All the necessary parts

I’m broken. But if I work hard enough, I can fix it.

This is what I have known - a constant desire to grow, improve, repair - to be better.

Better than what?

Oh, I don’t know. I guess better than I’ve been?

I’m not sure where it came from. Maybe it was TV shows in the 90s, telling me to reach for the stars, dream big, and a promise from Lavar Burton under the Reading Rainbow that “I can fly anywhere.”

All I knew was I had to work hard and standing still was not an option. I was a member of the “Kids for Saving Earth”, a Brownie (the little-kid version of Girl Guides) promising to always be a good friend. I wrote letters to the Mayor asking him to help save the environment. I started working at 11-years-old. I was going to need a head start if I was going to become a marine biologist, a pop star, an ad executive, or any of the other careers I thought were common-place in a Canadian prairie city.

I dreamt endlessly. I never entertained the thought that I wouldn’t someday be swept off my feet by teen heartthrob Devon Sawa.

I passed up family vacations to work. I was the youngest person in my grade. I was the youngest person to be promoted to manager at my first retail job. I was the youngest reporter in the newsroom. The youngest person to achieve blah, blah, blah, blah, blah.

I read stacks of self-help books, listened to podcasts on “bio-hacking”, visited personal trainers, dieticians, psychologists, yoga instructors. I wanted to learn all the things to make myself into the best I could be.

I had big dreams. And the thing was, for the most part, I achieved them. Except for you, Devon Sawa.

I married at 27 to the love of my life, bought a house, a dog and had a beautiful little girl and a beautiful little boy.

When I hit 40, my husband had my family write down what they admired about me.

I was reliable. I was the person you’d call first in an emergency. I always knew what to do when shit hit the fan. I bought the best gifts, carefully selected for each person after noting their likes and dislikes all year. I could investigate the shit out of anything (I was a journalist, so I should hope so.) I gave good advice. I spoke up for myself. I made decisions with lightning speed.

And I was touched by this until I realized that I was proud of none of those things. I wanted to be known as the life of the party. Someone always up for adventure. The one who lightened the mood and made everyone laugh.

I have certainly had my share of trauma, from the death of my little sister in a car accident to the dozens of horrific scenes I have seen in my careers as a crime reporter. I know it’s not all fun and games. But I didn’t think I was this boring. Damnit. How did that happen? I worked so hard to be responsible. I was terrified that if I didn’t do enough, I’d be unloveable. And I exhausted myself.

But armed with some good advice, I started to rediscover the part of me that was there all along. To realize that who I am is far more interesting than what I do. When all parts of me are assembled, I actually kind of like myself. Maybe I’m not broken and I had just lost some of myself like puzzle pieces that slip under the table and you only notice they are gone when everything else is in place.

I genuinely hope that my writing can entertain but also encourage. I don’t want to encourage people to fix themselves, to progress, to succeed. But rather to look inside themselves and see all their parts, the good and the bad, that make them who they are. This is not self-help, rather a story of self-discovery, self-compassion and self-acceptance. And to honour the uniqueness of their whole selves and the entirely unique, unbroken human.

-Brea Forrest