I have very fond memories of my early childhood; those first years were truly the best. But in 1991, war broke out in Bosnia, and at the age of eight, my typical family structure vanished.

My oldest brother, due to his age, was enlisted for the army but was lucky enough to escape just before the war officially began, moving to Germany to stay with my uncle. My other brother moved to Croatia for his studies. The rest of us stayed in Bosnia, watching the conflict draw closer.

After a year living in a war-torn Bosnia, my mother and I escaped one night under the cover of darkness. We made a week-long trek through the woods to the safety of the Croatian coast. My father had to stay behind, placed under house arrest due to his health.

We lived in a refugee camp in Croatia until 1995, at which point we immigrated to Canada as refugees. We arrived as a family, yet fractured – all of us except for my oldest brother, who remains in Germany to this day. He is the bridge I am finally ready to build.

Growing up, the nature of our displacement made it difficult for me to connect with others, including my own family. Over the years, my brother in Germany made numerous attempts to bridge that gap, but I consistently pulled away.

Last weekend, that changed.

I picked up the phone and called him and we talked for thirty minutes. It wasn’t earth-shattering, and we didn’t solve the mysteries of our past. We talked about the simple, mundane details of our lives. But when I hung up the phone, I realized something vital; rebuilding a bridge isn’t about grand gestures. It’s about the quiet, consistent discipline of showing up, one conversation at a time.

It took me 30 years to pick up the phone. What is one thing you’ve been putting off that you’re finally ready to do this weekend?

For me, it’s simple. I’ll be having another conversation with my brother.