Dear Matriarchs,

Lately I’ve been reflecting on the word assimilation. It’s a complex word—woven with stories of survival, loss, belonging, and love. And I’ve been wondering what happens when we, as matriarchs, hold this word gently in our hands and look at it not as a wound, but as a thread in the fabric of our shared human story.

Unless we are Indigenous to Turtle Island, each of us carries the memory of migration. Some of our ancestors arrived by choice, seeking opportunity or refuge. Others were brought here through force, enslavement, or displacement. Some were received with open arms, others with hostility and violence. Yet no matter the story, each line of ancestry holds a deep relationship with assimilation—whether it was encouraged, resisted, or both.

In many families, assimilation was a way to survive. Our grandmothers may have encouraged their children to speak English “without an accent,” to dress a certain way, to keep traditions quiet in order to stay safe. In other lineages, the opposite was true—elders held the language, the rituals, the songs, as sacred resistance.

Neither story is right or wrong. Both hold love. Both hold pain.

And so, as matriarchs—those who tend the hearths of our families and communities—we have the opportunity to bring compassion and curiosity to these stories. To ask:

• What were the costs and gifts of assimilation in our lineage?

• How did it shape the way we love, lead, and protect?

• What might we reclaim, and what might we release?

These questions are not about blame; they are about remembrance. They help us understand how the pressures of belonging have shaped us—and how we can now choose differently, for ourselves and those who come after us.

Practices for Reflection and Integration

If these ideas stir something in you, here are a few practices to work with gently—alone, or in circle with other matriarchs:

1. Tell a Story of Assimilation.

Choose one ancestor—or a moment in your own life—where the pressure to assimilate was present. Write or speak their story. What was gained? What was lost? What emotions surface when you think of them?

2. Create a Family Map.

Sketch your family tree or cultural map. Mark where your ancestors came from, the languages spoken, the foods, the faiths. Notice where stories were silenced and where they were kept alive.

3. Ask an Elder.

If you can, speak with an elder in your family or community. Ask them what they remember about how your people adapted—or didn’t—to life in the United States. Listen for what was never spoken aloud.

4. Reflect on Your Leadership.

As a matriarch, how have these stories shaped the way you lead? Do you find yourself smoothing over difference to keep the peace, or fiercely guarding your roots? What would leadership look like if you were completely at home in all your identities?

5. A Small Ritual of Reclaiming.

Light a candle for your ancestors. Cook a dish from your heritage. Sing a lullaby in an old language. Speak aloud what you choose to carry forward—and what you release. Let this be a prayer of integration, not separation.

Assimilation has touched every one of us differently, but the shared thread is that we all seek belonging. When we remember our stories of adaptation and survival, we see how resilient our lineages are—and how much wisdom they hold.

May we, as matriarchs, continue to build bridges of understanding. May we lead our families and communities not from the fear of being left out, but from the deep knowing that we already belong.

With warmth and reverence,

Maija