My dad raised me like a son.
Before I was even 10 years old, I was already ahead of my time with my knowledge of vintage cars and rock ‘n’ roll. In fact, some of my best memories with my dad are in the passenger seat of his Mustang, classic rock blasting, him offering me a penny for every band I could name.
Growing up with a dad devoted to his service in the Navy meant learning separation early through deployments and long work days. But when he came home, it was always Daddy-daughter time. No matter where we were stationed, we made it an adventure: mountain biking, hiking, surfing, snowboarding, rifle shooting, archery, boxing lessons (shoutout to the fiery attitude I got from my mom that my dad knew I would need to combat) — just to name a few.
My childhood was full of wipeouts, bruises and scraped knees. But it was also full of laughter, confidence and fearlessness. As an only child, my dad wasn’t just my teacher; he was my training partner, my coach, my teammate. He was the person who taught me that strength and grit weren’t masculine traits. They were mine.
But somewhere between childhood and independence, something shifted. As I started doing these things on my own, I realized it wasn’t the same without Dad. Not even close.
Suddenly, I wasn’t just a kid learning a sport. I was a girl in a space that wasn’t built for me.
Not all boys are as nice as Dad.
I learned pretty quickly that the encouragement I got from my dad wasn’t something to expect from the real world, and definitely not from boys. I’ll never forget my first day at the skatepark (mind you, skating was a hobby that I picked up in the middle of high school). I honestly felt like a trespasser. Most guys assumed I was there for attention. Others simply disliked me for existing in their space.
Surfing was a whole different world. Paddling out into a group of men, of all ages, was intimidating enough on its own. There were days in my early solo-surfing journey that I stood on the beach a lot longer than I am comfortable admitting, just watching the sets roll in and working up the courage to get out there. And then there are moments you don’t forget, like when a middle-aged shortboarder drops in on you as a young female longboarder (if you know, you know), blames you for it and makes sure that everyone within earshot knows about it. These moments unfortunately stayed with me for far too long. In my coming-of-age years, they lived in my head, slowly turning into self-doubt and a constant need to second-guess myself.
It took a long time to realize that being hated by locals is only hard until you become one.
As a girl, I never got the luxury of being bad while learning, at least not the same way as the boys did. I had to be “good” before I was allowed to exist comfortably — and even then, acceptance was fragile.
The war of hyper self-awareness.
Between 13 and 17, I became obsessed with how I existed in these spaces, whether that be mentally, emotionally or physically. My body never felt neutral. I was either being sexualized — the parts that my bathing suits accentuated, the way my pants (men’s work pants I wore to skate, at that) hugged my lower body — or judged: what I wore, the brands I chose, my overall presence.
Sometimes I felt relieved when I saw another girl. Until I immediately compared myself to her, trying to guess which one of us would have more respect from the guys around us. I never wanted to be the girl who confirmed the stereotypes. Confidence had changed from something I felt to something I performed.
I have a lot of memories paddling out on my surfboard, all too aware of the fit of my bathing suit, how many waves I was catching and how my surfing looked. Even now, I am still not good in the terrain park on a snowboard because growing up, it always felt like a boys’ club I avoided at all costs.
A huge part of learning extreme sports is throwing yourself into the madness of it all. Messing up. Falling. Letting the environment teach you with its unforgiving ways. But as a girl, I felt like every mistake meant I was taking space that I didn’t deserve, like I was stealing opportunity from men who belonged there more than I did.
Being underestimated is a drug.
Hyper self-awareness was a vice — until I realized I was letting men keep me trapped in my own head and inside boundaries they didn’t get to set. I was the youngest woman in my family. The woman with more freedom than any generation before me. And somehow, I was repeating the same old story: shrinking and hesitating when I didn’t have to.
Once I became aware of my anxieties, it became my mission to crush them.
My new mindset made me realize there is something intoxicating about femininity in a male-dominated arena. Watching men be genuinely impressed by you simply because you’re not a man is a silly thing, really. But watching their expectations for you fall apart in real time is addicting, not because their approval ever matters, but because you can literally see the assumptions die in their eyes.
Suddenly, I found myself excited when I was the only girl there. I wanted to wear pink. I stopped caring if I messed up. Failure started to fuel me. I learned to love the pressure. If my dad wasn’t there with me, I wanted to make my dad proud anyway. This mindset changed my life.
Not only was I starting to enjoy these spaces on my own, but I was learning how to dominate them. I grabbed the reins of my femininity and started redefining stereotypes in my own way, even if it was just for a few minutes at a time.
Soon enough, this mindset had an anthem of its own:
You learn to take up space. Unapologetically.
I learned through trial and error, and years of fear, that if I practiced confidence and actually put myself out there, respect will naturally follow. And eventually, I stopped caring whether it did or not. Because validation stopped owning my passions.
The right guys will become your supporters. Your protectors (honorable mention: my old-head surfing buddies who always had my back). Your best friends. The ones who hype you up instead of sizing you up. I stopped seeing men as threats and started seeing them as potential community.
I stopped waiting to be welcomed. I stopped holding back.
I started charging.
My dad didn’t raise me to be “tough for a girl,” and he was my standard. Not men. Not the expectations they placed on me. So why was I holding myself back from reaching it? Before I even understood gender expectations as a little girl, I was already outside of them.
I had to unlearn the cage I put myself in as a teenager.
And now, if I can help other girls do the same, I will. Because they don’t need permission. They don’t need approval. They don’t need to earn their place.
They already belong.