There comes a moment, and perhaps it has come in 2017, when I need to believe something better is coming.
Being a woman in male spaces is a gradual, embedded process of disloyalty. When it makes you uncomfortable and sad, that, you are told, is the price of safety.
Radical self-care in a randomized order to match all the curveballs coming at us in this new Thunderdome where we are all trapped.
By twenty-seven I was supposed to be well on my way to stability, or at least the illusion of such. Instead, my life had increasingly taken on a scrappy plainness.
Canadians want to focus on Gord Downie, on anniversaries, on the prime minister's photo-ops, on giant rubber ducks—on anything, it seems, but Indigenous people.
This year, this prolonged unraveling, is what survival looks like.
If beauty is in acts of ordinary devotion I think ugliness must be in the acts of everyday neglect.
I am learning what it is to be responsible for my own warmth.
One thing I love about many types of guardianship in food is that it requires you watch, but not too closely.
Day-to-day, I, a queer Native person leaping around this deeply stolen and homophobic land, try to lessen the ambient tensions floating in my air. Now I had to do the opposite.