For a long time, I thought reconnecting meant finding an answer. Something that would lead you to a moment when you finally knew who you were, where you came from and where you belonged.
What I’ve learned through the process of writing this story and hearing the stories of others is that it isn’t about finding one thing that makes everything fall into place. It’s about experiencing many moments until who you are slowly starts to make sense.
In high school, I remember hearing about residential schools, briefly. It felt like it was always a lesson or a class that my teachers had to get through, and didn’t know nearly enough about. They were superficial lessons, stripped of the pain that lived behind the words “residential school” and “colonialism.” When I was in eleventh grade, 21 unmarked graves were found in Kamloops, B.C., a two-hour drive from my hometown, Kelowna.
When the news broke, something in me shifted. I never knew something so horrific was so close and in a familiar place. My family began talking about our own history and stories that had never been shared. I was too young and too immature back then, but as I pursued journalism, and learned more about reconciliation, I started to understand that reconnection and reconciliation begins with listening—to family, to history and to silence.
I’ve learned that reconnecting looks different for everyone. Some people grow up around their culture, knowing exactly where they come from, while others spend years trying to trace their lineage, filling in the missing parts of their story. For many, the process is buried under the pure weight of destroyed history. The generations of trauma, silence, disconnection and survival. Barriers are not just personal but systematic, rooted in policies and laws that were implemented to separate Indigenous peoples from their spirituality, culture, land, language and everything that makes them who they are.
When I began working on this story, I wanted to understand exactly what reconnecting really looked like today. What does it mean to reclaim your identity in a world that continues to try and erase it?
That’s when I asked Gabrielle McMann, a mixed Ojibwe Toronto Metropolitan University (TMU) graduate from the Mississaugas of the Credit First Nation and an accomplished journalist, about her journey. She has advocated and reported on Indigenous issues since high school and has spent years finding her way back to her culture. She told me her journey started even before she realized, in moments of her own curiosity.
“I always wanted to know what being Native meant because I always felt spiritual even as a child. And I didn’t know that part of that spirituality was linked to the spirit of my ancestors, and the spirit of their knowledge that lives on within me. We call it blood memory,” she said.
McMann’s journey isn’t about a single destination; it’s one of progress. When she and I spoke, she expressed that there is still a long way to go, wanting to learn more about her ancestors, their journey and contributions—understanding them deeper than just their names.
“I think it’s my job to move forward and try to reclaim these ancestral stories so we can give them to our future generations. That’s a part of what shapes my identity,” she said.
Her journey hasn’t been linear. A lot of her family history was lost due to the unfortunate passings of her great grandparents at a very early age, with children too young to understand conversations of oppression and colonialism that had affected their family. Through her mother, grandmother, and Indigenous communities inside and outside of TMU welcoming her with open arms, McMann started to find her way back to her culture and traditions with shared stories, knowledge and kindness.
“I think a lot of people are in the same place,” she said. “We’re not only reconnecting for ourselves, but for the future generations to come.”
McMann’s words remind me that reconnection is about the intention of learning. It’s about showing up to the table wanting to learn and advocate for recognition.
For Ashley Bartley, who’s also mixed Ojibwe, reconnection started with loss, and began with returning home. At 20, she visited her family’s reserve, Serpent River First Nation, for the first time since she was a baby when she received her Indigenous name from an Elder.
“I was meeting family members, my blood, but I felt super disconnected, because I was 20 years old and it was my first time meeting them. I felt like I had missed out on a lot of knowledge and family time with them.”
While she sat with her family, looking at old photos of her grandparents and her father, hearing stories about where he grew up and of his childhood fishing, swimming and where he used to play, it helped her feel closer to her heritage. That same summer, she attended a powwow and watched her cousins—who had grown up immersed in their tradition—dance in ribbon skirts. They shared their knowledge and told her stories while teaching her how to make dreamcatchers and drums.
“My journey reconnecting with my identity isn’t done. I think it’s just starting now which has a bunch of mixed emotions as I still am disconnected, but I definitely feel more connected than what I once was. It’s kind of up and down.”
Bartley’s path also hasn’t been easy. She hadn’t learned that her great aunts, and Nookmis, meaning grandmother, had attended residential schools until after her father’s passing when she was 15. It was a history that was never talked about — a family history shaped by intergenerational trauma and colonial policies that only left small pieces to put back together.
“One thing I do remember my dad telling me is that he is labeled as adopted on his birth certificate because my grandparents lost their last name when they went to residential schools. He said that when my grandparents went to the residential schools they were asked to say their last name, but the people there didn’t understand them, so they just put their last name down as McCloud. Like ‘oh, here’s your new last name.’”
The first church-run residential school opened in 1831, with the last one closing down in 1997, though, the last federally-funded residential school closed in 1996. For a period of over 150 years, 150,000 children were taken from their families. And for Bartley, the story of her Nookmis serves as a reminder of the colonial abuse inflicted to erase Indigenous people’s identity. Residential schools didn’t just steal children away from their families, but wiped away names, language and culture.
Bartley describes her reconnection as an emotional journey, in finding a sense of belonging, reclaiming the stories almost lost and leaning on community.
“Talk to your Elders. Surround yourself with your community. Reconnect with your spirit guides—I feel my dad everywhere I go. Take it day by day.”
For both McMann and Bartley, family has been their compass. By immersing themselves in their communities, listening to stories passed down and having support while navigating a past full of oppression, their stories tell me that it’s not about feeling Indigenous enough but knowing that you always were.
I learned that reconnecting is about listening, showing up for others and remembering the generations who came before, while creating a space for the ones who will come after.
**A version of this story was originally published in the Eyeopener.
