Truths of Taos: How One Native's Courage Helped Me Re-examine My Own

Taos Pueblo and the Sangre de Cristo mountains that make up their sacred land

The thing about shimmering lands like New Mexico—where everything feels so flowy and natural and clear around you—is that it also spotlights the things that don’t. Like that song: One of these things is not like the other….

Taos isn’t totally unfamiliar territory. Back in April, I attended a four-day retreat here which ignited a whammy of a life change (or, uh, several). “Four days just wasn’t enough,” I kept saying. So when I embarked on my cross-country road trip, I knew I’d make it here eventually.

More than once, it's been said to me that Taos either draws you in or kicks you out. And since I left with no donkey kick bruises last time, it’s no surprise that this place continues to draw me deeper into its vortex along with the rest of the state’s ability to enchant. 

Maybe it was the fact that it took me thirty-five years to set foot in New Mexico. Or that I’d already swallowed a spoonful of indigenous wisdom. Whatever “it” was, as soon as I crossed the state line, I was hungry. Not just for killer enchiladas and guac, but for a deep dive into a culture that, for so long, has been painted in a single narrative.

So I began my time at the Taos Pueblo, one of the oldest remaining inhabited communities on the continent. For more than a thousand years, Taos tribal members, known as the Red Willow people, sourced their own food, practiced their own religion, spoke their own native language called Tewa, and celebrated Mother Earth for providing all they needed to live. 

All water is sourced from the Rio Pueblo de Taos (Red Willow Creek), which also happens to flow right by the casita where I'm staying,

Originally, the only entrances to the pueblo was via a hole in the roof (that's what the ladders were for!) Doors and windows were added much later.

But within minutes of being inside those ancient walls, it became clear that for so many Native Americans, every single one of these aspects since the 1600s has been challenged. Snatched. Misconstrued. And it sure wasn’t the mountains that tried to kick the Red Willow people out of their way of life.

So that afternoon, when a generous native named Kevin Whitefeather invited me on an last-minute visit to his family’s nearby sacred lands to learn the non-CliffsNotes version of his people, I jumped at the opportunity. 

Surrounded by fields of juniper and sage, two other visitors from the East Coast and I circled up alongside Kevin as he shared from his heart. He spoke of his great grandfather, one of many children forcibly rounded up from the pueblo who was sent off to boarding school in Pennsylvania. Along with their land, they were stripped of every aspect of their native identity as an unfamiliar, required “white American” way of life was forced upon them. Over the span of centuries, several became confined to internment camps. Genocide raged. If they were caught practicing their own religion instead of Catholicism, they’d face torture or death.

Kevin explains how a traditional horno oven works, which he's building by hand.

Water flows directly from the sacred Blue Lake in the mountains, which is completely closed to the public.

For those who eventually were able to return to what was left of their homeland like Kevin’s great grandfather, another layer of culture shock awaited: where, and how, would they fit in? Many were unable to even speak their native language, deemed outsiders from the community and within. 

We’re well aware that it wasn’t until 1920 that women had the right to vote. But where was my social studies lesson on Native Americans having to wait until 1975?

Lacking a freedom to be, express and participate as their true, authentic selves–or even knowing what authenticity meant—has formed yet another layer of generational trauma. 

These identity crises, Kevin explained, are a primary cause of many Native Americans turning to alcohol as a way to cope. Having lost his father, brother and numerous friends to the disease, he knows how substance abuse can tear a family apart. It nearly took his life, too. Now, his immersive experiences open to the public serve as a way to honor his family by generating awareness of a humbling, in-depth story often swept beneath the rug.

Kevin’s story, along with his courage to share it so openly and honestly, refuses to leave me. In fact, it’s struck a damn loud chord for how I want to live moving forward when it comes to openness, freedom and choice.

History and spirit of the lands is palpable. And smells like a spa day.

Such a wide brush stroke in time can bring a magnifying glass to a single, easily dismissible moment.

Hiking up the Rio Grand gorge the other day, I thought back to how easy it’s been to make friends here in New Mexico. How I’ve been able to, quite frankly, just slide right into this way of life. How locals like Margaret—whose sweet pup Gus I watched for a few days—have become pals literally overnight. And how I nearly missed out on a deeper level of connection if I’d chosen to withhold a piece of my true self. 

Margaret generously opened her home to me for an extra night when I had a gap in my travel schedule. And as we stroked Gus getting to know each other, she asked, “So what do you do for a living again?”

To be honest, my belly still clenches when someone asks me this, especially in person when you can’t just switch browser tabs. Was I going to share all of what I do? Even the not-so-mainstream “woo woo” part?

Nope. I rambled about writing and freelancing and my past jobs. You know, the more culturally acceptable parts.

The irony in all this is that if you were to look around Margaret’s home, you’d see exactly why we’d be friends. There are nods to spirituality and animals and intuitive practices everywhere. It’s partly what made me feel so “at home” in her home! So why was I so hesitant to share my truth when the odds of rejection were low?

At one point, Margaret suggested we follow each other on Instagram. Was that how I wanted her to discover my animal communication ability?

And that’s when I knew I had to come clean, waiting for a nice little opening in the conversation before asking, “So have you heard of animal communication?”

Turned out, Margaret hadn’t just heard of it. She’d lived it. Personal experiences, our favorite animal communicators, even podcasts were exchanged between us, adding a vibrant dimension to our budding connection.

Had I held back a (big) part of my truth, we both would have missed out on the most meaningful stuff that life’s built upon.

True stories of our country’s foundation may have been absent for the better part of my years—our years. Yet thanks to Kevin, his long line of ancestors and many unsung warriors, the privilege of expressing a simple truth is one I don’t want to take for granted anymore.

So last night, before another human sat across from me on Zoom asking if I’d like to watch her pup next, she posed the same question as Margaret: “Remind me what you do?”

A pause. A choice.

“I’m a writer,” I said. “But also, I’m an animal communicator.” 

Her face lit up. “Ohmygod! How COOL! I love that stuff, you gotta tell me more!”

So many stories, I’m honored to share. If you find yourself in Taos, be sure to check out Kevin's offerings at Whitefeather Tours. And to keep following the my nomadic journey, join my email list.