It was January before I heard back from three separate sponsors that there wasn’t going to be a spot for me on their team in 2026. After months of ongoing attempts to stay on people’s minds as they built out their budgets for the year, I had essentially just found out that I no longer had a job as a professional mountain biker. I’d been deemed “washed up” without my knowledge.

On top of this, my relentless attempts to get consistent employment outside of the bike industry throughout this time had failed me as well.

Growing up I’d heard stories about athletes’ experiences with being cast aside. Some were sad, some more reclamatory, but it didn’t matter to me because this type of thing didn’t feel relevant yet. My career and craft were still very much on the up. I’d still been finding a lot of excitement in building skill and prowess year after year. Not to mention many of my peers were finding the same growth and success at my same relative age. It was a hard pill to swallow to realize it wasn’t about how I rode or even about being in my mid 30s, but rather about what brands believed I could or could not offer. The news felt like a personal indictment: A relentlessly authentic approach is no longer relevant in 2026 when you’re a transgender athlete.

Pivoting on a dime, of course, is something we can all relate to. The COVID-19 pandemic hit when I was 29. Prior to that, and like many of my peers, I would have been out socializing more nights of the week than not. But, in the blink of an eye, life was never the same again. We never really get to acknowledge these watershed moments in life until much later, probably because the realization that something is gone is what actually marks an event as a watershed moment. Perhaps this is for the better. If I’d known, say, while dancing drunk at Utah’s oldest gay bar, The SunTrapp, that it’d be my last time, I might not have ever made it home that night.