When I was little, I heard Cree in the background: in the kitchen with my kokum, whispered in prayers at funerals, or in the laughter of aunties teasing each other. I didn’t realize then that I was hearing something sacred. Something stolen, silenced, and now being revived. As a medical student from a small Indigenous community in Northern Alberta, I’ve spent years learning Latin-based medical terms. But now, I’m making space in my brain and heart for Cree words. Because our

When I walk into academic settings, I often feel the weight of silence before I even sit down. It’s not the silence of a room waiting for a professor but the silence of being the only one. The only one from a rural reserve. The only visibly Indigenous woman. The only person who grew up knowing what dry meat tastes like and what the cabin smells like on a fall morning. Growing up in Wabasca, I didn’t see doctors who looked like me and definitely none who spoke Cree or knew the