Waking Up from the American Dream
I came across an article recently that stopped me in my tracks. It’s called “The Blackfoot Wisdom That Inspired Maslow’s Hierarchy” by Teju Ravilochan, and it shook loose something in me—something ancient and aching and deeply hopeful. For the month of July, I want to sit with it and share some of the questions it stirred. The article explores how Abraham Maslow’s famous theory of human needs may have been deeply influenced by his time with the Blackfoot Nation, and how Indigenous worldviews offer a radically different understanding of wholeness, community, and worth. It’s given me so much food for thought—about how we live, what we believe about ourselves and each other, and what it might mean to belong. This post is the first in a short series unpacking the wisdom in that piece and reflecting on what it might mean for those of us navigating healing, identity, and love today.
Who Gets Left Behind?
There’s a story I grew up with. You probably did too.
Work hard. Earn your way. Success is yours for the taking.
If you’re struggling, it’s your fault. If you’re thriving, you deserve it.
It’s the kind of story that gets repeated so often it starts to sound like truth. But the more I live, the more I wonder: Who does this story really serve? And who does it leave behind?
In his article, Teju Ravilochan shares that Abraham Maslow—the psychologist famous for the “Hierarchy of Needs”—may have been quietly influenced by his time among the Siksika (Blackfoot) people in 1938. Maslow expected to find social dominance and hierarchy. Instead, he found generosity, equality, and well-fed, self-assured people who lived in deep connection to one another and the land.
At Siksika, Maslow witnessed what he would later call “self-actualization”—but instead of it being rare or reserved for the elite, it was the norm. He was so struck by what he saw that it changed the course of his work. And yet, somehow, the mainstream version of his theory—the one we’ve all internalized—says we must climb our way to fulfillment, proving ourselves at every rung.
That pyramid-shaped worldview mirrors the American Dream: individual achievement above all. Get what you can. Protect what’s yours. Make it to the top.
And I’ll be honest—this part of the article brought up some real tension for me.
I thought back to my very first paycheck, sometime in the late ’80s, when I worked at Heidi’s Frogen Yozurt (remember that place?). Minimum wage was about $3.35 an hour, and I gave more than half of what I earned to Greenpeace. I didn’t have much, but I felt like I had enough to share. I cared deeply—about rainforest destruction and literally saving the whales—and giving felt like a natural response to that care.
Today, I make significantly more than minimum wage. And yet, I give far less, proportionally. Around $500 a year to mutual aid, nonprofits, or community causes. Another $500 or so to political campaigns. That’s a sliver of what I used to give as a broke teenager with yogurt in her hair. I’m not beating myself up about it—but I am curious. What changed? Was it my priorities, my income, or just how thoroughly I absorbed the idea that I have to “take care of myself first”?
In the article, Ravilochan points out that the wealthiest Americans give about 1.3% of their income to charity. By contrast, the bottom 20% give 3.2%. Those with less, give more. It’s not always about virtue or sacrifice. It’s about how deeply we understand interdependence—because we’ve lived it.
The Blackfoot view of wealth wasn’t about accumulation at all. It was about generosity. The most respected person in the tribe was the one who had the least—because they’d given the most away. During the annual Giveaway ceremony, people shared every last possession they’d gathered over the year, redistributing wealth in a public celebration of community care.
That’s a very different version of success than the one we celebrate now.
What strikes me most is how much we’re all still being shaped by stories that may never have been true. The idea of the “self-made” person. The belief that suffering is a personal failure. The fantasy that we can ever be truly independent.
What if the American Dream is more of a mirage—designed to keep us chasing, hoarding, and comparing, instead of grounding ourselves in mutual care?
What if, instead of rising alone, we could choose to rise together?
So, let’s talk about it. What version of the American Dream did you grow up with? Has it changed? How does it show up in your beliefs about giving, belonging, and what it means to “make it”?
