was around me. The lush green grass. The trees full of leaves. The beauty of the morning.

And then I started thinking about my life. I thought about the good things. The people in my life. The opportunities I have. The work I get to do. The simple privilege of being able to go play golf on a beautiful morning. I found myself feeling grateful.

And the more I focused on it, the more gratitude I felt. Until eventually, I felt a sense of peace.

The strange part?

Gratitude had never worked for me before. Maybe the difference was that before, I was using gratitude as a tool to try to get rid of a feeling. I was trying to fight anxiety with a list of positives.

This time was different. I wasn’t trying to make the anxiety disappear. I was simply noticing reality. The anxiety did not need to be solved before I could recognize the good things in my life.

I came to realize that my life contained more good than my anxious mind was allowing me to see.

And that realization created a shift. I noticed it in my golf swing. I noticed a healthier attitude toward my work. I found myself more present in my relationships. I became more productive. Nothing around me had changed. But the way I was seeing it had.

Maybe that is what gratitude really is. It is not about looking at life through rose-coloured glasses. It is about taking off the blinders that anxiety sometimes puts on us. The problems may still be there, but so are the blessings. And sometimes we don’t need to change our life to find gratitude. Sometimes we just need to notice the life we already have.

Looking For the Sky

 There’s a story in The Recovering Farmer about a hidden rock in the road, one that created significant issues. But as it turned out, that rock also saved us from something much worse. I won’t give away the full story here (you’ll have to read the book for that), but it left me with a lesson I didn’t expect. Sometimes what trips us up is actually what protects us.

Life, whether on the farm or beyond, has a way of placing those unexpected rocks in our path. Everyone has them. Some are small stumbles. Others feel like full-scale disasters. And in the moment, when you’re flat on your back or face-first in the mud, it’s hard to see anything beyond failure, loss, or frustration. And sometimes, it takes a much bigger loss before we can see anything clearly at all.

There’s an old saying: When the barn burns down, you can see the sky. When I first heard that, I questioned it. But I’ve come to understand it in the same way as that hidden rock. Some experiences don’t just trip us up, they remove what we thought was solid ground entirely. And when that happens, it doesn’t feel right. It feels like loss. Only later do we sometimes realize that both the rock and the fire were forcing us to see things differently.

Setbacks land in more than one way. Physically, there’s exhaustion, tension in the shoulders, that gut-punch feeling when nothing goes right. Mentally, it’s heavier still. Doubt creeps in. You replay every wrong turn. You start wondering if you’ll ever get up again, or if it’s even worth trying.

No one is immune to this. Most people I’ve met have their stories about such experiences. I’ve been there more times than I care to count. Farming, finances, family, mental health, life has knocked me down in ways I never saw coming. And in those moments, it felt impossible to believe that anything meaningful could come from the mess.

I’ve also heard the saying, “What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.” I’ve never fully agreed with that. Sometimes what doesn’t kill you just leaves you tired, shaken, or questioning everything. Because not every struggle makes us stronger. Some simply change us. But strength isn’t about never failing. It’s about finding a way to stand again, even when you’re not the same as before.

Recently I found myself reflecting again on what recovery really looks like. I keep referring to my life as a journey. And if I’m honest, I still question it at times. I still wonder whether I’m making progress, or whether what I’m doing truly makes a difference.

I’ve come to understand something that I wrote about in my book. Had it not been for my life experiences as a farmer, I wouldn’t be doing what I’m doing today. Had I not experienced the challenges, struggled with addiction, or found myself in a world of anxiety and depression, I couldn’t do this work. Understanding that is one thing. Accepting it is another.

But the more I sit with it, the more I see it for what it is. I have stood in the ashes. And I’ve also seen the sky again. From that place, I am rebuilding, slowly and imperfectly. Every fall I’ve taken has shaped me in ways I didn’t expect. They’ve pushed me towards growth, towards understanding, and towards who I am today. Without them, I wouldn’t be here.

Because in many ways, we don’t just experience one rock or one fire. Life has a way of repeating these moments in different forms. And each one asks something of us, sometimes patience, sometimes help, sometimes simply the willingness to keep going when we don’t feel ready.

And maybe that’s the real lesson: the things that stop us aren’t always the end of the road. Sometimes they are the reason we finally see it differently.

If you’re feeling like you’ve hit the ground hard, I won’t offer a quick fix or empty reassurance. Getting up takes time. Sometimes it takes help. But I can tell you this, being down is not the same as being done.

So take a breath. Look around. And when you’re ready, start looking for the sky. Remember, sometimes the only way to see the sky is to lose what was blocking the view.