We Begin With Belonging
Lessons in Cultural Perpetuity from the Blackfoot
One of the most striking things I read in an article by Teju Ravilochan was this: For the Blackfoot and many other Indigenous peoples, self-actualization isn’t the end goal. Cultural perpetuity is.
The point isn’t to “become your best self.” It’s to ensure the survival and thriving of your people. Seven generations behind you. Seven generations ahead.
The work is not self-improvement. It’s stewardship.
And lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about what my mother stewarded.
My dad died in 2006. (They had been together since they were teenagers.) He left behind a home, some retirement accounts, and a quiet, steady love that lives in every corner of our lives.
My mom honored it all.
She maintained their single-family home solo—kept the garden up, fixed what needed fixing, and held the structure and spirit of it with such quiet power that when the home inspector came through last month, he told me how proud of her he was.
She invested the IRAs my dad left her so wisely that she was able to pass them down to us.
And she valued her independence (for better or for worse) so deeply—so fiercely—that she couldn’t see a future where she lived anywhere but home. So she stayed. And in the end, she died exactly where she wanted to be.
I am devastated by her loss.
And dazzled by her example.
She didn’t write a book or build a brand or leave behind some flashy legacy. She tended what she was given. She made wise, hard, loving choices. And when we gathered for her celebration of life—just one week after she passed—my sister and I hosted an open house at the home she kept up so beautifully.
Eighty women came through.
You would not believe the community my mother created.
Neighbors, friends, former coworkers, cousins, caretakers, activists, artists, and mothers. Most of them had never met one another until that day—and by the end of the afternoon, connections had formed. Hugs had been exchanged. Plans were being made. Her legacy, already weaving itself into the future.
This is what I mean when I say we begin with belonging. We don’t earn it. We inherit it. We pass it on.
In the article, Dr. Cindy Blackstock describes how Indigenous communities pass down wisdom through both formal and informal apprenticeships. Story. Ceremony. Touch. Repetition. A child watches her grandmother care for the land and learns how to listen to it. A teenager helps repair the roof and learns the rhythm of responsibility. No textbook needed.
Maslow’s hierarchy—at least as interpreted by my professors and many predecessors—never accounted for this. It left out place. It left out lineage. It left out the miracle of being part of something that came before and will last long after you’re gone.
My mother left us more than a home and a nest egg.
She left us instructions—quiet ones.
She showed us how to build a life with love, consistency, and care.
She left us women who will remember her. Who will nurture each other.
That’s the legacy I want to leave, too. Not just a body of work, but a body of people. A circle that holds.
What are your thoughts? What do you want to pass on? What stories, values, rituals, or relationships will live beyond you? What are you already tending?
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’ve been sitting with it, letting it reshape the questions I ask about worth, community, and care. This is the final post in that series. I hope it helps you breathe a little deeper and feel a little more rooted in what lasts.
