There are road trips, and then there are journeys that quietly stitch together pieces of your past with the life you’re living now. In May of 2022 our drive from Mississauga to Kamloops was meant to be about distance—kilometres, provinces, long stretches of highway, after all we were only in Canada just over a year.…but somewhere along the way, it became about something much deeper.

We made a deliberate stop in Winnipeg. Not for the usual reasons people pull into a city—food, rest, or a break from driving—but for something far more personal. I wanted to see the statue of Winnipeg the Bear.

If you know, you know. And if you don’t—this is where it gets a little sentimental.

When I was seven years old, sitting somewhere far from Canada, flipping through a Reader’s Digest kids edition, I came across the story of Winnipeg the Bear. I was completely taken by it. There was something magical about that story—about a bear with a name that sounded like a place, and a place that suddenly felt like a possibility.

I remember telling my dad, very matter-of-factly, that I wanted to move to Winnipeg.

He tried to explain where Winnipeg was, how far it was, what it meant. But in my seven-year-old mind, none of that mattered. It was simple: I had discovered it, and therefore, it was mine to dream about.

Of course, dreams evolve. Life happens. That specific childhood plan faded, replaced by other ambitions, responsibilities, and realities. But one thing stayed consistent—Canada, in some shape or form, remained a place that lived quietly in the back of my mind. Not necessarily Winnipeg anymore, but the idea of it… the feeling of it.

Back then, growing up during apartheid, dreams like that came with a weight. Travel wasn’t just about booking a ticket and going. Leaving often meant not returning. For many people, the idea of exploring the world was just that—an idea. A dream that stayed safely tucked away because reality didn’t allow much more.

And yet, we dreamed anyway.

Fast forward a few decades, and there I was—pulling into Winnipeg, not as a story in a magazine, but as a real place under my feet.

Except, of course, life still has its sense of humour.

It was during COVID. The zoo was closed.

And if I’m being honest, by the time we checked into our hotel, I didn’t even feel like going anymore. The weight of restrictions, the constant adjustments, the emotional fatigue of that time—it had taken more out of me than I realized. The excitement I thought I’d feel just… wasn’t there.

But my husband, Lee, and a good friend of ours from Ontario weren’t having it. They insisted. Gently, but firmly. This wasn’t just another stop on a long drive—this was something I had carried with me for years, even if I hadn’t fully realized it.

So we went.

After all those years, all that distance, all that build-up… and I couldn’t even get in.

But honestly, it didn’t matter.

We found a spot along the fence where I could just barely see in. It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t the grand moment you might imagine. But it was real. I stood there, peering through the bars, and snapped a quick photo—half-obstructed, slightly awkward, completely imperfect.

And somehow, it was exactly right.

Because that moment wasn’t about the statue itself. It was about everything it represented. A childhood dream. A conversation with my dad. A time when the world felt both impossibly large and frustratingly out of reach.

And now?

Now I was there. Not just visiting Canada—but living it, breathing it, driving across it.

From Mississauga to Winnipeg, and onward to Kamloops, each kilometre felt like a quiet reminder: things change. Barriers shift. What once felt impossible can, over time, become something you simply do.

No big announcement. No dramatic reveal. Just a moment at a fence, camera in hand, smiling at the absurdity and beauty of it all.

Dreams don’t always come true in the way you expect. Sometimes they show up closed behind a gate, asking you to find a different way to see them.

And sometimes, that’s more than enough.