What We Choose to See

Trigger Warning: This post discusses Missing and Murdered Indigenous Women, Girls, and Two-Spirit people (MMIWG2S), including descriptions of violence, loss, and systemic inaction. Please take care while reading.

One of the things that has become abundantly clear through my own personal cultural humility journey is the importance of reflection. Becoming more aware of the things I see, looking for patterns, taking note of the parts that are absent — and recognizing them for what they are.

This process came full circle when a friend asked if I’d watched the Gabby Petito documentary on Netflix. The question prompted me to think back. Way back.

Growing up in southeast Manitoba, I now realize I lived a very idealistic, safe life. Surrounded by friends and loved ones, I never had reason to worry about my safety. I never knew anyone who had anything bad happen to them. That was — until 2002.

Though I’d moved away in 1998, my ties to home remained strong. I still remember the shock of hearing that Erin Chorney, a young woman from Brandon who was just four years younger than me, had gone missing. Blonde and full of life, Erin vanished without a trace. It wasn’t until 2004 that her boyfriend, Michael Bridges, confessed. Through an undercover sting operation called Mr. Big, police eventually learned he had murdered Erin and buried her beneath the surface of a fresh grave in the Brandon Cemetery.

It rocked my world. It felt like something out of a movie. I felt comforted by knowing her case had been properly investigated, that justice was served.

That was all I knew about this kind of loss — until I started working in First Nations communities in 2014.

It was then that I met Cary-Lee Calder. A Gusgimukw woman from Quatsino and Oji-Cree with roots to Wuikinuxv, Tlatlasikwala and Weiwaikus Nations, Cary-Lee carried a quiet attentiveness and a deliberate way of choosing words. I was drawn to her presence. We connected on Facebook, and not long after, I began to see posts she shared about her niece — Angeline Pete.

Angeline was born to Molly Dixon and Herman Pete in Vancouver BC on December 5, 1982. In alignment with cultural traditions, as the first child, she was raised by her grandparents — Eileen Nelson and Gerald Calder — from the age of four in Quatsino First Nation. She learned how to gather cedar from her grandmother, how to prepare Indigenous foods, and grew up surrounded by her family and loved ones in Quatsino. In August 2011, at the age of 28, Angeline was living with her fiancé in North Vancouver when the mother-of-two disappeared.

“There are no resources to support families when a family member just disappears like Angeline did. Where do you look? How do you look? How do you go on?

Sometimes I think I could go crazy looking everywhere for her. I struggle at times to breathe because my niece isn’t here.

I wish that I could just wrap my arms around Angeline and bring her back, have her come home and let her know how sacred she is, how intelligent, powerful and amazing she is.

It is my responsibility as her auntie to take care of her. I was raised that way — so there’s this guilt. All of us feel it. Everyone in my family feels guilt and overwhelming sadness. My whole community has been impacted.

If only… if only… but it isn’t our fault. And it isn’t Angeline’s fault. My niece, just like all Indigenous women and girls, have a right to live and thrive without fear, without danger.

We shouldn’t have to worry about the safety of our daughters every minute of every day — but we do.”

— CaryLee Calder, Gusgimukw from Quatsino and Oji-Cree with roots to the Wuikinuxv, Tlatlasikwala, Weiwaikum Nations.

Despite her family's decades-long efforts, Angeline’s disappearance remains unsolved.

In 2015, only three months after I began providing services to the Nation of Penelakut, 19-year-old Delores “DeeDee” Brown went missing. Her body was found three weeks later, washed up on the shores of Norway Island. Her death was classified as a homicide. Nearly ten years later, it remains unsolved.

Then, there is our dear friend, George Harris Jr. from Stz’uminus First Nation. His late aunt Dorothy was murdered in December 1993, and was laid to rest on the 20th. George recalls that the adults in the family were doing their best to ensure her four children were taken care of at Christmas time in spite of the overwhelming grief they were all carrying. No person was ever held accountable for Dorothy’s death.

These stories tragically are not rare. They’re threads in a larger tapestry of systemic neglect. And over the past years, those threads have been pulled even tighter.

In the summer of 2021, the disappearance of Gabby Petito began making international headlines. Gabby was a 22-year-old white woman from New York, travelling the western United States with her fiancé in a converted van. They were documenting their journey on social media, and when she stopped communicating with her family, the internet exploded.

Within days, TikTok users were analysing her last posts. The FBI was involved. Her partner returned home without her. Police released bodycam footage of an earlier roadside interaction that showed Gabby distressed and crying. The timeline of her final days was pieced together in real time by total strangers.

Her body was found eight days after she was reported missing. A notebook later confirmed that her fiancé, Brian Laundrie, had confessed to her murder before dying by suicide.

Gabby’s story gripped the world. The speed and scale of the response was staggering. She was on every major network. People cared deeply. People searched. People shared.

And she deserved that.

But I couldn’t stop thinking — what makes Gabby’s story so worthy of our collective attention? Why this particular woman, at this particular time? Why not the others?

By contrast, in 2022, the remains of 24-year-old Rebecca Contois were found in a bin outside an apartment building in Winnipeg. A man named Jeremy Skibicki was later charged with her murder — and three more: Morgan Harris, Marcedes Myran, and an unidentified woman the community came to know as Mashkode Bizhiki’ikwe (Buffalo Woman).

Authorities refused to search the landfill where Morgan and Marcedes were believed to be. The reason? It was “too expensive.” Too complicated. Not worth it.

Families and advocates pleaded, protested, held ceremonies, occupied land. And then came political party going as far as to erect a billboard, stark against the Winnipeg sky:“Stand Firm Against the UNSAFE $184 Million Landfill Dig.”

Those words haunted me. I imagined the surviving families driving past that sign, being assaulted by the reality that the government was actively campaigning against the search for their loved ones’ bodies.

It took a change in Manitoba government for a search to finally be initiated. And on March 7, 2025, RCMP confirmed that human remains recovered from the Prairie Green landfill were those of Morgan Harris — a 39-year-old mother, daughter, and member of Long Plain First Nation. Then, the remains of ‘Buffalo Woman’, who was identified as Ashley Shingoose

Her partial remains were found nearly three years after she was last seen.

And unlike Erin’s and Gabby’s cases, justice didn’t come quickly. It didn’t come without resistance.

Here’s the truth: on May 16, 2022, partial remains of Rebecca Contois were found in a garbage bin. Police arrested Jeremy Skibicki two days later. They soon learned he had murdered not only Rebecca, but also Morgan Harris, Marcedes Myran, and Ashley Shingoose.

It took years of rallies, blockades, court injunctions, and unrelenting advocacy before action was finally taken.

And now, in 2025, Morgan has finally been found.

She deserved more. So did Angeline. So did Dorothy. So did DeeDee. So do all of them.

These disparities have become impossible for me to ignore. They live in the space between the stories that are amplified and those that are silenced. Between the urgency shown to some, and the apathy shown to others.

And while it’s deeply painful to confront, I know that part of my responsibility — as a settler, as a healthcare provider, as someone building community with Indigenous partners — is to keep noticing. To keep asking. To hold space for these truths, even when they’re uncomfortable. Especially then.

This journey has changed what I see. And more importantly, it’s changed what I can no longer fail to see.