In her 2020 monograph, Dammed: The Politics of Loss and Survival in Anishinaabe Territory, Brittany Luby provides a model for Indigenous historical methods that are rooted in her homeland. This review essay foregrounds Luby’s exemplification of kinship, which I am defining in Anishinaabe terms here as her relationships with land, water, beings, and people, all of which are evident in this study. This brings me to my related point, which is how the author’s positionality as a historian makes this a community history that guides readers to see links between the past and Indigenous futures. While Luby’s attention to gender is woven throughout the book, I’ll focus on her examinations of Indigenous men’s labour and of breastmilk and breast health, both powerful examples of loss and resilience in Indigenous communities. Luby’s community connections to this story — she is the daughter of former chief Allan Luby (Ogemah); a descendent of Chief Kawitaskung, a signatory of Treaty 3; and the great-great-granddaughter of Ogimaamaashiik (Matilda Martin) — make this a thoughtful and compelling study. Though this is a monograph deeply rooted in the discipline of history, I was inspired by how much I was thinking about the future as I read it. From the very beginning, the reader is made to understand that continuity from the past to the future, even when there are colonial interruptions and traumas, is essential to understanding Indigenous histories. For instance, Luby dedicated the book both to her ancestors and to the “many children yet to be born along its banks. May you sing of the future that your ancestors envisioned.” Her dedication, which is rooted in place, along with the story that follows, ties the water to the Anishinaabek who call it home. To further illustrate my point, I wish also to highlight the words of Chief Lorraine Cobiness from her foreword. As she told Emma Stelter, “We want a future that includes rice and sturgeon.” To be sure, these food staples are important in Luby’s homeland, and the sturgeon, in particular, is also seen as kin to which members of her community have responsibilities. Through the example of the sturgeon, we see that food resources are not only crucial for physical survival, but they are also relations that need to be attended to carefully. Furthermore, Chief Cobiness’s statement links Luby’s story to the future of her homeland and waters. Luby’s positionality as a scholar with ancestral ties to the community is evident, and, heeding Eve Tuck’s call to distance ourselves from damage-centred research about Indigenous communities, Luby has balanced a story of loss with one of Anishinaabe resilience, of facing forward. Her interview process, informed by the Anishinaabe Custom Council, included sending invitations to the families on the band list. Furthermore, wanting to ensure that interviewees were not overburdened with interview requests to tell such difficult and often traumatic stories, she worked with local historian Cuyler Cotton to overlap their work where possible. This care for her community Elders and Knowledge Keepers is a model for other historians engaging with Indigenous histories, to make sure that they are not overworked or further harmed by the research process. Luby’s use of the snowball effect, which also extended to archival and publicly available sources, allowed her to ensure that the proper stories — that is, ones already in the public domain — were told to, as she writes, respect “Elders’ concerns about appropriation.” In other words, some of these related stories should be kept in the community rather than published, which means that there are added ethical research considerations when engaging with Indigenous community histories. Luby …