Becoming Less Indoorsy
My move from Manhattan, where I spent ages 18–28, to Stanford pushed me into exotic territory: the Californian outdoors, a land filled with outdoorsy people. My outdoor experiences before Stanford took place under the duress of corporate bonding: white-knuckle river rafting in Maine and nightmarish zip-lining in pitch-black caves in Kentucky, where I plummeted down a 666-foot cable aptly named “Zip Line to Hell.”
Though I graduate officially in June, I awarded myself a distinction this past March when I skied for the first time in my adult life: I had transitioned from an Indoorsy Person to a Less-Indoorsy Person.
This adventure began with a visit to Yellowstone National Park in the summer before school began. The Grand Prismatic Spring won me over: hissing and alive with color, the scene stayed in my dreams for weeks.
At school, experiences crystallized into memories that chipped away at my indoorsy identity and became places I wander in my mind’s eye: whale watching in Santa Cruz, walks on the cliffs of Mendocino, and a Backstreet Boys-fueled bonfire in Fort Bragg. While MBAs often find fond memories abroad, I discovered exhilaration close to home. I loosened my grip on my bookworm identity and opened up to the following lessons along the way.
Trusting “Outdoorsy People” who encouraged me: These memories have faces. Kayiita signed me up for my first surf lesson, fielding questions about water temperature and wiping out. Naomi showed me her beloved walks in Mendocino and outfitted me for my first ski trip, fastening a helmet on me in her garage at midnight the night before I left. Laura encouraged me on a morning hike and Noura and I sipped coffee at dawn before venturing out onto the water. Outdoorsy people, you made my memories possible. I wondered if I could change a core part of my identity in my late twenties and your encouragement flew in the face of my doubt. You said “you’ve got this,” lent me items I didn’t know I needed, and shared acts of kindness that made the difference between making these memories or sitting out.
Breaking invisible barriers: My outdoor reluctance started with my Latin immigrant upbringing — why sleep under a tent when blessed with a roof over your head? — and hardened with self-consciousness. Society markets outdoor activities as simple but they can feel complicated, overwhelming, and exclusionary to those who are new to them. National Parks suffer from a lack of representation: while people of color comprise 40% of the U.S. population, they represent only 20% of visitors to national parks. Systemic under-representation, lack of exposure and access to activities, and resulting uncertainty exclude people every day. Individuals face insecurities, too. My own few dozen extra pounds before business school compounded the anxiety of an unfamiliar activity. Each choice to show up meant acknowledging discomfort and moving forward anyway. It’s a lesson that people can struggle with uncertainty in tasks or environments new to them, even if it’s not obvious.
Savoring the pride in showing up: MBAs love Fortune-ready accomplishments. Inelegantly trying snowshoeing or snorkeling does not fit the bill. But new choices compound into internal change that we alone can see and celebrate. For example, I’m proud that I got on the ski lift, even with my hands shaking. I’m proud that I stood up while surfing. I’m most proud that I showed up those mornings at all. In reflecting on the graduate school adventure, it’s my hope to honor ourselves for the new, quiet, courageous ways that we show up — even if it’s not visible to others.
Research shows that nature improves psychological and physical health. Yet half of American adults spend 5 hours or less in nature each week . Time spent outside has decreased each year, siphoned to screens instead. I’ll work on my share to become less indoorsy. My delight in reading, writing, and contemplation can be enjoyed outside. Though I may not scale base camp at Everest soon (an actual spring break trip led by Orlando Zambrano) my time at Stanford broadened how I enjoy life and perceive people — and for that, I’m grateful.
