I remember spending hours in barren studios, my feet covered with oozing blisters, muscles aching as I rose to a perfectly arched elévè in dead pointe shoes. Through pain and discipline, I could create beauty. I drifted into the music; I was an astronaut exploring space and time, or perhaps a cherry blossom in the wind. I told a story without even opening my mouth.
At eight I discovered a book about Maria Tallchief, a famous Native American ballerina from a reservation in Oklahoma. She became my hero—a famous person I could relate to, and part of the reason I fell in love with art.
I also remember crying, feeling my peers’ eyes burn into my skin as they impatiently waited for me to finish my tests. My lack of retention filled me with shame and confusion. My father, born on a reservation, works extremely hard to provide me with the opportunities that he did not have access to—advantages that I must use to excel academically.
Yet, my seemingly inexplicable challenges worsened each year. Disorganized, distracted, and overly anxious, I continued to underperform. Extremely critical of myself, I pushed for perfection until l broke.
I was stunned when my psychiatrist told me that I had ADHD and Generalized Anxiety Disorder. No one had ever told me that my behavior was atypical, and I was almost in high school. Nearly simultaneously relieved, and now equipped with a diagnosis and a prescription for Adderall, I thought that my problems would disappear.
I remember taking Adderall the first time and feeling as though a second being had joined my conscience. The creature watched my thoughts darting about my brain like minnows in a pond, my fingers and feet tapping, and told me: NO. Focus. However, as I adhered to the new voice in my head, I lost control. Suddenly, I didn’t need to eat or sleep.
Twenty pounds underweight, suspicious and fearful of everything.
Volatile, prone to tears, picking myself apart from the inside out.
Yet through telling stories with art, I found myself again. From dance, I ventured into theater, singing, writing, film and visual arts. I grew to love each dearly. While learning how to code a website for my digital art, direct films, and memorize lines for three shows at once wasn’t easy, I remained relentless in the pursuit of learning. Through the confidence, communication, and organization skills I earned, my academic performance improved rapidly.
By immersing myself in art, I also began to rethink how I could help others. Poverty, systemic racism, climate change, and the missing and murdered indigenous women epidemic that threatens my loved ones’ lives are massively overlooked by the media and mainstream news. I was tired of feeling incapable of personally establishing positive change for my family’s communities, and as though my creative skillset would be ‘useless’ in my potential future careers. After speaking up online and in the classroom about the issues native women face, I pursued and won a position at The Indigenous Foundation, a women-run organization based out of Toronto that writes articles, holds fundraisers, and runs an Instagram account with over 55,000 followers to raise awareness and make change for all indigenous people. With this conglomerate, I write podcasts, plan projects, and design cover art. It is truly amazing to foster a positive platform for our voices, and I am so grateful for this community of kind and brilliant women who I work with.
I remember at age eight believing unequivocally that I would be the next Maria Tallchief. I may not be a famous ballerina, but I still tell stories with my camera, with my pencil, and on the stage. By pursuing a career in the film and entertainment industry, I will ensure that new, uplifting representations of indigenous women exist in the media to remind the world that we are still here- passionate, resilient, and capable of anything.