Culture is Healing
- Kim Trottier
- May 6
- 3 min read
Over the past month, I’ve found myself thinking a lot about loss. About how grief settles into a family, and how silence sometimes becomes a form of protection.
We’ve been holding circles with our mentors and community in the lead-up to yesterdays National Day of Awareness for Missing and Murdered Indigenous Women, Girls, and Two-Spirit People. And in one of those circles, George shared about his Aunt Dorothy — a woman who was stolen from their family far too soon. The ache in his voice was quiet, but it carried. The kind of ache that tells you this isn’t just one story. It’s part of a thread, a lineage of pain that stretches backward, and yet somehow still moves forward too.
George’s dad went to residential school on Kuper Island. His mom attended day school. They didn’t speak much about what they went through — not because they didn’t carry it, but because they were trying to protect their children from carrying it too. That kind of love — one that tries to shield you even from truth — is so complicated. And so human.
A few weeks ago, George launched his podcast, Culture is Healing. At first, I just thought the name was beautiful. But the more I sat with it, the more I realized: it isn’t just a phrase. It’s a declaration. It’s also a map.
“I saw a TikTok that really stuck with me. It said: ‘For you to be here, you had to have 2 parents, 4 grandparents, 8 great-grandparents... and by the time you go back 10 generations, it took 4,096 ancestors for you to be here today. That’s 4,096 people who struggled, survived, loved, fought, won, lost, cried, and cheered.’
Even if the math’s a little off, it got me thinking about what our ancestors carried — and what they passed down. Indigenous Peoples have survived so much. Genocide. Displacement. Assimilation. And still, here we are. Existing in a world that wasn’t built for us. Pushing forward, even when it’s heavy. That’s not just resilience. That’s legacy.”
“People say ‘what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.’ But sometimes what doesn’t kill you still changes everything. And we don’t talk enough about the ones who didn’t make it. The ones who didn’t survive. There are so many. My Aunt Dorothy. My family members who went to residential school and never spoke of it. All those names that aren’t in the history books, but who still shaped everything.”
“Colonial systems tried to erase us — and when that didn’t work, they tried to silence us. But we’re still here. And we’re speaking. We’re sharing our stories, even when it’s uncomfortable for others to hear. And that’s part of the healing. Because if we don’t speak about the trauma, we end up carrying it alone. Or worse — passing it on.”
“Our ancestors dreamed of a future where we could just live. Where we wouldn’t have to justify our existence. Where we could practice our culture, love who we love, raise our kids in peace. And every time we reclaim a part of who we are — a ceremony, a language, a teaching — we’re making their dream real.”
~ Wholwolet’za George Harris Jr.
George’s words always land differently. Not just because of what he says, but because of how he says it. There’s something in his voice that carries the ancestors with it. It’s steady. Rooted. Telling you, this matters — even if you don’t fully understand why yet.
His family has lived through some of the worst there is. And yet, when I sit beside George, what I feel most isn’t pain — it’s strength. A quiet strength. A strength that doesn’t need to shout to be heard.
“Culture is healing” isn’t just a title, it’s a truth. And it’s one that colonial systems worked really hard to destroy. Ceremony was made illegal. Language was forbidden. Children were removed from families and villages. Women — the life-givers, the knowledge-keepers — were especially targeted. The violence was not random. It was strategic. It was relentless.
But culture survives. Through beading. Through drumming. Through storytelling. Through podcasts like George’s. Through every single act of remembering.
And through people like George, who carry their family’s story — not just the hurt, but the hope too.
We don’t move forward by pretending none of this happened. We move forward by holding it gently. By listening. By being willing to sit in the discomfort. And then choosing, over and over again, to walk together anyway.
🧡 Kim
Further learning about Kuper Island Residential School:
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