Rooted in Relationship and Responsibility
I come to this work as a Red River Métis woman and an ally to First Nations, guided bywahkotowin, or wâhkôhtowin—a Cree and Michif concept often understood as kinship. It reminds me that all life is interconnected and that we each carry responsibilities to live as good relatives, with respect, reciprocity, and care. This Teaching shapes how I strive to live and work.
I am a daughter, a sister, a wife, and an aunty. My relatives include Spence, Cook, Inkster, McDougall, Campeau, Cloutier, and Pelletier—names that reflect both Indigenous and settler ancestry. My Michif family took scrip in Bresaylor, Saskatchewan, and our kinship networks stretch across the Prairie West. I also acknowledge my Scottish (Orkney Islands), Irish, and French Canadian, and nêhiyaw (Plains Cree) roots as part of my family story. I am a Citizen of the Manitoba Métis Federation, Southwest Region, Portage Local.
The work of reclaiming, relearning, and revitalizing is ongoing. I was born and raised in Ontario and was once a member of the Métis Nation of Ontario (MNO), a provincially organized body shaped by government systems. Like many Red River Métis raised outside the Homeland, there wasn’t a pathway rooted in place or kinship available to me then—only administrative ones. At the time, I saw my MNO membership as a way to understand myself and reconnect with my culture and history. Eventually, I came to understand that my place was elsewhere, in deeper relationship with my own lineage, kin, and Red River Métis nationhood.
Leaving the MNO and joining the Manitoba Métis Federation was not about politics. It was about grounding myself in truth and place. The process of shedding what wasn’t mine deepened my sense of accountability—how I carry myself, the knowledge I choose to accept, and the cultural practices I choose to participate in. It sharpened how I relate to others and how I show up as a helper and an ally: how I listen, how I relate, and how I conduct myself at work. For me, clarity about who I am and where I come from is essential to building trust and showing respect, especially when working with other Indigenous Peoples.
I entered the helping profession in 2018. Since then, this work has taken me to remote First Nations, urban Indigenous agencies, and into education as a Field Consultant with the School of Indigenous Relations at Laurentian University. The reflections that follow draw from time spent supporting a First Nation on the James Bay Coast.
North of North
Growing up in Sudbury, I used to tell people I was from the North. Looking back now, I can smile at how wrong I was. Sudbury is many things, but it is not the North. My first real introduction came during my undergraduate years, when I met someone from Attawapiskat First Nation. Their stories stirred something in me, and the North took hold of my imagination. That friend once told me that many people arrive in remote communities with good intentions, but leave behind harm—or very little that lasts. At the time, I didn’t fully understand what they meant. I only knew I felt a pull.
As a Michif woman still regaining my own cultural identity and ways of knowing, I can see more clearly now what drew me North. It was the depth of connection I noticed in everyday life, rooted in relationship with land and community. There was a rhythm to it that felt grounding. Over time, I also came to understand that, as an outsider, I will never fully inhabit those lived realities. Naming that matters. It reminds me to listen carefully, without assuming or defining what is not mine to name.
I can see now how I once held a romanticized view of the North. That way of seeing grew from distance and limited understanding, shaping assumptions I had not yet learned to question. Over time, I came to recognize how language about resilience and strength can be used too loosely—celebrating endurance while leaving unspoken the conditions that make it necessary. When the lens widens, deep knowledge comes into view—a pathway for living well, caring for one another, and staying in balance with the land and seasons.
First Flights North
I almost did not get on the plane the first time. It was small. The weather was rough. I was terrified. Not only of flying, but of what waited when I landed. Looking back, I know the fear was not really about the plane. It was about stepping into the unknown, into work, community, and relationships I did not understand.
Over time, those flights became familiar. I stopped holding my breath through turbulence. I learned to loosen my grip on control. That became its own quiet lesson. Fear does not always need to be conquered. Sometimes it only needs to be acknowledged and carried gently.
On the ground, I was met with warmth and with caution. Communities had seen many helpers come and go. Some brought approaches that did not fit. Others made promises they could not keep. I learned quickly that presence mattered more than performance. Listening mattered more than speaking. Humility was not optional. It was the only way to begin.
Stories Carried
With each visit, I heard stories marked by ongoing impacts—Residential Schools, child welfare, the “justice” system—policies that never fully ended, systems that continue to fall short. These weren’t distant or historical stories. They showed up in housing, food access, water safety, income, and personal security. You don’t just hear these stories. You see how they shape daily life, and you feel their weight in the way they are shared.
Alongside hardship, there was care. I saw families supporting one another and a youth council full of ideas. I saw leadership grounded in self-determination and love. Healing showed up through local strengths—land-based programs reclaiming wellness, gatherings filled with laughter and learning, camps where skills and stories were passed down. These moments stayed with me. They made clear that the community already carried the knowledge needed to sustain it.
What I witnessed showed me that strength doesn’t exist in spite of these conditions, or as a response to neglect, but through lived experience, responsibility, and connection. While many Indigenous communities share similar impacts, each Nation finds its own paths to wellness. It’s in those specifics—not in sameness—that true strength shows itself.
Systems of Extraction and Survival
I remember walking into the main supply store one day and seeing a sign that read, “Serving your community since 1750.” The words felt empty. The store was part of a national chain tied to older trade systems that took more than they gave. Prices were high—sometimes shockingly so. Bottled water could cost more than a family meal. Access existed, but profits flowed outward.
Water insecurity has shaped daily life in this particular Nation for years. Systems fail. Advisories linger. During emergencies, bottled water is flown in by plane. These measures are temporary and costly, and they make clear how fragile the infrastructure has become. In December 2024, when the community’s water system crashed, the impact was immediate. Water, a basic necessity, was suddenly unavailable. Elders, families with young children, and people with health needs had to be evacuated because it was no longer safe to remain.
Flooding adds another layer of uncertainty. Each spring brings risk as the river breaks up and water levels rise. According to locals, evacuations have happened repeatedly over the past two decades. After the December water emergency, many people returned home only to be sent out again weeks later as flood season approached. Dikes built years ago are tested. Roads become impassable. Flights are delayed. Sometimes helicopters are the only way out. People leave and return, carrying the strain of an annual cycle of disruption and fear.
It is hard not to think about how these conditions came to be. In the late 1950s, families were moved from safer ground to a low-lying area along the river. Community members warned that flooding would come. They were right. Since then, promises of relocation, stronger protections, and permanent solutions have accumulated. Very little has changed.
At the same time, large-scale development plans continue to move forward across the wider lowlands. Mining proposals. Access roads. Industrial corridors. The contrast is hard to miss. Progress arrives quickly in some places, while housing, water, and safety move slowly in others. The same questions surface again and again: who carries the risk, who benefits, and who gets to decide what safety and prosperity look like.
Land, Knowledge, and Community Strength
Amid these challenges, the land continues to provide. Geese. Moose. Fish. Berries. Medicines. The salt of the bay. These aren’t abstractions. They’re sources of nourishment that sustain both body and identity. I saw this generosity in many places—fish camps, cabins, and walks on the land where knowledge was shared. Knowledge Holders took time with youth, teaching not just how to gather, but how to care for what is taken.
These experiences have shown me how food and medicine are carried through practice. They’re passed on by doing, across generations. This kind of abundance supports self-sufficiency and cultural continuity, and it stands in quiet contrast to the fragility of outside systems. It also reminds me that nourishment is never just physical. It carries identity, wellness, and connection in ways store-bought goods never can.
Capacity Rooted in Community
Just as reliance on outside suppliers drains local resources, the same pattern shows up in health and social services. Outsiders are brought in. Few stay. Turnover creates gaps. Not just in staffing, but in trust. I have been part of this cycle as a contracted worker. That experience forced me to think carefully about what sustainable capacity actually means.
When communities have the tools and training to lead their own programs, the difference is visible. I remember a trauma workshop attended by people working in care roles and by others who simply wanted to support their families. Not long after, I saw those same participants using what they had learned. They adapted it. They made it fit. They did more with it than I ever could. That is capacity: care rooted in relationship and guided by local knowledge.
Funding decisions made far away can disrupt this work quickly. Delays and cuts affect more than services. They interrupt momentum and continuity. Even so, communities continue to adapt and lead. Programs shift. New pathways are found. The work does not stop. It responds.
Healing in Many Forms
This work has shown me that mental health support isn’t just about what’s offered, but how it feels, who it comes from, and the way it’s shared. Too often, conventional care zeroes in on changing thoughts and behaviours. Healing usually starts somewhere else. In the body. In the breath. In relationships that help people feel safe again. It’s shaped by land, kin, and the environments people move through every day, and by the systems that either hold them up or wear them down. Wellness isn’t something people do on their own—it grows out of connection and the conditions people are living in.
In Northern First Nations, where outside workers like me come and go, healing often grows from the ground up. Without deep community grounding, even well-intentioned work can struggle to take hold. My own training, shaped largely by Southern frameworks, hasn’t always fit these realities. Ideas like boundaries and dual relationships look different in places where kinship shapes daily life and everyone knows one another. When those frameworks are applied without reflection, care can end up feeling distant from the people it’s meant to support.
Wholistic healing feels different. I’ve been humbled to witness it. It honours body, mind, spirit, family, and community together, rather than treating them as separate pieces. Each Nation defines wellness in its own way. Practices vary. Some emphasize Traditional Teachings and Ceremony. Others don’t. Some blend faith and culture. What matters most is that people have choice and agency. Healing makes sense when it’s defined on people’s own terms.
Land-based practices have shown me that healing is rhythmic and embodied. Walking. Dancing. Drumming. Being outside. These practices bring people back into themselves and into relationship. Knowledge Holders have taught me that healing rarely comes from advice or manuals. It grows through lived experience, reflection, and awareness over time.
These experiences have reshaped how I understand capacity. Building it isn’t about creating something new or leaving a program behind. It’s about supporting what lasts when outside workers leave. My role isn’t to fix or to lead. It’s to walk alongside when invited, to notice the strengths already present, and to contribute where it’s useful. Sometimes that looks like counselling in a truck. Sometimes it’s co-facilitating a meeting or making sandwiches for a funeral. The work shifts depending on what’s needed. It’s held through reciprocity, not agenda.
Trauma-informed approaches still matter. They help create safety and reduce harm. But on their own, they aren’t enough. Healing-focused work goes further. It empowers, supports meaning-making, and a sense of possibility. Healing isn’t only about responding to what’s been broken. It’s about creating space for new pathways when people are ready. In that sense, wellbeing isn’t an outcome to be achieved, it’s an ongoing exchange.
Doing This Work in a Good Way
The North has taught me that this work does not require perfection or credentials alone. It requires honesty and self awareness. It asks us to know who we are and where we come from. It also asks us to know who we are not. That clarity shapes how we show up, with respect for boundaries and accountability to others.
This work does not resolve neatly. Not for me. Not for the North. The systems and histories that shape it are still unfolding. Healing, justice, and equity are ongoing efforts carried by many hands. What I have been trusted to witness lives beyond me. It has changed how I carry this work. I listen more carefully now. I move more slowly. I remain accountable to the people and places who shared their stories.
I share these reflections not to center myself, but to honour what grows through relationship. Stories too often reduced to statistics. Stories grounded in care, ingenuity, and connection. I look toward a future where my role continues to shift. Where local people have what they need to carry their own visions of wellness. Many are already leading this change. My part, when invited, is simply to walk alongside and support that strength.
