I grew up in an immigrant household, where my family worked hard to build a foundation for themselves that most U.S. citizens never even had to think about.

From an early age, my father instilled in me internalized narratives that stem from the American Dream. I always knew that standards were different for me; I always had more to lose; I always had to work harder. My worth as a human was reduced to numbers, grades, and different levels of playing the violin. In order to be a good person, I had to excel. And so I did. This worked for a while. I quickly became a talented student and violin player, waiting for the hard work I put into school, college, and work to be rewarded with a successful career and citizenship.

Spoiler: it was not rewarded. At 18 I was met with five rejection letters from Ivy League schools and a shattered identity. Because I did not have the privileges of generational wealth or citizenship, I did not have a foundation or safety net with which I could comfortably try and fail. I had to succeed in order to build a future for myself and my family. Not getting a full scholarship to an ivy league school was one of my first big “failures.” Further, my immigration status was up in the air. After being granted DACA, my citizenship process was placed on an indefinite temporary hold. Was I a bad person? Did my college rejections and my inability to become a citizen mean I didn’t work hard enough? Or worse, was I a bad, undeserving person?

This desperation quickly turned into rage, which then turned into advocacy. I ended up rejecting the pursuit of the American Dream all together and going to college in Mexico, where my worth as a human wasn’t measured by my merits. As I grew older, I learned about the systemic inequalities that exist in the US and how they prevent immigrants (predominantly BIPOC immigrants) from having stable and safe lives here. The most insidious part of this process is that individuals internalize false narratives of meritocracy and internalize systemic inequalities as personal faults. Imagine placing your worth as a human being in the hands of systems outside of your control?

I have seen this same pattern show up in outdoor spaces. I am often dismissed or seen as inferior because of my lack of technical knowledge in backcountry sports like ski mountaineering. My worth as a ski partner is reduced to numbers: how many years have I been skiing? How many days have I gone this season? How many pairs of skis do I have? How many backcountry trips, vertical feet, or technical runs have I completed? For me, these numbers are low. Or at least lower than those of my peers who have had the privilege of access for many more years. This leaves me feeling dejected and like I am not a good enough person to belong in the outdoors. But the reality is that not having access is not a personal shortcoming. It’s a systemic issue. Growing up without access to skiing, public lands, and generational knowledge is not a personal fault of mine. If we blame the individuals, we erase opportunities to disrupt unequal systems and create more inclusive ones. If we don’t extend invitations to those who don’t have experience, how will we ever create safer spaces in the outdoors? 

Just because someone is new to this country or your local trailhead does not mean they don’t bring value to this space. Below are some ways to create more welcoming and inclusive spaces in the mountains.

1.Support living wages

Many mountain towns face similar issues with the workforce struggling to earn a living wage and find secure housing. This perpetuates the homogeneity of the outdoor industry: instructors, outdoor educators, and guides predominantly come from white and wealthy backgrounds because their generational wealth supplements their income and allows them to exist in these spaces. The constant influx of white and wealthy young adults really perpetuates this cycle. Advocating for higher wages, affordable housing, and financial security in the outdoor industry will in hand make this space more inclusive.

2. Invest in gear and knowledge libraries

When inviting someone into an outdoor sport for the first time, it is incredibly important to set them up for success. When I am navigating feelings of inferiority in the outdoor space, the last thing I want to worry about is how to clip my helmet or if my jacket is waterproof enough. Having access to gear that is safe and high quality eliminates a barrier of entry and enables folks to take care of their emotional needs along with their physical needs. This is how we set people up for success. 

A gear library can start off by simply gifting a friend some of your personal surplus gear. Make sure what you are gifting is high quality and something you would use yourself. There are also local and online groups that help connect gear with people. Some of my favorites on IG are @thegearfundcollective and @isellaoutdoor.

3. Work on your soft skills along with your hard skills

If we love these outdoor sports and want to see them grow, we need to invest in our own education. Just like we take courses for avalanche safety and rope skills, it’s important to progress in our emotional intelligence and anti-racist work in the outdoors. These soft skills will make us all better listeners and communicators on and off the mountain.

4. Expand narratives of success

In the outdoor industry, we are judged and measured by our current ability and accomplishments, and not by the process that got us there. Our racial, socioeconomic, and immigrant status are taken for granted or erased. I live in a ski town where I’m surrounded by professional athletes and I try to blend in. I am often crushed by the fact that I am not like them, and probably never will be. But trying to keep up with everyone else is a way of operating in supremacy too. 

My suggestion for combating narratives of meritocracy is to dismantle the hierarchy of ideas of success and celebrate individual wins instead of placing them on a hierarchical scale. My success as a two year old skier is not better or worse than the success of a Division 1 collegiate ski racer. They’re just different. Instead, let’s tap into our own ancestral and cultural understandings of measuring success.