At a business conference and awards gala in Halifax, an Elder came up to me after a panel and made a simple request. She said, “Keep sharing your story so youth can see a role model for the path of entrepreneurship and hopefully consider that path for themselves.” At the time, I didn’t think much of it. I didn’t naturally see my story as something that needed to be shared. But throughout the event, more people came up to me and echoed the same thought. And then it landed. Maybe the story wasn’t really mine. Maybe it belonged to someone who needed it.
I was recently named the CCIB National Young Indigenous Entrepreneur of the Year. While it was an honour, I hadn’t stopped to ask what that recognition meant beyond me. I started to think about what it might mean for a young person out there who’s wondering what’s possible. Someone who hasn’t seen someone like them in a position of leadership or ownership. If being an entrepreneur is a role I can play, then I’m proud to do that. I’ve come to see how visibility plays a part in shaping ambition.
The stories that surround us shape what we think is possible. What stories do Indigenous youth see right now? They see headlines about incarceration. They see stories about tragedy, struggle, and loss. Indigenous people make up just over five percent of Canada’s population but account for more than thirty-two percent of the federal prison population. That isn’t due to chance. It reflects deep, ongoing patterns.
This kind of narrative affects how a young person sees their future. It builds a mental picture where certain outcomes feel more likely than others. It suggests that the world might already have a plan for them. And that plan rarely involves pride, success, or recognition.
Even in areas outside the justice system, the pattern continues. Indigenous children make up 7.7 percent of Canada’s population, but 53.8 percent of the foster care system. Many grow up disconnected from their culture. Many don’t have people in their life who reflect who they are or where they come from. When someone is removed from their roots like that, it can shape how they see themselves. Some start to believe that their future is tied to biology or background, and they stop imagining a life outside of what they’ve already seen.
One of the most difficult effects of cultural disconnection is the quiet self-doubt it creates. It’s not always loud. Sometimes it shows up as hesitation. Sometimes it sounds like, “people like me don’t usually do that.” When that thought starts to settle in, it can make opportunities feel out of reach. It’s not about a lack of talent. It’s about the absence of reference points.
When I spoke on stage in Halifax, I talked a bit about the anxiety that can come with reconnecting to culture. Later, several people came up and said how much that part resonated with them. They shared their own quiet thoughts, the ones that don’t often make it into professional panels or press releases.
We don’t talk enough about what it means to feel out of place in your own story. Or what it takes to find your way back. And we don’t talk enough about how heavy it is to feel like you have to represent something before you even know what that something is. When a young person sees someone with a similar background succeed, it does more than inspire. It gives them permission to think differently about their future.
This doesn’t mean everyone needs to be in the spotlight. What matters is that there’s a visible path. If you’re Air Canada and you have an Indigenous pilot, that person’s a hero to more people than they know. That one example could make a seven-generation difference. Because that pilot might raise a family who’s proud of where they came from. Those kids might grow up believing success isn’t rare. And their kids might grow up thinking it’s normal. That’s how change builds. It repeats until it sticks.
The idea of seven generations is a teaching in many Indigenous cultures. It reflects the belief that the actions we take today affect people long after we’re gone. That includes harm, but it also includes progress. When someone finds their place in a profession or industry where they’ve never seen themselves before, it sends a message forward through time.
Take Dr. Nadine Caron, Canada’s first female First Nations general surgeon. Her story has reached far beyond the walls of the operating room. She speaks regularly about the need for culturally safe care and for more Indigenous professionals in healthcare. Her visibility has helped change not only how Indigenous people see themselves in medicine, but also how institutions respond to systemic gaps. Her presence alone doesn’t fix a broken system. But it shifts the story. It introduces a different outcome for someone who has never pictured themselves wearing a white coat.
A study by the Canadian Medical Association showed that less than one percent of physicians in Canada identify as Indigenous. In aviation, fewer than three percent of commercial pilots are Indigenous. In technology, representation remains well below five percent across major firms. These numbers don’t lie. They point to a lack of visibility that keeps repeating unless it’s challenged.
That’s why mentorship is such a powerful tool. Not in a formal program, but in day-to-day connection. Hearing someone’s story, seeing their career unfold, asking questions and getting real answers. Those small moments can mean everything. They fill in the blanks. They show what success looks like without asking someone to pretend.
Everyone moves through the world differently. I tend to move forward whether the path is clear or not. I don’t like being told what I can or can’t do. That part of me pushes through when doors aren’t open. But not everyone has that mindset, and they shouldn’t need it to make progress. Some people need to see the path first. That’s where role models make the biggest difference.
I remember talking to a friend who had been hired specifically because of her Indigeneity. She didn’t see a future there. She didn’t see a long-term opportunity. It felt like her presence was symbolic rather than meaningful.
If she had seen someone like her move through the company—start at the same point and move into leadership—that would have made a difference. It would have shown her that growth was expected, not optional. It would have signaled a long-term commitment, not a short-term gesture.
Hiring someone is one thing. Supporting them through their career is another. Representation doesn’t stop at the front door. It needs to extend into mentorship, leadership, and public recognition. It’s about who gets promoted, who gets talked about, and who gets brought into the room when important decisions are being made.
Many organizations already have Indigenous employees who are contributing in meaningful ways. The question is whether they’re being seen. Are they being supported? Are they being promoted?
We need to find these people and celebrate them. Not in a superficial way, but in a way that makes space for others to join them. Representation is not about assigning a label to someone. It’s about showing that belonging is possible and normal.
There are also community-led programs doing strong work in this space. The First Nations Health Authority in British Columbia supports Indigenous youth in accessing health career pathways. Indigenous Works, a national organization, helps employers improve workplace inclusion for Indigenous peoples. These are not charity-based models. They are practical, career-focused programs that recognize the value of Indigenous leadership across industries.
These examples don’t need to be rare. They can be part of how organizations operate day to day. Whether it’s in health, trades, finance, or education, every field has room for Indigenous leadership to be seen, heard, and supported.
I’ve met Indigenous business owners who are growing companies in fields most people don’t expect. From construction to hospitality, from farming to media. These are not side stories. These are the core of our future.
The emotional weight of underrepresentation doesn’t get talked about enough. It’s not only about numbers or opportunities. It’s about how it feels to always be the exception in the room. When you’re the only one, everything feels higher stakes. That’s why seeing someone else succeed matters so much.
Not every Indigenous youth will want to be a doctor, or a pilot, or a business owner. That’s not the point. The point is that they deserve the option. They deserve to grow up seeing that someone with their background did something they didn’t know was possible. That quiet permission can change everything.
Representation is part of reconciliation. It won’t fix everything. But it moves us in the right direction. And it helps repair something that should have never been broken.
So here’s the ask. Pay attention to the stories around you. Find the people already doing the work. Support them. Share their success. Let others see what’s possible.
That might be the story someone else needs to start writing their own.
