MENS SHEDS
Along the Way: Stories of Connection
The Sheds Gave Me Something I Didn’t Know I Needed
A reflection by Lorna Dancey
Earlier this year, I was commissioned by Alberta Men’s Shed to travel across the province, visiting 10 Sheds to document the stories of men whose lives had been changed by these spaces.
I walked in ready to observe, listen, and photograph. What I didn’t expect was how deeply I’d feel it.
Before the handshakes, the coffee, and the warmth of the room, there was a smell that stopped me in my tracks:
Sawdust.
My dad was a carpenter. He came home six days a week, tired, wooden pencil tucked behind his ear, tool belt slumped by the door. He didn’t teach me how to use the tools. He was always working. But he taught me how to build a life with heart.
He passed away 14 years ago.
But every time I walked into a Shed, I felt him there. Not speaking. Just present. Like he had arrived ahead of me to say:
“You’re exactly where you’re meant to be.”
Over three months, I met more than 40 men. Each carried a story, some shared with words, others in silence. Some had lost partners. Some had lost careers. Some were slowly losing pieces of themselves to illness, memory, or time. But what they all longed for was the same:
To be seen again. To be useful again. To belong again.
Men’s Sheds aren’t just about fixing things. They’re about camaraderie, purpose, and having a safe place to simply be yourself. A place where men feel seen, heard, and valued without pressure to perform or pretend.In between sanding, sorting, and sipping coffee, these men were laughing, listening, and opening up about grief, resilience, and joy.
And in those conversations, often quiet, always honest, something shifted in me too. By being with them, I was reminded of what truly matters:
- To slow down.
- To notice what I rush past.
- To make time for what I love and who I love.
- To remember that in a world that glorifies productivity, presence is the real currency.
These men didn’t give advice. They showed me with how they show up for each other.
And now I carry this with me:
Sometimes, when you walk into a room that smells like sawdust, the people you’ve loved aren’t gone. They’re still with you in scent, in memory, in the stories you collect along the way. Maybe this is how my dad teaches me now. In the stillness he never had. In the slowing down he never gave himself. In the time I’m finally learning to make. He didn’t teach me how to use his tools. But somehow, through this, he’s showing me how to live.
Thank you to Alberta Men’s Shed and the fellows across the province who welcomed me with laughter, trust, and truth. Keep building each other up. The tools of human connection are the most important tools we have.
With gratitude,
Lorna Dancey
