Yesterday was my 42nd birthday, and a month before that it was my second anniversary as the CEO of the Manitoba Museum. Two wonderful milestones, two moments which called for deep reflection.
I think it would be fair to say that the last two years of my life have been marked by extremes.
Some of the greatest challenges I have faced both personally and professionally hit me, at times, coming unrelentingly one after another. In the midst of those trials, I’ve also experienced moments of profound connection to my life’s purpose, discovered a community of kindred spirits, like-hearted and like-minded changemakers, and have been offered immeasurable support by friends and strangers alike.
One of the gifts of the last two years has been a bit of healing, something I’ve long searched for and am likely to continue to seek for years to come. It’s a never-ending journey, in part I suppose, because healing is not linear nor uncomplicated. It doesn’t happen outside of work and it can’t happen outside of our true selves.
It won’t come as a surprise to anyone who knows me, that for me, work spills into home and home into work. I am who I am in all the spheres of my life, and although some might say, to be a leader you have to leave your humanity, your heart, and your hardships at the door, that has never been the kind of leader I’ve wanted to be. If there is no room for my humanity at the table, there is no room for me.
I’ve lived a turbulent life, one that has rarely afforded me a moment’s rest, one in which I’ve understood I am the only person that will rescue me, one in which being me wasn’t welcome. Losing my mama at 16 years old meant losing home, the care of my parents, a roof over my head, and a safety net beneath me.
It has been over 25 years of fighting to stay above the water.
And yet, I say with gratitude, that my life has served to prepare me. It has taught me how to be strong yet tender, how to remain optimistic even when things appear impossible, how to tend to a delicate hope moving towards a vision of the future others cannot see.
I have bent under the weight of it all, and in bending, some parts of me have shattered. Over many years, I’ve learned that my brokenness is not subject to the judgement of others, or myself. Life has taught me that none of us are beyond repair, that the human spirit transcends the suffering it endures… that maybe, when and if we can find healing, we will find ourselves.
For me, healing hasn’t meant forgetting, I don’t know that I will ever forget. It hasn’t meant not being hurt by my past; my past, I imagine, will occasionally wake me in the night for always. My healing has required something else.
Last month, as I approached my second anniversary as CEO, on a day we were closed to visitors, I went into the galleries. I stood in the very spot my mama stood thirty-some years earlier. I leaned against the railing, overcome with grief. For a moment, long ago, she existed here, in this very place, looking at the Caribou diorama, trying to find herself in this, our new home.
My mama with us, her five children, had been here.
I remembered how the Museum afforded us a momentary reprieve from the hardships of life. I remembered watching her be mesmerized by its beauty, a kind of suspended reality. Within the Museum, momentarily, we weren’t struggling, we weren’t displaced, torn from our family, culture, and language, not able to make ends meet. In the galleries, enthralled by the exhibits, delighted by the sights and sounds, we just existed. More than that, we found resemblance to a world we had known, we found fragments of our identity displayed and honoured, we began to imagine how we might come to belong here, in time.
I remembered watching her breathe, long, slow deep breaths, a bit calmer, a bit quieter. I imagine now that she loved the Museum because it felt like nowhere and everywhere all at once; it felt like home and away, like being apart from one thing and yet a part of something.
I don’t know if it was only the dioramas, the galleries, and the incredible exhibits that brought her joy? I think it was far more than the bricks and mortar of the Manitoba Museum that made it feel like a place of healing for my mama.
I think it was also the sense of community we found within it, not feeling entirely alone in our experiences. The Museum offered us threads of familiarity, it reminded us of our shared humanity, it told stories that carried wisdoms from long before, that would be carried long into the future. It altered our perspective on where we found ourselves in life in that moment, perhaps it helped us feel hopeful.
At my birthday brunch yesterday, I was surrounded by love. For the first time in a very long time, I could feel myself lean into the safety of others. And that is new for me. For the most part, others have not been safe. For most of my life, neither people nor places offered true shelter or care.
As a migrant, I had to become what others were willing to accept, so that I could be here.
As a leader, I had to become what offers demanded, so that I could be given a chance.
Until now.
On the morning of June 3rd, some of the most incredible women I’ve had the honour of knowing showed up to celebrate my life. They came to bear witness to my journey, and in doing so, they picked up some of the pieces of me yet to be put together.
The Museum helped my mama find a sense of herself in our new home.
The women in my life helped me reclaim the person I’ve also been.
We laughed, we cried, we danced, and then they gave me ‘the birthday bumps’ which is terrifying at this fragile age, because injuries are possible. LOL
So, can Museums be places of healing? Yes, I think they can, in many different ways… by helping us find ourselves, and by placing us into the arms of our communities.