I strip my writing of anything that could be chalked up to millennial oversensitivity or political correctness. I don’t say things like rape culture or feminism or people of color or environmental policy. But they can still hear it. They can practically smell it on me. The magazines tell me I don’t align with their voice. I reply with a single question: what is it that you want?

They respond. We want more training guides. We want more gear reviews. Tell us about v17. Offwidths. The best approach shoes. Sketchy gear placements. Give us more stories about people going into the mountains and willingly risking their lives in the name of nothing.

I write back. What about the irony and complexity of having to risk your life in order to feel alive? What about the privilege of risk? What about how white people risk their lives for no reason when in the same moment black people are being killed by cops for no reason? What about the fact that outdoor brands don’t care about saving public lands unless those lands contain a cliff that has rock climbing on it? What about women who put up first ascents and aren’t believed? What about climbers who get made fun of because they’re psyched that they sent their fist 5.12? What about professional athletes who use their platforms to promote nothing other than their love of breakfast burritos?

Oh how cute, they say. A little political activist! We so love that, really we do, but that’s not really what we’re all about. And oh my look at the time, we have to get back to writing about the important stuff, the big boy stuff, small crimps and heady highballs. Good luck, they tell me.

But I need to pay my car insurance, so I play the game. I write about yoga poses for climbing performance. How to strengthen your core. I interview the right people, athletes and photographers with big social media audiences.

I enter into a relationship with a professional climber. They ask me to write stories about him. I do it. They get published. I go to the gym alone, I love doing that. People come up to me. They ask me if he is gluten free. Does he drink caffeine. How’s his shoulder. What about La Dura Dura. Has he ever tried pilates. I go to events with him. We go to OR. We stand in a circle with several people. All eyes on him. Twenty minutes pass. Eventually I realize I am staring at someone’s back. The circle had constricted as he was telling a story. I go and sit in a folding chair against the wall.

When I stand next to him, I am invisible. I am not looked at or spoken to.

I am blamed for his failures. I learn that people don’t like to know that their heroes are flawed. It is suggested that I am the reason why he didn’t do well in a competition. Why he was in a bad mood. Eventually we break up. People I’ve never met talk about why my relationship failed at their dinner parties.

I decide to stop writing about things I don’t care about anymore. I self-publish most of my work. I get paid more in donations than what the magazines and online media outlets paid me. I try to answer the hard questions. Most people like it. I start conversations. People learn my name. They recognize my face. They stop asking about him. They ask me for advice. They ask me to edit their work. They introduce me to their friends as a writer.

I pitch a book idea to a publishing company. The book is about rock climbing and feminism. They tell me that they’re impressed. They consider it for six months. Eventually they say it’s not what they’re lookng for. They tell me to turn it into a training/conditioning guide. I realize they don’t understand. It doesn’t feel sad.

I decide that I’m done working for this industry. It is the biggest relief of my life. My friends make me promise to keep self-publishing every once in a while. I promise. I’m applying to grad schools. I’m taking the GRE.

And still, it is midnight. I google my own name. As the page loads, I pray that the link listed first has changed. It hasn’t. It is a link to an interview with me. The interview is about what it’s like to be his girlfriend. The blog that I’ve written on for over six years is second to that.

I want to say it doesn’t bother me. I want to say that I know it means nothing. I want to say that I know it isn’t symbolic of the work I’ve done here.

But the truth is that I pray for the day that it changes. There will be champagne.

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