Breathing between the Lines...

As 2025 began, I found myself not in the studio, but on the sofa—recovering from a surgery that I had likely needed for some time. Pain, long exacerbated by the lingering effects of COVID, finally led me to a place where I could no longer push through. It was not the way I had imagined entering the new year. My body, mind, and spirit were too fatigued to create, to write, to do much of anything besides rest.
And yet, rest became a revelation.
The world didn’t pause while I healed. The many headlines didn’t soften. I found myself doomscrolling more than I wanted to admit, trying to absorb everything while simultaneously feeling everything. There is a particular kind of spiritual exhaustion that creeps in when you're forced into stillness while chaos swells around you.
But in that stillness came a quiet call: to reflect. The world around me. The world I am part of. To examine who I am now. Who I’ve been. Who I still want to become.

The Ongoing Quest of Self-Healing & Intersectionality

Healing isn’t just physical. It’s also the quiet reckoning with all the parts of ourselves that have been waiting for us to finally pay attention. It’s unlearning the need to always be strong. It’s acknowledging that even in our most generous moments, we are still allowed to center our own well-being.
I’ve been on a continuous journey of self-examination—through the lens of my culture, my gender, my sexuality, my health, and my experiences as an Indigenous person. These identities do not live in separate boxes. They overlap, clash, lift, and complicate one another. And within that intersection, there is often both power and pain.
I share pieces of myself—through my art, my words, my work—but it’s important to remember that just because someone reads my thoughts, has brief interactions, does not mean they know me. I am still discovering myself, still learning how to be soft and sovereign in a world that often demands too much from those of us already carrying so much.
Too often, people decide who we are before we’ve had the chance to show them. They project, assume, or react to a version of us that fits their comfort. And yet we continue forward. Not because it’s easy—but because we must.

Concerns of the World & the Fragility of Systems

So many of us across this nation are holding our breath in uncertainty—the kind that doesn’t require a pink slip to feel real. We already know what’s coming.
There’s a particular grief that sets in when sustainability—whether great or small—is suddenly thrown into limbo. It’s not just about employment or funding. It’s about the people who depended on that work. The community it served. The creativity it supported. The gratitude it once inspired.
And now? Decisions are made in boardrooms by those far removed from the impact. Justified with language like “efficiency” and “strategic shifts,” while the human toll is quietly brushed aside.
Artists, educators, caregivers—we are often the first cut, though our work is among the most vital. What’s worse is being told to be silent, to not stir the waters, as if our very survival should come at the cost of our voice.
Silence doesn’t protect us. It only makes erasure easier.

MMIW/MMIP: When Lives Are Treated as Afterthoughts

Weeks ago, Indian Country lost yet another young girl to the epidemic of Missing and Murdered Indigenous Women and Relatives (MMIW/MMIP). Her life stolen. Her story buried. Her name barely spoken. And there are so many more individuals in that moment also impacted by this epidemic. 
Where is the outrage? Where is the media coverage? Where is society’s concern?
The violence we face doesn’t begin with physical harm. It begins with invisibility. The disrespect. The dehumanization. Not just by outsiders, but even within our own communities. With the assumption that our lives are expendable. With systems that offer no protection. Prevention cannot be an afterthought. It must be the priority.
We cannot continue treating this epidemic as inevitable. We must recognize it for what it is—a consequence of deep, systemic neglect and dehumanization.

Helping Where We Can, Creating Where We Must

I don’t have all the answers, but I do believe we begin by showing up for one another—in small ways, in hard ways, in consistent ways.
We offer care without condition. We ask hard questions even when the answers might cost us comfort. We use our voices. We share our truths. This does not mean we cannot have and hold boundaries. That equally is necessary.
For me, that truth often lives in my studio. In every layer of paint, in each brushstroke, I return to myself. The act of creating becomes a lifeline, a quiet resistance. One of my latest works features a woman and a crow intertwined, surrounded by blooming flowers. It is a story of protection, of wisdom, of transformation. A reminder that even in the darkest moments, beauty is still possible.
Creativity, in all its forms, is healing. Whether it’s painting, writing, dancing, singing, designing, sewing, building, cooking, or storytelling—creative expression reminds us that we are alive, that we matter, that we can shape something meaningful out of the intangible.

The Gift of Travel, Fellowship, and Time With My Daughter

As I regained my physical strength, I was able to resume part of my fellowship journey—an experience that has been challenging, enlightening, and full of growth. One of the most cherished moments was traveling to Maui with my daughter.
Though my body was still weary, the chance to be surrounded by nature and community brought a renewal I hadn’t felt in some time. We packed rest, learning, exploration, and even work into four short days. It wasn’t a full vacation by any stretch—but it was a deeply meaningful reprieve. And I am so thankful for it.
It was an incredible gift to share that time with my daughter—now a young adult, beginning to bloom into her own unique path. She will soon step into the world on her own terms, and I hold these memories close. 
One moment especially stands still in my memory: During our hikes through the rainforest, when my body could no longer continue, she didn’t forget me. She turned around, pausing to look for me through the trees. She made sure I was still there, watching over her. I stood alone at the shoreline, watching the force of the waves crash against the black rock. She took a photo of me—embracing the solitude, watching nature’s power unfold, breathing in the warm salty air. I didn’t know she had captured it, but now that I do, I treasure it. That image holds quiet strength, deep reflection, and the kind of rest I had long been yearning for.
Another moment—one that brought tears to my eyes—was standing knee-deep in the Pacific, watching my daughter snorkel effortlessly with the fish, moving as if she belonged there. I wanted to join her, but my body couldn’t allow it. As if the ocean knew my longing, a sea turtle appeared and gently circled around me, grazing my leg. It was a gift. A moment just for me. I wept—not from pain, but from reprieve, from beauty, from deep and overwhelming gratitude.
To learn from another culture, to try—clumsily but respectfully—to speak the language, to listen and learn from those we met; to be a mindful guest on sacred land... it reminded me that gratitude isn’t something we say, it’s something we live. When we would speak the language, smiles would sometimes appear showing appreciation. To be recognized. To be appreciated. To be respected. And in one particularly surprising and humbling moment, deep into the rainforest of Hana, we discovered that our local guide was connected to one of the many influential figures in our own home state—someone with whom I have my own relationship. It was a powerful reminder of just how small our world truly is, and how our lives are more intertwined than we often realize.
Looking up at the stars each night, I was reminded: we are small, but we are part of something vast. And we are not alone.

The Weight of Expectations and the Power of the Rose

It is Women’s History Month—a time meant to celebrate and uplift. And yet, even in this time, we see silencing, dismissal, and harm.
Women are judged too quickly, supported too conditionally, and discarded too easily. Especially those of us who carry intersecting identities. Too loud. Too soft. Too different. Too something.
And even within sisterhood, kinship can be strained. Sometimes we critique the brightness of another’s bloom, not realizing that her thorns are not meant to harm--they are shields, shaped by survival.
We are told to rest, then shamed for pausing. We are told to care for ourselves, then labeled as selfish for doing so. But rest is not weakness. It is necessary. It is sacred. It is revolutionary.
We cannot let bitterness take root. We must lean into the teachings of our ancestors--the armor of our lineage. Just like the rose, we can be beautiful and fierce. We can bloom, with roots that run deep, petals that open, and thorns that protect. And, when we are done blooming, we leave behind nourishment through a rosehip. 
Even when the world doubts our strength, we must remain radiant.

A Closing Truth

I am still searching for my place in this world.
Too often, I receive direct and indirect words or actions that I am unwelcome. That my presence, my voice, my identity—are inconvenient. Too much. Out of place. Unwanted. Complicated. Forgotten. Or simply the recipient of other's projections, assumptions. To which I am learning to let go of. 
There are sacred spaces that embrace all of me: my home. My studio. The outdoors. These are the places where I can breathe fully, where I am not a problem to be solved, but a person to be held.
There is no more space for unsolicited quarrels or projections—I will no longer a recipient of misplaced burdens. We have one life, and I intend to make the most of it.
When my body allows, I want to embrace every breath, every moment of joy, and every opportunity to move forward with purpose. A smile doesn’t mean I am without struggle, but it does mean I have found light, even in difficult times. Nor should I feel shame for finding glimmers.
I am still working out how to be self-sustainable—how to thrive while honoring my values. I am still learning how to ask for what I need, how to protect my joy, how to allow myself peace.
But I am here. I am breathing. I am moving forward. I am finding gratitude in each next breath. And I will keep unfolding—like the rose, like the tide, like the stars above that remind me:
Even when I feel small, I am part of something greater.
And that, too, is a reason to keep going.