On the shores of Tulalip Bay, where the tide meets the stories of generations past, a vital transformation is taking root. Here, at the intersection of ancestral wisdom and modern teaching, the College of Education’s online BA in Early Care and Education (ECE) program at the University of Washington (UW) is growing something rare: a teacher preparation pathway that doesn't ask Native students to adapt to Western systems but instead adapts itself to Native ways of knowing. It is reweaving cultural knowledge, nurturing sovereignty and growing a future in which Indigenous children can thrive in classrooms grounded in their own languages, lands and lifeways.

This place-based pathway within the ECE program, co-created by the College of Education, a statewide Indigenous early learning advisory board, and the Tulalip Tribes, is the first of its kind. The pathway brings together Tulalip community members and others closely tied to the land and people. Their mission: to become early childhood educators who center Indigenous knowledge, honor family and community and teach in a way that reflects and respects who they are.

“This program was developed through collaboration across our tribal language and early learning departments alongside the University of Washington,” said Sheryl Fryberg, executive director of TELA and Tulalip Tribal member. “Our work centers on integrating language and culture as essential parts of education, not just as add-ons. Bringing our community’s history and ways of being into classrooms strengthens our children’s identity and future success. This is about healing what was lost and ensuring our next generations thrive with a strong foundation.”

“We have opened the first Native teacher cohort here with Tulalip Tribes,” said Dr. Anna Lees, Ballmer Endowed Professor of Equitable Early Learning. “We’re finishing the first academic year with six students through a localized, place-based design. These are students who are rooted here, and we’re designing together what it means to teach and lead from this land.”

Elders at the helm

The seeds for the cohort were planted years before the pathway officially launched. When the College of Education received a $38 million transformational gift from Ballmer Group in 2023 to expand early childhood pathways as part of its broader effort to support 1,500+ early childhood education scholarships across Washington, the question was not “What should we build?”, but rather, “What are communities asking for?”  

That was the question Dr. Filiberto Barajas-López, director of Indigenous Education Initiatives and the Native Education Certificate Program, set out to answer. Following this impactful investment in the College, he made sure the funding served Indigenous priorities first and immediately convened Indigenous early learning educators from across the state.

Their advisory group centered elder wisdom and community aspirations. “Elder and community leadership were central to defining the vision for what Indigenous education could be,” Barajas-López reflected. “Some of the Native Elders shared how other versions of early learning programs had existed in the past. Their insights about beginning with the strengths and desires of Native communities framed how we approached the co-design work.”  

This intentional listening shaped everything. “Our aim was to create an initiative that went beyond university-defined goals,” Barajas-López continued. “To accomplish this, we had to be community-based and attend to the goals of sovereignty and self-determination. We designed a program that reflected the culture, values and beliefs of the community in this first cohort, of Tulalip Tribes.”  

Indeed, from the outset, the vision was co-led by tribal leaders, faculty and families. Before her role at the UW, Lees had already spent a decade collaborating with Coast Salish early learning programs including Tulalip’s Betty J. Taylor Early Learning Academy (TELA) and language leaders, developing relationships that formed the foundation for this new partnership. Fryberg emphasized the significance of that trust-building: “We already had a relationship with Dr. Lees,” she said. “And having that trust was really important to let our staff go and learn from her, and also know we were still guiding the direction of the program.”  

Lees, who has long grounded her pedagogy in reciprocity and collaboration, saw her role not as a curriculum deliverer but a community convener. She facilitated sessions where students, elders and language instructors could shape the content and flow of the courses, living out the advisory group’s vision of a program rooted in sovereignty and cultural reflection.

“It wasn’t, ‘How are we going to partner with UW?’ It was, ‘What are we sharing out for UW to figure out how to partner with us?’ And the ECE program did that beautifully,” Lees explained.

A curriculum shaped by the community

Rather than adapting an existing curriculum, the Native Cohort was built from the ground up to reflect Tulalip’s knowledge systems, lands and stories. Each course is rooted in community conversation and guided by seasonal teachings. Students learn alongside local knowledge holders, harvest plant relatives and participate in ceremonies and practices that reconnect them to place and purpose.

Amanda Biddle, a sophomore in the ECE program’s Tulalip cohort and a mother of Indigenous children enrolled in local tribes, described the difference: “I’ve been through college a few times, and this is a really different experience for me. It’s more about things I’m interested in  and the community I'm in. it's something I can bring back to the kids because it's their culture and community too.”  

One powerful example is the nettle harvest. Students gathered with elders to learn how to identify, harvest and prepare nettles — a traditional food and medicine. Rainey Fryberg, an enrolled member of the Chippewa Cree Tribe of Rocky Boy, Montana, and a mother of three Tulalip children, shared how this experience resonated beyond the classroom: “I told my daughter when we harvested. I was thinking good thoughts, and then I got poked but I was still thankful. She was so excited when I brought home nettle pesto. My kids loved it.”  

The learning doesn’t stop at harvest. Students weave these teachings into their classrooms. Amanda, whose passion for education grew from helping raise her younger siblings and later her own son, redesigned a dramatic play area with regalia labeled in Lushootseed, complete with QR codes linking to audio pronunciations. “We’re not fluent,” she admitted, “but this gives us tools to bring the language into the classroom.”  

Marissa Reeves, a Tulalip Tribal member and junior in the program, took it further. The daughter of Kristina Young (a teacher at TELA) and Conrad Reeves (a fisherman), Marissa grew up in Tulalip’s Montessori program and now teaches there. She created a hunting game based on traditional practices. “It’s hide-and-seek,” she laughed, “but it’s also cultural learning. The kids connect it to what they see at home with their dads and uncles. She painted animal tracks on the ground and used masks to teach tracking, making the activity both playful and rooted in heritage. These projects aren’t just assignments; they’re acts of reclamation.  

Lees noted how powerful these acts of re-connection were. “There’s a real sense of pride that starts to build when students realize they can be both learners and teachers of culture,” she said. “They begin to see that what they know, what they carry, is vital.”

A journey back to themselves

Students describe the cohort as more than a program; it is a source of healing, empowerment and reconnection. A journey back to themselves. Many entered the program without deep knowledge of their cultural traditions. Now, they find themselves becoming carriers of that knowledge.

Courtnie Reyes, a Tulalip Tribal member and junior in the program, is the daughter of Lukas Sr. and Monika Reyes and the granddaughter of the late Dolores Reyes and Sam and Violet Reyes. She shared: “Before this, I had never gone out harvesting, ever. I just never knew where to start. This cohort has helped me develop into who I want to be, culture-wise — and who I want our community to be.”  

For Marissa, whose mother and grandmother were also early learning educators, the program is about giving children the confidence she didn’t always have. “I want our kids to pick up a drum or wear regalia in public and not feel awkward. This is who they are,” she said. In her classroom, she introduced traditional music and dance. “We brought regalia, drums, clappers. The kids walk in circles like we do in ceremony. If the music stops, they keep singing.”  

The healing extends beyond the classroom. Molly Hatch, a Tulalip Tribal member, junior in the program, and teacher coach at TELA, is the daughter of Roy Hatch and Carmel Savoie. She comes from a family of educators, including her grandmother, and spoke about the generational impact: “I went to school off the reservation. I feel like I didn’t learn enough about my culture. As an adult, it can feel nerve-wracking to ask elders to teach you. Now, [I get] to share these teachings with our children. It’s meaningful in a way I can’t describe.”

The cohort has become a circle, one where students, elders and children learn together. As Courtney put it: “It’s transformative. I have Lushootseed books in my home now. I’m writing things down for my niece and nephew. This isn’t just education. It’s giving our children what we didn’t have, and healing ourselves in the process.”

Tulalip guides its own education

The program's foundation rests on Tulalip's intergenerational vision for education, one that honors ancestral knowledge while addressing historical disruptions. Tribal leaders approached this work with both urgency and patience, understanding that cultural reclamation cannot be rushed, but must be nurtured across lifetimes. TELA and its Lushootseed Language Department didn't just participate in curriculum development; they established non-negotiables like language immersion from birth, land-based learning and elder-guided pedagogy.  

“We were meeting and talking, about what are the needs of our tribal children and how do we impact that?” Fryberg said. “And then having UW staff come and collaborate and coordinate with us... we did that all together.” This collaboration reflects a deliberate shift from reactive to proactive education models, where Tulalip sets the terms of engagement.  

For Fryberg, whose own family spans multiple generations impacted by boarding schools, the work carries profound personal meaning: “We started with preschoolers, but we realized we need to start with birth to three. We even need to start with pregnant moms,” she said. “That's when we learn language, when we're in utero.” Her words underscore a cultural truth long understood by Coast Salish communities: learning begins before birth, with songs and stories carried through generations.  

The program's design, therefore, intentionally disrupts the timeline of colonial education systems, creating space for a continuous, cyclical process of knowledge transfer. “The honor of doing this work comes with responsibility,” Lees noted. “It means showing up with humility, listening carefully and never assuming we know more than the community does about what their children need.”

This accountability manifests in quarterly check-ins where tribal leaders evaluate whether the program remains aligned with Tulalip’s seven-generation vision — a foundational Indigenous principle that calls for honoring the wisdom and sacrifices of the seven generations before, while making decisions that will sustain and uplift the next seven generations of children, families, and the land they depend on.

Trust over tradition

Back at the College of Education, UW leaders see the cohort as a model for what’s possible when institutions listen.

For Dr. Miriam Packard da Silva, director of the Early Care & Education Bachelor of Arts degree program, witnessing this shift has been transformative: “This is what we always hoped for,” she said, “That a degree program could support people to stay in their communities, thrive where they live and work and transform not only themselves, but the places they serve.”  

The College of Education had to fundamentally reconfigure its systems to honor this vision, replacing rigid academic calendars with seasonal learning cycles and adapting assessment methods to value cultural growth alongside academic achievement.  

Dr. Lynn Dietrich, assistant dean for undergraduate programs, notes the intentional paradox at the program's core: “We're not about the numbers,” she said, “But our 85% completion rate is remarkably high, and it reflects the deep support and high standards we've set.”  

This success stems from what Packard da Silva describes as “institutional humility” — the willingness to let community needs reshape university structures. Faculty undergo ongoing training in Indigenous pedagogies, and budget allocations prioritize elder honoraria over traditional line items.  

The result is a living model that challenges conventional wisdom about online education; while courses use digital platforms, the heart of learning happens through in-person ceremonies, seasonal harvests of traditional foods and medicines, and language spaces— spaces where speakers teach Indigenous languages through storytelling and daily practice.

“What we care about is whether the experience matters,” Packard da Silva added. “Does it change how students teach? How they lead? That's what tells us we're succeeding.” These metrics look different here, success might mean a student teaching their first Lushootseed phrase to a child, or an elder affirming that classroom practices now align with community values.

From one tribe to many

The cohort model is now expanding. A second group has launched with the Confederated Tribes of the Colville Reservation, and more are envisioned. But it’s important to note that the expansion to the Confederated Tribes of the Colville Reservation represents more than replication, it's an act of Indigenous solidarity, with each iteration deepening the model's adaptability.  

Lees emphasizes this distinction: “This is not a pathway you copy and paste,” she said. “Every community has different needs. Our job is to show up, listen deeply and build something together.”  

The Colville Reservation adaptation, for instance, incorporates plateau Salish traditions and the nselxcin, nxaʔamxčín, and titoqatimt languages, while maintaining core principles of land-based learning and elder and community leadership. The College of Education's exploration of K-12 pathways acknowledges a critical truth: cultural continuity shouldn't end at kindergarten.  

Dietrich's question, “What would it look like to support educators beyond early childhood?” signals an understanding that true educational sovereignty requires cradle-to-career systems. Potential models include “culture keeper” certifications for community members and hybrid programs that blend Western pedagogy with traditional mentoring.  

Packard da Silva's vision extends beyond institutional boundaries: “The ultimate vision is impact. Real change in communities, in families, in children's lives. And to do that, we have to keep listening. Keep showing up. Keep co-creating.”  

Lees calls this effort “relational accountability”, meaning each new partnership begins with trust-building before any curriculum development. The program's physical spaces now reflect this philosophy too, with UW classrooms incorporating traditional gathering areas and Indigenous plantings.  

As Lees reflects, “The best learning happens in relationship. It's not about checking boxes. It's about showing up with care, with accountability, and with love for the work.” This ethos ensures that growth never comes at the cost of cultural integrity, whether in Tulalip, Colville, or future partner nations.

A movement in motion

The ECE Native Cohort at Tulalip represents more than a degree. It’s a living ecosystem of Indigenous education, where every element from curriculum design to classroom practice grows from the same root: the belief that children thrive when their education reflects the land, language and lifeways of their ancestors. This pathway trains teachers and cultivates culture-bearers who understand that their work continues a sacred responsibility passed down through generations.  

“I want kids to love learning,” said Fryberg, her voice carrying the weight of both her professional role as an educator and her personal journey as a Tulalip Tribal member. “And giving them the opportunity to learn who they are. It’s going to open the doors to the world for them.” These words capture the program’s dual purpose: to prepare children academically while grounding them in an unshakable sense of cultural identity.  

Fryberg’s reflection on sovereignty reveals the deeper current running through this work: “The thing is that we have to remember that our ancestors were really brilliant. They reserved rights for us. We didn’t give up everything. Everything wasn’t taken from us. Our elders and our ancestors reserved the rights for us.” This isn’t just historical context, it’s the foundation upon which the entire program is built. The cohort embodies what it means to exercise educational sovereignty in practice: determining what children learn, how they learn it and who guides that process.  

The program’s ripple effects are already visible. In classrooms across Tulalip, toddlers ask for nettle tea after harvest lessons. Preschoolers drum and sing with the same confidence their ancestors once did. Parents report children teaching Lushootseed words to family members at home, a reversal of the traditional education dynamic that symbolizes cultural revival.  

For Lees, who has walked alongside this community for nearly a decade, the impact transcends academic metrics. “The Indigenous early learning cohorts give me hope,” she shared. “Hope that we’re offering educator development that’s rooted in local lands, waters and lifeways...and that will have a positive impact on children today and for generations to come.”  

And so, as the tide continues to rise in Tulalip Bay, so, too, does this movement. Not as a wave crashing ashore, but as the steady, inevitable return of waters to their rightful place. The cohort stands as proof that when education truly serves a people’s vision for their future, it doesn’t just fill minds, it heals histories and sustains cultures. As Sheryl Fryberg said, “We’re not just teaching children who they are. We’re reminding them who they’ve always been.”