Two Trips Home. Two Very Different Heartbeats.

This fall, I made two trips home to Haida Gwaii, less than a month apart. The first visit in September was full of culture, song, and absolute joy in seeing our culture thrive.

The second visit in October was something very different. It was a reminder of how quickly life can shift, and how deeply our community holds one another when we’re hurting.

September: A Season of Celebration

I came home in September for two back-to-back potlatches. There was a feeling of movement and pride across the islands. Families were coming together. Carvers were readying to raise a pole, Chiefs, dancers, speakers, singers. Times like this, you can feel that our culture is alive and growing.

I stayed with my daughter, who is in the full-time X̱aad Kil Language Immersion Program. Watching her fully commit herself to our language is something that hits me right in the heart. It’s not just school. It’s identity. It’s reclamation. It’s bringing something forward for the next generation. After doing virtual classes for years, having daily discussions has advanced the group so far, it impressive

That whole trip felt full. Full of connection. Full of pride.

I left feeling safe, grounded and inspired.

October: A Quiet Return

Less than a month later, I returned home again. The X̱aad Kil Language Program was preparing to host a potlatch to honour fluent speakers and learners — a celebration of the language being carried forward. Relatives and language champions were traveling in from Alaska and Alert Bay. The day before, we were at the hall prepping to make sure everything was set. The energy was hopeful and excited.

The evening before the potlatch, everything changed. A young man, 17-year-old Haida, Michael, was killed in a head-on collision. Shocking doesn’t even come close to describe the emotions.

By all accounts, Michael was a physically strong, emotionally gentle, well respected, and deeply involved in culture. His loss shook the community to its core. The grief was profound.

The potlatch was called off. As were several days of classes. When classes did resume, they set the games aside, voices softened, empathy was on the forefront of everyone’s minds. It went from a boisterous class with lots of laughs to keyed down, low tones and soft energy.

The community shifted to supporting the family, the youth, and the community members who knew and loved him.

We didn’t know Michael personally, so we gave space. It was not our place to be in the center of their grief. Those who were close to him needed time to be held, and the community did just that — with love, food, presence, and care.

Those days were still heavy. Even from the edges, you can feel when a community is hurting. The island holds grief collectively, and it is felt everywhere — in the silence, the slowed pace, the way people speak softer, the way the ocean feels different.

We moved gently, respectfully, and stayed close to family.

What Came After

In the days that followed, we spent time in Skidegate visiting relatives and cultural leaders. I finally had the chance to sit in person with Captain Gold after years of speaking online. His knowledge is immense, and I was grateful for those conversations — especially in a moment where the weight of history and continuity felt very real.

I also had time with my girlfriends in Masset. Women who love hard, work hard, laugh loud, and show up for their families, communities, and culture in ways that are constant and often unseen. Being with them reminded me of the strength that lives in everyday life, not just in big events. And I feel awful when I run out of time to see everyone (until next time!).

I love the time I had with my daughter.
Beach Walks. Comfort Foods. Movies. Blankets. Quiet.
Just being together.
Sometimes that’s all that’s needed.

What These Two Visits Taught Me

September and October sat side by side, but they held completely different emotional worlds.

One visit was about celebration. The other was about loss.

But both were about connection.

Both were about being part of something bigger than yourself.

Both were reminders that culture is not just the moments we plan.
It’s the way we carry one another through joy and through grief.
More grounded.
More aware of our responsibilities to each other.
More committed to the work of language, culture, and healing.

Haida Gwaii teaches in ways that are not always gentle — but they are always real.

This fall, home reminded me about the fullness of being Haida:
the laughter, the grief, the depth, the love — all of it, held together.