Life in our tiny, shiny, white bubble.

It has not been an easy two weeks, two months, or year, really.

It’s been forever and a day since I’ve taken the time to sit down and write. Since George Floyd’s death in South Minneapolis, a place I know and love so much, I’ve been grappling with my whiteness, and my industry’s (the ski and snowboard industry) glaring white privilege. It’s been obvious throughout the six years I’ve lived in postcard picturesque Park City, but it’s even more clear now…

We live in a bubble.

I’ve always felt a little instability in my life…I was fortunate to have grown up in a home with parents who encouraged me to approach the world with a curious mind and an open heart. When I was a child, I would travel into inner-city Chicago with my midwife mother. It was a welcome escape for me from my predominately white, conservative town of Lake Geneva, Wisconsin. I remember, even at a young age, thinking about how lucky I was to be able to see and experience the city. I loved traveling via mass transit because I LOVED people. From everywhere. The city was so appealing to me because it was so utterly different than idyllic Lake Geneva.

As I was recently watching The Last Dance, I was reminded of something my grandma (may her soul rest in peace) said when I was younger. First of all - a small back story. I was mad in love with MJ and the Chicago Bulls. I grew up in their heyday, and I was a Bulls fan through and through. When I was young, we didn’t have a ton of money. I was born in a trailer home in Montana after my family’s log cabin home burned to the ground. It was humble beginnings and my mother and father worked hard for what they had. That said, Michael Jordan’s “Air Jordan” Nike shoes were kind of out of the question. First, I received my brother’s hand-me-downs. Then, when I was able to, I saved my allowance for my own pair. I was enthralled by Michael. To me, everything about him was beautiful. The way he moved, the striation of his muscles, and his black skin. I remember watching a Bulls game one evening…I must have been 11-years-old, and I was vocal about my pure adoration for MJ. My grandma said to me, “Why can’t you like a white guy like Steve Kerr?!” I rolled my eyes. Gram grew up in a different time. I had to remind myself of that. But those words no doubt made me realize there was so much more to history than I knew or could ever truly understand at that point in my life. I quite often come back to those words.

I am not saying I am colorblind. I acknowledge our differences, and I acknowledge my whiteness…now more than ever. But, the way I was brought up, I never saw differences as a problem. My mother had lesbian friends growing up, so I learned about the LGBTQ+ community early on in life. I went to a college that was predominantly white and Lutheran, though I lived on a floor in my dorm with a majority of the Professional Exploration Program (PEP) students, who were black, Latina, and Hmong. When I lived in Minneapolis, I went to The Firm (and worked there both behind the desk as well as a coach) and ran with a group of about 20 gay men who were/are the most loyal and amazing friends I could have asked for. The point is, I’ve always acknowledged my tribe’s differences, but I’ve made an effort to learn from them and educate myself…not run away from them.

Minneapolis was home. Minneapolis still is home. And as I’ve watched the only place I’ve known as home in my adult life mourn, suffer, weep, call for help, stand together peacefully, stand up against violence…I’m here in Park City sitting in my whiteness. I’m here feeling like the only place I want to be is the exact opposite of where I am: HOME IN MINNEAPOLIS. I felt helpless as I listened to my sister Mikaela tell me she was on the front porch of her Minneapolis apartment at 1 am on neighborhood watch because the police were nowhere to be seen and the KKK was rumored to be nearby. I felt the weight of incredible sadness as I heard too many stories about rioting and looting, small businesses being demolished and lives being changed forever. I felt scared as my sister and I attempt to open a small business of our own in Minneapolis. Most of all, I felt confusion and disgust for the lack of dignity and respect for human life and the injustice that transpired on the streets of a city I love so deeply. George Floyd spoke, and like many before him…HE WAS NOT HEARD.

Every October, I leave the United States and travel to Europe for months at a time. In many ways, I love the bubble that the ski industry provides…especially since Donald Trump has been in office. I feel largely sheltered from the shit show that is our political system back in the States, as I travel from one beautiful place to the next on the World Cup tour. But, I’ve also felt like a pariah in this world. It’s a good ol’ boys’ club. I’m the token friend who travels to India by herself, shaves her head and wears weird clothes. Just as it was when I was young, I am the outlier who is less affluent than almost everyone around me. I came to Utah in debt following my divorce from an MD/Ph.D. integrated plastic surgery resident. It took me years to get out of debt. I have lived in an RV in the parking lot of my office. I’ve crashed at a lot of (amazing and generous) friend’s houses over the last number of years. I am one of the few females in a male-dominated, often quite sexist industry. I’ve had to fight for what I believe in, stand up for myself and the athletes I work with, and tell one Austrian too many to “fuck off” on the mountain in order for my voice to be heard. I love the ski industry, but, WOW, are we white, male, and old.

And yet, I know nothing about what it’s like to be treated differently because of the color of my skin. NO IDEA.

Never before has this been so evident as it was the last two weeks. As messages of social injustice spread across the internet and protests spread across the world, the ski and snowboard industry remained relatively silent. From ski manufacturers to media publications and beyond, it seemed the industry was paralyzed in its white privilege. I kept going back to one simple concept: no one can argue with social injustice and basic human rights. How did this turn political? How does everything in this nation turn political? I am baffled. The athletes spoke. They used their voices to amplify black voices. And they were met with white, old male resistance.

“SHUT UP AND SKI,” They said.

I’m sorry, I’m confused. Here’s a reminder:

• Athletes are just like us.

• Athletes have a voice (and a platform).

• Athletes are citizens.

• Athletes should not just “shut up and play” if they have something to say.

• Athletes are human.

You are a banker. You are a realtor. You are a healthcare worker. You are a journalist. You are a teacher. You are a rich, privileged white guy on Wall Street. You are the President of the United States. You are a business owner. You are a grocery store clerk. You are a sports fan. You can share your opinions, but athletes should just “shut up and play?!”

Something about this isn’t right.

A few years back, prior to the 2018 PyeongChang Olympics, we worked with P&G on their #LoveOverBias campaign. Lauren Samuels, whose family have been great friends of mine for years, was in the commercial as the skier. Wieden and Kennedy worked on the commercial, and this is what it was all about: “Whether it's based on race, gender, religion, disability, sexual orientation, or class when bias rears its ugly head, a mother's love can overcome. And instead of just talking about conquering bias, we put the idea into action, from the way we made the campaign, to the way it showed up in the world.” Lauren Samuels made the U.S. Ski Team Development Team years ago. She is one of only a handful of black athletes who have been on the Team—most, if not all, coming up through the National Brotherhood of Skiers. The sport is not accessible. It never has been. I was the poor kid on my team back in the day, and I had a lot more than most kids did. How do we change this? How do we make this industry more accessible when lift tickets cost $200 and cheeseburgers cost $25?! We can start by listening and learning, and attempting to understand.

I remember growing up in southeastern Wisconsin at a small club on a small hill north of Chicago. We had two black men on our team—Ryan Able and Tommy Jackson were their names. When I was young I never thought of them as wildly different, I just remember thinking it was so cool that we grew up skiing with two very talented black men who were quite accomplished ski racers. Last week as I was sitting in my office working, I was curious. I called Dave, I talked to Lauren and Justin, I reached out to friends and asked questions. I read I listened, I attempted to try to understand. Dave connected me to Henri Rivers, the President of the National Brotherhood of Skiers. I learned about NBS, how it started, what its mission is, how it has changed throughout the years.

And I cried, a lot. I wept because I realized I would never understand. I wept because I know a lot of individuals who don’t want to understand because it’s easier to live in their white privilege and surround themselves with sameness in their bubble. I chose differently. I choose to learn, to seek personal growth constantly, and to attempt to affect change. I’ve always said that I will continue to push on in this white, male-dominated industry until the moment where my ethics are compromised. Thus far, I’ve found that balance. It has not been easy, but this is a sport that I love so much, and I believe we can be better.

I feel like I’ve been listening to Andra Day’s “Rise Up" on repeat for the last three months. I can do better. We can do better. Let’s rise up together.

You're broken down and tired
Of living life on a merry go round
And you can't find the fighter
But I see it in you so we gonna walk it out
And move mountains
We gonna walk it out
And move mountains

And I'll rise up
I'll rise like the day
I'll rise up
I'll rise unafraid
I'll rise up
And I'll do it a thousand times again
And I'll rise up
High like the waves
I'll rise up
In spite of the ache
I'll rise up
And I'll do it a thousands times again
For you
For you
For you
For you

When the silence isn't quiet
And it feels like it's getting hard to breathe
And I know you feel like dying
But I promise we'll take the world to its feet
And move mountains
We'll take it to its feet
And move mountains

And I'll rise up
I'll rise like the day
I'll rise up
I'll rise unafraid
I'll rise up
And…

What is happening in the world is uncomfortable for everyone. But the truth is, our discomfort is a far cry from what black people have dealt with for hundreds of years. Our country is extremely divided, and we’ve made something that was not political, political. First, it was a global pandemic, and now it is basic human rights. If you say “Black Lives Matter” you’re confronted with “All Lives Matter”…which, yeah—we agree—they do. But I am curious as to why it’s personally offensive for white, mostly men, to hear the words “Black Lives Matter.” Dudes. THIS ISN’T ABOUT YOU. Hard truth, I know, especially because you are so used to it being about you. If you make this about you, that’s a problem. This isn’t about me. This is about THEM. Because, say it with me, BLACK LIVES MATTER. If that bothers you, isn’t it just an extension of the bigger, underlying issue? The issue being that RACISM STILL EXISTS IN 2020. Because I believe that Black Lives Matter doesn’t mean I condone looting and rioting. Because I’m all for protests doesn’t mean I approve of looting and rioting. What is happening is chaos, and a big part of that is because people haven’t been heard or seen for hundreds of years and they’re fed up. Heartbreaking. We should all be fed up.

Let’s think about what is happening in the world…we were stuck inside for months, we have over 36 million people who are unemployed due to a global pandemic, George Floyd is killed unjustly on the streets of Minneapolis as one police officer kneels on his neck while he calls for help and says “I CAN’T BREATHE,” asking for his mother. Meanwhile, three police officers are there but do nothing. It’s all caught on video, and that video goes viral. EVERYONE IS WATCHING.

I read an intriguing New York Times article about the protests across the nation and the composition of the protests across the spectrum from all backgrounds and the difference between these protests and others in the past.

As crowds have surged through American cities to protest the killing of George Floyd, one of the striking differences from years past has been the sheer number of white people.

From Minneapolis to Washington, D.C., marchers noticed the change, and wondered what it meant that so many white Americans were showing up for the cause of justice for black Americans.

“I was shocked to see so many white kids out here,” said Walter Wiggins, 67, as he sat near the heart of the protests in Washington last week. Mr. Wiggins, a retired federal worker, who is black, remembered attending the March on Washington in 1963 and other civil rights events with his parents. “Back then, it was just black folks.”

Why is this happening now? The video of a white police officer refusing to remove his knee from Mr. Floyd’s neck for nearly nine minutes has horrified Americans as attitudes on race were already changing, particularly among white liberals. Another driver is opposition to President Trump. Protests beginning the day after his election drew large crowds. Finally, there is the coronavirus pandemic, which has left millions of Americans — including college students — cooped up at home, craving human contact. The result was hundreds of thousands of white Americans in the streets.

All I have to say is I hope all of these people in the younger generation get out and vote this fall.

I’m curious to hear what author of The Tipping Point, Malcolm Gladwell, would say of current events. For those of you who are not familiar with the concept, the tipping point is the moment when an idea, trend, or social behavior crosses a threshold, tips, and spreads like wildfire. The United States has reached its tipping point. The world has reached its tipping point. We need change. If we want change, we must register to vote. We must listen to each other. Look at each other in the eyes. See each other as human beings.

Over the last two weeks I’ve been disgusted, exhausted, deflated, confused, and angry…it would be SO much easier to retreat back into my bubble and to hide from the truth. But instead, I am sitting with the truth. I am reading, learning, donating, pushing for change.

WE MUST CHANGE.

• Resources that have been helpful to me:

  • Sam Harris’ Making Sense Podcast - #207 - CAN WE PULL BACK FROM THE BRINK?

  • Emmanuel Acho’s “Uncomfortable Conversations with a Black Man” Series

  • Here’s Why it Hurts When People Say, “All Lives Matter” (Vanity Fair, 2016)

  • Why You Need to Stop Saying “All Lives Matter” - Let me be clear: stating that black lives matter doesn’t insinuate that other lives don’t” (Harpers Bazaar, 2019)

  • Brittany Packnett Cunningham on Instagram - @mspackyetti

  • Trevor Noah on Instagram

  • Viola Davis on Instagram - Systemic Racism Defined

  • Avid Reader Press on Instagram - Books to Read

  • Jamie Foxx on Instagram - @iamjamiefoxx

  • A full list of resources for where to donate, what petitions to sign, protests, and more

• Organizations I’m learning more about that directly impact my community:

  • National Brotherhood of Skiers

  • Winter4Kids.org

  • SOS Outreach

• Initiatives I’ve been stoked about:

  • #ShareTheMicNow

View this post on Instagram

When the world listens to women, it listens to white women. For far too long, Black women’s voices have gone unheard, even though they’ve been using their voices loudly for centuries to enact change. Today, more than ever, it is so necessary that we create a unifying action to center Black women’s lives, stories, and calls to action. We need to listen to Black women. This is why we created #ShareTheMicNow. Tomorrow, Black women will speak from the Instagram accounts of white women. The intention of this campaign is to magnify Black women and the important work that they’re doing in order to catalyze the change that will only come when we truly hear each other’s voices. 🗣👂

A post shared by Alex Morgan (@alexmorgan13) on Jun 9, 2020 at 3:52pm PDT

There are so many ways to get involved. I chose to donate to Roots Birth Center in Minneapolis, which was affected by the looting and rioting in Minneapolis. Roots is one of only seven black-owned birthing centers in the nation. The Sheridan Story in Minneapolis, whose goal is to fight child hunger, is another nonprofit I’ve been passionate about giving to in the last few months since COVID-19 hit. My sister and I are starting a boutique, and decided to build our foundation with making masks in the wave of the global pandemic. To date, we’ve donated nearly $5,000 dollars to The Sheridan Story, and since the unjust murder of George Floyd, they've been helping communities affected by the unrest in Minneapolis.

Moroccan Magic, Solo-Style

I recently wrote this piece for the Topo Designs’ website, and I thought I’d share it here too. Loved Morocco and can’t wait to go back! Enjoy…

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Megan Harrod is based in Park City, Utah and spends her winter months traveling around the world telling stories about the best alpine skiers in the world (for the U.S. Ski Team). As for the rest of her time... it's spent on a variety of continents, thriving on the energy of people, sunshine and mountains. She works, plays and hugs hard and has a charming way of not taking things too seriously. Follow her travels at vagablondebasecamp.com or on Instagram.

"I think I'll go to Morocco when the season ends," I told my friends and colleagues. "Be careful," they said. I hear those two words a lot… definitely more than the average person. And probably much more than the average gal.

My obsession for exploring began during childhood when my family would travel around the midwest going to ski races. But I really got hooked when I was 18 years old and traveled internationally for the first time in my life. That time, it was to Sweden. From then on, I was addicted. First it was study abroad in England. Then, ten years ago, I left my stable life in Minneapolis for an international job opportunity in Prague, Czech Republic. Rewind to five years ago, when I left a conventional, married life and took this job traveling around the world for about seven months of the year. Four years ago I shaved my head and traveled to India. Alone.

Most of my significant travels have been just that — alone. I think I have my midwife mother to thank for teaching me a vital lesson in the art of defying convention. I'm pretty good at it. I'm one of the very few humans I know — especially at my age (36) — that feels comfortable living out of a duffle bag for months on end. Ok, not just comfortable… much more than comfortable. I thrive on the road.

This winter season's travels ended in Soldeu, Andorra, a place I had never explored before. A tiny, independent principality nestled in between France and Spain in the insanely beautiful Pyrenees mountains, Andorra was the perfect place to end a long season on the road. More than that, though, was its proximity to new territories for me to explore. I've always wanted to go to Morocco. So I decided now was as good a time as any. After traveling to Grenada, Spain where I received some guidance from friends to travel to a small surftown called Essaouira, I decided that I'd skip the big city vibes in Marrakech and head to the coast instead.

For those of you who are fans of Game of Thrones, Essaouira is the real-life Astapor, or "Slaver's Bay," known for its unsullied inhabitants who Daenerys Targaryen sets free. I didn't know much about it, but I had heard the surfing was good, so I was in. I have to admit, after hearing friend after friend caution me about traveling alone, I naturally felt uneasy.

I didn't necessarily start to question my decision, but I did start to worry a little more. My partner, who is always supportive of my adventures, asked me why I always decided to travel to strange places solo. He loves my curious mind, but since we've been together he's seen me travel to India and Morocco alone, as well as all over Europe. Of course, if I was going to do it, I was going to do it right. No fancy hotels with western vibes...I was going to stay in the medina (old town, walled in portion of the city), which is protected by 18th century seafront ramparts called the "Skala de la Kasbah." I looked on Airbnb and found a gem. The owner of the spot connected me with a taxi driver, who would pick me up in Marrakech at the airport, and drive me directly to Essaouira. It'd be a three hour taxi drive to Morocco's Atlantic coast, where the port city sits. And it would only be 60 USD.

As my departure date neared, I started getting nervous and even though I told everyone in my network that I'd be OK, I began to think things like, "What if I fall asleep during the cab ride and wake up in the middle of nowhere, in a bad situation?!" In response to my concerned friends and family, I'd remain calm and simply say, "I'm a mindful traveler. I don't put myself in bad situations, and I don't operate the same way I do when I'm in comfortable surroundings. I'm less talkative, I don't interact with strangers...it's just a different version of me, which can be challenging sometimes - but it's worth it for the things I'm able to see and experience." Then, of course, I'd follow it up with, "And, because I'm so mindful when I travel solo, if something happens to me, it's because it was meant to happen to me at this moment, meaning it would be just as likely to happen in Park City, Utah or Essaouira, Morocco." They'd laugh, but I really believe that.

I arrived in Marrakech with no issues. My taxi driver greeted me, and offered to carry my pack. He was kind. He only spoke French and Arabic, but he was warm and inviting. We got into his car, and I soaked in my surroundings. At one point, he pulled up to a market and got out of the car. I sunk down a bit in my seat, and made sure my hat covered my platinum blonde hair. I watched him interact with vendors, and then come back to the car about 10 minutes later with a bag of fresh mandarin oranges to share with me. He also shared a smile with me. I was safe.

As we approached Essaouira, we drove past western hotels and spas, and drove up to the medina. I was met by the host, who also only spoke Arabic and French, and a short man with a luggage cart and no teeth. "Bonjour!" they said with a tentative smile. I followed by host through the small winding alleys of the medina to a door I was almost sure I'd get lost trying to find by myself later, and into my place, located near Bab Marrakech. I'd normally opt for a private room in a hostel, but in Morocco, there are numerous riads, which are traditional Moroccan houses or palaces with an interior garden or courtyard. Some of them are run as bed and breakfasts, and some are rented as entire apartments on Airbnb. Mine was perfect.

As I began to settle in, I still felt uneasy in my foreign surroundings. I stayed in that first night, hesitant to walk the small streets of the medina alone. The next morning, I woke up and explored the city. I'd soon realize that I had nothing to be afraid of. The people were kind and I was in love with strolling through the markets in the small streets solo. I found that I felt especially safe at night, because when it was dark I blended in. No one could see my fair skin or blonde hair, and I could just melt into the surroundings. I visited every quirky cafe imaginable, walked to the ocean, signed up for some surf lessons, explored the Tuareg jewels and Moroccan Kilim rugs, listened to the sweet sound of musicians by the port, and more. It truly was magical.

The call to prayer is oddly beautiful. When I traveled to Istanbul, Turkey, I felt the same way about it. There are very few Moroccan women to be found in the streets, while the vendors and shop owners are almost exclusively men. During the call to prayer, the streets are much quieter, and it's also an experience walking the streets just after the call to prayer ends...I was a solo white female in a sea of local males. But yet, I felt safe. Sure, there are occasional whistles and invitations into shops, but I'd just look ahead and pretend to not speak English or French. In that way, I don't feel like it was any more aggressive than many European cities I've traveled to, especially in parts of Italy and Spain.

Essaouira is a town so small, you run into familiar faces walking the streets, even after just a couple of days. I met a friend from Senegal dressed in colorful cotton cloths with batik-inspired printing, whose grandfather made artwork from fallen butterflies. After the third time seeing him in the medina, I invited him to have a coffee with me at Mandala, the cafe I had frequented that week. Another time, I walked by a group of Moroccan surfer boys and one said, "You dropped something." I looked down. He said "You dropped your smile. Your smile is a frown. Turn it around." I ran into him again three days later when I surfed. It's a magical town of artists, musicians, hippies and wandering souls. It's no surprise Jimi Hendrix once frequented the streets.

After I had met an Italian artist couple on Airbnb who has lived in Essaouira for four years, and doing a tour with them, I ended up ditching by Marrakech plans and staying in Essaouira for two additional days. It was a less cerebral trip, which is something I was really looking forward to at the end of a long, busy season. My new friends, Sergio and Arianna, helped me find beautiful rings, a reputable place to buy local handmade rugs, woven years ago as family heirlooms by women in the High Atlas Mountains, and even hosted me, cooked a perfect Italian pasta dinner for me, and fed me the best espresso in the morning.

Essaouira is a little slice of heaven I'd encourage everyone to experience. It's safe to travel as a solo female, the art and seafood are both to die for, the surf is supreme, and it's the only place I've seen where camels and surfers coexist on the beach.

Here are my top five Essaouira travel tips:

1. DO stay in the medina, and while you're there go out on a limb and try an Arab spa for a massage and hammam. It is quite the experience. I tried a spot around the corner from my Airbnb that I stumbled upon day one when I was lost, called Arab Spa.

2. DON'T fret if you're a solo female traveler. Just keep your wits about you as you normally would. Do a surf lesson or a culture walk early in your stay, so you can meet some locals and get acquainted.

3. DO dine in all of the places. Here are a few of my favorites: for coffee - Mandala, The Coast, Tara Cafe, Cafe Megaloft, for food - Le Cosy (treat yo self!),Triskala, Ocean Vagabonde (after surfing!), for drinks at sunset - Taros Cafe Restaurant (kind of touristy, but worth it for the view)

4. DO buy goods from local artisans. There are amazing local artists and you can find very fair prices on some really quality pieces. I'd recommend going on this culture walk to get the lay of the land early in your trip with Arianna and Sergio - they're lovely hosts.

5. DON'T hang out in the jewish quarter at night. It's totally fine during the day, but not the best place to hang after dark.

What's next for me? Trips to Maui, Prague and New Zealand this summer, but I've been dreaming about a solo trip to Nepal for quite some time. Only time will tell.

SERVUS.

I’ve been trying to build the courage to write this piece for a couple of weeks now, but I’ve struggled to find it. However, I snuck away to Maui and found some courage on reserve. I only REALLY knew Sam Coffey for a year. In fact, almost a year to the day he left us was my first direct interaction with him. Of course, I slid into Sammy’s DMs (the DM slide was acceptable, because Sam was one of my boyfriend’s best friends) during my solo adventure in Maui when I had seen his Insta story from Maui. “Dude, you on the island?” I wrote. “Indeed! You?” he shot back.

That was my first real direct interaction with the legend that was Sam Coffey, however I had known Sam far before that. I had known him through his All-American ski accomplishments at UNH. I had known him as Wiley Maple’s best friend. I had known Sam as the ring leader of this bizarre and intriguing ski gang in Aspen called the “Freaks”. I had known him as one of my best friend’s best friend’s (Hadley’s) boyfriend who was a bit of a Peter Pan like my own boyfriend at the time. I had known him as a Salomon athlete who skied beautifully in the backcountry. Since that day, though, I knew Sam as my friend. I keep thinking Sam and I knew each other from another lifetime, but when I went to his memorial I realized that’s just the way Sam made people feel.

That was his superpower.

Now I know Sam as one of Coley’s best friends…one of his UNH brothers. I know him as a tall, lanky jokester who made everyone in his path smile and feel accepted. I know Sam as Wiley’s technician and hype man who did everything he could to support Wiley on the World Cup circuit this last winter; Sam’s last winter. He helped Wiley raise money at his fundraiser in the fall. I remember walking into that room…it was packed with Aspen supporters and Freaks. At the door was Sierra Rintel, Sam’s former girlfriend/longtime friend. I had never met Sierra, but Coley had talked a lot about her. I was immediately struck by her beauty and warmth. I believe the exact thoughts in my head when I met her were, “Well Sam really fucked that one up.” But seriously, he did. Across the room was Sam, dressed to the nines (well, for Sam anyway), working the crowd. He greeted us with a big smile and hugs, thankful for the support. Sam had a way of making people feel like they were the most important ones in the room at that moment. Of course, he had no voice, because Sam had been partying the night before. I remember Coley telling me that Sam had lost his father earlier in the year to cancer, and introducing me to his mother Cathy and his sister JoJo. I remember at that moment feeling like I couldn’t imagine what that must be like, and how hard it must be.

I know Sam as the kind of guy who doesn’t complain or have a bad thing to say about anyone (except for maybe Vail - sorry, guys). I know Sam as the guy who hooked me up with Strafe bibs that I love. I know Sam as the guy who fell in love with the word “SERVUS” and said it to everyone he could at every opportunity he got while traveling Europe on the World Cup circuit. I know Sam as the one who made friends with locals at every World Cup stop - more so than even myself - and even met a few ladies along the way. I know him as the guy who made a bed out of a few Atomic ski bags this winter in Kitzbuehel because he didn’t want to wake up Wiley, and woke up the next morning by of the coaches, saying confused, “Where’d she go?” I know Sam as the U.S. Ski Team family member that was up for anything and would lighten the mood and the room when he walked in. I know Sam as the guy who yelled “MEG!!!” in a way that only Sam could, and it would always make me smile. I know Sam as the encourager who told Wiley, “Dude - you ARE going to Nationals this spring. You’re not going to miss Nationals” while we were in Kvitfjell, and Wiley was feeling bummed about his season.

May 15th was my birthday, and I found myself unusually sad on that day. That sadness carried through the next couple of days, and I couldn’t really pinpoint its origin. It all made sense when Coley told me Sam had suffered a stroke while down in Mexico, and was in the hospital undergoing brain surgery. In Mexico. Sierra had let him know. I was shocked. A stroke?! What the fuck?? Around that time of year the outdoor/ski community is typically tragically rocked by news of loss, but it’s usually from an accident in the mountains. A 29-year-old who I had known as a guy full of life had suffered from a stroke?! No way. I cried. Coley cried. But at that point, I never thought it would mean Sam’s life would end and I would go from “knowing Sam” to “having known Sam.”

We found out the following Monday that Sam had passed. I just never thought it would happen. I was hoping it was a freak thing and the strokes were small and he’d come back. The news crushed the community. The outpouring of love was unlike anything I’ve seen. Social media is a weird and beautiful thing in times like these. It’s strange to see interactions Sam had on social - I find myself thinking that he’s still here with us. But, he’s not. I’ll scroll through Instagram, and go to his profile and think there will be a new post there. But there’s not. I looked back at my last interaction with him, from when he was in Mexico - it was in reference to Wiley’s girlfriend Addie, who had gotten braids in Mexico. He replied, “So good. I wish I had long hair just for that.” I sent him and Wiley and Addie hugs, and he liked that message. That was May 8th. That would be my last interaction with Sam.

This winter Coley came to the World Cup in Kvitfjell, Norway. It was a hard winter and I was bummed I didn’t see him for two months while I was on the road, but now I realize there was a reason for that. Coley and Sam spent a lot of time together in Kvitfjell, and hung out while I was working. It was the last time Coley would spend time with Sam. We didn’t get any pictures, but they shared beers and laughs and I guess that’s better than any picture could ever be. I am so thankful Coley came on that trip.

After we heard about Sam’s passing I sent a note to the American Downhillers asking for memories and photos. Tommy Biesemeyer replied, “Should we tell the Kitzbuehel ski room/bag story?” Wiley laughed. Scotty replied, “Legend!” and sent a pic of a sleepy Sam, covered in a puffy - he had his socks on, but not much else. Our physio, also named Sam, wrote to me about how when he thinks of Sam he thinks of the word “SERVUS!” A common greeting in Austria, Sam fell in love with the word and would say it every opportunity he could. He would even say it in Wengen, where it didn’t really make sense. “SERVUS!!” Sammy would say, with a big dumb grin. People loved Sam and Sam loved people.

Jared, Gogo, Sammy and Matteo in Wengen

Sammy in the ski room, part 1

Sammy in the ski room, part 2

Sammy and the Wengen crew (Sam became a local in Wengen for obvious reasons).

Rodel time with the men’s downhill team and new Wengen friends.

The memorial in Aspen was perfectly Sam. It was on the top of Aspen Mountain with hundreds and hundreds of friends - some who Sam had touched literally, and all who Sam had touched figuratively. I was almost scared to go to the memorial. Coley had already gone to Aspen with the UNH guys, and I traveled a day later, as I was coming from a weekend with my family in the midwest. On the airplane en route to Aspen, a sort of fear I had not felt welled up inside me. What was the memorial going to be like? Were people going to absolutely rage and get blackout drunk? How were friends processing the news, and would the gathering be a healthy process for everyone?

It was a sunny day on the top of Ajax in Aspen on Memorial Day - the day of Sam’s memorial. At the memorial, Sam’s cousin spoke about how Sam would want everyone to really feel and process the grief. I liked that message, and thought about how important it was. And, Sierra and Wiley both blew me away with their words. So beautiful. “Sis’” tribute was real, funny, emotional…just perfect. I could almost hear Sammy laughing. And, Wiley…Wiley told tales from the road. Wiley was honest as fuck and it was incredible. Here’s what Sis had to say:

Tips how to live life more like Sammy:
#1. Don’t complain. Sam hated complainers. 
#2. Be your own biggest fan.
#3. Tell your loved ones that you love them more than a powder day. 
#4. Always wear a cowboy hat and cowboy boots to all occasions. 
#5. Make family your biggest priority. 
#6. Never say no to fun. 
Quit your job, travel the world. ski with your best friends, set off fireworks on top of Highlands Bowl, go dirt biking, rafting, fishing, surfing, rip off everyones sleeves, pour a beer over your head, make ski season last 12 months, yell random sayings at random times, dance to every kind of music, be the biggest presence in the room.”

I’m so glad we had the chance to travel with Sam this past season, but I SO wish I wasn’t saying that. I wish Sam were traveling with us for another season, because he brought joy to the Tour. There’s this weird thing about loss where the celebration of life happens and then people just kind of stop talking about it. Everyone processes grief at different times and in different ways, but we don’t really talk about it together after the memorial, because it’s almost like we feel that we should be moving forward. It’s a strange, strange thing. We say things like, “Sammy would want you to go out and live…he wouldn’t want you to be sad.” That’s probably true, but perhaps if we did talk about it about it more and we assured ourselves that it was OK to be sad (because it is), then it would make a difference for everyone. It may not make it easier, but it may make a difference.

So, here goes - every time I say the word “coffee” (which is a lot, if you know me and my diet), I think of Sam. When Coley is quiet, I wonder if he’s thinking about or missing Sam. Loss sucks. It’s the absolute worst. Sure, time heals…but it never really gets easy. And that’s ok too. All we can do is our best. And we can attempt to have a bit more compassion for those around us (with the healing process through loss, and in general). Additionally, I urge you - never, ever stop sharing stories. Storytelling helps people heal, celebrates life, and cements legacies of lost loved ones.

Finally, it’s impossible to top Sierra’s list of ways in which to live more like Sammy, but after reflecting, and following the outpouring of love, I have a few thoughts about what we can learn from the way that Sammy lived and how we can carry on his legacy…whether you’re an introvert or an extrovert.

1. Always travel like a local. Be open. Ask questions and be curious. Smile.

2. Be kind. If someone needs a hug, give them one. Spread good vibes.

3. Celebrate every moment…not just the big ones, but the small things too.

4. Live. Simply, and beautifully, and fully. Because you only have one chance on this earth.

I’ll leave you with two different groups of words that I love and return to often. First, a quote that my friend Selina shared with me a couple years back when I was going through a challenging time. I returned to this when Sammy passed away, and it makes more sense now than ever before.

Wise wretch! with pleasures too refined to please, With too much spirit to be e'er at ease, With too much quickness ever to be taught, With too much thinking to have common thought: You purchase pain with all that joy can give, And die of nothing but a rage to live. ― Alexander Pope, Moral Essays

Lastly, I am often comforted by the words of Max Ehrmann’s Desiderata  - words I return to again and again. Here’s an excerpt:

You are a child of the universe,
no less than the trees and the stars;
you have a right to be here.
And whether or not it is clear to you,
no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should. 

Servus, Sammy. Gone but never forgotten. Love you.

UNH Ski Team at Sam’s Memorial

Social Consumption: I'm Full, Yet I Continue to Consume

FOREWARD:
This one has been a long time coming. I’ve written installments around the topic previously, but haven’t made the time to sit down and really ruminate while in front of my laptop. First, there was “Dating is so weird.” and then “Textual Frustration.” and finally “Say what you mean and mean what you say.” Poignant indeed. I’ve been thinking a lot about it lately, though, especially with as much time as I spend on social media. Too much time. Yes, it’s part of my job, so there’s that. As a result, I know too much about how social media works, too. When you know too much about how social media works, you’re on social media frequently and you’re dating, it’s kind of a rough combination. So, some of what I’m writing comes as a result of years of experience and conversations with others, and isn’t necessarily relative to my current situation (which, by the way, is healthy and happy). Let’s dive in, shall we?!

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A Facebook notification popped up on my screen the other day while I was working…”happy 14th anniversary!” Wait - 14 years?! Has it really been 14 years since our lives changed and gone were the days of MySpace, as interactions would change forever with the introduction of this one virtual space first known as “thefacebook.com” (yes - I am old enough to remember that you used to have to type in the full name and continued to do so for many years before I broke the habit)?! Yep. Then it was Twitter. Fast forward a number of years, and BOOM - Instagram!!

Along the way there were things like Tumblr and Blogspot…and - of course - Snapchat…but it was Instagram that really captivated me. Initially used by visual artists and hipsters as a photo sharing app, for me it was visually appealing and I found it to be a joy to interact with…unlike trying to fit my thoughts into 140 characters or getting really personal on Facebook (which, don’t worry, I did too - I’m an open book), Instagram allowed me to share mini blogs, random thoughts and musings along with an image in an aesthetically pleasing virtual realm. Just like a website, people could read the words or look at the image, and take in the information as it suited them. I didn’t really mind if some thought I wrote too many words, because maybe the image would resonate with them. And, in the beginning, it was all beautiful and raw. And then it gained popularity and widespread use, and it wasn’t what it started as anymore. People tried to figure out how to use it, but muddied it up. Ads were introduced. And it changed a little bit. And it did something else that was pretty toxic…it created a space for online bullying, and showed one side of life - all of the best and most beautiful things - and not the hard parts. The REALITY. I, too, fell into this trap at times.

But, for the most part, I fell in love with social media because for me it was about authenticity. It was a storytelling tool for the good and the bad…like how it felt when I went through a divorce and was simultaneously was pushed out of the company I gave up a full-time job for…and started from scratch in life, moving to a new place with my life packed into a small portion of the back of a 10-foot U-Haul moving truck. Or the moments where I struggled with heartbreak so much I lost my mind and 15 unnecessary pounds, too. I would put something out there, not knowing if it resonated with anyone…and frankly, not really caring if it resonated with anyone. Because it was a tool that helped me to move on - to move forward. In fact, in that strange and tumultuous time in my life, it was the only thing that kept me sane. Writing, that is. And then, sharing that writing. And, at times, I overshared as well. I’m aware of that fact. But I’m not sorry for it. If you don’t like it, I hope you have the power to look away and not let it touch your soul. Or, maybe if it did touch your soul I did something right? Not certain.

During these times, friends unfollowed me. I never understood that, because social media never affected me that much. I could look at it and separate reality from make-believe and not let it affect me…unless or until I was sad, that is. That’s the problem, though. If I was in a bad place, I’d look at things and get sad - friends were at a barbecue and I didn’t get the invite, and I’d feel left out. I’d be sitting in Salzburg alone on New Year’s Eve with plans that fell through and I’d open Instagram and see friends with the only person I wanted to be with at that moment. A pool of tears in my car, as a result of a single 15-second video on Instagram that I shouldn’t have seen anyway. And that’s the negative side of social media. Things are captured that wouldn’t otherwise enter your life at your fingertips. And it feels shitty. Really fucking shitty. So shitty and such an issue that the Millennials came up with an acronym for this feeling: FOMO (fear of missing out). And yes, it’s a thing. The problem is, it takes us out of the present moment and transports us to a faraway place that isn’t our own. Sometimes, that’s good. And healthy. Oftentimes, it’s not as good. And relationships in a world where everything is available at your fingertips?! Yikes.

This is about to get FUN.

Grab a drink, folks…I think a lot of you will be able to relate to this next part.

First, let’s talk about the illusion of reality. You’re probably wondering what the picture was all about that accompanies this post? Yes, that one - the butt one. Well, it was kind of click-bait to be honest. A “teaser” if you will. Because, as they say, sex sells. It was actually a little bit of an experiment for me to see how much attention it would get if I posted a classic booty pic. That’s the part of social media that REALLY can go fuck off. I know what you’re thinking, “Megan - you post those pictures too you goddamn hypocrite…you’re part of the problem!” Ouch. That hurts. But don’t worry, I am aware of it at least. So there’s that.

But I also know a lot about social media. Like I said, too much. And I’ve talked to many humans in relationships who have struggled with this. Social media has changed the way we conduct our lives and has affected human relationship. It has opened up so many possibilities…which can be good, sure. But, it also can be very, very negative.

Human relationships used to be simple. I remember talking to a friend a few years back who said she had listened to a podcast about relationships and choice, and it was comparing finding a mate to shopping for jam. They said you used to go to the store and have the ability to look at the shelf and see about five kinds of jam. It was simple. You knew what you liked, and you went with it. There weren’t many choices, but you were loyal to your choice and you didn’t look at the others and worry about what they tasted like. But now…now is a different story.

You walk into the store and there are hundreds of types of jam. And you find yourself staring at them all and thinking, “Maybe that mixed berry one is actually better…sweeter…more pleasureful. It might be more expensive, but I bet it tastes sooooo rich.” You get the idea. The internet, smart phones, social media…they have opened up a big ol’ world that used to be much, much smaller. And, we find ourselves scrolling through social media wondering if that human tastes better…without really knowing anything at all about them, but seeing a butt picture. It’s a fucking fantasy world. REMEMBER…you know NOTHING about that person. And then you spend a few days eating that mixed berry jam and you’re like, “damn…I wish I had the strawberry jam in my life again.” The grass on the other side is always greener, right?! It seems so.

And then here’s the other scary part about the way we interact with social media…there have been studies done on the reaction our mind/body has when someone likes our photo on social media…dopamine is released and we get hooked. I’ve felt it. It’s a little dangerous. But, what is the value of a “like” or “follow,” really?! Does it actually have meaning? That’s another thing about social. The younger generation seems to use it in a much different way…scroll, like, like, like, like. No reading. Just liking. What does it even mean?! Here’s where I get into trouble with knowing too much about social media. I think what you interact with and who is in your tribe is a reflection of who you are as a person - the same goes for real life and virtual life. So, if I’m in a relationship but I’m constantly interacting with dudes with their shirts off by liking their photos on social media…what does that mean about me? Furthermore, what does that mean to my partner? Have you ever considered it? Or does that not phase you?

Let me put this into context.

If you were walking with your partner and saw a beautiful human, you’d likely look and appreciate that beauty, right? I would. Because I love beautiful people. Of course, we don’t know anything about who these people really are - but the first thing we see is their cover before we’re able to dive into the pages of the book and really get to know them. So, there’s one thing with looking and appreciating. Engaging with it is another thing. Would you go hug that stranger in front of your partner? Poke them? Pinch their butt? “Hi! I’m here! I just want you to know that!” I know, I know - it’s a bit drastic to compare physical touch with the action of a “like” on social. But is it?

I know what you’re thinking. “This bitch is CRAY.” First of all - yes, I am. We all are. Second of all - hear me out, because I’m not really a jealous person by nature and if I’m in a healthy relationship where everything is on the table and we’re communicating well, it’s not an issue. Here’s a scenario - you and your partner are doing the long distance thang. Your partner is constantly interacting with a girl who often posts ass and titties photos. He doesn’t interact with your posts, but he seems to constantly interact with hers. You’re confused. You start to get jealous and wonder why, but you don’t want to bring it up because it seems silly. You start to fixate on that behavior, and do things like look on Instagram at what he liked. You text him that you miss him. You don’t hear back. You wonder what’s going on.

The worst thoughts get into your head.

You go on Instagram to see when he was last active (yeah, crazy, huh?! It’s happened to the best of us.).

“Active Now” it says.

“WHAT THE HELL, IS HE CHEATING ON ME? DOES HE LIKE THAT GIRL?!”

HA! Oh my gosh, I’m laughing out loud because it’s ridiculous to even write this, but it’s true. I’ve heard this dilemma from more than a few humans in my life. The thing is, unless it’s some far-fetched star from Hollywood, anything goes with social media these days. Seriously. Look at Tinder and Bumble. That’s the very concept of those social tools - meet specifically for human connection (whether it be to date or hook up or whatever), virtually. There was even a term coined for this on Instagram, “Slide into the DMs.” I’ve done it before, and it’s paid off well for me once or twice. Including currently. But that’s the thing, and that’s why we need to be mindful…because what we do and who we interact with in virtual reality is a reflection of who we are just like what we do and who we interact with in reality is a reflection of who we are. You are what you eat, right?! The thing is, oftentimes I’m full, yet I continue to consume.

You text your person. They start to reply.

…

The dreaded “…” right?! That fucking ellipsis. You hate it and love it. You love to hate it.

It’s actually my favorite punctuation mark, but in this case, it’s the worst. It creates excitement or anxiety.

And then it’s blank.

“Where’d they go?” You wonder to yourself.

But we didn’t used to have our lives at our fingertips. We didn’t used to be expected to immediately write back. We had no choice before. Game changer for dating and human relationships.

I once followed an Instagram account called “Socality Barbie” - this was a satirical account created to mock hipsters and their #blessed lives on social media. In her prime, Socality Barbie had about 1M followers. She was a social experiment that took off, and brought light to the #authenticity of social media. HA! Then, I came across Fyre Festival - and if you haven’t seen the Netflix documentary about it, you should, because it’s insane and absolutely a reflection of the power social media can have in real life, and how the fantasy world that is social media can negatively affect humans in real life. Yes, it’s an extreme case - but it’s worth watching.

So where am I getting with all of this?!

I guess sometimes I wish it all was as simple as it used to be, where you wrote and exchanged real letters (the art of letter writing is still a practice in which I partake, for the record), instant gratification wasn’t a thing, and you were just fat and happy eating your simple, reliable strawberry jam.

Ponder that.