For a long time, I went back and forth on whether I even wanted to include a land acknowledgment—because honestly, most of them feel performative. It’s like everyone collectively decided these statements were the next checkbox for “inclusivity,” slapped into the bottom of a website footer or read like a prayer at the start of a meeting—then never spoken of again. Somewhere along the way, they stopped being about relationship and responsibility, and started being about optics and obligation.

The original intention behind land acknowledgments was powerful: to reclaim the Indigenous practice of grounding ourselves in relationship and responsibility. To recognize the living, ongoing relationship between people, land, and accountability. But I feel like that meaning got lost somewhere along the way.

As a Métis woman who has only begun reclaiming and accepting her identity over the last 5–7 years, my own relationship with land and responsibility has been… complicated. Being disconnected from culture and community, carrying internalized shame and my own sense of “not enoughness,” I didn’t always feel like I was allowed to have a voice in this space. I don’t have a card, and I’ve wrestled with what that means. It’s complicated—family histories, paperwork, and systems that weren’t designed for us to thrive.

But I’m learning that my identity is still mine. It lives in the stories passed down, the values I carry, my connection to land and spirit, and the way I choose to show up for Indigenous communities in my personal life and in my work.

Unlearning takes time. Doing that without a strong sense of community makes it even harder. I’ve spent years feeling lost—trying to find my way back to something I was never fully given. Personally, I believe acknowledgment and action go hand in hand. So no, this isn’t just a checkbox for me. It’s a reflection of what I believe and how I act, and here’s what it looks like inside my business:

My link to land doesn’t come from ceremony or deep cultural upbringing. It comes from intention. From how I choose my clients, how I listen to the land I live on, and how I show up in my work. It comes from the small, steady actions of learning, unlearning, and reconnecting—because that’s what responsibility looks like for me right now. This is how I practice accountability and reconciliation both in life and work:

• I choose to work alongside Indigenous-owned businesses in ways that support their growth, autonomy, and sustainability.

• I help allied health providers set up and navigate NIHB billing so they can offer care to Indigenous clients without drowning in red tape.

• I guide individuals and families through NIHB processes.

• I prioritize working with people and organizations who are values-aligned.

• I intentionally choose Indigenous-owned services, artists, and suppliers whenever possible.

• I show up to community events with openness and respect—even when I’m unsure or still finding my place.

• I listen to Elders, watch documentaries, learn new words, and sit with the discomfort of unlearning.

• I’ve spent countless hours learning about the history and intergenerational impact of residential schools—and I will never consider that work “done.”

• I pay attention to the land I live and work on—the seasons, the shifts, the stillness—and try to be in respectful relationship with it.

• I speak up when systems don’t work—especially when they harm Indigenous clients or burden providers.

• I say no to partnerships and projects that want the appearance of reconciliation without the substance.

• I leave space for reflection in my workweeks—to listen, recalibrate, and stay in right relationship with the work.

And while my work is rooted here on Treaty 6 territory, I also occasionally find myself spending time in what’s now known as Cincinnati, Ohio—ancestral land of the Shawnee, Miami, and Lenape peoples. When I’m there, I carry the same responsibility to listen, learn, and act in ways that honour the original stewards of that land.

Land acknowledgments mean something. They’re not just a string of nice-sounding words to copy and paste into a footer. This one means something to me. And it’ll keep evolving—just like I will.

*If you’re a provider or business owner looking to support Indigenous communities through the NIHB program, I can help with that.