—on misalignment, advocacy, and becoming something better
I’ve been sitting with the words we often hear in Indigenous-led spaces: Be a good relative.
But lately, I’ve found myself asking—what does it mean to be a better one?
Not just perform the part. Not just show up for optics. Not just speak the language of community care while quietly abandoning the actual people.
Because being a better relative doesn’t always look how we’re told it should.
Sometimes, it’s quiet.
Sometimes, it’s leaving the room you once entered with so much hope—because the mission that pulled you in got buried under ego, silence, and misdirection.
Sometimes, it’s recognizing that what used to feel like kinship now feels like emotional labor with no return. That you’re showing up with honesty and someone else is showing up with control.
And maybe you stay a little longer than you should, because you want to believe people will come back to their values.
Maybe you sit through meetings that unravel into contradictions.
Maybe you keep asking questions instead of demanding answers.
But then you notice:
No one is speaking about the original mission anymore.
The advocacy that brought you here—the one that should have stayed central—is now an afterthought.
And the people who taught you how to “be good” aren’t listening to what you know about being true.
So you step back.
Not because you’re fragile.
Not because you’re disrespectful.
Not because you’re unwilling to do the work.
But because this is no longer in alignment with the way you do the work.
Being a better relative means knowing when your presence helps—and when it just enables broken systems to limp along.
It means choosing clarity over comfort, and alignment over allegiance.
It means holding your boundaries with honestly and tenderness.
And leaving with your values intact, even if no one claps when you go.
It means telling the truth to yourself when no one else is asking.
And offering care to others who may feel the same way, even if they’re not ready to say it out loud.
So if you’re navigating spaces that ask you to shrink, to fall in line, or to abandon the purpose that brought you there—
I see you.
And maybe, like me, you don’t want to just be a good relative.
Maybe you’re becoming a better one.
What It Can Look Like to Be a Better Relative
Being a better relative doesn’t always look bold or loud.
Sometimes, it’s steady.
Sometimes, it’s invisible.
But it’s felt.
It can look like…
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Restructuring a training plan to honor someone’s long prayer run—because that run isn’t about time or pace. It’s about devotion, family, and hope.
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Adapting the workload to protect someone’s energy during a heavy season—not to lighten the work, but to affirm their worth.
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Making space for culturally-rooted movement without demanding explanation. Because not everything sacred needs to be translated.
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Choosing not to tell someone else’s story, even when it would make a powerful post. Trust is a quiet thing. It’s not a content strategy.
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Letting someone name you “safe” without needing to prove it. Trust is earned in the background, not claimed in the caption.
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Saying the hard thing in the room when it matters, not for attention, but for alignment. Disruption without integrity is just noise.
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Sitting with discomfort longer than is comfortable. Not to win, but to understand. Not to defend, but to discern.
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Showing up for the run, the email, the life update. Not for credit. Just because you said you would.
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Helping someone reconnect with joy after burnout—because joy is not a luxury. It’s a signal of belonging.
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Choosing not to center yourself in work that isn’t yours to lead. Supporting without spotlight. Listening more than speaking. Learning more than explaining.
Being a better relative isn’t a title. It’s not a brand.
It’s a practice.
And sometimes, it’s quiet work.