Spring 2026, FORUM Magazine

ANĜAĜIISIX̂ MATNAAN imin ix̂amnakux̂. Anaĝix̂ ukunachin imchin ugutaasaamchin aĝnax̂txichin

Life is gifted to you. What you make of it is your gift in return.

The ocean still feels like home to me, but now I experience it differently. Living in the Interior, away from the water I grew up around, has taught me that connection to the land is not limited to one place. It is something we build through attention, gratitude, and the way we move through the world. The ocean will always be a part of who I am. It is where I learned how to be still, how to listen, and how to understand that there are lessons all around us if we are willing to pay attention.

When we travel back to the ocean, I watch my children run along the shoreline, letting the wind hit their faces the same way I once did in King Cove. I watch them explore, laugh, and create their own memories with a place that shaped so much of who I became. Sometimes I stand quietly and realize I am witnessing the beginning of their own relationships with the land, with community, and with themselves. They are creating their own stories while also carrying pieces of the stories that came before them.

As a child, stillness taught me how to listen. As an adult, I have learned that listening can happen anywhere if we are willing to slow down enough to notice.

Becoming a mother was not the life I originally imagined for myself. I thought success meant movement, achievement, and building a fast-paced career far from home. I thought I had to keep moving forward to prove I was accomplishing something. Instead, motherhood grounded me. It brought me back to myself and taught me that caregiving, community, and love are meaningful work.

After my daughter was born, we moved to Florida for the military. Being away from Alaska was harder than I expected. I felt disconnected from myself and from everything familiar. I missed the land, the water, the people, and the feeling of belonging that had always surrounded me. A mentor encouraged me to attend a cultural event, and that week I found myself at a local Powwow. I still remember hearing the drums before I could fully see the dancers. The sound reached me first. I watched my daughter dancing during the intertribal songs while my son bounced to the rhythm. I remember feeling the overwhelming calm move down my throat and into my toes. In that moment, my shoulders relaxed, and something inside me settled. I realized that connection is not tied to a single landscape. Community, culture, and belonging can travel with us.

While I will always feel called home to the ocean, I have learned to build relationships with the land and people wherever I am. Home is not only a place. Home is also found in the people, traditions, and moments that remind us who we are. I often think about what we pass down without meaning to. My grandmother taught through presence and quiet care. She showed love through the little things, through simply being there, through noticing what people needed before they ever had to ask. My grandfather carried joy loudly and openly. His laugh filled a room. He was playful, goofy, and unapologetically himself. He reminded people that life was meant to be enjoyed and that even during difficult moments, there was always room for laughter. I see both of them in the way I raise my children now. I see my grandmother in the quiet moments, in the way I listen, observe, and make space for my children to share who they are. I see my grandfather in the joy, laughter, and freedom I hope my children always carry with them.

Near the end of my grandmother’s life, I got to spend time alone with her in the hospital one last time. We sat quietly together before she finally spoke. I remember the room feeling gray and cold. I was nervous being alone in such an unfamiliar space, seeing my grandmother unlike I had ever known her before.

“We are going to be ok,” she said. “It is all going to be ok.”

I did not respond. We simply sat together in silence. The next morning, she passed.

I carry that moment with me because she taught me something that I continue to learn as a mother: sometimes love is not found in the perfect words. Sometimes love is found in simply being present.

I knew as a mother that I wanted my children to see the authentic parts of me. I wanted them to know that it is okay if society or other people do not always understand who you are. I wanted them to see that there is freedom in being yourself and that you do not have to hide the parts of you that bring joy. I am someone who loves to laugh, dance, and have fun regardless of who is watching or what it looks like to others. I carry a joy that does not ask for permission. But I am also someone who is quiet and observant. I listen before I speak. I notice things. I take in the details around me. I have learned that we do not have to choose one version of ourselves. We can be both.

I see my grandfather in my daughter. She is loud, full of life, loves to laugh, and will dance whether anyone is watching or not. She carries that same joy and confidence that reminds me of him. She brings energy into spaces and finds happiness in moments that others might overlook.

I see my grandmother in my son. He is quiet and observant, taking in more than people often realize. He may not always be the first to speak, especially around people he does not know, but he notices things others miss. He is caring in his own way. His kindness is not always loud, but it is steady and intentional. Watching my children grow reminds me that we inherit more than names and memories. We inherit ways of loving, ways of laughing, ways of caring, and ways of seeing the world.

My kids now sit at the edge of my bed telling me stories almost every night. Sometimes they retell memories we shared. Sometimes they create entirely new worlds. No matter how tired I am, I try to listen closely. Those moments remind me that storytelling is not just about what is said. It lives in the way we care for one another, the spaces we create for joy, and the attention we give to the people around us. When I watch my children near the water now, I think about how stories continue long before we have the language to explain them. They live in the laughter passed down, the lessons carried forward, and the love that connects generations. ■

Brianna Gray (2026 FORUM Storytelling Fellow)is originally from King Cove, Alaska, and now resides in North Pole. She is the granddaughter of the late Lydia and Ernest William Mack of King Cove. And the daughter of Dorene Bunch Mack, Lavelle Webb, Chris Bunch, and Silvia Webb. Bri is an Aunty, community leader and Educator who believes in the power of storytelling, relationships, and culture to bring people together. In her work and community life, she centers joy, laughter, and respect as sources of resilience and strength. She is the proud mother of two children, Aaliyah and LaCross III, and shares her home with two cats, Lightening and Beauty.