Conceptions of Indigenous culture frequently revolve around themes of loss. The Trail of Tears, for instance, serves as a prominent example. This involved the forcible displacement—orchestrated by the US government between the 1830s and 1840s—of from their ancestral lands in the southeast. Up to Cherokees perished during this ordeal. It represents a narrative of utter devastation, the complete obliteration of a distinct cultural existence in a specific region. Furthermore, this grim historical event was the sole occasion Cherokees featured in my K-12 schooling—depicted as undergoing a fatal exodus from my native state of Tennessee.

However, I am a member of the Cherokee Nation. I existed, vibrant and evolving within an ever-changing global landscape. Yet, even within Cherokee households and in dialogues among Native individuals, there occasionally exists an inclination to dwell on and remain fixated on past losses.

Certainly, I do not deem our historical narratives insignificant. Memory, storytelling, and preserving what was nearly stripped away from us all hold profound power. Reflect on the efforts of Cherokee educators, striving to ensure the persistence of a language with —a task that is essential, commendable, and truly sacred.

Nonetheless, I also believe there’s strength in what lies ahead. In my childhood, I longed for Indigenous stories focused on the future—narratives imbued with curiosity, potential, and marvel regarding our potential identities and aspirations.

At eighteen, I departed home for Dartmouth College, selecting it due to its dedication to Native education. I was uncertain of what awaited me there. Yet, envisioning college as my gateway to the broader world, I desired that world to be Indigenous. Discovering precisely that, exactly when it was needed, stands as a cherished aspect of my life. This world, like any other, was defined by its inhabitants: friends representing various tribal nations, diverse continental regions, and even distant locales. The span separating our individual childhoods extended from Utqiaġvik, beyond the Arctic Circle, to Seminole territory in Florida.

Collectively, we attended classes. We socialized at fraternity basement parties, where we linked our coat sleeves to facilitate retrieval amidst laughter and intoxication. We resided in the , known to us simply as “the house,” and worked through nights completing essays at a lengthy dining table. We supported one another, occasionally causing each other pain. We consistently exchanged reply-all emails throughout each day with every Native student on campus, a practice I now perceive as an rudimentary form of a group chat.

However, when discussing our people, conversations frequently reverted to themes of loss. Our varied histories, despite their differences across tribes and regions, were consistently perceived as narratives of misfortune. And at times, for some among us, they carried a familiar apprehension common to modern Indigenous individuals: To what extent have I strayed from my potential self?

Upon hearing this concern articulated, and expressing it myself, I harbored a specific notion of that “potential”: a rigid concept of Cherokee identity rooted in a particular historical moment. Perhaps you share a similar perspective. For me, it envisioned us as we existed during the Removal era. The trade cloth shirts, long skirts, and moccasins—overlooking that this fashion blend was comparatively recent then. I recall the Cherokee syllabary and the —both of which were likewise novel.

Occasionally, despite my deepest reservations, I would visualize the hunched, freezing, near-death . This represented, in my perception, an imagined benchmark of authenticity, rendered even more peculiar by Lindneaux’s non-Cherokee heritage. This was the perspective I carried into college.

A few months into my freshman year, a sophomore observed some of us discussing our tribes as if their narratives had concluded. (Our introductions typically included name/tribe/state. He identified as Winter Fox Frank/Greenville Rancheria/California.) He stated, “Should one of you become an astronaut, that too would constitute a chapter in your people’s ongoing story.”

Currently, this concept appears self-evident to me. It defines what it means to be an individual affiliated with any community. Yet, at that time, I profoundly needed someone to affirm: You rightfully belong here, in this era and location that numerous predecessors have shaped for you. Regardless of whether you evolve into something your ancestors could not have envisioned—and even if you become something they would not have desired to conceive—you remain intrinsically linked to the narrative that preceded you and persists.

Presently, I am a mother and a writer—two of my most cherished identities, grounded in this conviction.

Subsequently: I dedicated considerable thought to Winter Fox’s statement. I began composing —a novel type of imagery that instilled in me a sense of optimism.

I completed my degree. I secured employment as a teacher. I continued writing, interspersed with numerous periods of self-doubt. A decade and a half elapsed since that encounter with Winter Fox, years that presented significantly more intricate dilemmas than my initial concerns. My life diverged into unforeseen paths. It encompassed pleasant and unpleasant surprises, moments of elation and sorrow, and the continuous awareness of both my distance from and proximity to that younger self.

These days, the Cherokee past feels consistently close to me, without a moment’s distance.

In part, this stems from my abandonment of any notion of a pre-Removal Cherokee authenticity against which I must gauge myself. Additionally, my younger brother matured into a Cherokee historian, imparting extensive knowledge about the intricate truths of that history. I’ve found such historical insight beneficial, as it prepares me to navigate a future Indigenous existence that will similarly be multifaceted.

However, predominantly, it is because I now comprehend the essence of transformation, much like our ancestors undoubtedly experienced. It involves being astonished by your evolving self (who is simultaneously your former self and your true self) in both challenging and delightful manners. It means recalling a story shared by a parent, laughing heartily, and subtly altering it as you recount it once more.