“BE MORE CONFIDENT”

Unequal access to sport and professional development creates unequal risk—and unequal standards in evaluation. When leadership is made up of people who have never shared your lived experience, the support you receive will never match that of those who fit the dominant mold. The bar is not the same. It is higher, narrower, and far less forgiving.

In my career, I have built programs, led teams, and delivered results I am proud of.

At Peak Recovery, I designed and led a rock climbing program for individuals navigating substance use and mental health challenges—the first of its kind in the Pacific Northwest. It became the organization’s most successful program across three disciplines, with the highest rate of returning student volunteers. Demand doubled. I was promoted to Program Coordinator and asked to oversee mountaineering and splitboarding programs as well.

At Multnomah Athletic Club, I started as Lead Outdoor Guide and consistently carried a high workload: roughly 80 field days and 100 instructional days annually. I’ve led sold-out women’s trips, coached climbers ages 4 to 74, and developed fitness curriculum that meaningfully improved client performance. I tripled enrollment in a senior climbing program. Within 18 months, I was promoted to manage gym operations, where I’ve hired and developed a team, hosted a divisional competition, and expanded mentorship opportunities for staff—offering more structured development in four months than I received in years as a guide.

Across roles, I’ve been promoted consistently. I’ve earned top performance reviews. I’ve led complex operations—managing dispersed climbing sites with up to 23 participants, coordinating volunteer teams of 50+, and now supervising a staff of 12. I’ve facilitated transformative experiences for clients and built lasting relationships with returning participants. During my SPI recertification, my evaluator told me my lesson changed how he thought about climbing—and made him feel more present on the wall than he had in years.

I’ve also received an award for heroism in a high-angle rescue.

And still, when it comes to performance and guide reviews I get the dreaded words—“be more confident.”

I have been headhunted to take on work outside my scope of practice, not because of my qualifications, but because “we need a woman guide.” I have been praised as a hero and then told that the same incident meant I could not trust my risk management calls. I have constantly had my decisions questioned, my authority undermined, and my standards treated as optional.

I have terminated an employee for dishonesty and theft, only to have him bypass me and appeal to my male supervisor for reinstatement. It is disappointing to watch performance decline despite offering clear expectations, support, and opportunity.

In the field, I am often the only woman on my team. Clients and passersby routinely direct questions to my male assistants. Authority defaults away from me unless I actively reclaim it. I have learned to establish control early and explicitly: this is my site, my team, my call.

I have intervened when risk tolerance crossed a line—like when a volunteer attempted to coach a student through anchor cleaning, at height, for the first time, without consulting me. I have seen firsthand how quickly poor judgment can escalate, and how ultimately, accountability rests with me.

I have climbed while filtering out a constant stream of unsolicited commentary—assumptions about the difficulty of my routes, doubts about my ability. When those assumptions prove wrong, it is not satisfying. It is distracting. It raises a question I return to often: how much better would I be if I could direct all of my focus to the climb itself?

I have never had a mentor. I have never worked alongside a female guide. I have never taken a course led by a woman through the American Mountain Guides Association. I have built my career without the kind of guidance that many of my male peers receive as a matter of course.

And still—“be more confident.”

Confidence does not develop in a vacuum. It is built through feedback, mentorship, representation, and trust. It grows when authority is recognized, not constantly challenged. It strengthens when mistakes are treated as part of the learning process—not as confirmation that you never belonged in the first place.

Instead, I have learned that I must be excellent at all times. Composed, measured, and unemotional. Strong enough to outperform the men around me if I want their respect—and aware that even that respect can be conditional. I am expected to be competent, approachable, physically capable, and polished, all at once, and without margin for error. All while my staff and volunteers repeatedly choose to willingly bypass my direction.

I have sat through all-male courses where inappropriate comments pass without consequence. I have watched risk management decisions be debated as if they were suggestions. I have carried the additional cognitive load of navigating these dynamics while still delivering for my clients and my team.

And still—I show up.

I lead meaningful, high-quality experiences.
I invest in the development of my staff.
I create the kind of support structures I never had.

I try not to dwell on how different my trajectory might have been with encouragement instead of doubt. For years, I was told I was climbing “wrong,” that I would get hurt, that I didn’t belong, that it was more important I looked good than how I climbed. Those voices do not disappear overnight. They become something you learn to work through and actively learn to repress.

In Playing Big, Tara Mohr writes about the mentorship gap women experience and encourages us to imagine an “inner mentor.” There is value in that idea—but it is also another layer of work. Another way to compensate for a gap that should not exist in the first place. Building support structures for myself takes time and energy I could spend training or resting, and is an additional task that my male peers generally do not report having to do.

I believe this industry can change. I am already contributing to that change through how I lead, how I teach, and how I support others coming up behind me.

But change is not abstract. It is lived. And often, it is lonely.

I am no longer interested in trying to meet a standard that was never designed with me in mind.

I am interested in doing excellent work, building strong teams, and creating space for others to grow.

If that reads as confidence, then good.

If not—then perhaps the standard itself is the problem.