Heritage Reclaimed: One Family’s Journey to Keep Culture Alive
Over the past three years, the world has watched in horror and awe as Ukraine has stood its ground. And through every headline, every conversation, every protest sign, a deeper truth has emerged—this isn’t just about politics or territory. It’s about identity. It’s about resilience. It’s about the fire that burns in the soul of every Ukrainian, no matter where in the world they are.
For me, this is personal.
My great-great-grandfather, Nicolaus Postey, came to Canada in 1887 with his wife, Palahna, and their four children. They were part of the first wave of Ukrainian immigrants who left everything behind to build a better life on the open prairies. They settled near what is now Rosthern, Saskatchewan, and built their lives from scratch—no roadmaps, no welcome signs, just hope and grit.
In 1930, the family built a Ukrainian roadside chapel at the location of their first Canadian homestead. That small chapel still stands today. It’s a quiet but powerful tribute to our roots—now a cultural landmark in the province. My family continues to care for it lovingly, maintaining the grounds, planting flowers, painting the exterior. We tend to it as if we’re tending to our ancestors themselves.
The Ukrainian Chapel: Roadside Chapel near Rosthern
Their son, John Postey—my great-grandfather—continued that legacy alongside his wife, Anna. They raised their children, including my grandmother, on that same land. My Baba, as we say in Ukrainian. She married my Dido, Benjamin Yamchuk, whose parents also came from Eastern Europe during that same early wave. These were people of deep faith, quiet strength, and unshakable loyalty to family and culture.
I was born in Saskatoon in 1988, part of the fifth generation of Ukrainian Canadians in our family. But by the time I came along, much of that rich cultural tapestry had started to fade. We still called ourselves Ukrainian, but what did that mean? A few traditional foods, a Christmas gathering on January 7, calling my grandmother “Baba”—but not much else. The language, the rituals, the heartbeat of the culture were slipping through the cracks.
As I got older, that disconnect began to gnaw at me. So I took a Ukrainian language class in university. I started learning the things I had missed. But the real transformation came through motherhood.
When we moved into a new neighborhood in Saskatoon, we found ourselves just one block away from the only Ukrainian bilingual school in the entire province: Bishop Filevich. My child enrolled, and that decision changed everything.
Through years of study, my child learned Ukrainian language, religion, history, and tradition—not just as subjects in school, but as a way of being. They participated in Ukrainian dance, prayed fluently, sang the songs of our ancestors, and embraced the culture with pride. Now, they are on the path to graduate with full credits in Ukrainian language and religion, and will soon experience a Matura—a traditional Ukrainian graduation ceremony that honors both academic achievement and cultural identity. It’s a full-circle moment, one I never could’ve imagined growing up.
Watching this transformation sparked something in me too. I dove headfirst into reviving our heritage at home. We began creating Pysanky—intricately decorated Easter eggs with beeswax and dye. We brought back traditional Ukrainian prayers before meals, often led with confidence and grace by my child. We wore embroidered outfits to celebrate cultural events. We didn’t just remember our heritage—we revived it.
But I knew I couldn’t stop at my own family.
Today, I proudly serve on various Ukrainian-focused boards. I’ve volunteered my time to support newly arrived Ukrainians—finding housing, providing resources, and creating safe spaces for those fleeing the horrors of war. I’ve opened my door, literally and figuratively, to those in need. My home has been a shelter. My work has become a platform.
Through my company, Advocate Fundraising, I’ve extended my reach—collaborating with Ukrainian organizations, advising on fund development strategies, writing grants, and advocating for international aid to support Ukraine’s front lines. This isn’t just professional work—it’s deeply personal advocacy. It’s using my skills to give back to the people and culture that shaped me.
When I recently spoke to a friend and her husband, both born in Ukraine and now living in Canada, I shared my story—how my family has been here for over 135 years, and yet my connection to our heritage feels stronger than ever. I said, “It’s hard to explain to someone born in Ukraine why I feel such a deep-seated connection… I just do.” Her husband looked at me and said, “You have deep Ukrainian roots.”
And I do.
They are roots that stretch across generations, across oceans, across wars and borders. They are roots that hold strong through wind and fire. They are roots that remind me every single day: being Ukrainian isn’t just something you inherit—it’s something you live.
You can take the Ukrainian out of the fight,
but you cannot take the fight out of the Ukrainian.
Слава Україні.
Героям Слава.
