But if it is education that created this mess, it will be education that gets us out of it. We know making things better will not happen overnight, it will take generations, that’s how the damage was created, and that’s how the damage will be fixed.

Growing up in Northeastern Ontario, I often travelled Highway 17 and passed the railway bridge near Garden River First Nation bearing the words:   "THIS IS INDIAN LAND."

As a child, I remember seeing the bridge and wondering about its story. I did not understand its significance at the time. It was simply something that had always been there.

Years later, I learned that the words were painted in 1973 by six young men from Garden River First Nation during a period of Indigenous resurgence and political awakening taking place across Turtle Island. What I once viewed as graffiti came to represent something much deeper: a declaration of presence, identity, sovereignty, and relationship to the land.

Today, I understand that bridge differently.

What once seemed like a statement has become a reminder that the lands and waters that shaped my own life are Indigenous homelands with histories, cultures, and relationships that long predate my presence here. More than fifty years later, the message remains as relevant as ever.

I currently live and work on the traditional territory of the Anishinabek Peoples, including Nipissing and Dokis First Nations, whose rights are recognized through the Robinson-Huron Treaty of 1850.  My relationship to this land extends beyond where I live today. 

I was raised in Sudbury on the traditional territories of Atikameksheng Anishnawbek and Wahnapitae First Nation. I have lived in Ottawa on the unceded territory of the Algonquin Anishinaabe Nation, spent time in Canmore within Treaty 7 territory, and lived in Squamish on the traditional territory of the Skwxwú7mesh (Squamish) Nation.

Some of my most cherished memories were made at my grandparents' cottage on the French River near Alban, within the traditional territories of the Anishinaabe peoples, including Dokis First Nation and Henvey Inlet First Nation. I also spent many summers at our family cottage in Chelsea, Quebec, on the traditional territory of the Algonquin Anishinaabe Peoples.

These are places where I learned to paddle, swim, fish, explore, celebrate milestones, gather with family, grieve losses, and develop a deep sense of connection and belonging.

For too many years, I moved through these places without understanding the truths that lay beneath them—the histories of dispossession, displacement, resilience, and resistance that continue to shape Indigenous communities and the country we share today.

As a descendant of settlers whose ancestors arrived in New France in the 1600s, I recognize that my family, like many others, has benefitted from systems that displaced Indigenous Peoples, disrupted communities, and caused profound and lasting harm.

Two years ago, while reading Who We Are by The Honourable Murray Sinclair, I found myself returning again and again to what he described as the four great questions of life:

Who am I? Where do I come from? Why am I here? Where am I going?

As someone who has spent much of my professional life helping others explore their stories, identities, and relationships, I felt compelled to ask those same questions of myself. What began as curiosity gradually became a deeper exploration of my own family history and the stories that shaped my understanding of who I am.

Through that process, I learned that my great-uncle—someone I knew personally and cared for deeply—served as principal of a residential school in Northern Quebec for more than thirty years.

This discovery did not change my love for him, but it did change my understanding of the history that shaped both our lives.

It also confronted me with a difficult reality: the person I knew did not easily align with the role I now understood he had occupied. Reconciling those two truths has not been simple. It challenged my tendency to view people and history in black-and-white terms and reminded me that human beings are often far more complex than the stories we tell about them.

That complexity does not diminish the harms of the residential school system, nor does it lessen the responsibility to acknowledge those harms. Rather, it has deepened my understanding of how history is carried through families, relationships, institutions, and communities.

It reminded me that reconciliation is not only about understanding the past in broad societal terms. It also asks us to examine our own histories, to acknowledge the ways we are connected to that past, and to consider the responsibilities that come with that understanding.

Naming this history is not about blame. For me, it is about responsibility. It is a reminder that reconciliation requires humility, reflection, accountability, and a willingness to continue learning.

Over the years, my understanding of reconciliation has been shaped through Indigenous-led education, conversations, professional learning, personal reflection, and a growing willingness to examine both the history of this country and my own place within it.

I continue to learn about Indigenous approaches to wellness, healing, and ways of knowing, including the concept of Two-Eyed Seeing—an approach that seeks to bring together the strengths of Indigenous and Western perspectives in service of understanding, wellbeing, and healing.

I do not consider myself an expert in reconciliation. I consider myself a learner.

My commitment is to remain curious, humble, and accountable; to listen more than I speak; to build meaningful relationships; and to continue reflecting on how I show up in relationship with the people, communities, and lands that have shaped my life.

Reconciliation, for me, is not a destination or a checkbox to be completed. It is an ongoing practice of learning, listening, reflecting, and taking responsibility. It is a lifelong journey—one that continues to shape both who I am and how I move through the world.