I don’t talk about this often, because when I do, people tend to miss the point.
They’ll nod, say “thank you for sharing,” and move on—like acknowledgment is the same as understanding. But here it is: representation isn’t the end goal. It’s the starting line.
When I step to a start line, whether it’s a small trail race in Oklahoma or a major marathon, I carry more than my own effort. I carry stories, lineages, and quiet expectations from people who have never seen themselves reflected in these spaces.
People who are still told, in ways subtle and not, that they belong “elsewhere.”
There’s this idea that if we just add a few diverse faces to a campaign or panel, we’ve solved it. But surface-level inclusion doesn’t create safety.
Representation that doesn’t shift the system isn’t progress—it’s a performance.
As an Indigenous coach, I’ve learned that real inclusion happens when people stop asking who to invite and start asking what needs to change so we can all show up fully.
It’s not about fitting into someone else’s framework—it’s about redefining it so our experiences, values, and cultural ties to movement aren’t flattened into something “marketable.”
Running, for me, has always been more than sport.
It’s medicine. It’s ceremony. It’s story. It’s how I reconnect when the world wants to disconnect me.
So when I talk about Indigenous representation in running, I’m not asking for permission or applause.
I’m asking for space.
For dialogue.
For honesty.
Because if visibility doesn’t lead to voice, and voice doesn’t lead to change, then what are we really celebrating?
Maybe that’s the part people don’t say out loud.
And maybe it’s time we start.
If this resonates, explore Representation in Motion — my consulting and education framework helping race directors and organizations create inclusion that’s lived, not just listed.