I am a fairly reflective person, but I become particularly reflective on and around my birthdays. (I’m sure many of us do!). My sister once told me that the body’s cells replace themselves every seven years. In a brief internet search, it seems like this can happen every seven to ten years, but I like the idea of seven. Of change on a molecular level. Of cells becoming new again. I am not sure exactly how it all works, but this year marks the sixth such time this phenomenon has happened for me. And in truth, I do feel something of a lightness. A change. A release. A relaxing.

I have felt at times, like I am always striving and trying to reach something. Trying to get to somewhere far off in the distance. Up the mountain. Across the ocean. And everything I’ve done, everything I’ve tried to learn (and unlearn) up until this point has been in pursuit of this goal. For the longest time, that goal was to get to a place where I could write stories and make books—every moment of the day. 

It is still this. 

There was a time though when I was not sure that storytelling was what I should be doing. I worried that doing so would not serve my community—my people—in the ways I ought to. And in truth, I still worry about this, as I love our community deeply and I want to see it, and all the people within it thrive. 

I have balanced some of my storytelling work with my work in the area of education. I believe wholeheartedly in creating space and opportunity for empowerment and learning, especially being someone whose life has been transformed many times over by the generosity of others who carry knowledge, share information, offer history and context, and have modelled ways to question or challenge thinking, including and most especially my own, so that it—and I—could grow. 

And yet, I have worried at times that what I feel most called to do, will not serve adequately.

Yesterday, my other sister sent me a screenshot of a tweet. And truly, this tweet helped to anchor some of the anxiety I’ve had about what it is I am doing with my storytelling. And why.  The tweet was this:

Nya:weh to Jennifer Powell (and my sister for sharing it with me).

Learning through imagination. 

In so many ways this line is what I’ve always hoped for our publishing company to be. A place that made creative, fun, and engaging stories that also, at times, shared truth and information or could be linked with non-fiction reference material (or experiences) to promote learning. But first and foremost, for imagination and the creativity to always take the lead. After all, this is what I have always wished for myself as a reader at different points in my life: 

When I was 9, A middle grade book like Goosebumps or Fablehaven inspired by our legends: The School That Ate Children

When I was 20, An urban fantasy about vampires inspired by our legends: The Vampire Skeleton

When I was 30, An Austen retelling that considered how differently a story might be if told in the context of Haudenosaunee women’s rights and experiences: Pride & Rezjudice 

When I became an auntie and then a parent, a book that would help me teach my children about inherent and treaty rights: Treaty Baby and We Give Our Thanks

And perhaps most of all, when I have needed to see and be reminded that our stories are real and true, our power—magnificent:  A ftantasy that showcased other worlds and beings and powers of wind and lightning from our legends in a new way: The Fortune Teller’s Daughter. 

I am so excited to have been able to share these stories, and look forward to writing more, as many of the titles above belong to series that are not finished yet. And so, I will mark this birthday as a kind of stepping back into storytelling and a letting of every experience I’ve gained as an artist, a language learner, and an educator ground the sharing of what I create. I am so grateful for the learning these past years and experiences have brought me and am especially grateful for all the readers who have read and shared my books. You are amazing. Thank you.

And I wish you all a good start to the school year! 

S.