Truth and Reconciliation Day: Confronting History, Privilege, and the Hardest Battle of All

Today is Truth and Reconciliation Day in my country, and when I opened my eyes this morning, I was overwhelmed with a feeling of discomfort. It's the kind of deep unease that comes from knowing the painful truth about the land we live on and the history that shaped it. For as long as I can remember, I’ve understood that my ancestors—referring here to the larger history of European settlers, not necessarily my direct family—came to this land, took control of it, displaced its original inhabitants, and caused generations of harm. They established systems that marginalized Indigenous peoples, forcibly removed their children, and sought to erase their cultures.

They came to this land, displacing Indigenous peoples, forcing them onto small reserves, and erasing their cultures. The residential school system, where children were torn from their families and stripped of their languages, is a horror that is still raw. Unmarked graves continue to be uncovered, and the magnitude of that tragedy is too immense to ignore. Today, I sit with the knowledge that my ancestors were part of this colonizing force.

It’s a shame I’ve carried with me my whole life, and it makes me question the role of my heritage. People who do spiritual work often speak of calling on their ancestors, but for me, that’s always been fraught. How can I call on ancestors who were part of a system that caused so much pain? How do I reconcile the privilege I’ve inherited from a history built on the suffering of others?

For much of my life, I have tried to be an ally. I’ve worked hard to understand the harm done by colonization, capitalism, patriarchy, and other systems of oppression. But the truth is, I’ve often felt disconnected from my own community and culture because I see the trauma that my privilege rests upon. I’ve never truly felt at home with my race or cultural background. The cruelty of it all was—and still is—so unjustifiable to me.

Going back to Europe, to the land of my ancestors, isn’t an option. I have no claim there. So I live here, on land that was taken, trying to reckon with what that means. In the past, I would’ve tried to hold onto the "good" stories from my cultural upbringing—religious fables, traditions, and customs—but during the pandemic, when the unmarked graves of Indigenous children began to be uncovered en masse, something inside me broke.

I realized that these stories aren’t just innocent traditions. They’ve been used to justify harm. Take Thanksgiving, for example—a holiday many view as a time of gratitude and family. But when I think of it, I see the broken treaties, the smallpox blankets, and the calculated strategies that led to the displacement and decimation of Indigenous peoples. It’s hard to find joy in that context.

November will bring Remembrance Day, and we’ll reflect on the horrors of war. Having been to war myself, I know we rarely address the full scope of its aftermath. We honor those who sacrificed their lives, but we fail to talk about the trauma that lingers in veterans and civilians alike—the trauma that gets passed down through generations, never fully healed.

And then there’s Christmas. As a child, I was taught to see it as a time of joy, of giving, and of celebrating the birth of Jesus. But as an adult, I find myself questioning the core narrative. The Virgin Mary was, according to the story, a 12-year-old girl. If we were to tell this story today—about a young girl being impregnated without consent—it wouldn’t be viewed as a miracle. We would immediately take that child to the hospital. It would be considered a case of statutory rape, and authorities would be called to investigate. The entire premise of Mary’s "immaculate conception" erases the real issues of consent, bodily autonomy, and the protection of vulnerable individuals—issues that we take very seriously in today’s world.

Yet this story is celebrated year after year, without questioning its implications. It's a reminder of how deeply ingrained patriarchal values are in our traditions, and how much we need to re-examine these narratives through a lens that prioritizes human dignity and justice.

Deconstructing these narratives has been painful, but it feels necessary. The stories that once brought me closer to my community now seem distant, disconnected from the person I’ve become. And yet, maybe that’s for the best. As I move forward, I’m committed to finding new ways to engage with my community—ways that prioritize healing and accountability over tradition.

A Journey of Allyship and Self-Reconciliation

My entire life, I’ve tried to be an ally, learning how to support marginalized communities while also confronting my own privilege. And while I’ve carried my own struggles with shame and guilt, I have also witnessed firsthand the real trauma that colonization and oppression have inflicted on Indigenous people. In my work, I’ve been close to that pain. I’ve seen the effects of that trauma daily—the ripple effects of displacement, intergenerational suffering, and systemic racism. I have worked with people who live with the scars of these injustices. Being exposed to that pain has been eye-opening and has shaped my understanding of the responsibilities I have.

But the truth is, I’ve also carried my own pain, and it’s left me with PTSD—a kind of death by a thousand cuts. The battles I’ve faced haven’t just been external, they’ve been internal. The real war has been within me, a constant reckoning with myself as I try to see clearly the systems of capitalism, patriarchy, and colonization that are ingrained in my very being.

Knowing my true size and ability to enact change feels overwhelming at times. Being an ally to others is something I’ve devoted my life to, but being an ally to myself? That’s been the hardest journey of reconciliation yet. In the midst of all this, learning how to reconcile my own sense of self, to break free from the internalized conditioning of my race and culture, has been exhausting and, at times, debilitating.

But I also know that this work—this constant unraveling and rebuilding—is necessary. Not just for myself, but for the world I want to see. I believe that true allyship requires not just external support for others, but a deep internal shift. It requires us to confront our own participation in systems of oppression, even when it’s painful, and to work toward healing in ways that are honest, accountable, and compassionate.

Moving Forward with Responsibility

So where do I go from here? I can’t change the past, but I can change how I live in the present. I can continue to educate myself and others, supporting Indigenous-led initiatives and fighting for justice in whatever ways I can. I can continue to deconstruct harmful narratives and build new stories—ones that honor the dignity, sovereignty, and humanity of all people.

Truth and Reconciliation Day is more than just a moment of reflection. It’s a call to action. And while I know I’ll never be free of the shame and discomfort that comes with my history, I also know that I can use those feelings to fuel positive change. After all, isn’t that what reconciliation is about?