When I lace up, I’m not just chasing speed. I’m chasing connection.
To the land. To my body. To something that existed long before training plans and GPS watches started defining what a “good run” looks like.
For a lot of Indigenous athletes, movement isn’t about performance metrics—it’s about memory. It’s how we return to something sacred that the world keeps trying to make us forget. Running isn’t a flex; it’s a ceremony. A way to reclaim the stories that colonization tried to erase from our bodies.
When I run, I think about my ancestors who didn’t get to move freely.
I think about the communities who still carry the weight of being unseen in the very spaces we helped shape. And I think about how easy it is, even now, to get caught up in comparison—the leaderboards, the PRs, the idea that worth is measured in pace.
But when I step onto a quiet trail, that noise fades. The land doesn’t care about my splits. It cares about my presence. It asks me to listen.
That’s the part we forget when we talk about representation in sport—it’s not just about visibility on podiums or panels. It’s about permission to exist as we are. To find joy in movement that doesn’t need to be productive to be powerful.
Sometimes the real training isn’t in mileage—it’s in remembering.
Reclaiming movement as something that heals instead of performs.
And letting joy count as data again.
So yeah, I still coach. I still love goals. But underneath all of that, I’m always coming back to this:
Running is medicine.
Movement is story.
And joy is proof that we’re still here.
Explore Movement as Medicine: A Joy Audit for Indigenous Athletes — an instant-download guide to help Indigenous and Native athletes reconnect to joy, balance, and purpose through movement.