Power, Presence, and the Light We Choose to Leave Behind.

​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. 
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