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I was asked recently about Christmas traditions. It started a war within me. I searched my soul and came up empty. I thought of my childhood. Big dinners, opening presents, being able to come and go as I pleased.

There was always something missing, A grief I couldn’t explain. My parents would often ask what I wanted, and I couldn’t say. Joy was unattainable at times.

I was profoundly sad. I was ten when I started drinking. I’ve been sober now since 1988. But still, in the intervening period, I’ve been going through an existential crisis. I don’t think I ever processed the events of the last few years. There were personal things: the constant pain of a dislocated shoulder, a missed counselling appointment, a conference where I learned some wicked truths about the indigenous experience.

But the bombshell dropped on May 22, 2021—the day we learned about the residential school graves - and it continues to reverberate with each mass grave site of those beautiful lost babies. With each war cry for our missing women, the boom is getting louder. My tears are falling and I’m releasing the poisons I’ve been ingesting in hopes of not making waves.

All this trauma must go somewhere. It shows up in families that don’t speak to one another, addictions that seem incurable, workplace bullying, and my absolute favourite, humour.

In 2008 I was visiting The Mall of America in Minnesota with a team of social workers after being in a seminar for child welfare. Our table was full of very loud laughter and teasing. At one point another table with non-natives eye-balled us, and one of the patrons said loudly, “I’m happy to be American.” It was meant to be insulting but we took it in stride.

The other day I was mulling over all the stressors that have plagued me and a song popped into my head: “I Believe in You” by Don Williams. I started to cry. Some of the lyrics hit hard. “Well, I don’t believe that heaven waits/for only those who congregate/ I like to think of God as love/ He’s down below and up above.” As I listened, the frost on my faith began to thaw.

“I believe in love, I believe in music, I believe in magic, I believe in you”

Watching Kihlyaadaa Christian White’s pole go up this past summer I saw many tears from everyone around. I saw that magic lives in our hearts, where the ancestors live. I started to see my strengths, despite the survivor guilt. I wanted to hold that child I was and tell her, I believe in you, and it wasn’t her fault she was abused, and she deserves the world.

As I watched all the dancers at Tlaajang nang kingaas Ben Davidson’s memorial, I looked around and felt the presence of him and many others who’ve moved to the spirit world. Music is such a huge part of the Haida culture, so very healing and meaningful in so many ways.

“I believe in old folks, I believe in children, I believe in mom and dad”

At each dinner or feast I notice generations of the same families serving, dancing their songs, while learning their way of doing things, and the process of Haida Law. It’s as fluid as the blood that runs through our veins.

It’s a most profound experience to observe.

“I believe in babies”

Don’t hesitate to hold your babies and tell them about where they come from. Take care of those lost in the many colonial systems and silos. Never let a day go by without saying I love you and you matter.

Look in the mirror and see the champion those children needed. Always remember the thousands of babies who didn’t have a chance. Meditate and let the spirits hear you yell, “I AM STILL HERE; YOU DID NOT WIN.”

And this holiday season, enjoy no matter how you celebrate. There is no wrong way.