We are living with the consequences of an economic system that separated human beings from the natural world and from one another. We see it in poisoned rivers, displaced communities, and the dangerous idea that profit exists apart from people or place. Capitalism insists on extraction and endless growth, even as the world shows us — over and over — that this approach is unsustainable. Meanwhile, 80% of the world’s biodiversity exists in lands stewarded by Indigenous peoples. That is not a coincidence. It’s evidence.

In my Tlingit language, we don’t have a direct translation for “wealth” in the Western sense. The closest understanding is based on relationships — how much you have to give away. Wealth is measured by responsibility and reciprocity, not accumulation. Imagine if that became the standard for the modern economy. Imagine if power was defined by how well you take care of your community and environment—not how much you extract from them.

I grew up watching this worldview in action. My father, a Tlingit carver, transformed massive trees into poles that hold history, honor and teaching. My mother worked with a baby on her hip, guided by values that were never spoken but always known. I started my first business at seven, selling painted carving scraps to tourists. At the time, I believed what capitalism taught me: that the goal was to make money and make more of it.

It didn’t take long to see the contradiction. In college and later, in my work, I saw how capitalism rewards shortcuts and ignores consequences. Today, as Executive Director of Spruce Root — a community development financial institution — I advocate for regenerative economics that center long-term wellbeing. We invest in Indigenous and rural entrepreneurs not because it’s charitable, but because it works.

Barnacle Foods, a small business in Southeast Alaska, is a powerful example. They make food products from kelp, but they refuse to follow the “scale at all costs” model. Instead of chasing only wholesale markets, they prioritize local food security. They invest in research to ensure wild kelp beds aren’t damaged by harvest. They pour resources into monitoring ecosystems they depend on — not because someone requires it, but because care is part of their business model. Their question is always: How do we enhance the environment that sustains us? That is an Indigenous approach to innovation.

Sealaska, the Native corporation I belong to through the Alaska Native Claims Settlement Act, is another example of what transformation looks like from the inside. While it once focused primarily on logging — a choice shaped by imposed economic pressures — it has since shifted course. Today, Sealaska invests in ocean health, Indigenous foods, carbon sequestration, and workforce development rooted in place. It is not perfect, but it is proof that Native leadership can reshape institutions built for extraction.

Spruce Root’s investments show this on a smaller scale. When entrepreneurs are supported to align with cultural values — not forced to abandon them — their businesses last longer, hire locally, and treat land as a partner rather than a cost center. This isn’t theory. It’s measurable.

The truth is, it is cheaper to prevent disaster than to clean it up. We know what happens when corporations ignore Indigenous knowledge: oil spills, contaminated drinking water, chemical explosions, the slow violence of addiction and displacement. We’ve already paid the price — in lives, land, and futures. Continuing as we are is not neutral; it’s reckless.

If we infused Indigenous values into decision-making, we would see long-term benefit replace short-term gain. Shareholders would measure returns by impact on communities and ecosystems. “Corporate social responsibility” wouldn’t be a side project — it would be inherent.

The call to action is clear: invest in Native-led companies, put Indigenous leaders on your boards, hire us in positions of power, and follow our leadership rather than extracting from it. Wealth — true wealth — is collective.

In my culture, there is a story about a hillside of spruce trees destroyed by a landslide. Only one tree survived. As new saplings took root, the surviving tree told them what had happened and taught them to intertwine their roots so they could withstand the next disaster.

That story is why the organization I lead is called Spruce Root. It’s also a promise: our survival is collective. If we root our economies in Indigenous values, we don’t just repair what’s broken — we create a future that can hold all of us.

Alana Peterson’s Tlingit name is Gah Kith Tin, from Diginaa Hit, Luknahadi. She grew up and currently lives in Sitka, a small island community in Southeast Alaska, where she serves as the Executive Director at Spruce Root.