People encouraged to “Find your Freq”

On an unseasonably cold April evening in Regina, I found myself stepping into a sanctuary tucked away on the edge of the warehouse district.

The contrast between the biting wind outside and the warmth of the room was immediate and overwhelming — a sharp shift from the chill that clung to my clothes to the cozy embrace of a space alive with plants, couches, a makeshift tipi, and soft lighting.

The windowsills and ceiling enveloped with greenery from the vines, created an environment where the whole room was pulsing with quiet energy.

I took a seat across from a propagation station — plants sprouting new roots, little reflections of ourselves. The air was thick and still, reminiscent of a womb, and I couldn’t help but feel as though I was somewhere deeply sacred.

Across from me, a friend sat while I swayed gently in a green swing, movement like a pendulum.

In the warmth of the room, the outside world faded into something distant.

My body, my breath, everything slowed down.

And that was just the start of the Find your Freq closing event for the 2025 Sākēwēwak Storytellers Festival held from April 8-13 in Regina.

We wore headphones, each of us tuning into different audio experiences.

Mine drifted from rhythmic drumming to voices speaking of rain and ancestors, echoing like ghosts in the brick and wood of the building.

The atmosphere shifted constantly — shadow puppets danced against the wall in the shape of animals and faint laughter echoed in the distance while a soft murmur from someone playing with velvet snapped me back to the present.

Then the audio voiced themes of motherhood and what it means to be a woman.

Less than two days earlier, a friend of mine had given birth, and I had held her newborn son.

That moment lingered in my body — not with longing, but with reflection.

I’m not a mother. I’m not a bride.

I thought of Florence + The Machine’s haunting refrain: “I am no mother, I am no bride, I am king.”

And yet, I’m not a king nor mother nor bride.

I am a Two-Spirit woman.

I carry responsibilities, yes, but what does that mean within the context of matriarchy, kinship, and identity? Is my presence enough?

As these thoughts moved through me, the sky outside darkened. A light nearby flicked off, changing the mood again.

The next segment of the event was an audio hypnosis — I unintentionally drifted off, lulled by the voice in my ears. My friend stayed awake beside me, listening.

When I woke, we made our way to the ASMR Tipi installation, a space built for sensory listening.

There were two pillows covered in wolf designs that reminded me of Twilight. Jacob Black and Edward Cullen. A character who once felt like a lifeline to the awkward, Indigenous teen I had been — out of place in a white town, yearning to be loved like Bella Swan.

Back then, Jacob and Edward’s obsession felt like love.

Now, with more years behind me, I see it differently.

Still, the longing — to be seen, to be desired, to be understood, remains.

Later in the night, we moved into the erotic section of the audio installation.

Indigenous voices — women, men, and Two-Spirited people shared stories and poetry that were tender, powerful, and deeply intimate.

I thought about the violence Indigenous women face, the way our sexuality is often taken from us, distorted, or erased.

And yet here, in this space curated by the Feel your Freq event, there was room for reclamation.

There was safety, humor, warmth, and even joy. I felt gratitude, especially for artists like Tenille Campbell, whose words remind us we can be both sacred and sensual. We were given permission — to feel, to listen, to explore — without shame.

Friends and strangers alike were welcomed into this circle of care, curiosity, and community. I left that night full. Full of thought, feeling, sound, and connection.

If you ever have the chance to attend a Feel Your Freq or a Sākēwēwak gathering or event , I urge you to go. You may walk in cold and uncertain, but I promise you’ll leave changed.