I’m from Northern Ontario, Sault Ste. Marie, to be exact. I didn’t grow up there, but it is the place I have called home from an early age. My mother, being a teacher, brought me north in the summers to her hometown. We spent the summer at “camp”—not to be confused with the southern “cottage.” A cabin built in 1973 on the shores of Lake Superior. The exterior is painted in a classic Finnish red that many buildings adorn in the Scandinavian region. The walls are lined with red pine panels, glazed in a warm lacquer. The old propane lamps and fridge from the early 1960s are still there, in case the intricate solar system my grandfather installed in his 80s fails. A moose hide hangs from the wall behind my favourite chair, a brown and white plaid mid-century modern armchair that’s been kneaded into an utter black hole of comfort over the years. From this spot I can see the lake. Oh, the lake—how do I even begin?
The shores of Lake Superior have enveloped the hearts of artists, poets, and photographers, all attempting to capture the indescribable power and beauty of its shores and waters. If you’ve ever spent time on its waters, you’d know the formidable and humbling presence it brings. A sudden change in winds can turn the water from glassy to treacherous in as little as five minutes. Beneath its surface swim ancient fish, sometimes washing ashore or surfacing for air. Its many islands, inlets, and coves hold stories and provoke curiosity; several are difficult to reach on foot, but worth the excursion. Most of all, it is a place where, even in the harshest of conditions, I find peace.
In my younger years, I spent my summers here, rushing from the sauna to the lake, over, and over, and over, until dinner—at which point I would battle my eyelids to stay awake. The sauna, in our Finnish culture, is not just a place to bathe. It’s a kind of temple, a place of spirit, healing, and presence. I often visualize my anxiety, fears, stress, or negative emotions leaving my body before jumping in the lake to wash them away. The lake water—cold, crisp and unfathomably clear—holds my body up. I lie on my back and float, hearing nothing but my own pulse, feeling nothing but the water supporting me, removing the weight of everyday life. I feel present and grateful.
When I moved to Prince George, I knew I would miss home. The people I care deeply about are all located in Ontario, and as many of us do, I feared that age and illness would be lurking while I am away. But as our society says, we need to “follow opportunity” and “chase the money,” and I had been presented with several opportunities to build a career. Though in the midst of chasing goals, I found myself preoccupied rather than present, as the ongoing to-do list circled my brain.
By the time I wrote my exams and defended my proposal, I was drained. The stress and anxiety had built and constructed themselves in the form of what I’ll call “graduate burnout.” The energy and time put into attaining perfectionism—which can never be accomplished—comes at a cost. We often talk about how graduate school is isolating, separating us from friends and family as we work away at our degrees and exams. What we don’t talk about are the other aspects of isolation that can come with graduate studies.
Isolation has many dimensions. For those who have come from afar, it can mean isolation from your community and the place you call home. I found this manifested as a feeling of uprootedness, a disconnection from the new community I live in. It can also manifest as isolation from the natural world—as much of my research occurs indoors, I find myself thinking of the water and forests, the places where I could release my stress and anxiety. There is also a degree of isolation from one’s own culture, as daily practices are set aside, adding to the feeling of physical distance from family. In the end, I felt like a tree toppled by the wind, unable to ground myself in my research and life’s goals.
To refill that draining well, I sought to reconnect not only with family and friends, but also with the small traditions and practices that connected me to my Finnish culture. I needed to experience the things that have shaped me into who I am. I spent many days picking berries, a tradition my family has practiced over several generations, bringing back memories of the small pothole lakes we’d cool off in, where the minnows would nibble on your toes. I spent more time in the forest, remembering stories my grandfather shared of his many years hunting and fishing in northern Ontario. I recently spent time at the Nechako River fishing for sockeye, admiring the community of people helping one another and sharing their fishing tips, reminding me of why I chose and love to live in a northern community. Most of all, I spent as much time as I could in the water, floating and closing my eyes, releasing past and future tension and staying present with my own pulse.
Like the water washing away stress and anxiety, I let these practices fill me with good emotions, knowledge, and memories accumulated over many years. These not only grounded me in my heritage, but also in the memories and experiences from my childhood. These small acts reminded me that it is who I am that drives me to do my research—and they renewed my promise to protect the waters that have cared for me throughout my life.
If you’re like me, feeling unrooted and disconnected, it’s okay. Disconnection and isolation are not just one thing, but a layered experience. If you find yourself immersed in these feelings and thoughts, I would like to offer you some guidance for your graduate journey.
There is power in small, intentional actions— like berry picking, spending time in the forest, or fishing. These aren’t grand gestures, but quiet returns to what matters. Find ways to honour your culture and background by engaging your senses: the smells and tastes of familiar foods, the feeling of familiar textures, the sounds of your heritage. Consider what small practices might connect you to who you were before graduate school began to reshape you.
Most importantly, remember that there is a relationship between your identity and your purpose. Nurturing who you are will, in turn, support your academic work. The traditions that ground you aren’t distractions from your studies; they’re the foundation that makes your work meaningful.
