As a womxn of color, I am constantly aware of the space I occupy when I am outside of the comfort of my home. I am ALWAYS asking myself, ‘Nadia are you being too loud? The outfit you are wearing—is it calling for too much attention?’ If I say a certain phrase, will people think that I am uneducated? If I don’t smile as someone passes me on the trail, will they think I’m a bitch? If people see me in the backcountry or at the crag, will they assume that I don’t belong? If I speak Spanish will they assume that I am not from here?

I am always second-guessing myself—hyperaware of how others perceive me, as I move through the world. This isn’t a choice; it’s something I’ve had to do every day of my existence as an Afro-Latinx womxn. Going outdoors does not erase those overlapping identities. Being outside doesn’t free me from the stereotypes that others impose upon my brown skin, curly hair, nose, lips, or curves.

So, when I am on the trail or at the crag, I am constantly vigilant—incredibly aware of the space that I occupy, so that I can protect myself from hate, which comes in many different forms. Sometimes it looks like micro-aggressions. “Where are you really from” becomes a nagging reminder that I don’t belong. Sometimes, it comes in the form of gaslighting, such as “you’re overreacting” or “nature doesn’t see race.”

I cringe every time I hear another climber refer to a carabiner as a “beaner,”—not knowing, or not caring that so many people I love have been called that word as a racial slur. So many people I care about have been denied access to fundamental needs such as healthcare and living wages because the outside world identifies them as that word. But I should “be less sensitive,” right?

I’m also reminded of the time, almost a year ago, when my mom and I were standing on a rock at Deadhorse Point, Dine and Ute Lands. I was in an absolutely breath-taking place, holding hands with the most important person in my world. For just one moment, I could breathe without worrying about how much space I was taking up. For once I allowed myself to be present in the moment without the hyper-vigilance I have carried my entire life.

Until I was brought back to reality, of course, by a group of white men who began shouting at my mother and I to move out of their camera shot. We had no idea we were even in their way. My mom and I had, in fact, gotten there first. We would’ve responded well to an “excuse me”or a “please” and ”thank you” but instead what we got was “MOVE!” They shouted at us, as though we were less than dogs.

Just like that, I was reminded once again that, no matter how polite I am, no matter how much I dress like an REI ad, no matter how big my smile may be—in their eyes, I don’t belong. My existence means that I am already taking up too much space. Being outdoors isn’t going to change that.

The Earth may love me for who I am but the people who share the Earth with me may not.  As long as white supremacy exists, as long as the patriarchy exists, as long as cis-hetero gender norms exists, I will forever be seen as taking up too much space. I will forever be seen as less than.

The outdoors isn’t where I go to escape. I will forever be an Afro-Indigenous Latinx person. I cannot wash the brown off of my skin. I cannot hide the language I share with my mother and my grandmother. I cannot hide who I am. All I can do is continue to be aware of myself and how I take up space in a world where the color of my skin signals my unbelonging.

It takes privilege to be able to move through the world with zero self-awareness—without being concerned of how your skin color or gender or sexuality or fluency in a language other than English is causing the people around you to form negative opinions of your personhood. I have never known another way of being. My life has been shaped by hyper vigilance and worry.

It takes privilege to feel like your individual actions won’t reflect upon your entire culture. And it takes privilege to feel that you are safe and protected wherever you go. To those with privilege, the outdoors may appear to be a place where you can be your most authentic, unburdened self. For the rest of us, that couldn’t be farther from the truth. There is no place I can go where I am not judged by either race or gender or assumed citizenship status.

The outdoors has never been a place that “doesn’t see race.” It has never been a place where I can “escape my problems.” To claim otherwise is a toxic combination of gaslighting and privilege. I can never escape who I am or, at least, who you think I am.

Denying that racism, sexism, ableism, transphobia, poverty, and xenophobia exist in the outdoors is denying the experiences of the global majority. Who are we listening to anyways? Just because a privileged few may be able to wander Mon stolen indigenous land and feel like they completely belong doesn’t change a damn thing for the rest of us. If this is you, know this: you haven’t unburdened yourself of modern society - the rest of us are simply carrying those burdens for you. We can’t escape your prejudice, your ignorance, your hatred, even if you feel that you can.

We carry the trauma that spans generations even as we interact with nature. For us being outdoors is not an escape from who we are—being outdoors is a choice. I choose to spend the day out at the local crag, on the beach, or the trail. I choose to feel the ray’s of the sun warm my melanated cheeks. I choose to be outdoors because the outdoors is a part of me. Nature is a part of all of us.  Maybe one day, when you are able to treat the people of the global majority with the same respect you reserve for nature, we’ll both be unburdened.