Indigenous representation, selective visibility, and the harm we don't talk about in running
Indigenous Peoples Day came and went, and once again, the silence was loud. Not from everyone, of course. There were organizations, athletes, and advocates who showed up. There were stories shared, histories acknowledged, and communities celebrated.
But there were also some conspicuous absences.
Running brands that spend considerable time talking about diversity, equity, representation, and belonging somehow found themselves remarkably quiet when it came time to acknowledge Indigenous people. Organizations that celebrate their commitment to historically excluded communities couldn't seem to find room on their carefully curated feeds.
Apparently, inclusion has a content calendar. And some of us aren't on it.
I've been paying attention to this for years. As an Indigenous woman, runner, coach, and advocate, I've watched the running industry become increasingly comfortable talking about diversity while remaining remarkably selective about whose diversity receives attention.
And I think it's time we have a more uncomfortable conversation about what representation actually looks like, who benefits from it, and what happens behind the scenes when the people doing the advocacy are also capable of causing harm. Because some of the people doing the work are invisible, while some of the people harmed by the work are expected to remain invisible.
Diversity has a visibility problem
The running industry has made significant strides in recognizing historically excluded communities. We see campaigns celebrating Black athletes, conversations about racial inequity, and partnerships intended to make running more accessible. Those efforts matter and they should most definitely continue.
But Indigenous athletes are still fighting for a fraction of that visibility.
Where are the Native runners in major shoe campaigns? Where are the paid sponsorships, coaching partnerships, speaking opportunities, and leadership positions?
Where are the stories that celebrate Indigenous runners as contemporary athletes rather than historical figures or cultural ambassadors?
We have elite competitors, ultrarunners, marathoners, recreational athletes, coaches, organizers, and advocates doing meaningful work across this industry.
We are here. We've been here. Yet somehow, we're still treated like a niche audience that brands remember exists when there's a holiday, a heritage month, or a convenient opportunity to demonstrate cultural awareness. And even then, apparently, acknowledgment is optional.
The disparity becomes particularly noticeable when organizations enthusiastically participate in some cultural observances while largely overlooking Indigenous Peoples Day or Native American Heritage Month.
This shouldn't be a competition for recognition. There is plenty of room to celebrate multiple communities without diminishing anyone else's experiences. But equity cannot depend on which communities are easiest to market. And if your commitment to diversity only extends to the communities already receiving widespread attention, how much work are you actually doing to change the system?
The problem with outsourcing Indigenous representation
Here's where the conversation gets more complicated.
When brands decide they want to connect with Indigenous communities, where do they go? Often, they turn to the organizations and advocates already highly visible within their professional networks.
On the surface, that makes sense. Relationships create opportunities. Established partnerships can provide access to athletes, storytellers, and communities that might otherwise be overlooked. But there's a problem when a small handful of organizations or individuals become the primary pathway through which an entire community is represented.
Visibility creates influence. Influence creates access. Access creates resources. And resources can reinforce the influence of the people who already have them.
It's a beautiful little feedback loop for anyone sitting comfortably inside it.
But what happens to Indigenous leaders who aren't part of those networks? What happens to the coaches building communities without corporate backing? The advocates doing years of unpaid labor? The organizers creating opportunities without a public relations team? What happens when someone challenges the people who have become the industry's preferred representatives?
And perhaps the most uncomfortable question of all:
What happens when the organizations being celebrated for creating inclusion are also places where people have experienced exclusion, intimidation, or harm? Because that happens, too.
Advocacy does not make someone incapable of harm
This is the deeply uncomfortable conversation people want to sweep under the rug.
We have become so invested in celebrating advocacy that we sometimes forget to examine the behavior of the people and organizations doing the advocating.
A mission statement is not a character reference. Being marginalized does not make someone incapable of harming another marginalized person. And doing meaningful work for a community does not automatically excuse harmful conduct toward individuals within that same community.
I know this because I've experienced it firsthand.
I've experienced harm in spaces that publicly champion inclusion, belonging, and accountability. I've watched difficult conversations become exercises in protecting power rather than addressing what happened. I've experienced what it feels like to have my concerns minimized while the people involved continued to receive institutional support. And I've made the difficult decision to walk away from spaces whose missions I still believed in because the conduct I experienced behind the scenes was incompatible with the values being promoted publicly.
Those experiences carry consequences. They affect relationships, opportunities, trust, and the willingness to participate in future advocacy work. And they become especially complicated when the broader industry continues celebrating people or organizations associated with those experiences as examples of progress.
Imagine watching the same spaces that failed to protect you receive applause for making the industry safer.
Imagine watching the people you associate with your own experience of harm receive recognition for advancing equity.
Imagine knowing that speaking honestly about what happened could expose you to further conflict, damage professional relationships, or make other members of your community feel pressured to choose sides.
So you become selective about what you share. You continue doing the work. And the industry continues applauding a version of progress that doesn't include your experience. That's a particular kind of exhaustion that rarely makes it into the annual impact report.
Accountability cannot be selective
One of the most troubling dynamics I've witnessed in advocacy spaces is the tendency to apply accountability unevenly.
We're encouraged to examine our biases, recognize harm, challenge systems of oppression, and take responsibility for how our behavior affects others. Those are worthwhile expectations. But they mean very little when the people with the most influence are insulated from those same conversations.
When boards avoid difficult interventions, when organizational relationships become more important than addressing concerns, or when speaking up carries greater consequences than the conduct being questioned, accountability becomes a performance.
And people notice. Some slip away quietly. Some stay because they believe the mission is bigger than the individuals involved. Some maintain relationships they no longer trust because they worry about losing access to opportunities or communities they care deeply about. And some continue advocating for others while privately carrying the consequences of their own experiences.
Silence in these circumstances doesn't necessarily mean agreement. Sometimes silence is what people choose when they've already learned the cost of speaking.
We should be deeply concerned about any movement that becomes more comfortable protecting its reputation than examining whether its own practices align with its values. Especially when the movement exists to challenge systems of power.
Brands need to stop confusing partnerships with accountability
Running brands love a good partnership announcement.
A compelling story. Beautiful photography. A thoughtfully written caption about community. Maybe a short film featuring an athlete whose identity and experiences create an emotional connection with the audience. And sometimes those partnerships create genuinely meaningful opportunities.
But let's ask better questions...
Who was paid?
Who had creative control?
Who received long-term support?
Who made the introductions, developed the relationships, and did the work that made the campaign possible?
Are brands building relationships across Indigenous communities, or repeatedly turning to the same familiar contacts?
Do they know anything about the leadership practices of the organizations they partner with?
Do they have ways to hear concerns from people outside those organizations' leadership circles?
And are they willing to examine those concerns even when doing so might complicate a valuable partnership?
Because a polished campaign tells us very little about the dynamics behind it.
If you're willing to put an Indigenous face on your marketing materials, you should also be willing to invest in Indigenous leadership, listen to uncomfortable perspectives, and understand the communities you're claiming to support. That means going beyond the most visible advocates. It means recognizing that Indigenous people are not a monolith, that Indigenous organizations are not interchangeable, and that no single person or nonprofit should become the industry's unquestioned authority on our experiences.
And it means understanding that public recognition and actual accountability are two separate responsibilities.
We deserve more than ceremonial inclusion
I'm tired of watching Indigenous people become an afterthought in conversations about diversity.
I'm tired of the assumption that including Indigenous people in an acronym means we've been meaningfully included in the work.
I'm tired of watching advocates pour themselves into communities while struggling for recognition, resources, or even a seat at the table.
And I'm especially tired of the expectation that we must remain quiet about harm within our own communities because acknowledging it might complicate the narrative of progress.
We deserve to have those conversations. We deserve organizations that can be celebrated for their work and still be questioned about their conduct. We deserve leaders who understand that accountability doesn't disappear when you become influential. We deserve partnerships that distribute opportunities rather than concentrating them. And we deserve an industry that recognizes Indigenous runners because we are part of its present and future, not merely because our history provides compelling material for a campaign.
Indigenous Peoples Day has passed. Native American Heritage Month is approaching.
There will be opportunities for brands to share another land acknowledgment, another inspirational athlete story, another carefully packaged statement about honoring Indigenous communities. Maybe they'll even throw some overstock our way (insert eye roll here).
But here's what I would rather see...
Hire Indigenous coaches and pay them full rates without question. Sponsor Indigenous athletes. Compensate Indigenous educators. Invest in Indigenous-led programs beyond the organizations you already know. Recognize the advocates doing the quiet work. Create meaningful opportunities for leadership, and establish accountability practices that extend to everyone involved.
And when people tell you they've experienced harm within the spaces you're celebrating, don't automatically dismiss their experiences because they complicate your perception of the people involved.
Listen. Ask better questions. Be willing to examine uncomfortable truths.
Because representation without accountability can reproduce the same power dynamics we claim to be dismantling. And visibility without meaningful investment is little more than marketing.
Indigenous people shouldn't have to fight to be seen by an industry that keeps congratulating itself for being inclusive.
And those of us who have been harmed in the pursuit of that inclusion shouldn't have to disappear to keep everyone else's version of progress comfortable.