The Wounds That Do Not Begin With Us

When people speak about trauma, they often speak in singular terms — a single event, a single experience, a single hardship.

But in many Native American communities, trauma did not begin with one person. It did not begin with one generation. It moved quietly from parent to child, grandparent to grandchild, sometimes without being named.

Intergenerational trauma — sometimes referred to as historical trauma — describes the emotional and psychological wounds passed down through families and communities who have endured collective hardship. Researchers such as Dr. Maria Yellow Horse Brave Heart, one of the leading scholars on Native American historical trauma, have written extensively about this phenomenon and its impact on Indigenous communities. (See: Brave Heart’s work summarized through the Indian Health Service and related academic publications: https://www.ihs.gov)

For Native Americans, that collective hardship includes forced relocation, boarding schools, land dispossession, cultural suppression, and systemic poverty.

Those events did not simply end when policies changed.

They lingered.

Boarding Schools and Cultural Suppression

From the late 1800s into the 20th century, Native children were taken from their families and sent to boarding schools designed to strip them of language, culture, and identity. The motto often associated with this era — “Kill the Indian, save the man” — reflects the assimilationist intent of federal policy.

The U.S. Department of the Interior has formally acknowledged the scope and damage of the Federal Indian Boarding School system in recent reports documenting widespread abuse and generational impact. (See: https://www.doi.gov/priorities/strengthening-indian-country/federal-indian-boarding-school-initiative)

Children who were punished for speaking their language grew into adults who sometimes did not teach that language to their own children.

Affection was replaced with institutional discipline.
Cultural identity was replaced with enforced conformity.

When those children became parents, they often carried wounds they did not have words for.

And so trauma moved forward.

Poverty and Structural Inequality

The economic realities facing many Native communities today are not disconnected from historical policy.

According to the U.S. Census Bureau, Native American communities continue to experience poverty rates significantly higher than the national average. (https://www.census.gov)

Limited access to healthcare, education disparities, and underfunded infrastructure contribute to cycles that are difficult to break without structural change.

Poverty alone is not trauma. But poverty layered onto historical displacement and cultural erasure creates stress that affects families across generations.

Children raised in environments shaped by scarcity absorb that stress, even if no one names it.

Alcohol and Coping

It is important to speak carefully here.

Alcohol misuse in Native communities has often been misrepresented or stereotyped. In reality, data from the National Institute on Alcohol Abuse and Alcoholism shows that while some Native populations experience higher rates of alcohol-related harm, the issue is complex and tied to broader socioeconomic and historical factors. (https://www.niaaa.nih.gov)

When trauma is unaddressed, coping mechanisms can become destructive.

Alcohol did not arrive in Native communities as part of traditional life. It was introduced through colonial contact. Over time, it became both a symptom and a response — a way of numbing pain rooted in historical upheaval.

But trauma is not destiny.

And neither is addiction.

Trauma as Memory in the Body

Research in psychology and epigenetics suggests that trauma can influence stress responses across generations. Studies published through institutions such as the National Institutes of Health discuss how prolonged stress and adverse childhood experiences shape long-term health outcomes. (https://www.nih.gov)

While the science continues to evolve, what many Native families already understood is this:

Pain echoes.

Children raised in environments marked by unresolved trauma often develop hypervigilance, early maturity, and a heightened sense of responsibility. They learn to read rooms. They learn to anticipate tension.

Sometimes they become strong too soon.

That strength is survival.

But survival is not the same as healing.

Healing and Cultural Reclamation

Intergenerational trauma is not the end of the story.

Cultural reclamation has become one of the most powerful tools for healing in Native communities. Language revitalization programs, ceremony, storytelling, and community-led wellness initiatives are helping to reconnect younger generations with identity that was once suppressed.

The Indian Health Service and tribal behavioral health programs increasingly incorporate culturally grounded healing practices into treatment approaches. (https://www.ihs.gov/behavioralhealth)

Storytelling plays a central role in that process.

As an Indigenous storyteller, I believe that naming history honestly is part of breaking cycles. When we understand where pain originated, we can stop blaming ourselves for wounds we did not create.

Strength Passed Down Too

It would be incomplete to speak only of trauma without speaking of resilience.

The same generations that carried hardship also carried knowledge. They carried language. They carried ceremony. They carried survival skills rooted in land and community.

Resilience travels through families just as powerfully as trauma does.

Native communities endured policies designed to erase them. They are still here.

That is not accidental.

It is strength.

Moving From Awareness to Responsibility

Understanding intergenerational trauma in Native American communities requires more than sympathy. It requires responsibility — both within and outside Indigenous communities.

For Native families, it means:

• Seeking healing without shame
• Talking openly about history
• Reconnecting with culture
• Supporting younger generations

For institutions and policymakers, it means:

• Acknowledging historical harm
• Supporting culturally informed healthcare
• Investing in Native education and infrastructure
• Respecting tribal sovereignty

Trauma that was created collectively must be addressed collectively.

Why This Conversation Matters

As a Native American author, I do not write about intergenerational trauma to reopen wounds. I write about it to place pain in context.

When we understand that certain struggles did not begin with personal failure, we create space for compassion — both toward ourselves and toward our elders.

We stop asking, “What is wrong with us?”

And begin asking, “What happened to us?”

That shift changes everything.

Because what happened can be understood.

And what is understood can begin to heal.

A Tradition That Did Not Begin With the United States

The Strength of Community Influence

In many Native households, military service is multigenerational. Sons and daughters follow parents, uncles, aunts, and grandparents into uniform.

When you grow up surrounded by veterans, service becomes normalized. It becomes something honorable and achievable.

I grew up in a family shaped by service. My father served. I later served. The path felt familiar, even if the challenges within it were not always simple.

When communities celebrate veterans openly — through powwows, honor songs, and public recognition — the message is clear: service matters.

That cultural reinforcement plays a powerful role in enlistment decisions.

Why So Many Leave

While Native Americans enlist at high rates, retention into senior leadership roles is far lower.

That reality deserves attention.

Military life requires long-term commitment, relocation, separation from family, and adaptation to environments where Native identity is rarely understood. Isolation can become a quiet burden.

Some Native service members feel disconnected from their communities after extended service. Others face subtle cultural misunderstandings within military culture. Some leave to return home and support family.

There are also structural barriers. Advancement requires mentorship, visibility, and institutional familiarity — things that can be harder to access for those who enter without generational military lineage or insider networks.

According to research and discussions published through the Department of Veterans Affairs and academic military studies programs, minority retention often correlates with access to mentorship and representation in leadership roles. (U.S. Department of Veterans Affairs)

When you do not see yourself reflected in senior ranks, advancement can feel abstract.

In 1991, when I became the first Native American female to reach the rank of Chief Petty Officer (E-7) in the United States Navy, that milestone was not about prestige. It was about persistence.

Few Native women had stayed long enough to reach that rank.

I stayed.

But staying required endurance.

The Cultural Distance Factor

Military structure is rigid. Indigenous culture often emphasizes relational and communal frameworks.

When Native service members enter predominantly non-Native environments, they sometimes suppress parts of themselves to fit in.

That suppression can become exhausting.

Cultural obligations — ceremonies, family events, community responsibilities — do not disappear when you put on a uniform. Yet balancing both worlds is not always easy.

Some leave because the distance feels too great.

Some leave because they want their children closer to extended family and tribal community.

These are not failures. They are choices shaped by priorities.

But they help explain the gap between enlistment and long-term retention.

Leadership and Representation

Representation matters.

When Native women and men see someone who shares their background rise to senior leadership, it changes what feels possible.

I speak about this during Native American History Month at military installations. I ask audiences:

Why do we recruit so effectively from Native communities?
Why do we not retain and promote at the same rate?
What would it take to build stronger pathways upward?

The answers are complex. But they include mentorship, cultural awareness training, and visible representation.

Institutions such as the National Museum of the American Indian and various veterans’ organizations continue to highlight Native contributions in military history to strengthen recognition and awareness. (National Museum of the American Indian)

Awareness is the first step toward change.

A Personal Mission

One of my personal goals is to see more Native Americans — especially Native women — stay in long enough to build full careers.

To rise.
To lead.
To return home with expanded opportunity and economic stability.

Military service can be a powerful tool for breaking cycles of poverty. It can provide structure, education, and long-term retirement benefits that extend beyond a single generation.

But that only happens when retention matches recruitment.

I do not want Native service to remain symbolic. I want it to translate into leadership.

Service as Continuation

When people say Native Americans serve at the highest rate per capita, they often frame it as surprising.

It is not surprising to me.

It is consistent.

It is consistent with our history of protecting our people.
It is consistent with our values of responsibility.
It is consistent with the warrior traditions that existed long before federal uniforms.

The modern military did not create that instinct.

It inherited it.

Moving Forward

Understanding why Native Americans serve at such high rates requires looking at:

• Cultural tradition
• Economic realities
• Community reinforcement
• Identity
• Patriotism intertwined with resilience

Understanding why fewer remain requires addressing:

• Cultural isolation
• Representation gaps
• Structural mentorship
• Community ties

These are not statistics alone. They are lived realities.

As a Native American author and retired Navy Chief Petty Officer, I do not write about this from distance. I write from experience.

Service shaped my life.

But leadership is what transforms service into legacy.

If even one young Native woman sees what is possible and chooses not only to enlist but to stay — to rise — to lead — then the conversation continues.

And it is a conversation worth having.

Growing Up With the Stories of Our People

As a Native American author rooted in Ojibwe heritage, I have always carried the stories of my ancestors with me — stories not merely of time and place, but of direction and purpose. These are not myths in the sense of “once upon a time.” They are oral histories, teachings preserved across generations to guide who we are and how we came to be.

One of the most significant of these teachings is the Anishinaabe migration — a journey westward from the eastern waters toward the place where “food grows on the water,” later understood as the lands around the Great Lakes, where my people eventually settled. According to Ojibwe oral history and traditions recorded in birch bark scrolls and shared across time, the Anishinaabeg began near the mouth of the Saint Lawrence River on the Atlantic coast before beginning this long migration in response to spiritual direction and prophecy.

These teachings carried meaning far beyond geography. They were about survival, about maintaining identity through movement, and about honoring guidance even when the path was unknown.

The Miigis Shell — Spirit and Direction

Central to the story of that migration are the miigis — sacred shells often understood as cowrie shells — which appeared to the Anishinaabeg and provided spiritual direction for their journey. According to Ojibwe oral history, seven great miigis appeared in Waabanakiing (the Eastern Land). These shells were not mere objects but symbols of teaching and connection to the mide way of life — the ceremonial tradition that holds deep spiritual meaning for the Anishinaabe peoples.

At several stopping places along the migration route, the peoples encountered miigis shells, reaffirming the direction they were to follow. One pivotal place was Baawating — the rapids of the Saint Marys River, known today as Sault Ste. Marie — which became a central hub where the central Ojibwe presence converged.

To ancient storytellers, the shells and the places they appeared were markers of both physical and spiritual direction. They signaled that the community was on the correct path and that the teachings of the prophets and elders were not distant echoes, but living guidance.

A Journey of Many Generations

The Anishinaabe migration did not unfold in a single lifetime. It was a movement that spanned many generations — a slow drift of family units, kinship groups, and clans learning as they traveled, learning how to live with land and water, how to adapt to changing seasons, and how to stay united through shared purpose.

According to oral tradition, the Anishinaabe were instructed to seek a series of sacred stopping places marked by turtle-shaped islands and miigis shells — signs that their journey was unfolding as destined. One of these early places was what is now northeastern Ontario, near Sault Ste. Marie, where food sources were abundant and people found rest and community before continuing westward.

This westward path eventually brought the Anishinaabe into the lands around the Great Lakes — stretching into what is now Wisconsin, Minnesota, Michigan, and beyond — and becoming home to later generations of the Ojibwe people.

Land, Identity, and Loss — What Came After

Once established across the Great Lakes region, Ojibwe communities developed rich lifeways rooted in subsistence, seasonal movement, and trade. They hunted, fished, gathered wild rice, and built relationships with neighboring nations long before European contact.

But with the arrival of European settlers came dramatic shifts. Treaties — such as Treaty 3 with the Canadian Crown — and U.S. government policies reshaped the land base of the Ojibwe and imposed new political structures on peoples who had long lived by their own systems of responsibility and stewardship.

Despite these pressures, Ojibwe peoples endured. They remained on the lands their ancestors traveled toward, maintaining languages, teachings, and connections to place and water. Today, Ojibwe communities span from Ontario to Montana, carrying forward traditions that were shaped along this long migratory path.

Why This History Matters Today

For many, “history” might feel like something written long ago, separate from daily life. But for Indigenous peoples, history is presence. It is memory. It informs how we see the world, how we understand our responsibilities to land and community, and how we tell our stories now.

As a Native American author, I carry the migration story not as legend alone, but as a lineage of movement and survival — of listening to guidance and choosing direction that honors both past and future. That is why storytelling remains essential: it keeps our identity alive not only in books and classrooms, but in the teachings we carry forward.

The Anishinaabe migration west is not just a chronicle of movement. It is a reminder of our people’s resilience, our ability to adapt, and our commitment to remembering who we are even when the world around us changes.

A Tradition of Service

Native people have always served.

Long before there was a United States military, Native men and women protected their communities, defended their lands, and carried responsibility for the survival of their people. Service is not new to us. It is woven into who we are.

Today, Native Americans serve in the U.S. Armed Forces at the highest rate per capita of any ethnic group. Yet this is not widely known. What is also less known is that while many Native women enlist, far fewer remain long enough to build a full career.

As an Ojibwe woman and a retired Chief Petty Officer in the United States Navy, I understand that journey personally.

Making History

In 1991, I became the first Native American female to reach the rank of Chief Petty Officer (E-7) in the United States Navy.

That moment was not about recognition. It was about endurance.

The path was not simple. It required staying when others left. It required navigating environments where few people looked like me and even fewer understood where I came from. It required holding onto my identity while serving an institution that did not always reflect it.

Native Americans enlist for many reasons — patriotism, opportunity, tradition, economic stability. For many of us, the military offers a path beyond reservation poverty and limited resources. But staying in long enough to rise in rank requires something more than enlistment. It requires support, mentorship, and a belief that advancement is possible.

In 1991, that advancement had not yet happened for a Native American woman at the rank of Chief.

Until it did.

Why So Few Stay

Service is honorable. But it is also demanding.

Native service members often carry additional weight — cultural distance, family obligations back home, financial pressures, and sometimes isolation within their units. Many leave after fulfilling their initial commitment, returning home to support family or reconnect with community.

I speak openly about this when I address military audiences during Native American History Month. I ask difficult questions:

Why do Native Americans serve at such high rates?
Why do so many leave before reaching senior leadership?
What would it take to change that?

These are not abstract questions. They are personal.

A Personal Mission

One of my goals is to see more Native women and men stay.

To see more rise in rank.
To see more build careers.
To see more return home not only with pride, but with financial stability, leadership skills, and expanded opportunity.

Military service changed my life. It provided structure, advancement, and a path forward. But I never left behind who I was. I remained Ojibwe. I remained connected to my roots. I carried my heritage with me.

Being the first Native American female Chief Petty Officer was not the end of a story. It was a beginning.

If one young Native woman or man sees what is possible and chooses to stay — to advance — to lead — then that milestone continues to matter.

Service has always been part of who we are.

Leadership can be too.

Writing From Where I Stand

When people hear the phrase “Native American author,” they sometimes imagine something distant — something historical, something rooted only in the past.

But Native American authors are not relics of another century. We are here. We are writing now. We are raising families, serving in the military, working in our communities, and carrying forward stories shaped by lived experience.

For me, being a Native American author means writing from where I stand — as an Ojibwe woman, as a veteran, as someone shaped by reservation life, resilience, and the long arc of Indigenous history. I do not write from theory. I write from memory, from observation, and from the quiet strength I have witnessed in Native families across generations.

More Than Representation

There is a difference between writing about Native people and writing as Native people.

Indigenous writers do not create stories to decorate a bookshelf with diversity. We write because storytelling has always been part of how our communities survive. Long before books, there were voices around fires. Long before publication, there was listening.

Today, Native American literature continues that tradition in a different form. It preserves memory. It challenges misunderstanding. It offers perspective that cannot be manufactured from the outside.

As a Native American author, I understand that my words carry more than my own experience. They carry echoes of elders, of ancestors, of places that shaped me long before I knew how to put those experiences into language.

The Responsibility of Telling the Truth

Writing from Indigenous experience carries responsibility. It means telling the truth even when it is complicated. It means acknowledging trauma without allowing it to be the only story. It means honoring strength without pretending pain never existed.

Native American authors today write across many genres — memoir, fiction, poetry, history — but what unites us is lived connection. Our stories are not abstractions. They are rooted in land, language, ceremony, service, and survival.

For me, writing is not about claiming a title. It is about honoring the stories that shaped me and offering them with care.

Why Native Voices Matter Now

There has never been a time when Indigenous perspectives were more necessary.

Misunderstanding still exists. Simplified narratives still circulate. But when readers seek out Native American authors and Indigenous storytellers, they open themselves to voices grounded in experience rather than assumption.

That matters.

It matters for young Native readers who need to see themselves reflected honestly.
It matters for non-Native readers who want to understand more deeply.
It matters for the preservation of culture in a world that moves quickly and forgets easily.

Being a Native American author today is not about standing apart. It is about standing rooted — and writing from that place with clarity and respect.

And as long as there are stories to carry forward, I will continue to write.