My mom was born in Cobourg Ont. after my family moved to this province from Dalhousie, N.B. Our Indigenous ancestry traces back to Eel River Bar First Nation—the neighbouring reserve.

I didn’t grow up with a lot of the culture. Sure, we spoke about being native and every once-in-a-while would hear a story of Eel River Bar from my grandma but a lot of what it means to be an Indigenous person came later in my life.

When I was four years old, my mom had her life taken from her, becoming one of far too many Missing and Murdered Indigenous Women and Girls (MMIWG). Her passing was rough on my family and instilled in me a constant reminder of who I am and where I come from. I think she’d be happy to know the role she’s played in my life, even though she was only here for a portion of it. 

According to the Canadian government, Indigenous women make up 10 per cent of homicide cases across the country, a gross disproportionate statistic.

In the summer of 2023 my family was invited to Whitefish River First Nation to attend the unveiling of an MMIWG monument. We spent nearly a week with elders in the community, it was the first time I felt like I belonged around other native folk. 

I remember feeling like my mom would have loved it. The small town out in the bush, the kindness granted to us by people we had only just met. We sat in a circle outside the lodge one night sharing messages to our loved ones, bawling our eyes out as we kept their stories alive. We passed around a basket of strawberries, a heart medicine. Every seed on the skin of that berry felt special.

Although the teachings, ceremony and customs were not my own, Anishinaabe people set me up with skills that I’ll carry through life, I couldn’t be more grateful for that.

I went on to travel to San Felipe Chenla, Guatemala, in February 2024. The trip was during my program at Durham College—a knowledge exchange with Mayan youth in a local community. Studying in media, art and design-focused programs, our goal was to teach the kids storytelling skills using the technology available to them. In return, they shared their traditional practice of storytelling—and lots of great food—for us to bring home to the work we do.

I was sitting outside the village’s high school one night, when a Mayan elder visited to share his story of living through a U.S.-sparked civil war that had ravaged rural communities across Guatemala. 

I brought with me on the trip sage, sweetgrass and cedar, which I learned are way harder than you think to explain to customs agents. I didn’t know why I packed them, until I met that elder. I ran to my room to grab the medicines and rushed back trying to catch the man before he left for his walk home. 

I watched him hold the braid of sweetgrass, grazing his fingers through its tail as he smiled. He said something loosely translated from Quiché—their Indigenous language—to mean ‘I’ve seen this before.’

Throughout the production process of All My Relations, I’ve been reflecting on my own feelings surrounding my Indigeneity. I never want to come off as the authority figure of ‘the Indigenous life’—I grew up in the suburbs after all. This issue has taught me not only how to navigate Indigenous reporting but how to acknowledge my own lack in knowledge and when to look to my community for help.

I hope you find this issue as beautiful as I do. 

With love from me and all my relations,