This text once served as part of the introduction to my website, capturing a meaningful piece of my journey.
Since then, much has changed in me and in the way I understand my work. And yet, I have never wanted to let this story go.
It holds a special place in my heart — both as a cherished memory of my father and me, and as a glimpse into some of my earliest questions about contribution, listening, and what it means to support another person.
During my adolescence, I took great pleasure in physical exercise — an interest that is still very much alive in me today.
During the summer, I would create a discreet little space in our family parking lot, hidden between the truck and the car parked beside it, where I could do my daily exercise routine.
Among my workout companions was a vinyl record titled En forme avec Gilbert Delorme, featuring the renowned Quebec athlete and former hockey player.
Dreaming in technicolor, I secretly hoped I might meet him someday.
Brisk Steps and Heartfelt Talks
Another way I stayed active was by walking with my father.
I loved his brisk pace — perhaps the origin of my own fast gait today.
The highlight was not walking down the hill on Main Street in our village, but racing back up it at a vigorous pace.
My father maintained his energetic rhythm even while climbing the half-kilometer hill. In his eyes, I could see the mischievous spark that announced the beginning of the challenge.
I loved the sensation of effort and the pounding of my heart when we reached the top.
But what I cherished most were our conversations.
During some of the challenging moments he was experiencing at the time, I was there to listen.
I often wondered how I might bring him comfort. I cared deeply about his well-being, and I wanted to offer perspectives that might help him relate to himself with greater kindness and compassion.
Those walks became much more than exercise.
They became moments of connection.
Many Questions
Being able to contribute something meaningful to his life felt deeply rewarding.
Even at that age, I found myself exploring different perspectives and wondering what might help another person experience what they were going through differently.
Those moments with my father were unique to me.
I felt connected to him in a very particular way.
During those sometimes almost magical walks, nothing else seemed to matter.
I felt valued as he listened and responded to my ideas.
It wasn’t every day that I could have his full attention, express what I was perceiving, and feel truly heard by him.
Something in those exchanges nourished me deeply.
Throughout our relationship, however, I also experienced the limits of my desire to contribute.
Why was something I offered helpful at one moment and ineffective at another?
Why could a perspective create an opening sometimes, while at other times it seemed to go nowhere?
Over time, I began to understand something important:
I could offer something, but I could not decide when another person was ready to receive it.
That awareness would continue to deepen over the years.
Liberating Perspectives
Today, my desire to contribute to greater ease in people’s lives is still deeply present in me.
What has changed over the years is the way I understand that contribution.
I have become increasingly curious about what may be happening beneath the reactions, behaviors, and patterns we can see on the surface — and about the inner dynamics that sometimes influence us without our conscious awareness.
Through my own exploration and facilitation work, I have also come to recognize the importance of meeting what is present rather than immediately trying to change it.
Sometimes, a different perspective, a question, or simply being met with greater presence can allow something new to become visible.
And sometimes, what seems like an obstacle from the outside may have its own coherence when we become curious about what is happening underneath it.
Looking back, I can see that those walks with my father were among my earliest experiences of this kind of exploration.
I did not have the language for it then.
I simply wanted to listen.
To understand.
To offer another perspective.
And perhaps to make something a little easier for someone I loved.
Those moments remain precious to me.
Without knowing it at the time, they were already pointing toward something that would continue to weave its way through my life.