In 2016, I attended an American Alpine Club gala with leaders of the outdoor community. One conversation I had there has stuck with me since. A friendly, soft-spoken woman walked up to my mom and me and started talking��about diversity initiatives in rock climbing and outdoor recreation. She was confused about why they’re necessary. “The outdoors is��free and open,” she insisted. “Anyone can choose to go outside and participate in activities. Minorities simply choose not to participate. Why should we pour money into efforts to convince them otherwise?” A gentleman standing nearby overheard this��and decided to join in with his two cents. “Rock-climbing walls are popping up at recreation centers and Boys and Girls��Clubs everywhere,” he said. “There is really no need for additional initiatives. Minorities are getting opportunities to enjoy rock climbing.” After listening to their comments, my mom and I gave each other a sideways glance and simultaneously took a deep breath. We then proceeded to offer them a lengthy explanation of participation gaps; they didn’t find it convincing.

Unfortunately, these sentiments are shared by many people in our community. Following the recent killings��of George Floyd, Breonna Taylor, and others, and the ensuing wave of protests, the outdoor industry is reckoning with its huge diversity gap—and questioning how inclusive the outdoors truly is��for people of color. In response, numerous��companies have released statements expressing their commitment to increasing diversity, equity, and inclusion (DEI). If companies are serious about accomplishing these goals, it’s crucial that they first understand the common reasons that fuel the participation gap so they can tailor initiatives accordingly.��

The first key factor is how comfortable we feel in various outdoor environments. Many people of color are mentally conditioned at a young age to navigate society in specific ways to stay safe. I was six when I first had “.” My best friend, Mason, who was white, lived three houses down, and being kids, instead of walking down the street, we would hop the fences to get to each other’s homes. One day while we were outside playing, my mother called Mason’s mom and told me to come home immediately. As I approached the house, I saw my mother sitting on the stairs of our front porch. She tried to smile while leading me inside the house, but I could see that her eyes were red and puffy. She’d received a concerning phone call from a neighbor about me hopping fences, which meant it was time for us to have a discussion I would never forget.

She started the conversation by telling me how much she loved me, and saying that I needed to trust everything that she was going to tell me, even if I didn’t understand. She then proceeded to tell me about various incidents involving young Black kids who had been murdered or incarcerated for reasons I couldn’t comprehend. With tears streaming down her face, she pulled out her computer and started showing me news stories of kids that looked just like me. I remember asking whether she was telling me I could not trust white people. “No,” she said. “I am telling you that some people will judge and mistreat you just because of the color of your skin. Most often, you will not know whether the person you are interacting with is a bad person until it is too late. If you want to stay safe, there is a certain way you must always act. If you and your white friends do the same thing, the consequences for you could be much more dire.”

As a��six-year-old, I was confused; the intensity of the moment was overwhelming. At the time, I didn’t understand how simply playing with my friend earlier that day had led to this conversation. During the years that followed, these discussions became more regular. They ultimately prepared me for :��During a gas-station stop to use the bathroom,��I’d gazed at the huge candy section as I walked down the aisle, and the store owner met me outside the restroom as I exited. He accused me of stealing and forcibly searched me. Despite being physically violated, I knew to stay calm, not fight back, and run to safety as soon as I could. By the time I was 18, I had become fully adjusted to the idea that my reality would always be different than some of my friends, and maintained a mental checklist of things to remember for my own protection.

These experiences are not unique to me. Most African Americans are exposed to this harsh reality at a similar age, if not younger. Understanding this mindset is key to implementing effective DEI initiatives. If African Americans, for example, are already apprehensive in a society where we make up , it should be understandable that we are hesitant to be a part of a community��where we represent as little as��. James Edward Mills, author of , put it best: “It’s not enough to say that the outdoors is free and open for everyone to enjoy. Of course it is! But after four centuries of racial oppression and discrimination that systematically made Black Americans fear for their physical safety, we must also make sure that we create a natural environment where people of color can not only feel welcome but encouraged to become active participants as outdoor enthusiasts and stewards dedicated to the protection of the land.”��

Any outdoor diversity and inclusion initiative must include coordinated efforts to help minorities feel welcome and safe venturing outdoors. This starts with educating outdoor-industry workers through DEI training, so they can better facilitate inclusive spaces for minorities in their companies and communities. We also need initiatives promoting this education for individual participants. In rock climbing, many��popular crags are located in remote��areas��with regressive ideas about race. It is not uncommon for people in these communities to proudly display racist symbols on homes, businesses, and cars. Racism can even be found in guidebooks, as numerous climbs have names with racial undertones and racist slurs. If these communities make us feel marginalized, we’re��not likely to return.

Despite being painfully aware of racial issues that could arise in a space that is almost entirely white, I never feared the sport of rock climbing. I attribute this to my mother always being nearby, helping me handle uncomfortable situations. My mom grew up in an inner-city, poverty-stricken community before earning a Ph.D.��in applied mathematics. Her experience navigating such different environments made me comfortable trusting her instincts and her ability to keep me safe. However, this is an exception; many kids of color��are not as fortunate to have a parent who is willing and able to follow them around the world, investing in their passion for an obscure sport that doesn’t offer a��high-paying career path.

This brings me to the second significant component of the participation gap: cost. Minority communities are often located in inner cities,��far from national parks and other public lands, and��the price of gym passes, equipment, transportation to gyms, and mentorship programs are all��typically steep. Companies can help by sponsoring initiatives to mitigate these expenses. This might��include offering day passes at a reduced price for low-income individuals, or sponsoring DEI programs after school or during the summer to get more young people of color��involved.

��is one example of an organization that has integrated DEI into its��business model. Located in a predominantly minority, low-income part of��Memphis, Tennessee, this nonprofit climbing gym operates as a pillar for its��community. Since it opened��in 2018, it has��provided daily initiatives like free meals, after-school programs, and mentorship for local kids. Memphis Rox also offers a pay-what-you-can cost structure that��allows participants to offset normal gym fees with volunteer hours at the gym��or a local charity. It��has introduced almost 200,000 people to the sport��and continues to cater to the��community’s needs during this tumultuous time. For example, it��recently implemented��a clothing closet, where people could donate items to assist families affected by the pandemic. Businesses like Memphis Rox are a model for effectively increasing diversity in rock climbing.

Unfortunately, these��organizations struggle to cultivate��the consistent funding and corporate connections to sustain their programs. In��talking with my sponsors and different organizations about their plans for DEI initiatives, I found that��many of them wanted��to��facilitate the��long-term changes society has been��demanding—but they didn’t know how. One thing is��clear: one-time donations are not going to cut it. A sustainable model has��to be created that will��establish long-lasting relationships��between corporate businesses, grassroots DEI organizations, and community leaders seeking change in their neighborhoods. Following��these conversations, in late July I decided to create a nonprofit called , which aims to connect underserved communities with organizations eager��to provide opportunities and diversify the outdoors.��

The recent media coverage of the unjust killings of Black people has brought to light many systemic issues that minorities face within the outdoor industry and in our greater society. While we welcome the countless statements made by companies promising to combat systemic racism, there is still a lot of apprehension from people of color. We have seen statements of solidarity come and go with minimal follow-through. For diversity initiatives in the outdoor industry to be effective, we need sustainable��solutions that will provide more access and gain the trust and support of minority communities. This requires the collective efforts of both companies and individuals within the outdoor industry to address the political, social, and socioeconomic factors that make the outdoors inaccessible for many. If we want the landscape of our community to mirror the diversity in our society, we have tremendous work to do to ensure inclusive spaces for us all.

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I remember one of my coaches constantly telling me I was “too big” to be successful in climbing when I was young.��I was reminded on a regular basis: “We’ve��never seen champions that��look like you.” This was a reference to my size, rather than my race. I remember having to say how much I weighed in front of my peers, revealing that my weight was significantly higher than others’. I remember snack breaks, when I wasn’t allowed to indulge with other climbers because I had to watch my weight. As a young person, these experiences planted a seed that subconsciously fueled an assumption that��controlling my weight was the only way I’d ever accomplish my climbing goals. Even when my doctor told me, when I was 13, that I was unhealthily underweight, I took this as a sign that I was doing a good job. I constantly looked for other ways to keep my weight��under control.

Recently, I wrote ��about my experiences as a young rock climber that revealed my struggles with an eating disorder. I was extremely uncomfortable sharing the post initially, but I was convinced that telling my story could help others going through similar situations. Immediately after I published it, I received hundreds of private messages on social media, by email, and over text. In those notes, many other climbers opened up about their personal struggles with eating disorders, and parents and coaches reached out because they wanted to learn about early warning signs and preventative measures.��

One common theme in the messages surprised me: I heard from lots of guys who had experienced the same problems I had. Many of them thought their experiences were unique to them, since eating disorders are often considered a “girl thing.” On one hand, their responses were comforting to me—they let me know I wasn’t alone. But I also realized that these other boys and men felt alone in their own struggle, and this feeling of isolation made them scared to speak up or ask for help. My post made them feel like at least one person could relate to what they were going through, not knowing there was a whole network of people who shared these experiences.

Eating disorders in sports, especially ones��where performance is��linked to a strength-to-weight��ratio, are probably more common than we realize. An unhealthy obsession with food is an issue that plagues many rock climbers and other athletes, regardless of gender. No two bodies are the same: I have climber friends who can eat anything they want and never gain a pound. For many of us, however, food and weight-management issues are��constant struggles that can easily spiral out of control. Young athletes are the most vulnerable, because our bodies naturally experience significant changes during puberty that inevitably affect our climbing abilities. If left unchecked, these issues can continue throughout adulthood and cause serious long-term physical and psychological damage.��

It’s important for adults to understand the impact that their words and subliminal messages can have on kids. When young people have experiences that fuel body-image insecurities, they rarely report or discuss them. I didn’t. Even when my coach constantly made disparaging comments about my weight, I didn’t tell my mother. I knew that if I did, she would take immediate action and likely suspend my practices. At the time, I was climbing better than I ever had��and exceeding many of my climbing goals. I feared that if I separated myself from something that I knew was working,��my climbing would stop improving. I also worried I wouldn’t get to hang out with my friends at the climbing gym.

Despite my efforts to hide what I was doing, my mother always kept a close eye on me. When she cooked meals, I would either make an excuse about why I wasn’t hungry��or pick at my plate and only eat what I thought had the least calories. Sometimes I would even wait for her to leave the dinner table so I could put my food at the bottom of the trash. Whenever she asked me how I felt and why I wasn’t eating, I’d give her whatever excuse I could think of.��

At the time, I didn’t know she was starting to become concerned about my weight loss��and had begun��monitoring my food intake and behavior: my excessive desire to run��and her missing senna tea��(an organic laxative)��left hints that were hard for her to ignore. By the time I started getting extreme migraines, feeling sick all the time, and��frequently suffering from��acid reflux, she had already put the pieces together and planned an intervention with my doctor. Her decision saved my life.��

If you’re a parent or a coach of a young athlete, it’s important to that they may be struggling with an eating disorder. I unknowingly exhibited many common symptoms.��Coaching staff, personal-training programs, and governing bodies should collaborate with nutritionists and trainers who are knowledgeable about best practices for elite adolescent athletes; it’s crucial to educate leaders in the climbing community on how to have healthy conversations about food and weight. Parents should also be incorporated into this process, so they can reinforce healthy practices and be prepared to recognize early signs of possible eating disorders.

If you’re an athlete, it can be tempting to think that eating less food and doing more cardio are��the easiest ways to get��in shape to send your projects. But while this may work in the short term, your body will eventually crash��from a��lack of nutrients and proper maintenance. I learned this lesson after years of conversations with coaches, nutritionists, and my peers. Everyone’s body is different, and each person requires different kinds of training and resources to reach their maximum potential.��

Over the years, I’ve had a strong support system of therapists, coaches, and other professionals to help me work through many of my traumas, and allowed me to unlearn the toxic thought processes and bad habits of my eating disorder. They helped me understand more about my body and the training programs that work best for me, and taught me how critical proper nutrition is for supporting strenuous physical activity. It took some time for me to fully grasp and accept this alternate way of thinking.

Eventually, I was able to figure out how my body responded to certain types of food��and how to utilize them to improve my workouts. As I started implementing these concepts, I began gaining healthy weight and muscle mass. Over time��I became more comfortable with my size��and no longer felt apprehensive doing things like going out to eat with my friends in public. I even made it a part of my weekly schedule,��suggesting healthy and interesting��food options. Learning to turn my relationship with food into a healthy and fun experience significantly changed my life.

It took me a long time to realize food shouldn’t dictate how I live. It shouldn’t be the reason why I don’t participate in activities that make me happy. Relearning what works for me and my body��has been a rewarding process, and I’m thankful to be in a position to share my experiences. I want��those��who are still struggling with eating disorders to know��it’s OK to ask for help. There’s nothing to be embarrassed about. Healing from an eating disorder is a difficult process that many of us will deal with for the rest of our lives. But I can tell you: it’s worth it. Getting help will allow you to continue doing what you love while feeling healthy and strong for years to come.

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