Part Two: Love as the Foundation of Reconciliation
Love is often spoken of as if it is light and easy. For Indigenous people, love has carried grief since the genocide — not because we are bound to sorrow, but because we have had to love through loss.To speak of reconciliation as love requires that we first acknowledge the generations of love that were stolen — and the pain that remains when family, culture, and dignity are stripped away.
Colonization did not just take land. It took love. It severed the bonds between parent and child when children were forced into residential schools. It muted the languages in which lullabies and prayers were once spoken. It poured alcohol into wounds too deep to name, numbing hearts that longed for tenderness. It numbered us on government cards, transforming our identities into bureaucratic labels. It taught us to measure worth in productivity and assimilation, not in kinship and care.
My own family lived these losses. My great-grandmother died at twenty-nine. My grandmother at forty-two. My father at fifty-two. None of them were given the chance to tell their stories, to pass on their wisdom, to live a full life of love. Society had no place for them. When I sat with Grandmother Cedar, her medicine revealed to me that it was my responsibility to carry their voices. Grandmother’s Voice is the voice of my ancestors, who could not speak.
To inherit silence is a heavy burden. To reconcile with it requires more than acknowledgment — it requires a return to love, even when that love is scarred. I have come to understand that reconciliation begins within, but within me there is pain as well as beauty. Love does not erase the pain. It walks with it.
In my own family, I know this truth deeply. My husband, my children, and I have carried dreams — some simple, some grand — about what our life might look like. We have happiness, and we have love. But the path we chose has not always been the easy one. To choose comfort would have meant a different kind of life. To choose love meant a harder road: slower, less certain, filled with resistance and misunderstanding. There are moments when those dreams lose some of their grandeur as they come true, when we see clearly the cost of the path we have taken. Yet as Joni Mitchell sang: “Though his dreams have lost some grandeur coming true / There’ll be new dreams, maybe better dreams and plenty.” That line speaks to the passing of time, the changing of expectations, and the perspective we only gain after living through it.
Our family’s dreams have shifted, reshaped by the reality of this duality — comfort on one side, love on the other. We chose love. And in that choice, even when the dream feels smaller, we find something larger: the knowledge that we are walking in truth, together. That is what reconciliation looks like in our own lives — not perfection, not the fulfilment of every dream, but the courage to keep choosing love, again and again.
September is Truth and Reconciliation Month. “Truth” comes first for a reason. We must honour the children who never returned from the schools, the parents who wept in silence, the families fractured by colonial laws, the communities divided by lateral violence born of oppression. These are not stories from the distant past. They are wounds we still carry in our bodies, our DNA, our everyday interactions.
Love, in this context, is not sentimental. It is radical. It is the decision to meet centuries of sacrifice not with denial, but with compassion. It is to say: your pain is real, your loss is real, and still I will choose to love. I will love myself enough to heal. I will love my community enough to keep showing up. I will love the generations to come enough to give them a future different from the one my ancestors endured.
The Elders tell us reconciliation is not a one-time act. It is a process — of reflection, of falling down and getting back up, of choosing again and again to walk with love rather than fear or bitterness. For me, that process has meant resisting the temptation of the easy road, the quick recognition, the chance to elevate myself at the expense of others. I have chosen the harder path because it is the one that allows me to keep my heart intact. It is the path of love, even when it is painful.
There are days when reconciliation feels like a dream too far. When the weight of bureaucracy, competition, and misunderstanding presses down so hard that it seems impossible. There are days when it feels like we will always be captive on the carousel of time, unable to escape the circle of hurt.
And yet — I remember that love has already carried us this far. That despite genocide, colonization, and loss, we are still here. Our songs are still here. Our languages are still here. Our dreams, even when unmet, are still here. Love is what made survival possible. Love is what transforms survival into something more.
If reconciliation is to mean anything, it must be built on this foundation of love. Not love that forgets, but love that remembers. Not love that glosses over pain, but love that holds it tenderly and chooses to keep moving forward anyway.
Love is not the end of reconciliation. It is the beginning, the middle, and the only way through. And if it brings us to tears, then perhaps those tears are the medicine we need to soften our hearts for the work ahead. They were for me.
Dreams shift like the turning sky —
some break, some bend, some are born anew.
Love is never the easy road;
it blisters the feet,
it slows the pace,
but it keeps the fire alive.
I carry the silence of those gone too soon,
their songs hidden in my ribs.
Even in loss, love remains,
the one dream that never dies.


