Brian Wright - Remembering Who I Am at the Men’s Shed

Coming to the Men’s Shed has been a blessing in my life. I’ve been living with dementia for the past two years, and it’s been a lonely road trying to face it on my own. But here, at the Shed, I don’t feel alone. I feel like I belong.

We stay busy fixing things for schools, building for the community, and sharing our skills. It’s good to feel useful again. Giving back keeps our hands moving and our minds focused; more than anything, it keeps our spirits alive.

Mornings are the best time for me. I struggle more as the day goes on, words slip away, my focus fades, but here, the coffee is always hot, the snacks are a dollar, and the conversation flows freely. Sometimes we even have guest speakers, healthcare folks, and community officers to share a little knowledge and connect.

About 60 of us gather at the Shed, and every time I walk through the door, I feel a little lighter. The worry lifts. For a while, the forgetting hasn’t been front and centre. For a while, I remember what it’s like to enjoy myself, to forget that I’m forgetting.

The kindness of the men here means everything. They laugh with me. They play cards. They listen, even when the words take a little longer. Their patience reminds me that I still matter. That I’m still me.

One of the things I used to love most was visiting the grade one kids at the local school. We’d go in a couple of times a month, especially for those little ones who didn’t have grandparents nearby. Sitting with them, hearing their stories, and sharing bits of our lives gave me such joy. We helped them, yes, but in truth, they helped us just as much.

But over time, my dementia made it harder to keep up. The noise, the energy, the unpredictability, things I used to handle easily, started to overwhelm me. Eventually, I made the hard decision to stop going. It wasn’t easy. I miss those kids. I miss how they lit up when we walked into the room. I miss the stories we shared.

But I still have the Shed. I still have this place.

Coming here gives me back pieces of myself I thought were lost. I may not be able to do everything I once did, but I’m not done yet. I still have something to give. I still have people who see me.

And I feel it every time I walk through that door, surrounded by tools and laughter and the gentle rhythm of men just being together.

I’m not just forgetting.

I’m still here.

I’m still me.