Derek - 45

I was born in England, the middle child of three boys. My parents had fled Sri Lanka during the civil war, leaving behind everything they knew for the chance at a better life. Both were physicians, dedicated to their careers and determined to build something safer for their children.

When I was still very young, we moved to Saskatchewan. My earliest memories are from a small town where I spent eight years surrounded by familiarity and community. In that little town, people knew my name. I had friends. I belonged. Things shifted when we moved to Saskatoon when I was twelve. Suddenly, I was invisible. The loneliness and fear of being unseen took root there.

My parents raised us Catholic. We went to church every Sunday, but faith in our home was not lived—it was enforced. God was portrayed as someone to fear, a judge rather than a source of love. My parents’ words about religion clashed with their actions at home. Verbal fights, disrespect, and abuse were woven into daily life. My father was absent except for his discipline, and my mother’s presence was marked more by emotional criticism than by warmth. I remember very few tender memories—though one stands out: the rare day my dad played baseball with me and my brothers in the backyard. He wasn’t very good, but for me, it didn’t matter. What mattered was that he was there.

As children, we lived under strict rules. My parents were anxious and controlling, worried that we might fall into the wrong crowd or make mistakes. We had curfews that kept us inside before dusk, and friendships and play were rarely valued over study and discipline. Emotional availability was absent. My grandparents and housekeepers filled the gaps when my parents worked. Looking back, I realize how much that environment shaped me—both my strengths and my shadows.

Adolescence was difficult. After leaving the small town where I felt known, I struggled to fit in at my new school. I was bullied and teased, too shy and anxious to defend myself. At times I tried to earn “cheap laughs” by being goofy or aloof, desperate for attention, but it often brought more ridicule. In high school, I retreated further into myself. I ate lunch alone, sometimes in the men’s change room, or hid in the library to avoid being seen. I had no social life. Sports became my salvation. Football gave me a sense of team and belonging, even though I never played in a game. Just being part of something, showing up, and working hard mattered to me. Fitness has remained my refuge throughout life.

Leaving high school was a relief. University offered a fresh start, though at first, I was still alone. Then I moved to Australia for a year, and it changed me. Away from my family, living on residence, I felt free for the first time. I made friends, learned to socialize, and tasted joy in a way that had been absent before. I didn’t want to come back, but I knew returning to Canada would make it easier to pursue medicine.

Medical school was another turning point. I grew more confident, learned to date, and began to see myself differently. But old patterns sometimes resurfaced—negative attention-seeking that cost me respect among peers. Still, I was building resilience. After training in Saskatoon and Ottawa, I built a career in pediatrics. I loved helping children and families, offering the kind of support I often longed for myself.

My personal life shifted when I met my wife. She was visiting her sister in Ottawa from Venezuela. We started long-distance, and for two years we lived apart. Eventually, she moved to Canada, leaving behind the instability of her country. We married so she could more easily obtain permanent residency, but our marriage was more than paperwork. She brought qualities into my life that I admired deeply: closeness with family, confidence, and an unshakable sense of self. She didn’t care what others thought, while I had spent so much of my life consumed by that fear.

Our marriage has not been without struggle. Our different upbringings and cultures sometimes clash. The wounds from my childhood—criticism, control, rejection—surface in our relationship. My avoidant attachment style makes it hard to trust those closest to me, while she struggles with trust in those outside her circle. These differences create friction, especially in areas like intimacy, where shame and taboo from my upbringing linger. Yet, through our struggles, I have learned more about myself than ever before.

We built a life together in Ottawa for ten years, then moved west during the pandemic to the Okanagan, and later settled in Coquitlam, BC. Each move marked not just a change of place, but a deepening of my journey of growth and healing.

Looking back on my childhood, what stands out most are the feelings: loneliness, anxiety, sadness, fear. But also, discipline, resilience, and the ability to push through dark times. My strengths—being an includer, a developer, striving for harmony and consistency—were forged from those shadows. My values—fitness, health, connection, authenticity, community, spirituality, autonomy—reflect the lessons I’ve carried forward.

I’ve learned that my avoidant tendencies, my fear of rejection, and my drive to please others have often left me disconnected from myself. For years, I measured my worth through work and through others’ approval. Only recently have I begun to shift that focus inward—to care for myself, to journal, meditate, and nurture my own spirit.

Faith is still a complicated part of my story. The God I was taught to fear has been difficult to reconcile with the God of love I want to believe in. My brothers have rejected religion completely, and while I still hold on, it’s not without struggle. Yet spirituality remains one of my values. I seek connection with something greater, though my path toward it is different from the one my parents tried to impose.

There has been loss: of childhood innocence, of the closeness I never had with my family, of the friendships that never were in my school years. There has been shame: in being bullied, in feeling invisible, in never quite fitting in. There has been humour: in the goofy antics I once used to mask pain, and in learning to laugh at myself now in healthier ways.

And there has been wisdom. I know that shadows can shape us but don’t have to define us. I know that light often comes from the darkest places. I know that resilience is built not by avoiding pain but by facing it.

Today, I work less and live more. I spend time on what matters: my health, my relationships, my inner growth. I see myself as a work in progress, no longer only the lonely boy hiding in the library, but a man who has built a life of meaning, connection, and purpose.

This is my story—woven from fear and pain, but also from joy, humour, faith, and love. A story of shadows and light.

Music - Derek’s music choices during our photo session included Coldplay, Green Day, and Blink 182.