As I pack up our home—patching nail holes, touching up trim, sorting decades of life into boxes—I keep losing my place. Not just in the work, but in myself. This house has held us for more than twenty years, perched on the border of North Dakota and Minnesota along the Red River of the North. And while the rooms slowly empty, my thoughts refuse to stay here.

They keep returning to Minneapolis.
To St. Paul.
To Minnesota.

I am trying to find the right words to explain my love, my compassion, and my grief—but the truth is, I can’t focus for long. I feel frozen. Angry. Horrified. I am living out of suitcases again, stretched between places and responsibilities, wanting desperately to be physically present with those I love in the Twin Cities, while also needing to remain here for my family. So, I do what I can from a distance. I pray. I stay informed. I donate. I listen. I can’t believe this is only three and a half weeks into 2026.

It has been several days now—days marked by horror. Murders. Children abducted. Families torn apart. People afraid to leave their homes. People harmed simply for showing up to work. Beneath the shock and the headlines, I find myself grappling with something deeper: how to speak to the public, how to plead for this to stop, how to name the invasion of ICE without losing my humanity in the process.

I don’t know if this awareness comes from being Indigenous.

From growing up in a border community.

From having family divided by an invisible line drawn by human hands—a border that once meant nothing to us, until it meant everything.

We used to move freely.

Over time, that freedom narrowed. Tightened. Disappeared.

Or maybe it comes from being a descendant of Indigenous ancestors who lived in Mni Sota, in the village of Kaposia—what many now call St. Paul. Or maybe it comes from memory. From lived experience.

I remember sitting next to my cousin in the backseat of my grandfather’s car at a red light in the heart of Minneapolis. He leaned out the window, tickled the feet of someone riding in the car next to us, then sped off laughing—ears wiggling, joy unbothered, fearless. In another memory, I remember our large family packed into a van long before GPS existed, circling block after block to find the right street for a barbecue with relatives in the suburbs. Later, piling into Valleyfair with even more family. So many of my childhood memories live here. This place was home long before I had language for belonging.

There was also a moment—one I return to often—when I stood in the streets of Minneapolis near First Avenue, shoulder to shoulder with strangers, mourning and celebrating the loss of our dear Prince. We didn’t know one another, yet we hugged as if we did. We cried openly. We sang together in the literal Purple Rain, our voices uneven but united, grief and gratitude braided into something sacred. For days, the city felt held—by music, by memory, by love. No one asked who you voted for. No one asked where you came from. We simply showed up for one another, honoring a life that had given us so much beauty.

That moment mattered. It still does. Because it reminds me that this city knows how to grieve with dignity, how to celebrate with tenderness, how to hold one another without fear. Minneapolis has done this before—stood together in the streets not in rage, but in love. And when I look at what is happening now, I find myself asking quietly: how did we forget ourselves so quickly?

Minneapolis is where I watched my children grow—through parks and school shopping trips, educational events, dance competitions. As a young teen, I ran those streets safely and happily. During my college years, it became my escape. It’s where I ended up at a Paisley Park after-party I never planned on attending. It’s where my child now plans to attend college. It’s where I watched one of my most beloved humans fall in love—and celebrate that love in the streets, and at the top of a building that touches the sky.

I have worked in the Twin Cities since the very beginning of my arts career. That feels inevitable now, considering my teachers once brought me there to learn how to see art at a very young age. Over time, my work turned toward advocacy. I marched. I stood at rallies. I walked alongside Minnesotans. I was given space to speak—and I worked just as hard to make space for others. It is also where my spouse and I go to find our joy in one another, dancing, laughing, remembering how freedom once felt in our bodies.

So, while my zip code may not read “Minneapolis,”
my heart does.
My spirit does.
My formative and core memories live there.

That is why it hurts so deeply to see Minneapolis painted as a war zone. Yes, it carries history—painful history. From the Dakota War of 1862 to Philando Castile, to George Floyd, now to the loss of Renee Good and Alex Pretti. What we are witnessing now—children abducted, families terrorized—is not Minnesotan. This is not community. This is not safety. This is not what being American should be. We need to change.

What we are seeing is power dressed up as protection. Cruelty masquerading as order. Adults playing cops and robbers, cowboys and Indians—reenacting myths instead of interrogating them—while real families pay the price. This is propaganda doing exactly what it was designed to do: exhaust us, divide us, and convince us that harm is inevitable.

And if I’m honest--
I long for my grandparents right now.

I long for their hugs, the kind that slowed your breath and reminded you that you were not alone. I long for the way we could sit around that kitchen table—no phones, no headlines—just voices, feelings, and time, maybe with a bowl of soup between us. We would talk things through. We would ask questions. We would disagree with care. We would ask what to do, how to help, who needs us. I want to be held in that quiet certainty that comes from being surrounded by love that asks nothing in return.
That kitchen table taught me what community looks like before I had words for it.

Listening.
Care.
Accountability.
Love.
Being nourished.

I wish—deeply—that people would get over their pride. Their ego. Their need to control others in such cruel and gruesome ways. It is okay to throw those red caps away. It is okay to admit that maybe you didn’t realize how far this would go, that you didn’t imagine so much hatred could live within a federal administration. This is not about political parties. This is about humanity.

The hunger for power at any cost is absurd—and it is coming with a cost. Not just financial, but moral. It is eroding our collective compass. We cannot show up to church on Sundays and then walk back out into the world harming others. That contradiction matters. And if you are attending a service where violence, dehumanization, or cruelty is promoted or excused, my friends, please seek another church. Faith should never be weaponized. It should never require the suffering of others to feel righteous.
​
As Anishinaabe people, I am incredibly thankful that we are taught to live in love—for people, for land, for water, for air. I am thankful those teachings called me back when the noise grew too loud, when the world felt unrecognizable. I am thankful for the Creator, who humbles me daily and reminds me that what may seem small to others is still a gift. Breath is a gift. Care is a gift. Choosing not to harm is a gift.

And so I return—again—to that night near First Avenue. To strangers holding one another in the rain. To voices raised together in grief and love. That wasn’t weakness. That was strength. That was a city remembering who it was.

That memory has not disappeared. There are attempts to bury this love and light beneath fear and noise and propaganda meant to make us forget our capacity for care. But love is stubborn. Memory is stubborn. Light is stubborn.

Maybe the work now is not to invent something new—but to remember ourselves back into being. To love as we once did in the streets, in the rain, without conditions. To learn to love ourselves and one another enough that we are not fooled by cruelty masquerading as righteousness. To choose light. To protect light. To be light.

Because Minneapolis is not disposable.
Its people are not expendable.
And our humanity—once remembered—can still guide us home.

Notes from the margins, written with institutions in mind.

This has been a tough year in 2025 for so many of us.

Not just personally—but across the systems many of us have devoted our lives to. Collectively and as individuals.

Museums, libraries, archives, galleries, nonprofits, and educational institutions have taken hit after hit. Budgets have been cut. Positions frozen. Programs quietly reduced or eliminated. I feel it not only as an artist, but as someone who has spent most of my adult life committed to community, education, and cultural work—often without expecting anything in return.

I share this in hopes that it opens dialogue. That it helps ensure other artists don’t feel alone in these moments. And that it sparks deeper, more honest relationships between artists and the institutions that rely on our labor, insight, and care.

This reflection is written with institutions, corporations, and foundations in mind. It’s also written from a very human place. I’m asking for greater openness about processes, and more care for the people moving through them.

I also want to name something that doesn’t always get said: individual support matters deeply. The likes, the shares, the messages, the conversations, the invitations, the moments when someone shows up to an exhibition or speaks an artist’s name in a room they’re not in—those gestures carry artists more than most people realize.

This morning, the first thing I did was open an anticipated email.
I didn’t hold my breath.
I anticipated the answer in advance.
And still, I let myself hope.

It was another fellowship decision. I read it while sitting amidst boxes--packing up the last 25 years of my life—pausing between emails, work tasks, and conversations, trying to maintain smiles and steady presence while supporting loved ones through their own life transitions.

At the same time, I’m trying to soak up as much time as possible with our youngest child—being present in the quiet moments—knowing that after this spring’s graduation, she will step fully into her adulthood. That awareness sits with me constantly, a reminder of how layered this moment is.

Grant and fellowship applications are labor. Real labor. Especially for independent artists without institutional backing or access to professional grant writers. They ask us to compress years of lived experience, vision, and responsibility into tight word counts—often without room for context, nuance, or disclaimers.

Most of us do this while balancing paid work, caregiving, volunteering, health realities, and the daily act of creating. We are encouraged to be visible yet judged for what we share and what we don’t. Too much honesty can feel risky. Too much joy can be misread. Silence becomes suspect.

In a previous fellowship, I had applied for fellowship in 2022, and it began in 2023.

When it concluded, I hoped for stability—not prestige or recognition, but a sustainable footing for the work I’ve been committed to throughout my adult life: showing up for community. That commitment has not always been reciprocal. Still, I believed that learning more about institutional systems—how museums function, how decisions are made—might allow me to use my voice to make space for others, while perhaps making a small, sustainable space for myself.

At the nearing of concluding that fellowship, I brought my child with me—recognizing how rarely we had been together during such an important transition in her life. She was becoming an adult, and time felt both precious and fleeting.

Although much of that trip was filled with research, site visits, and educational moments, there were brief glimmers where we slowed. We laughed. We noticed how even when we are physically still, we are both so often in constant motion—thinking, planning, carrying responsibility.

Those moments were a gift. A rare experience of respite. Something I didn’t realize how deeply we both needed.

That stability I hoped for after the fellowship did not arrive.

I’m making peace with that now. Slowly. Without anger and with less frustration. My light will not be diminished.

What I didn’t anticipate in 2022—when I applied for the fellowship—was how severely the field would shift by 2025. I don’t have a crystal ball, and while this sector has long struggled to be valued, I don’t think anyone could have foreseen this future. The scale and speed of the changes have been disorienting, even for those of us accustomed to uncertainty.

However, this recent grant rejection was especially disappointing because it was tied to my hope of returning more fully to my art making. After years of learning, service, and holding space for others, I was ready to step back into the studio with intention—to let the work lead again.

Even in the more difficult and disappointing experiences, I’ve learned that I still have the capacity to reflect, to grow, and to carry the lessons forward. I’m thankful for that—not because the experience was easy or fair, but because it sharpened my understanding of what I value, what I’m willing to give, and what I can no longer carry alone.

At the same time, art investment has slowed. Support has become more conditional. Without inherited networks, institutional validation, or financial cushioning, sustaining a creative practice feels precarious—even when the work itself is strong and necessary.

I’ve sat on many sides of the grant process—developing programs, reviewing applications, and applying myself. That perspective has taught me that rejection is rarely about merit, and almost never about effort. Still, the absence of feedback leaves artists carrying uncertainty alone.

This is where institutions can do better.

Transparency does not weaken systems--it builds trust. Clearer communication, more openness about processes, and even limited feedback would go a long way toward honoring the labor involved.

And to individuals, I want to say this plainly: your support is not small. Every interaction matters. Every share. Every time you show up. Those moments remind artists that their work lives beyond portals and panels.

I’ll keep applying.
I’ll keep making.
I’ll keep imagining.

I’m also sitting with a harder realization: that even though I’ve lived on my ancestral lands for most of my life, it may be time to move on. I had hoped not to start over completely--to build forward, not begin again. But sometimes continuity doesn’t look the way we imagined.

If we truly value the arts, we must value the people doing the work—not just in language, but in structure, transparency, and sustained care.

Hope still shows up for me.
Even as the path reshapes itself.

And to those who are still willing to help amplify voices that don’t always carry far—those of us who are often unseen, who are less likely to see our work reflected in public spaces—I want to say thank you. Your willingness to listen, to share, to make room, and to stand alongside artists when it’s complicated matters more than you may realize.

Please keep making accessible space for us. Even when it’s uncomfortable. Even when it challenges familiar systems. Even when the work requires patience and care. That commitment—to inclusion that is lived, not just stated—is how trust is built and how futures cange.

This morning is day two of snow on the ground, the kind that quiets everything except the noise inside my own mind. I’m sitting at my laptop, trying to tackle end-of-year business, and suddenly I feel like a collection’s agent. It feels ugly to go around asking to be paid. My profits have dipped these past few years while I dedicated myself to deep learning and leadership work. Even now, I'm juggling a long delayed project that weighs on me. Not because I'm not working, but because some circumstances are simply beyond my control. It's hard to hold myself accountable while also navigating situations I didn't create.
​
And then I reach out to a friend for professional advice, and it hits me with a kind of sharp clarity:
I deeply loathe this part of the business.

Maybe the discomfort goes deeper than email threads or overdue invoices. Maybe it’s rooted in poverty, in how Native/Indigenous artists have always been viewed. I think of the artists I grew up seeing—walking down the street holding a painting or other creation in their hands, hoping to make a sale. I remember people complaining when they saw artisans coming toward their door. There was never a place for art to simply exist, to have artist’s work professionally on display, to be seen as legitimate. So, they circulated—business to business, crowd to crowd—waiting for someone, anyone, to say yes.

Yet when I look around my own home, at the pieces my family owns, I admire those acquisitions even more now. The beauty of the work, yes—but also the tenacity. The courage it took for those artists to subject themselves to the possibility of a hundred rejections just to survive. Now that I sit with it, I wonder if that’s where my own small strand of tenacity comes from. And maybe that’s why I’m apprehensive too. I carry the history and the memory of what it takes.

And even now—after all these years, all this work, all this sacrifice—I sometimes still feel like I am begging to be accepted. Begging to belong somewhere. Begging to be seen without having to shrink or explain myself. And the truth is: it rarely happens.

A bigger part of me has learned to whisper back, It’s okay. They don’t deserve what comes from the light you bring. That voice is protective, ancestral, steady. But the logical part of me still wonders: why can’t we simply support artists in a way that sustains them? Why must it require clawing at our own spirits? Why does survival have to be synonymous with self-extraction?

And in the quiet of these days, I’m noticing something else rising—something I didn’t invite. As we prepare for a new life in a new state, I can feel the past refusing to let go of me. Old traumas, long buried in decades of dust and survival, insist on resurfacing. People I haven’t spoken to in years are trying to reinsert themselves into my orbit, even if just on the perimeter. It’s unsettling how persistence shows up in the very people who once caused harm.

I don’t want to cut off parts of myself. I don’t want to prune away pieces of my own history or identity. But protecting myself sometimes requires exactly that—a trimming, a boundary that aches. Healing asks us to let go, yet the past seems determined to cling to the hem of my coat as I walk forward. And walking forward is what I must do.

The professional world echoes that same pattern. We are still dealing with the fallout of someone's lack of professionalism—someone who has chosen to twist words and shift blame towards many people, including a person I love. Months later, it should be obvious where the true problems lie with the person still there, still stirring the pot, still projecting. And yet, what hurts most isn’t the content of their accusations—it’s that they dare speak against others at all. As though their words exist in a vacuum. As though their whispers won’t roll downhill and gather force. But they do. They have real consequences. They even have the power to influence how my child is viewed in higher education and beyond. Their smallness becomes dangerous when institutions, neighbors, and community listen.

It is exhausting to build a new life while the old one keeps grabbing at your ankles.

Going back to the world of artistry, I think about a man who walked into the community hall while I was setting up my aunt’s funeral. He came in carrying a willow rocking chair—delicate, curved, lovingly made. I didn’t have room for it, not really. But I bought it because I appreciated his craft, his artistry, his survival. Sometimes that’s the best some of us can do—support each other not because we must, but because we know what it means when no one else does.

And still, despite all of that—despite the empathy, the lineage, the understanding—I cringe every time I must ask about money.

Even now, typing these words, my shoulders tighten. I wish this part didn’t feel like begging. I wish artistry wasn’t tethered to the shame of needing to be paid for what we give, what we pour out from breath and memory. I wish acceptance didn’t feel like a door that only cracks open for some, while others must build their own from scraps.

But maybe naming it is one step toward releasing the weight of it. Or at least toward reminding myself that asking to be paid is not a burden—it’s a right. That acceptance is not a prize—it’s a basic human dignity. And that artists deserve to thrive without sacrificing the very spirit that makes the work possible.

Today, the snow feels like a teacher. It doesn’t ask permission to fall, to soften the earth, to quiet the noise. It simply takes its place and transforms the landscape. Maybe this season is asking the same of me—to settle into my own belonging, even when acceptance is scarce, and trust that the light will return in its own time.

Winter has a way of reminding us that even the darkest months hold a slow, steady promise. Light returns, not because we earn it, but because it is inevitable. Perhaps my work, my voice, my survival are their own kind of solstice—small illuminations that keep breaking through, no matter how many times the world tries to dim them.

So, before I pack another box of my old makeshift studio—the little room that held so many seasons of me—I pick up a paintbrush, the familiar weight grounding me. A canvas white like the snow that now surrounds us. This is how I move foward: one stroke, one bead, one stitch, one color, one breath at a time. Even if the world can't see it yet, I am making my own prints in the snow, shaping my path the only way I know how. 

And as I look outside, the snow covers everything in sight—old footprints, uneven ground, all the places I’ve trudged through. It feels like an invitation. A fresh blanket of possibility. A chance to step forward with softer steps and a clearer heart.
​
Maybe this is my beginning again.

A New Season of Becoming
A new season began not long ago—in so many ways. Whether the season is astronomical, celestial, calendar, or one of life itself, there are big changes on the horizon for me and for my family. These shifts are both personal and professional, and before anything else, they began with something simple yet radical: rest.
​
The Art of Rest
Rest isn’t just something we needed from a busy week—it was something our bodies and spirits needed from a lifetime of navigating both tumultuous and calm waters and air. These forces continually shape us, teaching us to bend without breaking, to float, to fly, to land.
Over the past few years, I had intentionally paused much of my artistic work to pursue educational ambitions and to contribute to something larger than myself—something that reached beyond one community into a whole region. It was a time of growth and challenge, filled with moments of gratitude and lessons learned through my fellowship.
But like so many creative people, I found myself figuring much of it out alone. Not without support or kindness, but through the shared resilience of others who were also learning as they went. There are so many artists and creative changemakers who carry a deep love for their communities—especially for those who have been silenced, ignored, or left out. And there are also those who recognize their privileges and use them to create genuine leverage for others.
I’m still unpacking all the lessons from this chapter, and closing of this novel, but one thing stands out clearly: we must reclaim rest as a necessity, not a luxury.

Healing and Stillness
When I was recovering from surgery last winter, I learned that healing rest is its own kind of journey. It’s not about vacations or sabbaticals—it’s the kind of rest that requires surrender. It’s the body’s quiet work, a wisdom of its own, often overlooked in a culture that values constant productivity. But let's not confuse resting to physically heal is not the same as resting our spirits to be repaired and rejuvenated.
In our household, that constant motion—the desire to help, to contribute, to care—came at a cost. It took time for us to realize that even service and love need balance. Eventually, we made the decision to prioritize our wellness, and that decision opened a door we didn’t realize we were standing in front of for so long.
After twenty-five to thirty years of living in North Dakota, we knew it was time to begin a new journey. The decision wasn’t easy, but once it was made, it brought a sense of direction that felt both grounded and liberating. Somehow, our bodies knew what to do next.
We rested. Not by retreating, but by breathing. By saying no. By saying yes to ourselves. There was a mental and spiritual freedom that followed—a quiet acknowledgment that change, when rooted in care, can be the most profound act of love.
​
Threads of Light
Last night, I stood outside with my youngest, Niska, under a sky alive with color. The bitter cold wrapped around us, but it couldn’t touch the warmth of what we witnessed. The Aurora Borealis stretched wide across the northern horizon—our ancestors dancing above us on threads of light.
There was a comfort in knowing that my eldest, now in their new home, and my spouse, living temporarily hundreds of miles away, were all under this same sky. The distance between us didn’t matter. The miles could never measure the love I hold for them.
And as the corona of the Aurora emerged, Sky Woman revealed herself—descending from the celestial heavens to greet us. She came to remind us of what has always been: the interconnectedness of past and present, the gifts we carry, and the sacred power of forgiveness.
During my fellowship, I found myself tapping back into writing—something that had always been close to my heart, yet often set aside for other responsibilities. Writing has since become a way for me to process, to connect, and to share. So, I offer this piece—written beneath the same celestial sky—to my readers and supporters:
​
 
​
“When Sky Woman Descended”
The sky opened,
as if remembering--
red veils of light
spilled down from the heavens,
a whisper of stories
handed from palm to palm,
fire to ember,
mother to child.
The air was bitter cold,
but the pulsating colors
brought warmth to our spirits,
to the waters,
to the quiet rhythm
of the land listening.
Sky Woman descended,
her gown of flame and breath,
offering the world her love again--
love not of possession,
but of returning,
of forgiving those
who forgot the language
of the heart.
Even in the world’s disarray,
she wrapped us in color and calm,
reminding us that beauty endures,
that forgiveness is a kind of light
the darkness cannot hold.
We stood beneath her glow,
silent as prayers,
while the stars blinked
like ancient witnesses.
The air carried warmth
of unseen worlds--
a promise that life,
for all its ache and unraveling,
is still a song worth hearing.
And so the sky taught us again:
to look up,
to feel small yet infinite,
to love in the brief flicker
between earth and cosmos.
​
 
Air Plants and Belonging
Outside, the air has changed. The chill of winter creeps in, and with it, a sense of stillness that demands reflection. I know I need to start sorting—not just the things in this house, but the weight I’ve been carrying. What to keep. What to release.
People keep asking what I’m going to do next. I wish I knew. I want to keep giving to my community, but that giving has come at a cost—one that’s left me spiritually tired, emotionally tender, and too often unpaid for the labor of love I keep offering. I can’t force belonging anymore. I’ve tried, and it’s only bruised my roots.
In my creative work, I’ve often explored what it means to be rooted—in people, in community, in culture. Yet time and again, I’ve been told or shown that I don’t belong. These comments come unsolicited—sometimes casually, sometimes quietly, simply for being present in a space. While I know those words are often born from others’ insecurities or unhealed trials, that doesn’t make them any less harmful. I do not deserve mistreatment for showing up authentically, especially after dedicating so much of myself to lifting others.
It’s not always overt. More often, it’s subtle—the looks, the pauses, the exclusions that echo louder than words. But through those experiences, I’ve learned something powerful: belonging doesn’t come from others granting permission. It grows from within.
I cannot and will not force myself into spaces that require me to shrink. I am not meant to fold my light to make others comfortable.
Maybe I’m not meant to be rooted in one place after all.
Maybe I’m more like an air plant—alive in the open, thriving when surrounded by the right balance of warmth, sunlight, and care. Air plants don’t need soil; they draw nourishment from what floats around them—humidity, light, breath.
Perhaps my roots have taken a new form. Perhaps I’ve been learning how to grow differently all along.
​T
What Comes Next
So, what does all of this mean for me as an artist? Truthfully, I’m still discovering that. I know it starts with cleaning up my make-shift studio, organizing what’s been paused, and eventually reopening my website and shop. All while packing up nearly three decades of life, love, and memories into boxes by late spring as we prepare for the next chapter.
What I do know is that my work will continue to embody advocacy, travel, discovery, and art—the core elements that have always guided me. Change is never linear, but it is constant. And like any season, it holds its own beauty.

​Miigwech for walking this journey with me. May you, too, find rest, renewal, and your own threads of light beneath the same sky.

​A little over two years ago, just before I stepped into an opportunity of a lifetime, my heart broke into a million pieces, shattered. I lost a beloved relative and mentor—someone who helped shape the very foundation of who I am. Their absence echoed in the quiet moments of celebration that followed, and I carried both grief and hope as I stepped into the next chapter.

What followed was more than a journey—it was an unraveling and a reweaving. I was able to invest in my education, in others, in community, and in experiences I never imagined possible for someone like me. As this opportunity started, it began with familiar faces, and it with not only those familiar souls but new ones who became part of the constellation of my life. Like stars, each person held their own hue, their own frequency—a pulsating glow of energy that shifted the atmosphere around me. Some appeared gently, others in bursts—supernovas of inspiration or quiet orbiting companions. I learned, unlearned, and relearned—sometimes with ease, sometimes through fire. And through it all, I began to see how placement, timing, and the colors we emit shape the universal fabric of our lives. 

As redundant as it may be for those who follow along, going back to school—especially to take graduate level courses—was both a fear and a dream. I didn’t receive the education I deserved over 20 years ago, for many reasons which I don’t care to discuss in this moment. I’ll save that for another time. Stepping into the formal education again came with deep emotional weight. It was terrifying. I didn’t fit the mold of a “typical student,” and I’m sure people wondered why someone my ethnicity, my career, my age was in the class—rather than leading it. Ageism, too, is real, and it’s something I encountered not just in classrooms, but across cohorts, convenings, and community spaces. That with the other labels, ethnicity, gender, sexuality, classism, etc... The world often tries to box us in by labels…by assumptions. But I keep showing up anyway. 

Perfection is something I try to release, but if I’m honest, anything less than an A felt like a failure. I wanted to give up after my first class. Formal academic learning doesn’t come easily to me—especially when my mind is holding on so much, and when life continues to pull in countless directions. I had braced myself for the emotional impact of engaging with topics related to the unethical treatment of Indigenous people, both past and present. I THOUGHT I was prepared. But it was harder than I ever imagined. I was told to lean in, but I leaned in so far, that I was afraid the spiral would never end. 

My previous alma mater had just been in the news for failing to comply with NAGPRA, the numbness I felt was shaped by decades of proximity—I had lived in that community since 1999 and had been exposed to these truths on that campus since the late 80s. Then came along Harvard—a place I had hoped would be different, given the “prestige.” I had enrolled in the Museum Studies certificate program, hoping that I would learn how to help transform or guide institutions for the better. Yet even there, the institution’s own slow and resistant approach was disheartening. It was clear that some students had never spent time with Indigenous people. Some were curious and welcoming, but others—their discomfort was on display. A few professors embraced conversations and held space with empathy. But not all. I recall the solemn nature at the end of a winter class, as we step into an era where national leadership is frightening… and I said, well, “this is where resiliency is a gift.  My ancestors, my family, myself- we have been through this before. We always survive.”

And, this just only one thread of the many distractions I carried besides being in mourning over the past two years, as more people in my life had walked on into the spirit world—threads that most others couldn’t or wouldn’t see. What people didn’t know was that, to make this opportunity work, I had to put my career on hold. That came at a cost. Especially when I continue to struggle with my health. While trying to focus on healing physically literally (from a major surgery) and healing spiritually from past traumas, I was met with new ones—angry phone calls, exclusionary practices, harmful conversations, demeaning words both direct and indirect. 

To be quite honest, the official start of my fellowship was marked not with celebration, but with an anxiety attack—brought on by an unexpected and unprovoked outlash from someone I had once considered a friend, or rather, chosen family. It blindsided me. And in that moment, I decided: part of my growth meant holding boundaries. Something my mentor ALWAYS told me to do. I had outgrown that friendship. I walked away, not out of spite, but out of necessity. Yet as much as I have moved forward, their words keep returning—spoken again and again through the mouths of others, through rumors, through whisper campaigns I never asked to be part of. And that was only one of several similar situations. I recognize that perhaps I can be too welcoming to others, and that's taken advantage of. Yet for someone like me who is often excluded, for whatever reason, I certainly want to do what I can to ensure others do not feel that way. It's not perfect, but I try.

There were mornings I would wake up to messages or demands from people who held no place or power over my life—yet expected me to perform, give, or respond as if they did. It became clear: when I speak of power, I don’t mean titles or roles. I mean the power over ME. And only I hold that. No one else gets to claim it. 

There are moments I feel entirely worn down. Harassment, character attacks, attempts to silence or discredit me—it is all there, beneath the surface. When I confide in the few I trust, I am often met with the familiar: “Be Strong.”

And I have been. I always am. But I continually wonder—why must I always be the strong one? When do I get to fall apart? When do I get to be soft, to be held, to let go without fear? I envy those who can do a spiritual or emotional trust fall, knowing someone else will be there to catch them. That kind of safety feels out of reach.

Still, something within me keeps rising. Despite all of this, I have found immense wonderment in the natural world, in people, in energy. I’ve worked to become a brighter voice, and more confident in what I have to offer. Even when it felt like the world was pressing in, I still sought light. I still try to give. Maybe I'm not this bright captivating light, but a soft amber glow.

That understanding deepened the day I stood in the Taos Gorge, quiet and still, captivated by the breathtaking beauty of the Land of Enchantment. The wind whispered louder than the world’s noise. The rock, the sky, the vastness—all of it reminded me how small the noise really is when you let the land speak. Standing at the edge of that wonder, I felt myself soften. I was reminded not to let the voices of bitterness or harm break into my spirit. The earth’s beauty, that sacred pulse, speaks louder than any insult or assumption.

Each day, I wake with the courage to love. To be present. To be patient. To breathe in gratitude and hold hope gently in my chest. None of this is easy. But it is necessary. And it is enough.

And then, near the end of this chapter, ending in someways where I began, I received an unexpected invitation—a quiet museum showing a documentary about an artist who had deeply influenced my creative path, introduced to me by my mentor, my uncle. I didn’t expect the flood of emotion that followed.

Because there, in the film, was my uncle—his voice, his stories, his laughter—sharing his deep love and reverence for the featured artist. I had seen the documentary before shortly after my uncle’s unexpected departure, but it had been two years. Hearing him speak, seeing him smile on screen, felt like time had folded in on itself. Like he had found a way to meet me, once again, in this space between endings and beginnings.

In that moment, I was reminded that while our physical bodies may leave this world, our energy endures. We leave pieces of ourselves behind in every space we exist. Our stories, our presence, our love—they echo beyond our lifetime. And we each must make a choice: What kind of energy do we want to leave behind?

This chapter has changed me. I am both rejuvenated and tired. Grief is still a companion, but so is grace. And even through the ache, I am grateful.

To those who have walked beside me—thank you. To those who believed in me when I am quiet, hurting, or uncertain—thank you. I carry you with me, just as I carry the voice and laughter of the man who helped me become who I am.
Strength isn’t about never breaking. It’s about continuing to love, to hope, to trust, and to choose—again and again—the kind of legacy we leave in our wake.

Uncle Prez- thanks for always showing up. Even in the afterlife. 
​

A picture is worth a thousand words,
yet silence lingers in the margins.
You see a family and paint them in the colors
your mind deems familiar--
you assign roles,
you carve identities from your own expectations.

But what of the truths you do not see?
What of the histories etched in scars unseen,
the languages spoken in glances,
the struggles hidden in the space between frames?

You assume wholeness where there is fragmentation,
harmony where there is negotiation,
ease where there is exhaustion.
You affix labels with hands that claim to unshackle,
not realizing the weight you add.
To assume is to erase.
​To erase is to harm.

And yet, you speak of justice,
you cry for change,
you demand to be seen in the fullness of your truth--
but do you grant the same vision to others?
Do you listen when silence speaks louder than words?
Do you hold space for complexity,
for contradiction,
for the stories that refuse to fit inside neat little boxes?

Or do you press the edges of the picture tighter,
trim the inconvenient truths,
discard the discomfort,
crop the world until it fits your view?

Revolution does not begin with the loudest voice--
it begins in the quiet moments of self-examination.
It is the dismantling of the frame,
the rejection of the easy answer,
the courage to let truth exist without your permission.

So tell me--
when you ask others to do better, to be better,
do you hold yourself to the same fire?
Do you burn away illusion
or bask in its comfort?
If you seek a revolution,
start with the lens you refuse to break.

- Hillary Kempenich

2024: A Year of Reflection, Transformation, and Purpose

2024 has been a year of profound transformation—marked by growth, resilience, and a reevaluation of purpose. My second year as a 2023 Bush Fellow has been a time of immense learning, not only about my work but about myself. Returning to college to pursue my Museum Studies Certificate at Harvard University has been an eye-opening experience. After 20 years, stepping back into academia has been both exhilarating and intimidating. I’ve confronted antiquated systems, questioned the pervasive influence of settler colonialism in museum spaces, and grappled with the emotional toll of pushing for systemic change.
The work itself is necessary, even urgent, but it’s hard on the spirit. At times, I’ve felt like I was carrying this weight alone, unsure of how much of my burden I could or should share with others. A lingering trauma response, no doubt—I often hesitate to trust or to ask for help. Yet, this year has also gifted me with opportunities to expand my network, leading to powerful and affirming conversations. These connections have reminded me that I am not alone and have renewed my faith in the impact of this work.
Balancing the demands of traveling, studying, volunteering, and family life has been challenging. While I feel blessed to be able to contribute to my community and grow professionally, the sacrifices have been real. I’ve missed moments with my children, felt stretched thin in my role as a spouse, and struggled to carve out time for my studio and creative practice. Still, despite these challenges, I completed four major projects this year—each one deeply personal and meaningful.

"Ganawenindizo" Exhibit at the Phipps Center for the Arts, Hudson, Wisconsin
Click here to read about the exhibit
ganawenindizo-she-takes-care-of-herself.html

"OJIIBIWAKAN"
This painting, soon to be displayed at Lucile Packard's Stanford Medicine Children’s Health facilities in the new Cancer Infusion Center, located in Palo Alto, California, represents the resilience and vibrancy of my cultural identity. To see this work find a home in a space dedicated to healing is profoundly humbling. It’s a reminder of art’s potential to comfort and inspire, even across great distances.


​
"Echoes of Turtle Mountain" Mural (Phase II)
This project, completed at Turtle Mountain Head Start, is a love letter to my community and a visual tribute to our enduring traditions. The mural celebrates our interconnectedness with the land, sky, and generations past and future. For me, this piece is especially poignant because it resides in a space tied to my own formative years. To leave this legacy in the heart of Turtle Mountain fills me with pride and gratitude.

"Radiant Harmony: The Spirit's Medicine"
Created for Altru Health System’s Radiation department, this work weaves together threads of my culture, my health journey, and my family’s professional and personal passions. Inspired by my husband’s role as a Radiation Oncological Medical Physicist and my daughter’s interest in radiology, the piece reflects the healing energy of nature and the interconnectedness of science and spirit.

​

Through these projects, I’ve been able to share pieces of my heart with the public, but the process hasn’t been without its trials. There were moments of heartbreak—times when the weight of expectations, rumors, assumptions, gossip, setbacks, or unhealed wounds felt overwhelming. I feel as I am grieving for the loss of hope and optimism. At the same time, there were moments of profound inspiration—when the power of art to heal and connect felt undeniable.

As I reflect on these experiences, I find myself asking deep and difficult questions about my future. How do I continue to share my work with the community in a way that feels sustainable, both emotionally and logistically? How do I create space for my creative practice without losing sight of my other roles as a parent, partner, and advocate?

Sometimes, the answers seem out of reach, leaving me wondering if my work belongs out in the world or if it should be confined to the quiet solace of my studio. The thought of retreating, of tucking my creations into storage, is both tempting and heartbreaking. Yet, I know the impact my art has had—not just on myself, but on those who’ve encountered it.

Rest and the Radical Act of Pausing

This year, I’ve also come to see how radical it feels to rest. I keep telling myself that I need to make time to pause, but in a world that prizes constant motion, it feels almost impossible. Recently, I experienced a rare evening with no obligations after 5 p.m. The freedom overwhelmed me to the point of near tears, which brought laughter to others because I simply shared that relief. Such a simple moment felt extraordinary, and it reminded me of how deeply ingrained this culture of busyness has become. And though people have their assumptions, I know that I need to make it a point to rest and not because my health or body is forcing me to, but like others, I deserve it as well.

It’s been a while since I painted simply for myself, free from expectations. Even when I tell myself to take a step back, the push to “do more” lingers. I think of the disappointments, like my solo show at the Phipps Center for the Arts, where hopes of advancing professionally were met with expenses, no sales, and no future shows. Or the empty reception at the ND Human Rights Art Exhibit. These moments sting as they also push me to reassess and recalibrate. I will note, it was a wonderful experience to have a three gallery space not only to share my paintings, but installation art and poetry, inviting viewers to interact. How rare it is to possess a space where I can express myself fully. 

Carrying Forward

Through all of this, I’ve seen the gifts of travel, the richness of connecting with people, and the insights gained from the spaces I’ve inhabited. These experiences have deepened my resolve to elevate others and help society see the relevancy of our work.

I’ve also observed the collective exhaustion we’re all feeling. From conversations in Southern California to encounters with conference attendees, the weariness is evident. We carry burdens others often fail to see or empathize with, forgetting that we all deserve happiness—and the right to rest.

These experiences also reminded me that boundaries are essential, even if they’re difficult to maintain. I’ve learned that while it’s important to give, it’s equally important to reserve some of my energy for myself and those I hold closest. I’m still figuring out how to balance these competing demands, but I remain hopeful that the journey ahead will bring clarity. It is a continual challenge to move forward in the spirit of altruism when I am not taking care of my own family through financial sustainibility. Yet, I will keep moving forward, just not at the pace others demand.

For now, I am grateful for the opportunities I’ve had to create, to connect, and to grow. I am forever thankful for the people who have supported and respected me authentically—those who quietly cheer from their spaces, offering encouragement in ways that are often unseen but deeply felt. Their belief in me has been a guiding light through this complex journey.

2024 has been a year of challenges, but it has also been a year of beauty and resilience. As I look toward the future, I am reminded of the strength of my community, the power of art, and the infinite possibilities that lie ahead. Whatever comes next, I’ll continue to walk this path with purpose and an open heart. 

I truly wish you all the very best in your paths. 

Light and love to all,

Hillary

Ganawenindizo Exhibit  at the Phipps Center for the Arts, Hudson, Wisconsin
May 10-June 23, 2024