Growing Up With Hope and Hesitation

As a Native American author, I often write about strength. But strength is not something I learned from books. I learned it at home.

There are promises a child wants to believe more than anything.

When my father said he was going to quit drinking, I could hear the sincerity in his voice. He meant it when he spoke those words. That is something I understand more clearly now than I did then.

But as a child growing up in a Native family affected by alcohol, I also learned that meaning something and overcoming something are not always the same.

I loved my father. That love never disappeared, even during the times when alcohol took more from him than it gave.

Strength Learned Too Early

In many Native communities, alcohol has left deep wounds. Yet inside those wounds are also stories of perseverance, compassion, and survival.

I saw my father try.
I saw him fall short.
I saw him try again.

Watching that struggle shaped me. It taught me responsibility early. It taught me to measure hope carefully. It taught me that disappointment and love can live in the same room.

Children in homes like mine grow strong sooner than they should have to. We become watchful. We learn to protect our hearts quietly. We learn resilience before we fully understand what we are enduring.

Holding Both Truth and Tenderness

When you witness someone wrestling with something larger than themselves, you begin to understand that healing rarely moves in a straight line. It bends. It pauses. It returns.

As an Indigenous storyteller, I believe our stories must hold both truth and tenderness. My father was not defined by one struggle alone. He was a man of humor, of pride, of effort — and of imperfection.

There were promises I struggled to believe.

But there was also resilience I could not ignore.

Sometimes strength is not found in immediate victory.

Sometimes it is found in the willingness to keep trying.