The outdoors saved my life. When I thought a black hole of depression and an eating disorder would swallow me whole, walks and runs along a lakeside trail were my therapy. Despite my parents’ love, I felt lost and worthless as a child, acutely aware I was different.
My story stretches across the Americas, divided by borders, compartmentalized by language. My name tests the patience of people who are too lazy to make an effort to pronounce it. They add or remove letters as they please. Rocío, “dew.” Villalobos, “village of the wolves.” In seventh grade, I started writing my name with an accent mark in an effort to reclaim myself, even though English and Spanish are languages of the colonizers. What language is left for me to speak and identity with when both taste like loss?
I was both invisible and hypervisible growing up. In school, I simultaneously felt cast aside and put under a microscope. As one of the few students of color, the burden of proving my worth and intelligence weighed heavily on me. My experiences were missing from the curriculum, and it wasn’t until college that I learned about people who looked like me and had stories like mine. As an adult, I learned my great-grandparents were indigenous people. They did not pass their language or culture on to their children, so my grandparents and then parents, never identified as indigenous. Pero tengo el nopal en la frente. My skin, eyes and cheekbones are all distinctly indigenous. I am distinctly not white.
The outdoors showed me who I am. My walks along the lakeside trail morphed into longer hikes, camping trips and long-distance running. Following my first night camping under the stars, I felt so deeply at home in the outdoors. Out there, my mind was at rest; my soul was at peace. I fell in love with the sound of tent zippers opening and closing, the warmth of the sun on my skin and the sight of the stars and the Milky Way at night.
And yet, out there, I felt invisible again. Where were the hikers and campers who looked like me? As a woman of color, was I actually safe in the middle-of-nowhere?
I knew what the outdoors was capable of doing for me and wanted to diversify our outdoor spaces. So I began searching for more ways to spend time outside and bring others with me. I started volunteering at Explore Austin, an organization that helps kids become resilient leaders through outdoor adventure. As a woman of color at an organization that primarily serves kids of color, it’s important to me that these girls see me and others who look like them in leadership positions. In being present, we can create opportunities for other women of color.
I started an outdoor adventure group to build community among such women who love and want to spend time in nature. The group is designed to create a space particularly for women of color who are apprehensive to adventure outside because they don’t want to go alone or are not sure they’ll feel welcomed. We go on day hikes and camping trips throughout Texas and share gear, transportation and food.
I want to continue creating dialogue and action around diversity, equity and inclusion in the outdoors. I’ve been privileged to spend time outside gaining a better understanding of myself and the space I want to carve out in this world. I want to support others, especially other women of color, to do the same. I’ve found that reconnecting with the land is a decolonial project for me, one of discovering and remembering where I come from. Colonization taught my ancestors to hide and erase their indigeneity to survive. Now, my work is to unearth the stories and cultures of my ancestors in order to thrive.
For more info on Villalobos’ outdoor adventure group, message her at @thexicanaexplorer on Instagram.
This story first appeared in RANGE Magazine Issue 10, which is dedicated to the idea of progress. Pick up a copy HERE.
Illustration by José G. González.
XX Rocío Villalobos