I Thought I Was Just Living—Now I See I Was Being Erased

I am 43 years old, and I am just now realising how deeply colonised my mind is.

For most of my life, I thought I was just… living. Moving through the world, figuring things out like everyone else. Sure, I had moments where I felt out of place, but who doesn’t? I adapted. I learned how to navigate things. I made myself fit.

I didn’t realize I was assimilating.

I didn’t realize I was slowly molding myself into something more digestible, more acceptable—more Danish. It wasn’t some conscious choice; it was just survival. It was just normal.

And then, these past few months happened.

I started reading the words of other Greenlandic Inuit who are actively decolonizing themselves, reclaiming their culture, their language, their identity. And it hit me—hard.

I have been taken.

Not in some dramatic, forceful way. No one dragged me kicking and screaming. But piece by piece, over years and years, I was pulled away—from my own culture, from my own people, from myself.

And the worst part?

I didn’t even see it happening.

It feels like betrayal in my own body. Like I was ripped from my home without even knowing it. Like a part of me has been missing this whole time, and I’ve only just noticed the empty space.

And now? Now, I can’t unsee it.

Language Was the First Theft

When I was just a tiny toddler, my mother moved with me to Denmark. Danish became my world—my first language, my thoughts, my reality. It was what I spoke, what I understood, what shaped me.

And I had no idea what I was losing in the process.

Because while I was learning Danish, I was forgetting something else.

I grew up surrounded by family—my grandparents, my aunts and uncles, cousins, all speaking Greenlandic, telling stories, laughing, sharing memories. And I was there, physically. But that’s all I was.

I couldn’t understand the stories. I couldn’t join the conversations. I would nod and smile, pretending to follow along, sitting there like a quiet little doll while everyone else lived in a world I had no way of entering.

I went to the kaffemiks, the big family gatherings full of warmth, laughter, and conversation. But I was always on the outside. I’d either sit with the Danish-speaking guests or keep to myself, never really part of the Greenlandic-speaking community.

And at the time? I didn’t even question it. It was just how things were.

But looking back now? It breaks my heart.

I lost something that should have been mine. And now that I finally see it, the weight of what’s missing feels unbearable.

The conversations I could have had.
The relationships I could have built.
The deep, unshakable sense of belonging I should have felt.

And maybe—if things had been different—I would have stayed in Greenland. Maybe I would have grown up fully part of my people. Maybe my life would have taken a completely different path.

But I’ll never know. And that hurts more than I can put into words.

Colonization Taught Me to Reject My Own People

This one hurts the most.

I spent years perfecting my assimilation—shaping myself to fit into Danish culture, learning the unspoken rules, figuring out how to blend in. And part of that process?

It meant judging my own Greenlandic identity.

I dismissed the things that didn’t fit into the Danish way of thinking—the spirituality, the intuition, the deep trust in things unseen. I became skeptical, logical, almost clinical in my mind. I pushed away the parts of me that felt too different, too foreign in a Eurocentric world.

And the worst part?

I absorbed Danish prejudice against Greenlandic people.

Because colonization isn’t just something that happens outside of us. It seeps into our minds, into our bones, into the way we see ourselves.

For so long, I believed what Denmark believes about us.

I judged Greenlanders before I even got to know them.
I kept my distance from Greenlandic people in Denmark.
I avoided Greenlandic gatherings altogether.

And slowly, piece by piece, I erased my own culture inside me.

And that’s what colonization does.

It doesn’t just take land. It takes identity.
It makes you feel like you have to choose—
And no matter what you pick, you are always somehow wrong.

The Weight of Danish Prejudice

I have felt it. In the jokes. In the looks. In the way people ask questions with that tone—the one that says they’ve already decided who I am before I even open my mouth.

I once had a Danish classmate who, after getting to know me, admitted that he had been disappointed to be in a class with a Greenlander—because, in his mind, we were less than.

I have heard it all:

❝I’ve never seen a Greenlander without a beer.❞
❝You’re my favorite Eskimo!❞
❝You’re pretty, even though you’re a Greenlander.❞
❝Aren’t there a lot of social problems in Greenland?❞
❝Aren’t there a lot of suicides in Greenland?❞

Every single comment, every ignorant assumption, every little “joke” meant to be harmless—it all piles up.

It is exhausting to constantly brace myself against ignorance and racism.

To always be the one carrying the emotional and mental weight of prejudice.
To be told I am too sensitive when I react.
To be gaslit into thinking this isn’t real.

Denmark does not see that it is still an oppressor.
And we are still carrying the weight of that oppression.

But here’s the thing—it is not dangerous to be curious about us.

It is okay to ask questions. It’s okay to want to understand. In fact, I want you to ask. But I implore you—be aware of where your words are coming from.

Are they coming from curiosity? Or from prejudice?

I know Danish culture thrives on satire, dark humour, self-deprecation—and, let’s be real, other-deprecation. But when you use that same humour on Inuit, without understanding our history, without sensitivity to the load we already carry, it doesn’t feel like a joke. It feels like another cut. Another reminder that we are constantly seen as “less than.”

I also know that we are very few in Denmark. Most Danes don’t know any Inuit personally.

And that is exactly why the responsibility lies with you to approach us with curiosity instead of ignorance. It is not our job to soften your words or translate your intent. It is your job to be aware of how they land.

Because yes, we are angry. We are frustrated. We have every reason to be.

But that doesn’t mean we need saving. It doesn’t mean we need fixing.

We need understanding.
We need empathy.

And that cannot exist where there is prejudice.

Healing cannot happen in denial.
The thorn has to be pulled out before the wound can close.

Reclaiming What Was Taken

The loss is devastating.

It feels too late for so many things—
The meaningful conversations with my grandparents that will never happen.
The deep cultural connection I never got to have.
The sense of community I have always longed for but never fully belonged to.

And that grief? It sits deep.

But here’s what I know now—it is not too late for me.

I cannot rewrite the past. But I can reclaim my present. I can reclaim myself.

Decolonizing my mind, my heart, my body, my soul—it will be a lifelong journey.
It means unlearning the ways I was taught to see myself.
It means reconnecting with other Inuit across the world.
It means telling my story—and holding space to listen to yours.

And the most important thing I’ve realized?

I am not alone.

For so long, I thought I was the only one who felt this way—
The only one who felt disconnected, erased, caught between cultures.

But I wasn’t… I’m not.

And neither are you.

To My Fellow Greenlandic Inuit Who Feel This Too

If you’re reading this and something in your chest is tightening, if your breath is catching, if you’re thinking, oh shit… I feel this, then I want you to know something:

You’re not alone.

I know what it’s like to feel disconnected from your own culture, to feel like you’re standing on the edges, wondering if you even have the right to step back in. I know what it’s like to carry the weight of shame, confusion, and loss—and to only just now be realizing how deep it runs.

And I know what it’s like to wonder if it’s too late.

But let me tell you: It’s not.

There is no one way to reclaim yourself. There is no perfect path to decolonizing your mind, your heart, your body, your spirit. This journey is messy, painful, and nonlinear. But the most important thing? You don’t have to do it alone.

We have been given privileges through assimilation—access, education, languages—and instead of letting them take us further from our roots, we can use them to lift our people up.

We can tell our stories.
We can share our art, our language, our knowledge.
We can build something new, together—across borders, across generations.

We do not have to stay disconnected.
We do not have to stay ashamed.
We do not have to stay silent.

So if this resonates with you—if you feel it in your bones, if you have your own story to tell—share it in the comments. Or send me a message. Let’s connect.

And if you feel like others need to hear this, share this post.

Because we are reclaiming ourselves—together.

On Lateral Violence: We Must Stop Policing Ourselves

One of the biggest reasons I haven’t spoken out before?

Fear of my own people rejecting me.

Because lateral violence runs deep in our communities. The way we police each other—who is “real” Inuit and who is not. Who speaks the language well enough. Who is Inuk in the right way.

And I get it. Colonization has left us fractured. It has made us doubt each other, judge each other, and measure each other against impossible standards—as if there’s only one way to belong.

But here’s the thing:

Culture is not something you gatekeep. It’s something you grow.

Policing each other doesn’t protect our culture—it suffocates it. It divides us when we should be standing together.

And that’s why, in my space, I do not condone lateral violence.

I want to build a community where we don’t shame each other for how we reconnect with our roots—
where we don’t tear each other down for not being “Inuk enough”—
where we celebrate the many different voices of Inuit.

Where we practice lateral kindness.

Where we replace judgment with lateral curiosity—
How do you experience your culture? How do you reconnect? What does decolonization look like for you?

Because the truth is, we are all at different places in this journey. Some of us are relearning our language. Some of us are reclaiming our spirituality. Some of us are reconnecting through food, through music, through art, through community.

And instead of condemning each other, we can learn from each other.

We can choose kindness over criticism.
We can choose curiosity over judgment.
We can choose community over isolation.

So here’s my invitation:

• When you meet another Inuk who is on their journey, ask with curiosity instead of assumption. “How do you connect with your culture?” instead of “Why don’t you speak the language?”
• When you see an Inuk expressing themselves in a way that’s different from you, choose kindness over criticism. You don’t have to agree with their path to respect it.
• When you feel the urge to judge, pause and ask yourself: Is this coming from love? From curiosity? Or from my own pain?

We have been through enough. We do not need to make it harder on each other.

I am here. I am speaking now. I am reclaiming myself.
And I hope you will, too.

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We Are Reclaiming Ourselves—Together

If this resonates with you—if you feel it in your bones, if you have your own story to tell—share it in the comments. Or send me a message. Let’s connect.

And if you feel like others need to hear this, share this post.

Because we are not alone.
We do not have to do this alone.

We are reclaiming ourselves—together.

<3 Parnuuna