Cody Two-Bears spent more than $1 million training Native workers for clean energy jobs. Then the jobs disappeared.  

The federal Solar for All program that funded his nonprofit, Indigenized Energy, was terminated in August as part of the Trump administration’s broader pullback from renewable energy. Indigenized Energy won’t be reimbursed. The workers he trained are now looking for positions that no longer exist. 

It’s the kind of whiplash I keep hearing about from tribal energy leaders across Indian Country. Federal funding for tribal energy surged under the Biden administration, then vanished under the Trump administration — and tribes that built plans around that money are scrambling to find alternatives.  

The scale of what’s been cut is staggering. The Environmental Protection Agency has frozen or outright terminated the $27 billion Greenhouse Gas Reduction Fund in its entirety, $2 billion of which was aimed squarely at Indian Country. The One Big Beautiful Bill Act laid out a quick sunsetting of game-changing tax credits that will now prove difficult for many tribes to access. In October, the Department of Energy terminated $8 billion in energy projects across the country, including multiple projects tied directly to or closely benefitting tribal nations. 

Native energy advocates worried what that policy shift might mean, but expressed optimism that the most important pieces of Biden-era policy would remain in place. They didn’t. As a Republican-led Congress signed onto Trump’s policies mostly wholesale, funding evaporated even faster than expected, kneecapping clean energy’s momentum. 

In my reporting, I’ve heard a lot of tribal energy experts say basically the same thing: If Washington won’t fund it, Indian Country will find another way.

“The Big Beautiful Bill really took the wind out of our sails in terms of rewriting the energy narrative,” Clara Pratte, executive director and co-founder of energy developer Navajo Power, said during a recent webinar hosted by Clean Energy for America. “Now, as practitioners, one of the things we’re beholden to is figuring out where we find that capital, where we continue the good work.”

Pratte’s answer was specific: “We’re looking at private capital, philanthropy and tribal-to-tribal partnerships,” she said. “If federal dollars aren’t reliable, then we have to make sure our projects are bankable in other ways. That’s how we keep moving.”

Claudio Clini, a policy analyst with energy advocacy nonprofit Alliance for Tribal Clean Energy, said his organization planned to “demystify” Indian Country for potential investors, working to clarify sovereignty and land law, and to close culture gaps.

“If they understand sovereignty and history, they’ll be more comfortable bringing capital into Indian Country,” Clini said. 

In the meantime, Two-Bears said, tribes should plan to turn toward banks and private financing to keep projects afloat where nonprofit or foundational dollars can’t quite reach. 

“Tribes need to demonstrate that we can build projects that can be repaid. We’ve got to make these attractive to banks and other people that loan the money,” Two-Bears said. “We have to show that we can take those loans and pay those loans back, then keep these projects alive.”

It’s a familiar pattern. In my reporting on tribal broadband and workforce development, I’ve seen tribes building internal capacity specifically to reduce dependence on federal dollars — control what you can, because Washington’s priorities change every election.

Where federal funding has failed, the plan for those working in Indian Country energy is to step in and knit together what projects they can, however they can. 

Sovereignty means resilience, not reliance, the experts tell me. Right now, that means keeping the lights on — whatever it takes. 

Cody Two-Bears spent more than $1 million training Native workers for clean energy jobs. Then the jobs disappeared.  

The federal Solar for All program that funded his nonprofit, Indigenized Energy, was terminated in August as part of the Trump administration’s broader pullback from renewable energy. Indigenized Energy won’t be reimbursed. The workers he trained are now looking for positions that no longer exist. 

It’s the kind of whiplash I keep hearing about from tribal energy leaders across Indian Country. Federal funding for tribal energy surged under the Biden administration, then vanished under the Trump administration — and tribes that built plans around that money are scrambling to find alternatives.  

The scale of what’s been cut is staggering. The Environmental Protection Agency has frozen or outright terminated the $27 billion Greenhouse Gas Reduction Fund in its entirety, $2 billion of which was aimed squarely at Indian Country. The One Big Beautiful Bill Act laid out a quick sunsetting of game-changing tax credits that will now prove difficult for many tribes to access. In October, the Department of Energy terminated $8 billion in energy projects across the country, including multiple projects tied directly to or closely benefitting tribal nations. 

Native energy advocates worried what that policy shift might mean, but expressed optimism that the most important pieces of Biden-era policy would remain in place. They didn’t. As a Republican-led Congress signed onto Trump’s policies mostly wholesale, funding evaporated even faster than expected, kneecapping clean energy’s momentum. 

In my reporting, I’ve heard a lot of tribal energy experts say basically the same thing: If Washington won’t fund it, Indian Country will find another way.

“The Big Beautiful Bill really took the wind out of our sails in terms of rewriting the energy narrative,” Clara Pratte, executive director and co-founder of energy developer Navajo Power, said during a recent webinar hosted by Clean Energy for America. “Now, as practitioners, one of the things we’re beholden to is figuring out where we find that capital, where we continue the good work.”

Pratte’s answer was specific: “We’re looking at private capital, philanthropy and tribal-to-tribal partnerships,” she said. “If federal dollars aren’t reliable, then we have to make sure our projects are bankable in other ways. That’s how we keep moving.”

Claudio Clini, a policy analyst with energy advocacy nonprofit Alliance for Tribal Clean Energy, said his organization planned to “demystify” Indian Country for potential investors, working to clarify sovereignty and land law, and to close culture gaps.

“If they understand sovereignty and history, they’ll be more comfortable bringing capital into Indian Country,” Clini said. 

In the meantime, Two-Bears said, tribes should plan to turn toward banks and private financing to keep projects afloat where nonprofit or foundational dollars can’t quite reach. 

“Tribes need to demonstrate that we can build projects that can be repaid. We’ve got to make these attractive to banks and other people that loan the money,” Two-Bears said. “We have to show that we can take those loans and pay those loans back, then keep these projects alive.”

It’s a familiar pattern. In my reporting on tribal broadband and workforce development, I’ve seen tribes building internal capacity specifically to reduce dependence on federal dollars — control what you can, because Washington’s priorities change every election.

Where federal funding has failed, the plan for those working in Indian Country energy is to step in and knit together what projects they can, however they can. 

Sovereignty means resilience, not reliance, the experts tell me. Right now, that means keeping the lights on — whatever it takes.