Wildlydj: The Life of DJ Lieberman

The stories, the wisdom, and the travels.

I’m DJ: born in Ohio, rooted in Alaska, and shaped by the wild journey in between. I’m a writer, podcaster, and most importantly an advocate who believes in the power of honest stories.


This blog is where I share reflections on life, healing, identity, and the adventures that come with doing the work — both in the world and within myself.


It’s raw, real, and a little wild

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  • In a place where there are no humans, strive to be human.

    Why Me?

    I don’t think people understand what the question actually means when you survive something that should have taken you.

    “Why me?” isn’t self-pity.
    It isn’t ego.
    It isn’t some martyr complex.
    It isn’t survivor’s guilt.

    It’s disorientation.

    Because this isn’t metaphor for me.

    It’s a report.
    It’s timestamps.
    It’s security footage.

    January was stressful. On January 30th, I went out. I walked into a bar. At some point, I stepped into the alley behind it.

    That’s the last thing I remember.

    I woke up in the ICU.

    The report said I was found unresponsive in that alley. Purple. Not breathing. Security cameras showed I was there for ten minutes before anyone intervened. EMS arrived roughly five minutes later. Ten rounds of CPR.

    Clinically dead.

    Estimated less than a ten percent chance of survival.

    That’s the clinical version.

    The existential version is harder.

    It’s standing on this side of the line and realizing you crossed it, and came back, and no one handed you an explanation.

    I died.

    And then I didn’t.

    And now I’m walking around in grocery stores, answering emails, paying bills, feeding the dogs, sitting in traffic, like that didn’t just happen.

    But it did.

    And the question lingers in the quiet spaces:

    Why did I survive this?

    The Search for Meaning

    The human brain doesn’t tolerate randomness well.

    We are meaning-making creatures. We build narratives because the alternative, chaos, is unbearable.

    So, when something statistically improbable happens, when you live through something that should have ended you, your mind goes looking for structure.

    Was I spared?
    Was I protected?
    Was I chosen?
    Is my work not finished?

    You start searching for meaning like it’s oxygen.

    Because if there isn’t meaning, then what was it?

    Just timing?
    Just biology?
    Just luck?

    That feels thin. Almost insulting.

    But assigning meaning too quickly feels dangerous too, like you’re inflating something sacred into something self-important.

    So, you hover in between.

    Not wanting it to be random.
    Not wanting it to be grandiose.
    Just wanting it to make sense.

    Borrowed Time

    There’s this subtle shift after you come back.

    You don’t feel heroic.
    You feel… aware.

    Aware that the membrane between existence and absence is paper thin.
    Aware that everything you assumed was stable is not.
    Aware that you almost weren’t here to finish this sentence.

    Some mornings I wake up and there’s this quiet thought:

    I wasn’t supposed to see today.

    Not in a dramatic way. In a factual way.

    And that awareness changes things.

    It makes ordinary moments heavier.
    It makes conversations sharper.
    It makes time feel both urgent and fragile.

    It also makes you question everything.

    If I’m still here, does that mean I owe something?
    Am I living on borrowed time?
    Is survival a gift, or an assignment?

    The Weight of Responsibility

    There’s a temptation to believe survival equals purpose.

    That if you came back, you must have been preserved for something.

    That your mission isn’t over.

    That your work isn’t done.

    And that idea is powerful.

    But it’s also heavy.

    Because now you don’t just get to live.
    You feel like you have to justify it.

    You can’t waste it.
    You can’t drift.
    You can’t fail casually anymore.

    It feels like you’ve been handed a second chance and told, silently, don’t mess this up.

    That’s a lot to carry.

    Especially when you’re still shaken.
    Still human.
    Still flawed.

    The Spiritual Edge

    I’ve asked the question in therapy.
    I’ve asked it in prayer.
    I’ve asked it alone in the dark.

    Why am I still here?

    There are religious answers.
    Cosmic answers.
    Psychological answers.

    Some say it’s divine timing.
    Some say it’s biology.
    Some say it’s a medical miracle.

    But here’s the honest truth:

    I didn’t see heaven.
    I didn’t see hell.
    I didn’t come back with instructions.

    I came back with awareness.

    And awareness is disruptive.

    The Existential Middle

    Maybe the point isn’t that I was chosen.

    Maybe the point is that I was confronted.

    Confronted with fragility.
    With impermanence.
    With the fact that life is not guaranteed.

    That realization doesn’t make me special.

    It makes me responsible for how I move now.

    Not in a grand, messianic way.
    Not in a “the world needs me” way.

    But in a grounded way.

    If I’m still here, I get to choose how I live.

    That’s different than being chosen.

    That’s being conscious.

    The Real Question

    The longer I sit with it, the more I realize “Why me?” may not have an answer.

    Or maybe it’s the wrong question.

    Maybe the better question is:

    Now that I’m here… what do I do with it?

    Not in a frantic, prove-my-worth way.

    But in a deliberate way.

    How do I live knowing how thin the line is?
    How do I love knowing it can end?
    How do I carry responsibility without letting it become a burden?
    How do I search for meaning without forcing it?

    Survival didn’t come with a calling.

    It came with perspective.

    And maybe meaning isn’t something you’re handed after death brushes past you.

    Maybe meaning is something you build, slowly, after you come back.

    One conversation at a time.
    One honest moment at a time.
    One decision at a time.

    I don’t know why I survived.

    But I know I did.

    And for now, that’s enough to keep searching.

  • In a place where there are no humans, strive to be human.

    The Dichotomy of Man

    Order and Chaos, Individual and Community, Light and Shadow

    I don’t believe human beings are meant to be simple. Every attempt to flatten us into one label, one ideology, or one moral category ends up doing violence to who we actually are. The dichotomy of man isn’t a flaw to be corrected; it’s the fundamental tension that makes us human.

    At our core, we live between opposites.

    We are capable of compassion and cruelty.
    We crave freedom but seek structure.
    We want to belong, yet we fear being absorbed.

    Any worldview that insists we are only one thing, good or bad, healed or broken, victim or villain, fails to account for the full reality of human nature.

    Light and Shadow Are Not Enemies

    A friend once described me as someone who accepts the light and the shadow at the same time. I didn’t hear that as praise or critique, it felt like recognition.

    Something I cannot morally give up is seeing a person as whole, truly whole. Not reduced to their worst moment, not romanticized by their best, not lumped into a diagnosis, an identity, or a single chapter of their life. To see someone fully is, to me, a moral obligation.

    This conviction is deeply connected to how I understand Kabbalah. Not as mysticism removed from daily life, but as a framework for understanding brokenness without abandoning sanctity. In that worldview, the world itself is fractured, not because it is evil, but because it is unfinished. Meaning isn’t found in denying the fracture; it’s found in engaging it responsibly.

    Wholeness, then, does not mean purity. It means integration.

    Light and shadow are not opposing forces fighting for dominance, they are realities that must be held together. The shadow is instinct, fear, anger, desire, survival. When it is denied, it governs us unconsciously. When it is acknowledged, it can be disciplined, contextualized, and transformed.

    Accepting both at once means I don’t confuse goodness with innocence. I’m wary of people, systems included, who insist they are incapable of harm. History has shown us repeatedly that moral certainty without self-awareness is often the seed of cruelty. I trust people who know what they’re capable of and choose restraint more than those who believe restraint is unnecessary.

    The light gives direction.
    The shadow gives depth.

    Without the shadow, the light is naïve.
    Without the light, the shadow is destructive.

    Meaning lives in the tension between them, not in pretending one can exist without the other.

    How This Shapes My Counseling Philosophy

    This way of seeing humanity is inseparable from how I approach counseling.

    I do not believe the role of a counselor is to “fix” people by cutting away the parts that are uncomfortable, contradictory, or socially inconvenient. I believe the work is to help clients see themselves clearly enough to reclaim agency, without shame and without illusion.

    In practice, this means I refuse to reduce a client to a diagnosis or a symptom. Diagnoses can be useful; reduction is not. A person is not their trauma, their addiction, their depression, or their past choices, but neither are those things irrelevant. Healing doesn’t come from pretending the shadow isn’t there; it comes from understanding it well enough that it no longer runs the entire system.

    Seeing clients as whole allows for accountability without condemnation. It creates space where people can tell the truth about themselves without fear of being discarded. It also prevents the quiet harm of over-identification, where empathy turns into excuse-making and growth stalls.

    From this perspective, boundaries are not punitive; they are ethical. Compassion without boundaries collapses into enmeshment. Boundaries without compassion collapse into control. Holding both is difficult, but difficulty is not a sign something is wrong. It’s often a sign the work is honest.

    Order and Chaos: The Therapeutic Parallel

    The same tension between order and chaos exists in the therapeutic space.

    Too much structure, and therapy becomes sterile, procedural rather than relational. Too much chaos, and it becomes unsafe. Effective counseling lives between the two: structured enough to provide containment, flexible enough to meet the client where they actually are.

    Clients often come to therapy fragmented, parts of themselves disowned, exiled, or unexamined. The goal isn’t to erase those parts, but to integrate them. To help the client become someone who can hold their own contradictions without self-destruction.

    That process mirrors my broader view of human flourishing. A life without structure drifts. A life without flexibility breaks. The work, whether personal, communal, or therapeutic, is learning when to uphold the rule and when to question it, without pretending there is a permanent answer.

    Individual and Collective: Responsibility Without Erasure

    One of the great failures I see, both culturally and clinically, is the false choice between individual responsibility and contextual understanding. We are told we must choose one.

    I don’t accept that framing.

    The individual is the moral unit, but the individual does not exist in a vacuum. Trauma has context. Behavior has history. Choice exists, but it exists within constraints. Seeing people as whole means holding all of that at once.

    In counseling, this prevents two equally harmful extremes: blaming people for suffering they did not choose or stripping them of agency in the name of compassion. True dignity requires both understanding and responsibility.

    Why This Matters

    When we deny the dichotomy of man, we stop seeing people as human. We reduce them to stories that are easier to manage: hero, villain, patient, problem. We fracture others the same way we fracture ourselves.

    But when we insist on wholeness, even when it’s uncomfortable, we preserve dignity. We make accountability possible without erasure. Healing possible without denial. Growth possible without moral theater.

    The work of being human, and the work of counseling, is not choosing a side once and for all.
    It is choosing, again and again, to see fully.

    To sit with tension.
    To resist shortcuts.
    To refuse reduction.

    That tension, unresolved, uncomfortable, and deeply human, is not a failure of the process.
    It’s where meaning, responsibility, and real healing live.

    Living Within the Dichotomy

    The dichotomy of man is not something to be resolved. It is something to be lived with, consciously, responsibly, and without illusion. Wholeness is not found in choosing light overshadow, order over chaos, or certainty over doubt. It is found in the discipline of holding opposites without collapsing into denial or extremism.

    I don’t measure a life by how unmarked it remains, but by how honestly it is lived. To see someone fully, light and shadow together, is not softness. It is moral clarity. It is the refusal to reduce a human being to their worst moment or their best performance. It is the understanding that dignity survives contradiction.

    I’ve been told, more than once, that I’m someone’s main support person. It’s flattering, yes. And it’s heavy, definitely. Being trusted with another person’s inner world is not a compliment you wear lightly; it’s a responsibility you learn to carry with care, or not at all.

    I’ve learned that being a support does not mean becoming the ground someone else stands on. It means standing with them long enough for them to remember their own footing. The dichotomy matters here too: compassion without boundaries becomes control, and boundaries without compassion become abandonment. Wholeness demands both.

    Facing my own failures has taught me that fear of consequence is often what keeps people small. Growth requires risk. Integrity requires exposure. Meaning requires the courage to fail without disowning oneself. A life untouched by failure is rarely a life deeply engaged with responsibility.

    This is why I resist moral shortcuts, personally, socially, and professionally. Reducing people may be efficient, but it is never humane. Justice, healing, and leadership all demand the same discipline: to hold complexity without panic, to extend compassion without erasing agency, and to set limits without withdrawing care.

    The work of being human is not choosing a side once and for all.
    It is choosing, again and again, who we will be within the tension.

    I will continue to choose wholeness, even when it is heavy, even when it costs me, even when it would be easier not to. Because the dichotomy of man is not a problem to solve.

    It is the condition that makes meaning possible.

  • In a place where there are no humans, strive to be human.

    What We Lost When We Stopped Listening

    Why individual collectivism succeeds where identity politics fails

    I’ve been fortunate in ways I don’t take lightly.

    I’ve worked in Congress. I’ve sat in rooms with state representatives and state senators. I’ve worked alongside U.S. congressional delegations, both House and Senate, across party lines. I’ve seen how policy is shaped when people disagree but still understand the weight of what they’re responsible for.

    And I’ve never felt as discouraged about our country as I do right now.

    When I was younger, I leaned more toward the left, but I knew I was an independent. Not because I was undecided, but because the way I thought and what I believed never fully fit the definition of the Democratic Party. Over time, that independence didn’t cost me much, but it did change how clearly I could see.

    Independence strips away the illusion that one side holds a monopoly on truth.

    Some people will argue with me on this, but the political spectrum isn’t a straight line, it’s a horseshoe. The extremes bend so far toward each other that they end up resembling the same thing: rigid thinking, moral absolutism, and a refusal to acknowledge complexity. Different labels. Different language. Same outcome.

    I remember one moment from my time in Washington that still sticks with me.

    You know how newer cars will alert you if you’ve left a child in the backseat? Or prompt you to double-check before you walk away? I was part of the team that wrote legislation to make that technology a requirement, to turn it from a feature into a safeguard.

    That meant sitting down with members and staffers from both sides of the aisle and making the case. Not with slogans. Not with moral grandstanding. But with real conversations about safety, responsibility, feasibility, and lives that could be saved.

    And here’s the part that feels almost unrecognizable now.

    After work, we’d go to the same bars. We’d laugh. We’d talk about life. We’d enjoy each other’s company. The same people who challenged the bill during the day would buy you a drink at night.

    This was during the first Trump administration, and despite everything people assume, things were different. In D.C., when the workday ended, most people left identity politics at the door.

    Disagreement didn’t cancel humanity.

    That doesn’t mean the stakes weren’t real. They were.
    It means we still understood that disagreement wasn’t an identity, it was a position. One you could argue without turning the person across from you into an enemy.

    Somewhere along the way, we lost that.

    From my work with Alaska Native communities, I’ve come to believe in what I think of as individual collectivism, and it’s one of the clearest reasons I think identity politics ultimately fails people.

    Individual collectivism starts with a simple truth: the individual matters. Your dignity, agency, and responsibility aren’t erased for the sake of a group. At the same time, no one exists in isolation. Every choice is understood in relation to family, community, elders, and future generations.

    Identity politics flips that order.

    Instead of asking how does this person live responsibly within their community? it asks which group do they belong to first? People become representatives of labels rather than whole, complex human beings. Individual behavior is excused or condemned based on identity, not actions. Responsibility becomes selective. Empathy becomes conditional.

    In Alaska Native communities, you’re not reduced to a category, you’re known. You’re accountable to people who will still see you tomorrow. Rights come with obligations. Support comes with expectation. Care is mutual, not transactional.

    Identity politics promises protection, but often delivers isolation.

    It tells people who they are supposed to be angry at, what they’re allowed to say, and which parts of themselves must be muted to remain “in good standing” with the group. It discourages self-critique and punishes nuance; two things every healthy community depends on.

    Individual collectivism holds a harder line.

    It refuses to erase the person for the group or the group for the person. It understands that belonging requires responsibility, and freedom without relationship eventually becomes loneliness. Community without accountability becomes hollow.

    That balance, imperfect, human, relational, is what I’ve seen work.

    And it’s exactly what our national politics seems to be unlearning.

    I have friends on the left. I have friends on the right.
    And I fall somewhere in the middle, not because I lack conviction, but because I refuse to reduce complex human problems into clean ideological boxes.

    For most of my life, that middle ground felt like a bridge.
    I could sit with people I disagreed with. I could ask hard questions. I could listen, actually listen, and still be listened to in return. Respect didn’t require agreement. Curiosity didn’t require surrender.

    That space feels like it’s disappearing.

    Now, conversations feel like tests.
    Say the wrong phrase and you’re branded.
    Question the right narrative and you’re disloyal.
    Refuse to pick a side loudly enough and you’re accused of enabling the other.

    I’m tired.

    I’m tired of the division.
    Tired of the hate disguised as virtue.
    Tired of watching empathy become conditional.

    What worries me most isn’t polarization itself, nations survive that.
    It’s the loss of shared language. The erosion of good faith. The growing inability to sit in discomfort long enough to learn something real.

    We cannot build a future if every conversation begins with a verdict.

    I still believe this country is capable of better, not because we agree, but because we once knew how to disagree without dehumanizing. Because we once understood that democracy requires patience, humility, and the courage to stay at the table when walking away would be easier.

    But right now, I’m grieving that loss.

    Not quietly.
    Not dramatically.
    Just honestly.

    And maybe that grief, shared instead of shouted, is where something worth saving still begins.

  • In a place where there are no humans, strive to be human.

    Alaska, Seasonal Affective Disorder, and the Quiet Strain on Relationships

    Alaska is stunning in ways that are hard to explain unless you’ve lived here. The mountains feel grounding. The air feels honest. The quiet can heal parts of you that never rest anywhere else. But Alaska also asks a lot from the people who stay, especially in winter.

    When the light disappears, it doesn’t just change the landscape. It changes people.

    Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD) in Alaska isn’t rare, and it isn’t always obvious. That’s part of the problem. It often moves in quietly, disguising itself as exhaustion, irritability, or simply “getting through winter.” People keep functioning. They go to work. They show up. And because they’re still functioning, no one questions it, including themselves.

    When SAD Goes Unrecognized

    SAD doesn’t always look like depression. In Alaska, it’s easy to normalize low energy and isolation as part of the culture. You tell yourself you’re just tired. That everyone feels this way. That winter is supposed to feel heavy here.

    By the time SAD is recognized, months may have passed. Distance has already formed. Motivation has already dropped. Relationships have already started adjusting around a version of you that’s running on empty. What feels like a personal failure is often a seasonal condition that never got named.

    When SAD goes unrecognized, it quietly reshapes how people relate to each other. Withdrawal gets mistaken for disinterest. Emotional flatness gets read as indifference. Irritability feels like a personality change. Partners and friends respond to what they see, not what’s happening underneath, and the person struggling often feels misunderstood without knowing why.

    How Darkness Enters Relationships

    SAD doesn’t stay contained inside one person. It spills into relationships.

    Connection is usually the first thing to shift. Energy drops. Everything feels heavier. Texts go unanswered longer than intended. Plans feel overwhelming. Silence stretches, not because love is gone, but because simply existing takes more effort.

    To the other person, that distance can hurt. It can feel like being shut out. But inside, the person struggling is often dealing with emotional numbness, fatigue, and guilt for not showing up the way they want to.

    Communication Gets Murky in the Dark

    Winter already limits movement and spontaneity. Add unrecognized SAD, and communication suffers. It’s hard to explain what’s wrong when you don’t fully understand it yourself. Words don’t come easily. Feelings feel tangled or muted.

    Small misunderstandings grow larger in the absence of clarity. Tone gets misread. Silence gets filled with assumptions. One person thinks, They don’t care anymore. The other thinks, I’m failing them.

    Neither is usually true, but both feel real.

    Emotional Availability Takes a Hit

    SAD can dull emotional expression. Joy, affection, and intimacy don’t disappear, but they feel farther away. You might love someone deeply and still feel disconnected from your own emotions.

    For partners, it can feel like living with a different version of the person they know. For the person experiencing SAD, it often brings shame: Why can’t I just be normal? Why can’t I show up the way I used to?

    That shame pushes people further inward, especially when they don’t realize SAD is at play.

    The Imbalance That Builds Quietly

    Over time, winter can create an uneven dynamic. One person may take on more emotional labor, initiating conversations, making plans, checking in. If this imbalance isn’t acknowledged, resentment can creep in.

    In Alaska’s long winters, unspoken resentment grows fast in the dark.

    From the Partner’s Side, loving someone with SAD, especially when it’s unrecognized, can feel lonely. You might miss them even when they’re right next to you. You might question whether you’re doing enough, or too much.

    What partners often need is reassurance that the distance isn’t rejection. That the silence isn’t a lack of love. And what the person struggling needs is safety, knowing they won’t be resented or abandoned for something they didn’t choose.

    What Actually Helps

    Recognition changes everything. Naming SAD turns confusion into context.

    What helps isn’t perfection, it’s awareness and compassion:

    • Naming the season out loud
    • Lowering expectations without lowering care
    • Creating intentional winter routines together
    • Staying connected even when isolation feels easier
    • Getting support outside the relationship

    SAD doesn’t mean you’re broken. It means your environment is demanding more than usual.

    Alaska Teaches You About Seasons, Inside and Out

    Living in Alaska forces you to respect cycles. Darkness. Stillness. Endurance. Not every season is about growth. Some are about survival.

    Relationships don’t fall apart because of SAD. They struggle when it goes unrecognized, unspoken, and unsupported. But relationships that learn to move through winter together, honestly and gently, often come out stronger.

    The light always comes back here. And when it does, it reminds you why you stayed. Not just for the beauty, but for the resilience built together in the dark.

  • In a place where there are no humans, strive to be human.

    Healing After Impact

    I’ve always believed growth happens quietly, in nature, in stillness, in those long Alaska drives where the mountains remind you how small the world’s chaos really is. But the past few months challenged me in ways I never expected. Growth didn’t come gently. It came violently, abruptly, and in a way that forced me to reevaluate who I am and what I stand for.

    Recently, I became the victim of a domestic violence assault.

    Even typing that feels unreal. I’ve spent years working with elders, families, and people navigating trauma — but nothing prepares you for the moment when you’re the one looking in the mirror and asking:

    Was this my fault?
    Could I have done something differently?
    How did I end up here?

    People say DV can happen to anyone, but you never fully understand that truth until you’re living it — carrying questions that feel heavier than the bruises themselves.

    Physically, I wasn’t hurt too badly, a couple scars, a few bruises, a fat lip, some property damage. But the mental aspect? That’s where the real scars form. The replay. The shock. The weight of knowing that someone you thought you cared for crossed a line you can’t ever uncross.

    And here’s something most people won’t understand:

    I’m 6’3” and 290 lbs. I know exactly what I’m capable of physically. And choosing not to hurt someone back — even when I could have — was strength.

    Real strength is restraint.
    Real strength is refusing to escalate violence.
    Real strength is walking away when your pride wants revenge.
    Real strength is not becoming what hurt you.

    The scars heal, the bruises fade, the lip heals. But the mental weight of choosing compassion over retaliation can linger in ways no one warns you about.

    Yet with all of that, this experience taught me one thing with absolute clarity:

    Stay close to the people who actually care for you.

    When life cracks open, the real ones show up. They check in. They listen. They ground you. They remind you who you are when you start to doubt it. And in that way, violence didn’t break me, it sharpened my understanding of love, loyalty, and who deserves access to my life.

    And Then the Political Hit Came

    As if the personal violence wasn’t enough, another wave came from hundreds of miles away during my dad’s mayoral race in Ohio.

    The Montgomery County Republican Party launched what can only be described as a political witch hunt. Let me say that again, they deliberately launched a political witch hunt against me. And this wasn’t a misunderstanding or a routine check. This was targeted. Calculated. Personal.

    They challenged my voter registration, publicly accusing me of illegally voting in two states — a felony. they knew I hadn’t. My Ohio voter record clearly showed I hadn’t voted there in over seven years and was already scheduled to be removed from the rolls next month. But accuracy didn’t matter. The goal wasn’t truth — it was damage.

    They tried to turn me into a criminal for headlines.
    They tried to use my name as ammunition to smear my dad.
    They tried to drag me into something I had nothing to do with, simply because I’m his son.

    The most disturbing part was how cold it all felt, like I wasn’t a human being with a life and a reputation, but just a tool they could use to hurt someone else.

    And if what they did to me was bad, the way they went after my mom was worse.

    Kenny Henning harassed her with repeated public records requests, digging and digging, fishing for anything he could twist into wrongdoing. He tried to corner her, intimidate her, and paint her as someone abusing public funds. She wasn’t. None of it was true. But he didn’t care. He didn’t have to care.

    He tried to weaponize bureaucracy to break her spirit.

    This wasn’t politics.
    This wasn’t oversight.
    This was a coordinated attempt to discredit, embarrass, and destabilize my family.

    All of this over a small-town mayor’s race.

    The combination of being assaulted in my personal life while being falsely accused of a crime in my political life created a type of emotional whiplash I wasn’t prepared for. One person tried to hurt my body. Another tried to destroy my name. Both left marks — just in different places.

    But the heaviest part of all of this is simple:

    Someone tried to make me a villain in a story where I wasn’t even a character.

    Where I Go From Here

    I’m choosing healing.
    I’m choosing clarity.
    I’m choosing to stop carrying blame that was never mine.
    I’m choosing to stop asking what I could have done differently to avoid someone else’s violence or someone else’s hate.

    Instead, I’m leaning into the things that ground me:

    • The quiet strength of Alaska’s landscape
    • My counseling journey and mental health growth
    • Community, connection, and the people who show up
    • My Jewish worldview of Tikkun Olam — repairing the world piece by piece, including myself

    These experiences — as painful, unfair, and unexpected as they were — didn’t destroy me. They refined me. They deepened my empathy. They sharpened my intuition. They pushed me closer to my purpose as both a person and a future mental health counselor.

    The End of This Chapter

    This wasn’t the chapter I wanted.
    But it’s the one I was given.
    And now it becomes part of my story, not the part that defines me, but the part that strengthens me.

    I’m not the violence that was done to me.
    I’m not the lies told about me.
    I’m not the political games someone tried to play with my name.

    I’m the person who chose restraint when anger would have been easier.
    I’m the person who walked away instead of retaliating.
    I’m the person who protected others even while hurting myself.
    I’m the person who continues to repair, rebuild, and grow.

    If healing has taught me anything, it’s this:

    You can’t control what people do to you, but you can control who you become because of it.

    And I’m choosing to become someone stronger.
    Someone more grounded.
    Someone more compassionate.
    Someone who stands tall — metaphorically, not because I’m 6’3”, but because of the resilience I’ve built.

    This is not the end of anything.
    This is the beginning of something better.

  • In a place where there are no humans, strive to be human.

    Trump and Putin in Alaska ew

    If you told teenage me this would be happening one day, two world leaders touching down in the same state I fled to for peace, I’d probably laugh. But here we are.

    This meeting brought up more than just geopolitical tension for me. It stirred something personal.

    For most people, this is just another bizarre political moment. But for me, it drags up memories of working in Congress, of walking in political parades, being in commercials, before I was old enough to fully understand what power meant, or what it cost.

    I grew up in the political eye.

    My mom was a county commissioner. My dad, a lawyer and local politician as well as party leader. Yeah, from the outside it doesn’t seem like a county commissioner would carry much weight, but in the Dayton region, and across Ohio, my family name opened doors. It came with recognition. Respect. And pressure.

    My parents are known nationally for their achievements, and being fired(sorry dad). And when your last name means something to other people, you start to question what it means to you.

    It takes a toll. We were known. Respected. Watched.

    There’s pride, of course. But there’s also the constant undertone of who am I outside of this legacy? Am I allowed to disagree? To disappear? To not be “on” all the time? Growing up like that… it shapes you. You learn to navigate power early. You learn how decisions are made, how narratives are spun, and how the personal is always political. You also learn what it feels like to be invisible behind a legacy that never asked if you wanted to carry it.

    As I have said before, that’s part of why I came to Alaska. Not to escape politics entirely because I’m still deeply committed to justice, but to reclaim my voice. To build a life that isn’t defined by what room I’m in or what name is on my badge.

    I’ve been told all my life that I’d make a great elected official, and maybe they’re right. But that life? It almost swallowed me. So, I left.

    Now, as I watch Trump and Putin converge on a land I came to for clarity, it feels… surreal.

    Because I know what Russia is. And I know what power unchecked looks like.

    Ukraine deserves to be free from that grip. And so does Alaska.

    This land has its own heartbeat, Indigenous, wild, and resilient. It doesn’t belong in the shadow of colonial greed or militarized agendas. It deserves leaders who listen, not posture. Who protect, not perform. And Alaska will always be a place worth protecting from anyone who sees it as a pawn instead of a people.

    I came here for that silence. For that clarity.

    To lead in my own way, not from a podium, but from the ground. From community. From care.

    Maybe one day I’ll step into office. Maybe I won’t. But what I know is this:

    Power doesn’t impress me anymore. Integrity does. Sovereignty does. Stillness does.

    Because even here, power finds its way in. Cameras follow. Narratives spin.

    And I’m reminded again that real power, the kind that doesn’t make headlines, is choosing who you want to be when no one’s watching.

    That’s what I’m learning to do. In the silence. In the wilderness. In this northern life I’ve claimed for myself.

    And maybe that’s what leadership should be more about, too.

    Not spectacle. But substance.

    Not legacy. But integrity.

    Not control. But clarity.

  • In a place where there are no humans, strive to be human.

    Land of Layers: On Indigeneity, Identity, and the Hope for Peace in the Levant

    The Levant: this sliver of earth nestled between the Mediterranean and the desert, has always carried the weight of stories, scars, and sacredness. It’s where empires rose, prophets walked, and languages blossomed and died. It’s a place where the land remembers.

    When we talk about indigeneity in the Levant, we must talk in layers, not absolutes.

    Yes, Jews are indigenous to this land. Not metaphorically, but literally. Our language was born here. Our ancestors walked here. Our spiritual compass has always pointed here, no matter how far exile flung us. Even in diaspora, we kept the soil of this place in our prayers, in our customs, in our bones. Denying that indigeneity erases thousands of years of identity, memory, and survival.

    But we are not alone in that belonging.

    Palestinians, too, carry deep roots in this land, culturally, linguistically, and genealogically. Many are descendants of the same ancient peoples, including Judeans and Canaanites who remained and evolved through generations, faiths, and empires. They’ve lived, loved, and suffered here for centuries. To deny their indigeneity is just as dishonest, just as violent.

    🕍 The ancient Israelites, our ancestors, were native to the central hill country of what would later be called Judea and Samaria. This isn’t just spiritual symbolism, it’s archaeological and cultural fact.

    🌿 The Canaanites, among the earliest inhabitants of the land, are ancestral to modern groups like Palestinians, Samaritans, and even some Jewish families, my family included, with lineages deeply interwoven with the region.

    📜 The Samaritans, a small yet ancient people, trace their lineage to the northern tribes of Israel. They continue to practice a distinct form of Israelite religion, centered on Mount Gerizim. Though few in number, their presence predates nearly every major conquest and modern political border. They have preserved their identity, language (a dialect of ancient Hebrew), and Torah tradition for thousands of years in the very heart of this land.

    🌀 The Druze, an esoteric ethnoreligious group, also trace their roots to the Levant. Though their theology diverged from Islam in the 11th century, their ethnic and geographic origins are deeply Levantine. Centered primarily in Israel, Lebanon, and Syria, Druze communities have maintained a strong connection to specific mountainous regions for generations. Their identity is shaped not only by spiritual beliefs but also by an indigenous tie to place and local stewardship of land.

    Across millennia, the Levant was reshaped again and again, Egyptian, Assyrian, Babylonian, Persian, Greek, Roman, Byzantine, Arab, Crusader, Ottoman, British. But empire is not indigeneity. Conquest does not erase belonging.

    What defines indigenous identity is not temporary rule, it’s long-term continuity, cultural survival, and ancestral ties to the land.

    🔯 The Jewish people meet all of those markers. Even in exile, we preserved Hebrew, held sacred the direction of Jerusalem, and kept a permanent presence in cities like Hebron, Tzfat, and Tiberias. By every academic standard applied globally, Jews qualify as indigenous to the land of Israel.

    At the same time, Palestinian Arabs, especially those whose ties to the land predate the modern Arab conquests and remained unbroken through the Ottoman and British periods, also meet those standards. Many descend from ancient Semitic peoples: Judeans who became Christians or Muslims, regional Canaanites, and other long-rooted communities.

    🧭 The Levant is not a blank canvas. It is a tapestry, woven with stories of return, resistance, resilience, and reverence.

    So how do we hold these truths together?

    It is not easy, especially when the headlines break our hearts and test our ethics.

    We cannot ignore today’s brutal realities. The bombings in Gaza. The demolitions in the West Bank. The military occupation. The fear in Israeli towns under rocket fire. These are not “issues.” They are human pain, lived daily. And they violate the values of Torah, human dignity, and moral conscience.

    But we also cannot abandon the fight for Jewish self-determination. Our people carry deep trauma. from pogroms, ghettos, expulsions, and genocide. My family alone suffered mass execution and near extinction. A homeland was never a luxury. It was a lifeline. It still is.

    Still, self-determination cannot mean domination.

    Jewish survival cannot demand Palestinian displacement. Palestinian freedom cannot come through Jewish erasure. We must reject this false dichotomy; this inherited script where one people’s liberation must be another’s loss.

    There should not be checkpoints that humiliate.
    There should not be airstrikes that level families.
    There should not be settlers uprooting ancient olive trees.
    There should not be tunnels built with the desperation of the blockaded.

    And yet, even now, there is hope.

    In the past few months, I’ve shared stories with a Palestinian family in Gaza. We’ve exchanged laughter, tears, and hope. We’ve mourned together, imagined together. This isn’t simple. But this is humanity.

    🕊️ Peace does not begin with perfect politics. It begins with truth.

    With acknowledging historical pain, without using it to justify present violence.
    With grieving, not just our own dead, but the children buried on both sides.
    With telling the truth, about the beauty and the brutality, of everyone’s story.

    Peace requires a new imagination.

    To see Jews, Palestinians, Samaritans, and Druze, not as rivals, but as descendants of this soil.
    To understand that indigeneity is not a weapon. It’s a shared inheritance.
    To stop asking “Who belongs?” and start asking “How do we belong together?”

    This land has always been sacred.
    But maybe the most sacred act now… is to make it a home again, for all of us.

    Without fear.
    Without exile.
    Without shame.

    It won’t be easy. But truth rarely is.

  • In a place where there are no humans, strive to be human.

    The Arctic Helped Me Breathe Again.

    The Arctic helped me breathe again.

    Not just in the physical sense; though the cold air, long roads, and silence absolutely cleared something in me, but in a deeper way.
    Emotionally. Mentally. Spiritually.

    As a man who openly advocates for men’s mental health, I’ve had to learn the hard way that healing isn’t one-size-fits-all.
    We’re taught to be strong. Stoic. Unshaken.
    We’re taught to internalize instead of express, to fix instead of feel. This cultural conditioning often leads to a suppression of emotions, creating a facade of toughness that masks vulnerability. The reality is that acknowledging our struggles is not a weakness, but rather a pivotal step towards genuine healing.

    Sharing our experiences and seeking support, whether through therapy, friendships, or communities, can redefine our understanding of strength. It encourages us to break free from the chains of societal expectations and embrace the authenticity of our emotions. In doing so, we can foster deeper connections with others who may be navigating similar challenges, thus creating a supportive network that thrives on empathy and understanding.

    In this journey called life, it’s important to recognize that each individual’s path to healing may be different, influenced by personal experiences and environments. Some may find solace in solitary reflection, while others may seek the comfort of community experiences. It’s important that we validate these diverse approaches, highlighting the importance of an open dialogue on the varied needs of men as they navigate their mental health.

    Understanding that mental health is not a linear path can empower us to approach our individual journeys with patience and compassion. We need to dismantle the stigma surrounding mental health by encouraging conversations that promote vulnerability and openness. Within these discussions, we can find strength and solidarity, transforming our narratives from one of isolation to collective resilience.

    But here’s the truth: that kind of silence was slowly erasing me. By choosing to speak up and share my story, I opened the door not only for my own healing but also for others who may be silently struggling. It is in the act of sharing that we can catalyze change, reshaping the narrative around men’s mental health to one that emphasizes connection, support, and the courage to be vulnerable.

    This trip, through Gwich’in and Inuvialuit lands, across the Dempster Highway, ferry by ferry, village by village, wasn’t just an adventure but a journey into my own spirit. It was sacred, each stretch of road and each interaction with the land weaving an intricate tapestry of history and respect.
    It was soul work, allowing me to unravel the complexities within and realign with the essence of who I truly am. This immersion in nature’s untouched beauty felt like a pilgrimage, invoking age-old traditions and stories of the Indigenous peoples who have called this land home long before me.
    It was me stepping into my own stillness so I could actually hear myself again; the whispers of the wind, the rustle of leaves, and the distant calls of wildlife became a gentle reminder of the connection we all share with the earth. I found clarity, purpose, and a renewed appreciation for the sacredness of life itself.

    And I made a very personal choice while I was out there:
    I paused my medications; intentionally, temporarily, and with full self-awareness.
    Not to be reckless. Not to reject what has helped me.
    But because I wanted to feel everything. Raw. Unfiltered.
    The grief I’ve buried. The questions I’ve carried. The pride I’ve been too quiet about.
    I wanted to stand in the discomfort, the beauty, the magnitude of it all, and not dull a single part of it.

    Because for me, sometimes healing doesn’t come in the form of a prescription.
    It comes from being alone on a stretch of Arctic Road with no cell signal, no expectations, no one to perform for. In that solitude, there was a profound sense of liberation that washed over me. I was able to confront the parts of myself that I often suppressed or overlooked. The raw emotions came to the surface, allowing me to acknowledge my grief, questions, and even my unvoiced pride. It was like I was peeling back the layers of my own being, realizing just how much I had held back just trying to hold it all together.

    Each mile that passed was a reminder of my own humanity, the complexities of life that often get overshadowed by our daily routines. The isolation of the landscape mirrored the inner landscape of my heart and mind. I thought of the moments that defined me, the victories that felt small, and the losses that weighed heavily on my spirit. I was reminded that growth requires both joy and pain and that sitting with my emotions, even though it was uncomfortable, it was a powerful act of self-love.

    With every breath of crisp, cold air, I felt a sense of clarity emerge. It became apparent that allowing myself to truly experience these feelings was the key to unlocking a deeper understanding of myself. I realized that this journey was not just about escaping the world but about embracing it fully, all the messy, beautiful, and often chaotic parts. It was about reclaiming my narrative in a world that often tries to dictate how we should feel and act.

    I emerged from that experience transformed, carrying with me a renewed sense of purpose and an acceptance of my multifaceted self. In choosing to pause, I discovered emotions waiting to be explored and celebrated. Sometimes, to heal fully, we must embark on courageous journeys into the depths of our own hearts, facing whatever comes our way with open arms.

    To me, getting out in the middle of nowhere, pushing past my physical limits, confronting my fears, is more healing than anything else.
    Because in that space, surrounded by vast landscapes and untouched nature, I remember why I’m here.
    I find clarity in the silence, a space where my mind can roam free and reflect on the journey I’ve taken.
    Why I do the work I do becomes unmistakably clear as I reconnect with my passion and purpose.
    The challenges I face in these moments translate to resilience in my everyday life, reaffirming my commitment to the mission I hold dear.
    And who I do it for; my family, my friends, and those who rely on me, brings me a sense of gratitude that fuels my drive to continue forward.

    I do it for the men who don’t feel safe to speak, for the voices that get drowned out by societal expectations and the weight of silence.
    For the men who were never taught how to cry, who hold their emotions inside like a storm waiting to break, afraid of the vulnerability that comes with openness.
    For the boys inside those men who were told they had to grow up fast and never look back, who carry the burden of unfulfilled childhood dreams and the longing for a time when innocence was not overshadowed by the burdens of adulthood.

    I do it for those of us who carry heavy things in silence, burdened with the weight of our struggles and fears, yet are learning how to put them down, one small step at a time, embracing the courage it takes to let go, to accept support from others, and to find solace in the shared experience of our journey toward healing and self-discovery.

    Out in the Arctic, I cried.
    I sat with myself, allowing the cold air to fill my lungs, and I forgave myself for the burdens I had carried for far too long.
    I remembered my ancestors, their struggles and triumphs, their wisdom woven into the fabric of my being.
    And at 10:45am, on my 30th birthday, I stepped into the Arctic Ocean to perform a mikvah, a Jewish ritual of spiritual renewal that connects me to generations past.
    As the frigid water embraced me, I felt each wave wash away the doubts and fears that had haunted me.
    I came out of that water shivering, but clear, the chill invigorating my senses and reminding me of my resilience.
    Something in me shifted; I felt lighter, freer, and more alive than I had in years. And I know I’ll carry that moment for the rest of my life, a reminder that rebirth is always possible, even in the coldest, most desolate places.

    I’m not saying this is the way for everyone. It’s not.
    Medication can save lives; it can provide the necessary support during challenging times, helping individuals regain stability when the world feels overwhelming. Therapy can save lives, offering a safe space for deep introspection and healing through human connection and understanding. Community can save lives, fostering relationships that nurture and uplift us, reminding us that we are never truly alone in our struggles.
    But for me, this was part of my path, a chapter that needed to be written in cold air, on ancestral land, in stillness, where I could hear the whispers of the past guiding me and feel the weight of the earth beneath me, grounding my thoughts and emotions, transforming pain into strength as I reflected on my journey and embraced the lessons life had to offer.

    If you’re a man reading this, and you’re struggling:
    Please know this…

    You are not alone.
    You don’t have to carry it all by yourself, even when the weight feels overwhelming and the path ahead seems unclear.
    You don’t have to be anyone’s version of “strong” but your own; strength comes in many forms, and your vulnerability is just as powerful as your resilience.
    You’re allowed to feel every emotion, from joy to sorrow, it’s valid and part of the human experience.
    You’re allowed to break down and rebuild, to let the pieces scattered around you become the foundation for a new beginning.
    You’re allowed to heal; on your terms, in your own time, taking the steps that feel right for you, as you navigate your unique journey of growth and self-discovery.

    And whether your healing comes from a therapist’s office, a support group, a mountain trail, or an ocean at the end of the world, I hope you find it.
    And I hope you let it find you, too.

    Because you’re still here.
    And that means something.

    🧠 Men’s Mental Health Resources – Alaska + National

    Alaska-Based Resources

    • Careline Alaska – Call or Text: 988 or 1-877-266-HELP (4357)
      Alaska’s statewide 24/7 crisis line — confidential, free, and deeply rooted in local context.
    • Southcentral Foundation Behavioral Health (Anchorage + Rural Alaska)
      Culturally responsive counseling and men’s support groups. www.southcentralfoundation.com
    • ANHC Traditional Healing Program (Alaska Native Health Consortium)
      Offers access to traditional healers, talking circles, and wellness support rooted in Alaska Native culture.
    • NAMI Alaska – www.namialaska.org
      Offers peer groups, education, and advocacy for mental health across the state.
    • Alaska Men Choose Respect
      Encouraging healthy masculinity and emotional resilience through public health and prevention work.
    • Alaska Behavioral Health – www.akbh.org
      Anchorage-based with telehealth options statewide. Offers trauma-informed, inclusive mental health care.

    National Men’s Mental Health Resources

    • HeadsUpGuys – headsupguys.org
      Focused on depression in men, with real tools and relatable stories.
    • Man Therapy – mantherapy.org
      Combines mental health resources with approachable, guy-to-guy humor and strategy.
    • Therapy for Black Men – therapyforblackmen.org
      Connecting men of color with culturally competent mental health professionals.
    • StrongHearts Native Helpline – 1-844-762-8483
      Support for Native men and women experiencing emotional, relational, or spiritual distress.
    • Jewish Family & Children’s Services (Local chapters in most cities)
      Many offer therapy, spiritual counseling, and men’s support circles rooted in Jewish values and community.
    • Muslim Mental Health Resources – U.S.-Based
      • Khalil Center – khalilcenter.com
        Islamic psychotherapy rooted in traditional Islamic spiritual teachings and modern clinical practice. Offices in CA, IL, NY + telehealth in many states.
      • Maristan – maristan.org
        Founded by Dr. Rania Awaad. Offers trauma-informed, spiritually integrated therapy, suicide prevention, and community education. Based in California, open to broader U.S. Muslim communities.
      • MPSN (Muslim Peer Support Network) – mpsn.org
        Free, online peer-led support groups for Muslims navigating mental health, trauma, faith transitions, and more. Separate groups for men, converts, and youth.
      • Hotlines, Helplines, and Text-Based Support
      • Naseeha Mental Health Helpline – naseeha.org
        Anonymous support line for Muslims struggling with mental health, relationships, identity, or addiction.
        Call or text: 1-866-627-3342 (Available in the U.S. & Canada)
      • Amala Hopeline – amalamentalhealth.org
        Peer support line staffed by trained Muslim volunteers. Emotional first aid for Muslim youth and young adults.

  • In a place where there are no humans, strive to be human.

    Decolonized North: A Journey Through Gwich’in and Inuvialuit Lands

    The Journey North

    When I set out to drive north, I mean really north, I knew it would be a powerful journey. But I didn’t know how much it would change me.

    Over the past week, I made my way through the Yukon and Northwest Territories, starting in Dawson City YK, then onto Teetł’it Zheh (Fort McPherson), Tsiigehtchic, Inuvik, and all the way up to Tuktoyaktuk, where the land gives way to the Arctic Ocean. Each village holds a story of survival, sovereignty, and sacred connection. This wasn’t just a road trip. It was a lesson in decolonization in motion, led by the Gwich’in and Inuvialuit peoples who call this land home.

    Teetł’it Zheh: The Head of the Waters

    Fort McPherson’s Gwich’in name, Teetł’it Zheh, means “at the head of the waters.” It sits beside the Peel River and carries generations of Gwich’in knowledge, resistance, and connection to the land.

    The Gwich’in are not passive observers of history, they are defenders of the land, culture, and future. For decades, they’ve led the charge to protect the Porcupine Caribou Herd and sacred areas like the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge from oil drilling. Their resistance to oil extraction is not just about environmentalism, it’s about survival, cultural continuity, and sovereignty.

    Here, decolonization is lived. It’s present in the way people gather, hunt, speak their language, and organize. It’s felt in their self-determined choices, not just to reject development, but to offer a different vision of what sustainability and protection look like. A vision rooted in tradition, kinship, and responsibility to land and future generations.

    Ferries, Lifelines, and Local Power

    Driving further north meant crossing powerful rivers, the Peel and the Mackenzie, by ferry. There are no permanent bridges in these parts, which means ferries are essential for connection.

    But what struck me was who runs them: local Indigenous crews. These ferries aren’t corporate-run or managed by outside contractors. They are community-operated, maintained by those who live with the rivers, who understand their moods, currents, and dangers.

    These ferry crossings aren’t just infrastructure. They’re a symbol of Indigenous self-reliance — of what it looks like when communities operate their own lifelines, on their own land, with their own people.

    Tsiigehtchic and Inuvik: Layers of Identity

    Tsiigehtchic is a smaller Gwich’in village nestled where the Mackenzie and Arctic Red Rivers meet. Quiet, beautiful, and full of stories. People here have deep ties to the land and to each other. It reminded me how decolonization isn’t always loud sometimes it looks like gathering berries, fishing, or passing down a story in the original language.

    Inuvik, by contrast, is a more developed hub, home to both Gwich’in and Inuvialuit communities. It’s where two strong Indigenous cultures meet, and you feel it in everything from the architecture (like the famous Igloo Church) to the food, to the regional governance. Inuvik is a place where self-government isn’t an idea, it’s daily life.

    And all throughout, you see something else: there is no military base here. No oil rigs. No extraction. Because the people here made it clear, they are the guardians of this land. They don’t need militarized presence. They have the Canadian Rangers; many of whom are Gwich’in and Inuvialuit. These Indigenous Rangers are the Arctic’s frontline, responding to emergencies, navigating harsh terrain, and preserving traditional knowledge passed through generations.

    They are the military. But they do it differently: with wisdom, community, and cultural knowledge.

    Here’s some of my writing from the trip:

    From Alaska to the Northwest Territories, the land looks the same.
    The people are the same.
    They speak the same languages. Practice the same traditions. Carry the same ancestral wisdom.

    They are one people, separated not by choice, but by colonization. Divided by invisible borders that governments drew without consent or care.

    And it makes me ask:
    What does true decolonization look like?

    Because it’s not just about acknowledging past harm.
    It’s about returning voice, land, and power to the people who belong to it.

    And as a Jew, I feel that on a deep level.
    We too are a people of land and exile.
    Of language and longing.
    Of forced borders and the struggle for self-determination in our ancestral homeland.
    We’ve been told who we are, and told not to be it, for thousands of years.
    And still, we hold on.

    Just like the Indigenous peoples of the Arctic.
    Who are still here.
    Still fighting to be seen.
    Still deeply connected to a land that others tried to control.

    The U.S. and Canada didn’t claim the Arctic to protect it.
    They claimed it to control it; for oil, for military dominance, for maps that made sense to outsiders.

    But the people of this land don’t need permission to exist.
    They need the freedom to define themselves.

    Just like Jews, they deserve more than survival.
    They deserve sovereignty.

    Tuktoyaktuk: Where the Road Ends and Renewal Begins

    Reaching Tuktoyaktuk was surreal. It’s the northernmost publicly drivable point in Canada, perched on the coast of the Arctic Ocean, where the Inuvialuit have lived for thousands of years.

    Tuktoyaktuk, known locally as Tuktuuyaqtuuq, meaning “it looks like a caribou” is a remote Inuvialuit hamlet on the shore of the Arctic Ocean, and one of the few places in the world where you can drive all the way to the sea in the high Arctic. For thousands of years, the Inuvialuit people have lived here, thriving in a land shaped by ocean ice, caribou migration, and deep ancestral knowledge. Tuk is known for its pingos ice-cored hills that rise unexpectedly from the tundra, sacred to many and protected as part of Pingo Canadian Landmark. The community today is a living testament to adaptation, endurance, and cultural preservation, from traditional fishing and subsistence living to language revitalization and land-based education.

    There are no hotels towering over the horizon. Just homes, boats, fishing nets drying in the wind, and people carrying on, in rhythm with the land and the sea.

    What the North Taught Me

    Decolonization is often misunderstood. People think it’s about removing statues or rewriting textbooks. But here, in Gwich’in and Inuvialuit lands, I saw what true decolonization looks like:

    • It looks like rejecting oil leases and protecting caribou.
    • It looks like running ferries with Indigenous crews, not corporations.
    • It looks like Indigenous Rangers guiding the North instead of military bases.
    • It looks like children learning their language again.
    • It looks like Elders leading.
    • It looks like community defining its own infrastructure, justice, and care.

    What Alaska Can Learn from the Northwest Territories

    I didn’t come here to take.
    I came to witness. To reflect. To reconnect.

    The communities of Teetł’it Zheh, Tsiigehtchic, Inuvik, and Tuktoyaktuk didn’t just welcome me, they taught me. They showed me what it looks like when Indigenous governance, land stewardship, and cultural continuity aren’t theories… they’re daily life.

    And as someone who works in Tribal health and lives in Alaska, I couldn’t help but reflect on what could be different back home.

    Because Alaska has the potential; the people, the knowledge, the land-based traditions but we are still navigating systems built to divide, extract, and control.

    In the Northwest Territories, I saw:

    • Ferries run by Indigenous crews
    • Rangers who protect and serve with ancestral knowledge, not armed force
    • No corporate oil rigs or federal installations dominating the horizon
    • Self-governance that centers Elders, youth, and language revitalization

    This isn’t utopia, it’s effort. It’s resilience. It’s a future built from within, not imposed from the outside.

    What would it look like if Alaska leaned deeper into this model?
    If we invested in Indigenous-led infrastructure, not just culturally adapted services?
    If we viewed sovereignty not as a talking point, but as a structure for education, health, housing, justice, and beyond?

    I’ll never forget the people of the Arctic who let me into their villages and showed me, not by speech, but by example, that decolonization is not symbolic.
    It’s real. It’s happening. And it’s possible.This trip was more than a destination. It was an experience of what’s possible when Indigenous communities lead and when the rest of us are willing to listen.

    I didn’t come here to take.
    I came to witness. To reflect. To reconnect.

    I’ll never forget the people of Teetł’it Zheh, Tsiigehtchic, Inuvik, and Tuktoyaktuk. They showed me what endurance, leadership, and love for the land really look like.

    And they reminded me; decolonization isn’t a concept. It’s a lived reality. And it’s already happening.

  • In a place where there are no humans, strive to be human.

    July: A Month of Reflection, Memory, and Renewal

    July has always carried a certain weight for me. It’s not just the heart of summer or a stretch of long, golden days, for me, July is sacred. It holds memory, grief, love, and becoming. Every year, it asks me to pause, take stock, and reflect. But this year… it’s different.

    It begins today, July 1st my late grandfather’s birthday. He passed just a few months ago, and this will be the first time we mark that day without him here. His absence is still fresh. He was steady, strong, and deeply rooted in who he was, and in many ways, those roots became part of me. Remembering him now feels tender and raw, but also full of gratitude. His memory is a blessing I carry daily.

    Just two days after my own birthday comes July 12th, my grandmother’s birthday. His wife. Still alive. Still full of grace and strength. I often think about how this week must feel for her and how she carries both celebration and loss, woven tightly together. There’s a quiet resilience there that runs through our whole family.

    And then comes July 10th — my birthday.
    This year, I turn 30.

    The truth is… I never expected to live to see 30.

    That sentence carries weight. There were chapters of my life that felt too dark to see past. Moments where the pressure, the pain, the loneliness, all of it, made the idea of growing older feel impossible. But here I am. Not just alive, but grounded. A little bruised, maybe, but deeply present. And that’s worth everything.

    It’s my birthday. A milestone year. A symbolic crossing into a new chapter of adulthood, of responsibility, of intention. But the 10th doesn’t belong to me alone. It’s also the anniversary of my other grandparents’ wedding and the anniversary of my grandmother’s passing.

    So, in one day, I hold birth, union, and loss.
    Life, love, and grief braided into one sacred thread.

    The days between the 1st and the 10th have become something of a spiritual container for me. A space for reflection, grounding, and recalibration. Each year, I ask myself:
    What am I still carrying that no longer serves me?
    What would my grandparents be proud of?
    Who am I becoming and who do I still need to return to?

    Ever since moving to Alaska, I’ve developed a quiet tradition: I spend my birthdays alone; off-grid, in the middle of nowhere, reconnecting with the land, with Spirit, and with myself. I don’t crave parties or attention. I crave stillness. Solitude. The kind of silence that doesn’t feel empty, but sacred.

    This year, I’m taking that to another level.

    I’ll be driving north; out of Alaska and into the Northwest Territories until I reach the edge of the continent. The Arctic Ocean. There, I’ll perform a mikvah, a ritual immersion in those freezing, ancient waters. Not just as a spiritual practice, but as a rebirth. A soul-reset. A way to shed the weight of the last chapter and step fully, intentionally, into what’s next.

    Because for me, July isn’t just a time to remember. It’s a time to return: to myself, to my roots, to the deepest parts of who I am.

    This is how I honor the ones who came before me.
    How I make peace with what I’ve lived through.
    And how I choose; deliberately and with both feet in, to keep going.

    So here I am, turning 30 at the top of the world.
    Not just surviving.
    But becoming.
    And for the first time, truly choosing to live wildly, honestly, and fully awake.

    Because I know what it’s like to carry heaviness in silence.
    To smile through pain.
    To not know how to ask for help.

    That’s why I’ve become deeply committed to men’s mental health.
    Not just in words, but in action. In showing up, in telling the truth, in creating space where vulnerability isn’t seen as weakness, but as strength. Because I believe that healing becomes real when we share it. When we offer it back.

    This year, I don’t just celebrate 30 as a personal milestone, I mark it as a turning point.
    From surviving… to serving.
    From holding it in… to holding space.
    From the boy who didn’t think he’d make it,
    to the man who now helps others find their way through.

    Happy birthday, Grandpa.
    You helped shape the best parts of me.
    And as I step into this next chapter, I carry you with me.