I'd Never Felt So Empty
Coming home after chasing bike dreams all summer left a pit in my heart, and I've been trying to make sense of it.
I wanted to be a gymnast when I was a young girl. That dream was killed early on, and when I got my first Fixie bike, I dreamt of “being sponsored” like those MASH SF. I was obsessed with Keo Curry and dreamt of meeting (and falling in love with him.) He was the best, he was brown, and I believed that there was space for me in bikes. I had a copy of "To Live and Ride in L.A." on DVD and watched it so many times. I put that dream to bed after riding my fixie to Boulder, from Cloquet (after having ridden from Madison), found mountain biking, and dreamed of becoming a pro.
Except that I hated XC racing, I was too insecure to participate in Cyclocross, and was only “good” at urban alley cat-type races, where strategy was just as important as fitness. Eventually, I found the courage to head out on a solo bike tour, and I eventually learned about the Tour Divide. I found ultra-endurance, a sport that values tenacity, grit, and mental fortitude, where success isn’t solely defined by physical fitness. I won a few big races in the early years of this sport being documented. I’ve given my life to excelling at it, choosing this sport over jobs, careers, romantic relationships, security, stability, and community connection at times. After we pulled into our driveway after a summer of travel, I found myself sitting on the couch in my living room asking, “Have I given enough of an effort to make this work as a career? Is it time for me to move on to something more fulfilling?” I felt disappointed, drained, and obsolete.
I messaged my mom the other day about a photoset I received from a professional photographer; “Ma, did you see the photos of us ricing? They’re beautiful and I can’t wait to print one for my wall!” She replied with a comment about her body in one of the shots. It broke my heart; I’m by no means in a bubble of bliss about my own body. The photo was less about the “us” in that moment of time, but an image of one of my favorite things I get to do with her. It was the first cultural activity she taught me, and I really feel that harvesting manoomin has helped me feel grounded in my Anishinaabe identity. My mom’s comment, however, was a tangible reminder of how I’ve heard the women in my life comment on and criticize their brown bodies. I was raised by brown women.
I’ve been working on daily affirmations with the hopes of reprogramming my cells to stop knowing self-hate. I carry so much disappointment for letting my body become obese. On one hand, it was in my youth, and I didn’t have the tools to know otherwise; on the other hand, my parents were just surviving, and they loved me so much that I honestly think they didn’t even see my obesity. It happened out of ignorance, but still, things born out of ignorance have real-world consequences nonetheless.
I believe that my parents did the best they could to provide a life for my siblings and me that was better than their own. I watched my mother break her body down working an intense manual labor job at Stoughton Trailers because she could make enough to pay child support. My father worked third shift at a manufacturing plant as a millwright because the night premium increased his salary. My mother dropped out of high school because she was pregnant; I watched her earn her GED and eventually graduate from a two-year program with an associate's degree, after I’d graduated from high school. I grew up knowing that life was hard, nothing was given to you, and that dreaming was for the privileged.
I was an artist and a writer by the time high school came. I recently found my old Flikr page; I’d had to use that to apply to art school. I wanted to go to art school after I graduated. Becoming an artist was never going to pay the bills, I was reminded. I skipped out on it, largely because of an abusive relationship I was in at the time. It seemed easier to kill the dream than to leave— I told myself I wasn’t good enough to make anything of it anyway.
I wanted to be a doctor; I wanted to carry my family out of poverty and I felt like I was smart enough to do it this way. I decided to apply to a hospital and work in a low-level job to remind myself to treat everyone with respect. I got that job at a hospital, but I hated the way nurses and doctors treated me. I was introduced to the hospital's hierarchy, and I was too young to commit. I lasted 3 years and quit.
I went on to start working for an upper-middle-class family. They had college degrees, professional jobs, big houses, and organic food in their fridges. They rode bikes, not out of necessity, but for pleasure and health. I learned so much from them, and largely that I wanted to be educated. I felt so small in some discussions; when they spoke of their “undergrad” years, I was embarrassed not to have anything to contribute. In fact, I had tried and dropped out of community college a few times, and my self-esteem was at an all-time low.
They remained so kind and loving towards me, inviting me to family holidays and even buying me a winter coat at the beginning because I didn’t have one. They kept me accountable, telling me that when I didn’t do something I said I would, that it had a ripple effect. I never let that lesson go. It’s hard to imagine what life would look like without their guidance and support, but I don’t have to imagine, because they were there for me. We don’t talk nearly as much as we used to, but the kids I nannied are in high school, and one has graduated. I don’t think a day goes by that I don’t think about them.
What’s the point of all this? Reflections, I suppose. I consistently measure my self-worth compared to those athletes who have more success on the bike than I do, and to those athletes who are more sponsored. And then I dig around to read their biographies, their origin stories, and I’m still just trying to catch up to them. I envy that they were able to attend college right out of high school or participate in sports as kids, teenagers, or young adults. Why is it that I am so often the only Indigenous athlete at the starting line of the races I line up at? Why is it that most (if not all) of the professionals, team riders, privateers, those in the Lifetime Grand Prix, don’t have stories like mine? Don’t have skin like ours? Bodies like ours? It’s because it is so god damn fucking hard to play catch-up. I was snorting Delaudid and heroin when I was 17. I weighed 300 pounds when I was 18 years old. I didn’t know that life could really be different. I didn’t know what a mountain bike trail was. I just didn’t know what the world had to offer out there.
To invest everything into being exceptionally skilled at bikes requires risk, privilege, and support; I come from neither. I am the breadwinner in my household; to live the life that I want to live, I need to supply the majority of our income. Wagering it all is not an option. As a teenager, I helped my parents financially. As an adult, I’m preparing to care for our aging parents. None of this is meant to be woe-is-me, but simply a reminder that sometimes, we don’t get to have it all, or I guess it’s for me to make sense of why I seemingly just can’t seem to make the pro-athlete thing work. I want to train to compete to win. I used to want to travel the world to compete, using my sport as a means to get there. I think my unrelenting drive to prove myself has dried up. I know what I am capable of. I know what I am not capable of. I’m not interested in not contributing to Fond du Lac Ojibwe society. As I age, I realize how important it is that I am here, in my Tribal community in northern Minnesota. I realize how important it is for me to be in the company of other Ojibwes. And most importantly, I believe I have developed an important skill set that will contribute to the future of my Fond du Lac community.
I don’t want to be a lifestyle internet influencer. I want a life that is separate from my cell phone. Social media is manicured; it is not a life lived, and it is not real. I’ve been working in marketing for a while now, and I spend a lot of time thinking about this. I recently opened Instagram after a canoe trip with fellow Ojibwe women, and I scrolled for a minute, realizing that nothing on there was real, or maybe that nothing on there would evoke in me the same feelings I experience in community. I almost entirely feel inadequate about my own life when I scroll. I started my Instagram account for one purpose: I was making a film about my life, and whenever that film was ready, I needed a way to share it with people when it was released (which we thought would be in the fall of 2025). I told myself I had two years to build a following, but I vowed to post an authentic narrative of my life. I got sucked in, used my Instagram to land a few more contracts, and it somehow became part of my daily addictions. I vehemently opposed getting a smartphone or having social media for so long. I gave in out of convenience. My anxiety level has risen, my self-confidence has declined, my creativity has plunged, and my time management skills have been overdriven by scrolling.
My selfish days of my twenties are behind me, and as the clock ticks, I find less and less meaning derived from my selfish pursuits. I find deep meaning in helping others see possibility; I find deep meaning in showing people that they have the love, support, and ability to be anyone they want to be. I had first to show people what was possible, and now I think it’s time to invite them to pursue their impossible. I think I’ve plucked all the low-hanging fruit on my journey towards the Good Life, and I think it’s time I climb higher to actualize the things that give me deep purpose.
I wouldn’t change my journey for anything. I wouldn’t be the person I am today without all of it. But trying to be like them has only made me feel inadequate.
Maybe I should just be myself? I’m not sure who that is yet. Still.