The True North of Community Care

Lessons from the Long Haul

The airplane door opens with a metallic thunk, and I step onto those familiar shaky stairs. The cold hits like a gentle slap—not harsh, but honest. My lungs contract, then expand, adjusting to air so clean and cold that it almost hurts. Wind swirls the fine, dry snow into spirals, and I pull my knit hat down tighter over my ears, reaching back for my hood. The down jacket crinkles as I zip the neck higher.

This is home. Or is it? I might have landed in Yellowknife this time, or Gällivare last month, but the real place I call home remains Fairbanks. Something deeper than geography connects these places—the way snow crunches underfoot in February, the shock of golden birch leaves against a bright blue fall sky, the way midnight sun in June makes time feel both endless and precious. Ravens here play the same highway games with roadkill and pickup trucks, their intelligence gleaming in dark eyes that seem to hold old jokes.

But what truly binds these northern places together isn't weather or wildlife—it's the understanding that survival depends on caring for each other and the land. I've watched this truth play out in countless small acts: a bowl of hothouse cherry tomatoes appearing on your counter from a neighbor who knows you've been working too hard, the unspoken coordination of hauling firewood to the Elder couple three houses down. In town, it looks like fresh blueberry muffins delivered after a difficult week, or the spring ritual of roadside cleanup when snow melts to reveal winter's debris and the trees haven't yet greened up to hide our collective untidiness.

My grandmother's voice echoes in these moments: "Always be prepared." Not the anxious preparedness of stockpiling, but the deeper readiness that comes from knowing your neighbor might need to stop by, and you might need to stop by theirs. This wisdom traveled from fish camps and trap lines into city kitchens and community centers, carrying the same essential message: we find our way forward by going back to what has always sustained us—each other and the land that holds us all.

Field-Tested: Building Your Relational Foundation

In her book Becoming Kin, Patty Krawec (Anishinaabe and Ukrainian) calls for us to "unforget the past and reimagine our future." She writes, "We are all related. When we remember this, we can begin to heal the deep divisions that have been created between us."

This remembering requires more than good intentions—it demands practical steps toward relationship with each other and the land. Here's a framework I've adapted as a Koyukon Athabascan living in a city far from my homelands. This has helped me build the kind of preparedness that also helps sustains climate work over time:

Learn Your Land's Story
​Start with where you stand. Do some reading and research about the Indigenous Peoples who have traditionally lived in the place you call home, as well as the waves of settlement that followed. Use resources like Native-land.ca to begin this learning, but don't stop there. Visit local cultural centers, read Tribal publications, attend public events when invited. Understanding land history changes how you see every project and partnership.

Show Up in Your Community
​Northern survival depends on knowing your neighbors, and climate resilience works the same way. Volunteer for something unrelated to your day job. Join a community garden. Attend city council meetings. Help with the annual beach cleanup. These seemingly small connections create the social infrastructure that makes larger climate initiatives possible.

Practice Land Relationship
​Spend time outside without an agenda. My father taught my sister and me this through "adventures"—summer days watching a pair of grebes build their nest, hatch eggs, and navigate the neighborhood pond with their tiny chicks. This patient observation builds the deep knowledge that informs good policy and authentic community partnerships.

The goal isn't to become an expert in everything, but to develop the relational awareness that makes you truly prepared for whatever climate challenges emerge. When we remember we are all related, our work becomes more sustainable because it's grounded in care rather than driven by crisis alone.

Signals & Shifts

Ancestor from the Future: Iñupiaq performance artist Allison Akootchook Warden bridges time and cultures through creative work that makes Indigenous languages and stories visible in contemporary spaces. Allison’s approach to art as relationship-building offers powerful models for how climate leaders can honor traditional knowledge while creating new pathways forward. Read this BOMB Magazine interview for insights on weaving past and future into present action.

Ancient Waters, Young paddlers: For the first time in over a century, Indigenous youth are kayaking the full 300-mile length of the Klamath River, marking the largest dam removal project in U.S. history. Their three-year preparation and training culminated in this journey from Oregon to the Northern California coast. Their story reminds us of the power of finding our way forward by going back. Read their story and listen to this interview with two of the kayakers who completed the 30 day paddle.

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Question for reflection: What would change about your current climate work if you approached it from the understanding that "we are all related"?

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Take good care of yourself and the work that's yours to do. Both matter more than you know.

Nikoosh

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P.S. Finding it hard to talk about climate change without feeling awkward or overwhelmed? My friend Lisa Yeager co-founded Yes and Nature, which uses improv and theater techniques to help you build genuine confidence in climate conversations. Their approach reminds me of this issue's core message—authentic connection creates the foundation for lasting change. When we ground climate communication in relationship and care rather than crisis and urgency, we create space for the kinds of conversations that actually move people. Check out their 6-week interactive virtual course starting October 17—it's a beautiful way to practice the relational preparedness that sustains both you and your climate work.

Work That Lasts arrives every other Wednesday. Forward to a colleague who might need these tools, or reply and let me know what's working in your own practice.

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