When you speak up — especially in spaces that weren’t designed for you — you learn fast.
You learn who listens, who doesn’t, and who only wants to support you when it’s convenient.
Over the past few years, I’ve found myself advocating in ways I didn’t plan for. I didn’t set out to be “the voice” for Indigenous runners, menopausal athletes, or anyone walking the path of invisible trauma. But when you live at the intersection of what’s not represented, you start to see how deep the silence runs.
And you start to realize that someone has to speak into that silence.
Here’s what I’ve learned — the good, the bad, and the stuff no one wants to talk about — and why it matters that we speak openly.
The Good
(aka hard-earned wisdom that advocacy gifted me)
Your lived experience is data.
Not an anecdote. Not a side note. But a form of truth that challenges dominant narratives. I’ve learned that what I’ve lived through — from surgical menopause to leading as an Indigenous coach — has value that can’t be found in a textbook or a lab.
Disruption isn’t destruction.
You can challenge a system and still be constructive. Advocacy isn’t always about burning things down. Sometimes it’s building something better with what remains.
Joy is a radical act.
Especially for women in midlife. Especially for those recovering from trauma or systems that made us feel like we were too much or not enough. Reclaiming joy — in our movement, in our bodies, in our choices — is resistance in its own right.
The Bad
(aka the hard truths people dance around)
Representation without support is just exposure.
I’ve seen organizations use inclusion as a checkbox — holding space for the photo, but not for the person. It’s one thing to invite diverse voices in. It’s another to create a culture that knows how to listen to them.
People are deeply uncomfortable with nuance.
They want binaries. Science or story. Traditional or modern. Hormones or habits. I live on the spectrum. And I’ve had to learn how to stand firmly in complexity, even when others want simple answers.
Being “the only one” is lonely.
I’ve often been the first, the only, or the most vocal — which comes with its own weight. It’s not just about leadership. It’s about carrying the labor of explaining, translating, and holding space for everyone else’s learning curve.
The Ugly
(aka what doesn’t make it into the panels or Instagram captions)
Advocacy is often met with defensiveness, not dialogue.
I’ve asked thoughtful questions. I’ve pointed out inconsistencies. I’ve tried to offer better ways forward. And I’ve been ignored, dismissed, or subtly undermined. Not because I was wrong — but because I was disruptive.
People don’t know how to hold unresolved grief.
There’s loss in my story. Loss of body parts, loss of identities, loss of safety. But because I can perform strength, people assume I’ve moved on. They don’t always know what to do with pain that doesn’t tie up neatly.
Not everyone in leadership knows how to lead.
This one stings. I’ve witnessed people with titles and power use it to protect the status quo rather than create change. Leadership without accountability or vision isn’t leadership. It’s damage control.
Why I Still Speak Up
Because I’m not the only one living these realities — I’m just one of the few saying it out loud.
I speak because there are younger menopausal athletes who need to see someone thriving in their shoes. I speak because Indigenous runners deserve more than one-dimensional stories. I speak because too many of us were taught to stay small, stay silent, or stay palatable — and we’re over it.
And I speak because advocacy isn’t about perfection. It’s about persistence.
When you name what’s broken, you give others permission to stop blaming themselves and start building something new.
If you’re feeling tired of being the only one… or wondering if your story matters… I want you to know it does.
Not because it’s tidy.
But because it’s true.