I often reflect deeply on the lessons we’ve learned from Indigenous leaders who have shared their wisdom and experiences at Forward Summit and Workforce Forward. These conversations continually remind me that economic reconciliation is not about organizations imposing solutions but about genuinely listening and learning from Indigenous peoples as they lead these vital discussions on their terms. 

At the heart of reconciliation is recognizing that people form the core of any successful organization. Indigenous leaders have consistently highlighted the importance of genuine inclusion, reminding us that it is not simply about filling roles but appreciating and respecting Indigenous employees’ cultural identities, experiences and knowledge and weaving this into the organization’s culture. When workplaces genuinely embrace this inclusive approach, environments naturally evolve where Indigenous employees can thrive and contribute meaningfully, enriching our collective understanding and creating a place of belonging.

Through our Leadership Council, we’ve had the privilege of hearing directly from Indigenous voices across Canada. They have emphasized that meaningful inclusion involves more than just welcoming Indigenous employees into an organization. It demands creating a workplace culture that actively supports their entire identity. This includes acknowledging historical contexts, overcoming systemic barriers and proactively fostering spaces that reflect Indigenous values, perspectives and ways of knowing. 

Successful inclusion begins with leadership. Organizations where senior leaders genuinely understand and live their stated values of diversity and inclusion see meaningful results. Indigenous employees must see these values reflected authentically at all levels, especially at the top, to feel truly valued and secure in their workplaces. Leaders must demonstrate their commitment through ongoing education, self-reflection and action, rather than merely relying on policy or symbolic gestures. Forward Summit and Workforce Forward provide platforms where these critical conversations happen, driven by the experiences and insights of Indigenous participants and leaders. The Leadership Council directs the agenda, ensuring that every topic addressed is timely, relevant and rooted deeply in Indigenous perspectives. Their guidance helps create spaces where businesses can learn from real experiences – both successful strategies and honest reflections on past challenges – directly from those who have lived them.

In past summits, Indigenous leaders have emphasized the importance of moving beyond tokenistic approaches. Inclusion must go beyond setting quotas or targets and lead to tangible cultural shifts within organizations. True reconciliation involves continuous reflection, ongoing dialogue and sustained commitment to change. It is a journey, guided by the voices and leadership of Indigenous peoples, where businesses must remain open, adaptive and genuinely responsive. Workforce Forward specifically addresses these dynamics, delving deeper into workforce development, talent acquisition, retention strategies and building inclusive environments. Participants consistently express the value of learning firsthand about what genuinely works, what barriers remain and how others have successfully navigated the complexities of reconciliation. These insights allow organizations to implement real, practical changes that resonate with Indigenous employees, fostering a stronger, more inclusive workforce.

If you’re considering attending Forward Summit | West in Calgary, it’s essential to understand that your participation is not just about gaining economic insights – it’s about joining a broader movement toward genuine reconciliation. It’s about learning directly from Indigenous leaders who guide these conversations, sharing wisdom, practical advice and perspectives that enable meaningful organizational transformation.

Whether your organization is beginning its reconciliation journey or already well underway, attending these summits offers a chance to deepen your understanding, broaden your perspectives and engage authentically with the complexities and opportunities of Indigenous inclusion. Most importantly, it is an opportunity to actively listen, learn and grow under the leadership and direction of Indigenous voices.

Together, guided by the experiences and teachings of Indigenous leaders, we can commit to creating workplaces where Indigenous talent thrives, cultural insights enrich our organizations and true reconciliation becomes an everyday practice. Reconciliation is not just an organizational goal – it’s our shared journey, guided by the voices that matter most.

I n 2021, Kahsennenhawe Sky-Deer shattered political ceilings, becoming the first woman and openly Two-Spirit (2S) Grand Chief of the Mohawk Council of Kahnawà:ke. But history-making was never the goal. Change was, and under her leadership a new era of Indigenous governance began.

“I’ve always been a leader,” Sky-Deer says. “In school, in sports, in politics; it’s who I am.”

Whether on the field, at the negotiating table or in council chambers, she has never waited for permission to lead. Now, as she moves between governance, economic development and advocacy, her influence is reaching beyond Kahnawà:ke, shaping national conversations on Indigenous sovereignty and self-determination.

For 15 years, Sky-Deer has pushed the limits of Indigenous governance, fusing tradition with bold, modern leadership. She led negotiations on a landmark clean energy deal with Hydro-Québec and spearheaded a $56-million cultural revitalization project, the largest in her community’s history. Her leadership isn’t just expanding possibilities. “It’s proving what’s possible. Indigenous nations are not just participants in the economy. We are power brokers,” she says. “Mohawk ironworkers built the skyline of New York City. Now, we’re helping power it.”

Now, with Sky-Deer Consulting, she is amplifying her influence on national and international stages, driving Indigenous sovereignty forward. Whether fighting for First Nations’ border rights, shaping policy or breaking records in professional sports, she has spent her life proving that leadership is not about permission. It is about action.

As Sky-Deer steps into this next phase of her career, one thing is certain. She is not just leading change. She is building a future where Indigenous governance is respected, honoured and unstoppable.

Lisa Kawennanóron Phillips, executive director of the Kanien’kehá:ka Onkwawén:na Raotitióhkwa Language and Cultural Centre (KORLCC), has known Sky-Deer since childhood. “She was always sociable, fearless, funny,” she says. “The way she is now, she was then. She’s always had a presence. People are drawn to her, and rightfully so.”

At 20, Sky-Deer left home, spending eight years in Florida, where she earned a psychology degree from the University of Central Florida while also making history as a starting quarterback in the first-ever women’s professional tackle football league. “Sports and leadership are the same game,” she says. “As a quarterback, you don’t get to panic. You read the field, make the call and trust your instincts. That’s leadership.”

Sky-Deer’s time away gave her more than just a degree. It broadened her perspective on governance, sovereignty and the future of her community. She saw how Indigenous nations outside Canada were asserting self-determination, shaping economies and reclaiming space.

Upon Sky-Deer’s return, she secured a council seat on her first run, quickly establishing herself as a strong and decisive leader. Over the next 12 years, she helped shape policies on self-governance, economic development and Indigenous rights. By the time she ran for Grand Chief, Kahnawà:ke was ready for a bold new approach. “We can’t wait for change to come from the outside,” she says. “We have to own our power, our economy and our future.”

Sky-Deer’s leadership demonstrated that women and 2S individuals could not only step into leadership roles but thrive in them. “Kahs has influenced women and gender-diverse people, especially those in the 2S community,” says Alfred. “She was the first woman leader, the first Two-Spirit leader. That really created a new facet in our community, where it was proven that women and 2S leaders could take on leadership and be fully respected. Those things weren’t barriers and she showed us they never were.” As Alfred sees it, this moment marks a larger shift in Indigenous governance. “It is women’s time for leadership in Kahnawà:ke and beyond,” he says. “People need to understand that and figure out how to be in a supportive role for women’s leadership.”

Alfred reflects on his own experience working alongside Sky-Deer and her team, which was predominantly made up of women. “Working with her and a team of women was one of the best experiences I’ve had in my life,” he says. “It made me ask myself: as an older male, how do I not take charge, but serve an appropriate and important role as a supporter? How do I lend my skills to younger women leading from a different generation?”

Sky-Deer’s leadership proved that change is not just coming, it is already here.

At the helm of Sky-Deer Consulting, she advises Indigenous nations, businesses and organizations on self-determination, governance reform and economic empowerment. From policy spaces to corporate boardrooms, she is advocating for real Indigenous sovereignty, not just inclusion. “Too often, economic reconciliation is framed as inviting Indigenous people into existing spaces,” she says. “What we need is the ability to create and control our own spaces, on our terms.”

To Alfred, this expansion of her leadership is a natural evolution. “Kahs was always part of something bigger,” he says. “She isn’t just reacting to the systems imposed on us, she’s actively creating alternatives that centre Indigenous governance and economic sovereignty.”

As she shifts into this next phase of her career, Sky-Deer remains focused on her ultimate goal of creating lasting change. “If I could rewrite the future of Indigenous governance, it wouldn’t be about asking for inclusion. It would be about owning our sovereignty, our economies and our decisions,” she states.

For Phillips, that legacy is already clear. “She’s not just strong, she’s ka’shatstenshera,” she says. “She’s pushing the boundaries for all of us.”

Alfred sees her impact as part of a larger movement. “She’s proving that Indigenous nations can govern on their own terms,” he says. “This is the future.”

As Sky-Deer looks ahead, her mission remains the same: to create space, open doors and ensure the next generation of Indigenous leaders rises even higher. She smiles. “We’re building something much stronger. And we are just getting started.”

I ndigenous health care in Canada isn’t a broken system; it’s built that way. That’s the stark reality confronting Dr. Alexa Lesperance and Dr. Esther Tailfeathers every day. Both women have dedicated their careers to advocating for Indigenous-led health care while navigating a system that continues to fail First Nations, Inuit and Métis patients at every level.

“I see it every day – Indigenous patients who delay seeking care because they’ve already had too many experiences where they weren’t believed, where their symptoms weren’t taken seriously,” says Lesperance, an Anishinaabe family physician from Whitefish Bay First Nation in Treaty 3 and Rocky Bay First Nation. She practises in northwestern Ontario and serves as vice-president of the Indigenous Physicians Association of Canada (IPAC). “And when they do come in, they’re often met with racism, assumptions and subpar treatment. This isn’t just history – it’s happening right now.”

Tailfeathers, a family physician and member of the Blood Tribe, agrees. After 25 years of working across Indigenous communities in Alberta and Montana, she sees the same patterns: medical neglect, poor outcomes and a disturbing lack of accountability. “Bias patterns haven’t changed. If anything, they’re getting worse,” she says. “Indigenous patients aren’t being treated equally, and when they are mistreated, there is no restitution. There’s no process that demands providers change their behaviour.”

For both physicians, the problem isn’t just neglect, it’s systemic design. From Indian hospitals that experimented on children without consent to modern policies that allow non-Indigenous bureaucrats to control Indigenous health funding, Canada’s medical system was never intended to serve Indigenous people well and it still doesn’t.

The consequences are devastating. Indigenous patients are dying in emergency rooms, sent home without care or denied services based on stereotypes.

Tailfeathers points to an Alberta-based study by Dr. Patrick McLane, Leah Bill and Bonnie Healy that revealed triage scores for Indigenous patients were consistently lower than those of non-Indigenous patients with identical symptoms. “They either waited longer or were sent away,” she says. “Abdominal pain, chest pain – the symptoms didn’t matter. Indigenous people were treated worse.”

In many hospitals, quality assurance reviews focus on procedure, whether the right medication was prescribed or protocols followed, rather than whether the patient was heard, respected or treated without bias. “There’s no accountability for bias,” says Tailfeathers. “It’s all about whether the crash cart was there. Not whether someone actually believed the patient.”

Lesperance sees similar patterns in the communities she serves. “There’s this pervasive sentiment in Indigenous communities: ‘I’d rather die than go to the hospital.’ That’s how deep the distrust runs,” she says.

That level of fear doesn’t come from nowhere. It stems from generations of exclusion, discrimination and systemic erasure. From the early days of Indian hospitals, where children were experimented on without consent and family members were often denied basic information, to today’s underfunded rural care, the system has long prioritized control over care.

Some of that trauma is still playing out in real time. “People start to believe they’re not worth the care,” says Lesperance. “They won’t even tell you how much pain they’re in because they’re afraid of being dismissed again.” She says it’s not uncommon for patients to downplay symptoms, or leave without being seen, just to avoid further humiliation.

That erosion of trust doesn’t end with a single bad visit. It spreads through families and generations, deterring people from seeking help even when their lives are on the line. And it’s not just patients who carry that weight, it’s pushing away the next generation of Indigenous health-care providers too.

Representation is a major part of the problem. Indigenous people make up roughly five per cent of Canada’s population, yet they remain vastly underrepresented in the medical profession.

At the University of Alberta, for example, 150 Indigenous doctors have graduated since 1987, but fewer than 15 are currently serving Indigenous communities in Alberta, says Tailfeathers. “We don’t know where they’ve gone,” she says. “And we’re not seeing them come back. That’s a loss for our people.”

The absence of Indigenous voices is even more pronounced in decision-making spaces. Tailfeathers says it’s not just about who delivers care, but who shapes it. “We’re still not at the tables where key decisions are being made about service provision, cultural safety, funding,” she says. “We need to be there – our voices are essential at every level of the system.”

Medical education is part of the problem. Lesperance describes medical school as another colonial space, one where Indigenous students often don’t feel safe or supported. “Ideally, if Indigenous people make up five per cent of Canada’s population, then five per cent of healthcare professionals should also be Indigenous. We’re nowhere near that,” she says.

While some medical schools have introduced programs to increase Indigenous admissions, Lesperance says retention remains a major challenge. The structure of medical education itself often pushes learners out. “Western medicine is obsessed with treating one symptom at a time. Indigenous medicine looks at the whole person – physical, emotional, spiritual. The system doesn’t just push Indigenous patients away. It pushes Indigenous learners away too.”

“Indigenous medical students and residents need to connect with people who truly understand what they’re going through. It’s one of the biggest supports we can provide,” says Lesperance.

But while these efforts make a difference, they can only go so far within a system that was never designed with Indigenous people in mind.

Both Lesperance and Tailfeathers argue that the answer isn’t inclusion in a flawed system, it’s control. True self-determination means Indigenous communities have full authority over their health care, from funding to service delivery.

In February 2023, the federal government announced $2 billion over 10 years and $200 million annually for Indigenous health equity. But according to Tailfeathers, those funds go directly to the provinces and disappear. “There is no accountability for where that money goes,” she says. “There’s no representation from Indigenous communities at the tables that decide how it’s spent. That has to change.”

Lesperance is equally clear: “We shouldn’t be begging for the health care we’re already entitled to. We need direct control over our own services, funding and decision-making. Anything less is just another form of colonial oversight.” She points to Jordan’s Principle as one of the clearest examples of why Indigenous-led systems matter. The principle, named after Jordan River Anderson, a Cree child from Norway House Cree Nation, was meant to ensure that First Nations children receive the services they need without delays caused by jurisdictional disputes between governments.

“It was supposed to guarantee that our children don’t suffer while governments argue about who pays,” says Lesperance. “But even with legislation in place, we still have to fight for basic care. That’s why control needs to be in our hands, not someone else’s system.”

Across Canada, Indigenous-led health clinics are already proving what’s possible when communities are in control. The Alberta Indigenous Virtual Care Clinic (AIVCC), co-founded by Tailfeathers, connects Indigenous patients to physicians who understand their language, culture and realities, no matter how remote the location. “We build relationships before we prescribe,” she says. “That’s how healing should start.”

Until full self-determination is realized, both women say, Indigenous peoples will continue fighting to access care in a system that wasn’t made for them and continues to exclude them by design.

Both women believe the future of Indigenous health care must be built from the ground up, starting in the classroom.

For Tailfeathers, that means getting kids excited about science as early as Grade 4. “We need to build our own programs,” she says. “Start in Grade 4. Get them interested in science so we can grow our own health-care systems.”

But racism in the education system remains a major barrier. Tailfeathers says young Indigenous students still face harmful comments and discrimination at school, often with no consequences. “The larger education system, especially its leadership, should be ready to address these complaints so students aren’t dropping out or quitting.”

Lesperance says organizations like IPAC are working hard to support Indigenous learners, but structural change is still needed. “It’s not enough to create safe spaces within the system. We need to change the system itself.”

That transformation starts with a different vision, one where Indigenous people lead the design, delivery and governance of their own health care from the ground up.

The vision is clear: Indigenous communities must lead their own health care. That means more Indigenous doctors, more cultural safety, more accountability and full sovereignty over decisions that impact their health.

“We need top-level representation in provincial health funding decisions,” says Tailfeathers. “Until Indigenous people are at those decision-making tables, decisions will continue to be made about us, without us.”

For Lesperance, the stakes couldn’t be higher. “The system isn’t broken. It’s doing exactly what it was built to do. And until we dismantle it, Indigenous people will keep suffering,” she says. “Indigenous-led health care is the way forward, but it can’t happen under the current paternalistic system where non-Indigenous officials control the funds.”

The question isn’t whether reform is needed. It’s whether Canada is finally ready to listen and hand over the reins. Indigenous leaders like Tailfeathers and Lesperance have long known the way forward. The system just needs to move aside.

D ynamic. Charismatic. Passionate. Influential. Those are just a few words to describe Geena Jackson. Many know her as the executive producer of the Bear’s Lair TV program which airs on Aboriginal People’s Television Network (APTN) and CBC Gem.

The Shishlah Nation member (Sechelt) comes from humble beginnings. After obtaining her journalism degree, she served as an economic development officer for the Squamish Nation for about 13 years. There, she helped support 500 Indigenous members who launched their own businesses.

Her biggest complaint about working at the community level at that time was that they had to outsource talent. The Squamish Nation is big, with over 23,000 members from 26 First Nations with lands in North and West Vancouver to Mosquito Creek. That means a lot of opportunity. Jackson rolled up her sleeves and assisted with setting up the community for success.

Jackson quickly lists a number of business opportunities off the top of her head: “Security, fencing, residential, excavation, construction, trades and development.” She said they went from procurement and business opportunities to vetting proponents in the territory and through benefits agreements ensuring there were positive social impacts with solid Indigenous participation plans that benefited the Nation in all sectors.

Her work as an economic development officer changed how she centred herself. With a degree in journalism, the entrepreneur fancied herself in front of a camera. Reflecting on the change of direction in her career, she says, “I went from ‘look at me’ to ‘look at you.’ If I had not worked at Squamish and listened to the stories, I wouldn’t be here.”

By that, she means lifting up so many in a career that spans over two decades in the world of economic development and entrepreneurship. Jackson said it’s been a cyclical career. Her desire to be on television wasn’t for the right reasons. Communities and their members have a lot of stories, and Jackson listened, really listened. And that’s what prompted her to help identify opportunities through procurement and vetting proponents.

Her reasons to be on television are the right ones now, with Bear’s Lair’s platform to elevate Indigenous entrepreneurs. The television production is among the most recent of Jackson’s accomplishments. The idea for the program had been there for a while, but nobody was biting. Jackson says, “We pitched Bear’s Lair during the pandemic and got the show.”

It’s notable that Bear’s Lair has a host of sponsors, including companies like Scotiabank, Vancity, Mastercard, Deloitte and the Indigenous Tourism Association of B.C. Jackson is proud of the sponsors who came to the table to support the venture. She says the corporate support is part of reconciliation.

The sponsoring companies have reconciliation action plans that exemplify their commitment to the Truth and Reconciliation Commission’s Call to Action 92 – Business and Reconciliation. For instance, Scotiabank Canada’s reconciliation action plan includes measures on employee recruitment and retention, increasing their procurement spend with Indigenous suppliers and supporting self-determination and economic prosperity for Indigenous communities. The bank has a number of initiatives in addition to sponsoring the Bear’s Lair. Scotiabank helped establish Cedar Leaf Capital, the first majority Indigenous-owned investment dealer in Canada.

Vancity, a credit union, focuses its reconciliation efforts on Indigenous partnerships and supporting Indigenous entrepreneurs and businesses. Among its list of achievements, Vancity was the first bank to recognize a First Nation as a government for lending purposes. Also, the Vancouver-based credit union’s website includes potential solutions for Indigenous members to buy, build or renovate homes.

The Bear’s Lair is a reality TV series about Indigenous entrepreneurs. The program showcases their products and services and entrepreneurs from across the country have pitched their diverse businesses. In the first season of the show in 2022, episodes ranged from seeing presentations made from products like jewelry, a counselling service, regalia making and personal training, to hand-washing stations and food security.

The panel of judges is as diverse as the entrepreneurs. The panel includes Jackson; Tabatha Bull (Nipissing First Nation), who is the president and CEO of the Canadian Council for Indigenous Business; Clint Davis (Inuk, Nunatsiavut, Labrador), the CEO of North35 (a business and capital advisory firm); and Dave Tuccaro (Mikisew Cree Nation), founder, president and CEO of Tuccaro Group of Companies.

One of the biggest things she noticed about Indigenous entrepreneurs is how they’re community-minded. Jackson says, “They profit with a purpose. It’s part of their business model. Whether it’s helping elders by creating a salve or finding gaps. They all have the same community-giving nature.” Bear’s Lair’s website reiterates this: “… an Indigenous entrepreneur creates a successful social enterprise or small business; many people benefit from their success ... There are multiple direct and indirect social and economic benefits for the community – and the country.”

The thing she notices about Indigenous entrepreneurs is also prevalent in her mission to lift up those entrepreneurs and stimulate economic development. The year after the television show hit the airwaves, the Bears’ Lair created Dream Camps for Indigenous youth. Dream camps are a non-profit venture with three-day entrepreneurial training programs. According to the website, the “Dream Camps aim to build confidence and equip youth with tools they can carry forward into their personal and professional lives.”

What mentors from the Dream Camps pour into youth, they in turn, will pour into their communities, Nations and economies. And that’s a little part of what reconciliation is. It takes many individuals and allies to make reconciliation become a reality. “Reconciliation is about collaboration, holding hands and walking together,” Jackson says, adding that “Reconciliation can mould a path forward through understanding. There’s advancement and progression.”

First and foremost, entrepreneurs should have “passion and purpose.” Her advice to entrepreneurs? “Get yourself out there. Talk to others out there, (to) the leaders in your field. If you’re into design, talk to the Leslie Hamptons. There are so many people out there that want to help. You’re not alone.” She points to existing platforms such as events and awards ceremonies.

There are plenty of Indigenous and non-Indigenous economic and business events. Forward Summit holds events a couple of times a year in both Eastern and Western Canada. Forward Summit caters to Indigenous communities, entrepreneurs and businesses, with great networking opportunities. The Canadian Council for Indigenous Business also has offerings available to connect communities, entrepreneurs and industry. Local chambers of commerce also hold events for networking and sharing. Indigenomics holds events highlighting different sectors including finance, technology, capital access and more.

With tools at the ready, communities and entrepreneurs can set themselves up for success. Jackson says Indigenous entrepreneurs can make it when they have passion and progression.

A cross the country, Indigenous entrepreneurs are reframing what success looks like. They are grounding their ventures in culture, community and care.

From kids’ wear to streetwear to supply chain, three business leaders are weaving deep relational values into modern commerce, often in spaces not designed with them in mind. Their work reflects a growing movement rooted in healing, visibility and belonging.

Their mission? Build something that lasts. And bring others along with them.

“I started sewing as a form of therapy,” he says. “It gave me a way to create something good during a dark time.”

That dark time was depression. And the “something good” became a rapidly growing brand known for eco-conscious materials, custom dog gear and a whole lot of heart.

“I wanted to build something functional, but also beautiful and personal,” Haley says. “Pets are part of our families. They deserve that.” Today, Summit Dogwear’s products are carried in stores across Canada. But for Haley, the real impact is visibility.

“I show up as an Indigenous person in a space where we’re not always visible,” he says. “That matters. When customers see that, or when other Indigenous entrepreneurs see that, it shifts something.”

More than a fashion brand, Awāsis is a tool for cultural reclamation and community connection. “There’s still shame that exists around being Indigenous,” Marie says. “I want to create something that helps dissolve that, especially for the next generation.”

That work extends beyond the designs. “To date, we’ve donated over $120,000 back into community organizations across Turtle Island,” she says. “It’s always been about lifting others, not just ourselves.”

When Red Rebel Armour opened its storefront in Winnipeg’s Exchange District, the welcome was anything but warm. “People didn’t want to be next to a convict clothing line,” he says. “But we held our ground. We deserve to be here just as much as anyone else.” Today, that same retail space has become a bridge. Rayland-Boubar says neighbouring businesses have come to understand and respect the brand’s work. “We’re educating people just by existing,” he says. “They’re seeing real Indigenous identity, not the stereotypes, not the headlines. That changes things.” The storefront is no longer just a shop. It is a statement and a bridge.

Marie agrees. For her, entrepreneurship is a form of reclamation. “It’s not just about selling clothes or making money,” she says. “It’s about reconnecting with culture and giving others the tools to do the same.” Her approach also includes reinvesting profits into community organizations and causes that support Indigenous youth and families.

Rayland-Boubar sees his work as part of a larger shift, one that questions the foundations of Canadian capitalism. “We’re not here to fit into colonial systems,” he says. “We’re here to reimagine them.” Each entrepreneur is pushing beyond the boundaries of traditional business, showing that impact can be measured in more than profit margins or market share. For them, the future of Indigenous business lies in authenticity, accountability and community care.

Marie sees Awāsis Boutique the same way. “It’s not just about clothes, it’s about culture,” she says. Haley, who works with brands across Turtle Island, sees his consulting and design work as a chance to normalize Indigenous leadership. “We’re not checking boxes,” he says. “We’re running businesses, leading teams, building brands that feel like us. That’s powerful.”

“There’s something special about how we approach business,” says Marie. “It’s not about extraction. It’s about contribution. We think about who benefits, not just what sells.” Rayland-Boubar calls it relational accountability. “In our culture, when you do well, you don’t pull the ladder up behind you,” he says. “You send it back down.” Haley sees this mindset in every move he makes. “It’s not about selling out,” he says. “It’s about showing up. Every room I walk into, I carry my community with me.” These entrepreneurs aren’t chasing trends or playing catch-up. They’re building new standards where business decisions are guided by values, not just margins.

Haley says it starts with wellness. “Don’t forget to take care of your health,” he says. “I’ve burned out more than once. You can’t run a business if you’re not looking after yourself.”

Marie encourages new founders to set boundaries early. “You don’t have to be available 24/7,” she says. “Especially in the early stages, it’s easy to think you have to say yes to everything. But rest is resistance. You need space to grow.” And for Rayland-Boubar, it all comes back to purpose. “It’s going to get hard,” he says. “People will doubt you. But if you’re building something from your culture, your community – if it comes from a place of healing – you’ll stay grounded.”

Together, they’re reshaping what entrepreneurship looks like, on their terms. Less grind. More intention. Less extraction. More reciprocity.

Their stories may follow different paths, but their purpose is shared: to carve out space where culture leads, where success lifts others and where the next generation feels seen. In a world that once demanded Indigenous entrepreneurs assimilate, they are choosing something else entirely to lead from where they stand rooted, resilient and ready.

F or over a decade, a small, powerful symbol has sparked a national movement. The Moose Hide Campaign began with one family’s commitment to end violence against women and children. Since then, it has grown into a countrywide call to action to engage everyone in accountability and change.

On May 15, communities across Canada gather for the annual Moose Hide Campaign Day, a moment of reflection and action for thousands of Indigenous and non-Indigenous people who wear the moose hide pin as a pledge to stand against gender-based violence.

But the campaign is more than a single day of recognition. It’s a national movement grounded in cultural teachings, collective responsibility and the belief that creating safer communities requires the inclusion of those often left out of these conversations.

“The campaign is about calling people in – especially men and boys – to walk alongside us,” says Chelsea Taylor, director of training and a member of Curve Lake First Nation. “That’s how we shift the culture.”

At its core, the Moose Hide Campaign reframes gender-based violence as a societal issue that demands collective solutions. It challenges the idea that violence prevention is the sole responsibility of women and gender-diverse people and instead emphasizes that everyone has a role to play.

That shift begins early. Through school-based engagement, youth programming and grassroots initiatives like the 10 Men fasting movement, the campaign encourages young people, particularly boys and men, to reflect on what respect, safety and accountability mean in their own lives.

“These aren’t easy conversations,” says Taylor. “But they’re necessary ones. When we create space for honest dialogue, we see real change.”

The campaign’s message continues to resonate across Turtle Island, reaching classrooms, boardrooms and communities large and small. The 2025 day of action carries a renewed message: This isn’t just a campaign. It’s medicine.

In 2011, Raven Lacerte and her father, Paul, were travelling along Highway 16, a route tragically known as the Highway of Tears due to the high number of missing and murdered Indigenous women and girls in the region. Along that stretch of road, the father-daughter pair made a promise to take action.

From that promise, the Moose Hide Campaign was born. Rooted in Indigenous values and driven by a deep sense of responsibility, the initiative began as a grassroots effort to raise awareness about gender-based violence and invite others into the work of prevention.

Raven and Paul Lacerte began distributing small squares of moose hide, a traditional material with deep cultural significance, as a free gift of medicine. The pin became a visual pledge to honour women and children, spark dialogue and inspire concrete steps toward change.

“They handed out those pins to ask people to join them,” says Taylor. “And now, nearly seven million pins later, it’s grown into something much bigger. That speaks to what we want as a society. We don’t want harm. We want to help empower each other.”

For Taylor, the campaign’s story began long before she ever joined the team. Her brother encountered the Lacertes at a conference and brought home one of the first pins. “He was like, ‘Look at this amazing Indigenous movement,’ and we started following it from the very beginning,” she says. “I could never have imagined myself joining the campaign years later, but here I am.”

The moose hide itself is more than a symbol. Tanned using traditional practices, the square of hide is both a cultural teaching and a public statement linking the wearer to the land, to Indigenous knowledge systems and to a growing movement rooted in healing, responsibility and community care.

And while the campaign began as a grassroots effort, its continued growth has been driven by a powerful shift engaging those who have historically been left out of conversations around gender-based violence.

“It shows that individual people can make a difference,” says Taylor. “And when we come together, we can make change possible.”

Launched in 2024, We Are Medicine is both a guiding principle and a self-directed learning course. The three-hour online program helps deepen participants’ understanding of the campaign and its roots. It explores the legacy of colonial violence in Canada and challenges participants to reflect on how harm shows up today, from environmental and financial inequities to interpersonal relationships.

“We go through the history of violence in Canada – how that shows up today, from landscape violence to financial violence – and how we, as Canadians, can revert to traditional Indigenous ways of knowing as a method to heal the social illness of violence,” Taylor explains.

Hosted by Raven Lacerte and supported by Wisdom Carriers from across Turtle Island, the course invites participants into deep personal reflection. Questions like “Who am I?”, “Where do I come from?” and “What are my earliest memories of violence?” guide the journey.

“It’s very introspective,” says Taylor. “We often hear ‘violence’ and think only of physical or mental abuse. But this course expands the lens. It helps people recognize violence in how we treat the land, how we relate to each other and how we show up for ourselves and others.”

By grounding this learning in Indigenous knowledge systems, the course offers a perspective that is widely resonant. “We’re often taught our own lived experience through a colonial lens,” Taylor adds. “This helps people unlearn that and reconnect to healing in a more holistic way.”

“We have so many free resources available online,” says Taylor. “From K-12 lesson plans to post-secondary materials, to full workplace training, we’re meeting people where they’re at.”

One of the campaign’s cornerstone tools is the Community Champions Training, a 90-minute online session designed to support individuals, schools and organizations in hosting their own campaign events. Participants learn how to distribute pins, plan community walks and engage others in meaningful conversations about violence prevention.

“We help people organize, connect and network with others across the country who are also raising awareness in their communities,” says Taylor.

Some of the most impactful results have emerged organically. Taylor shares an example of a school that created a 10 Men initiative, where 10 boys fasted for a day and gathered to reflect on their relationship with violence and healing. “We didn’t even know they were doing it,” she says. “People are taking this up and making it their own.”

Meanwhile, workplaces are integrating the campaign into their operations. FortisBC was the first to embed We Are Medicine into its official diversity, equity and inclusion training, an important signal that reconciliation and safety must be prioritized within organizational cultures.

“They’re setting a precedent,” Taylor says. “They’re showing how Indigenous education can be part of how companies support their employees and create respectful spaces.”

Whether through student-led campaigns or corporate programming, the goal remains the same. Create space for healing, learning and change.

From pinning a square of moose hide to your jacket, to organizing a community walk, to sharing teachings in classrooms and workplaces, there are many ways to participate.

“We don’t shame people into change. We invite them into it,” says Taylor. “This work takes all of us.”

Individuals and organizations can register at moosehide-campaign.ca, order free pins, access free resources or become Community Champions in their region. There are also donation options to support the campaign’s continued growth, and training programs for those ready to deepen their understanding of gender-based violence and how to end it.

“We can’t do this alone,” Taylor says. “We need to walk together. That’s how we create real, lasting change.”

For Taylor, being part of the campaign has been a personal journey as much as a professional one. As an Indigenous woman, she says the work has allowed her to ground herself in culture, contribute to change and carry that medicine forward. “The many facets of violence affect us all,” she says. “It’s not just an Indigenous issue. It’s a human issue. And we all have a role in ending it.”