My Indigenous Life

Today is Truth and Reconciliation Day here in Canada – a day that asks us to remember, reflect, and reckon with the truths of our shared history. It exists because of the deep wounds left by colonialism, residential schools, the sixties scoop, and the ongoing traumas that so many Indigenous families, including my own, have endured.

For me, truth and reconciliation isn’t just a concept or a policy – it’s become a journey that’s intertwined with my own life. For a long time, I lived disconnected from my roots, loving my culture but not facing the pain and trauma my parents and I both carried. My parents, as survivors of the sixties scoop, have their own deep scars – scars that are not only theirs, but are layered with the trauma passed down from their own parents and grandparents, who were survivors in their own time. The pain didn’t start or end with them; it’s part of a cycle that began with first contact, and has left Indigenous people suffering for generations. I’ve realized that part of my truth means being honest about how those experiences have shaped me, and how pain has been passed down through generations – cumulatively and systemically, in ways none of us could control or fully understand.

Growing up, I didn’t believe I was meant for anything beyond the boundaries of my reserve. I never imagined I could be important, successful, or have a place in the wider world. There’s an unspoken weight that comes with growing up here – a heaviness rooted in colonialism. It’s a weight that tells us this is the only space we’re allowed to occupy, that our home, even though it’s our traditional village, is shaped and controlled by systems that were never ours to begin with. Even here, there’s a sense of limitation, as if true ownership or agency is always just out of reach. Because of the experiences & limitations I had as a child and young adult, I learned to minimize myself, to shrink my dreams. Part of that, I now realize, comes from the colonial mindset that has told Indigenous people, generation after generation, that we were – and, all too often, still are – not valued.

For me, reconciliation means taking a hard look at how the past has shaped my sense of self and my relationships – with my family, my community, and myself. It’s about acknowledging the weight of generational pain and the ways I learned to shrink myself, then choosing to break that cycle. It means giving myself grace for mistakes I’ve made, recognizing that trauma shaped many of my choices, and forgiving myself as part of the healing process. Reconciliation is letting go of anger for what couldn’t be changed, and working toward acceptance and healing. It’s about making a conscious effort to move forward with compassion – for myself, my parents, and all those who carry similar wounds. Ultimately, it’s a commitment to building a future defined not by inherited hurt, but by understanding, resilience, and hope.

Truth and reconciliation is not a “holiday.” It’s a day of remembering, a memorial – a time to sit with the sorrow, the truth, and the hope that one day, real reconciliation will be possible. Until then, we stand strong, we stand together, and we keep moving forward – one honest conversation, one act of healing, at a time.

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