Sideline Stories: Hallie Herz, Kindling Collective

Recently I went for a walk on the Back Cove Trail with a queer friend and my dog. As we walked, we were passed by waves of folks running a race, and I was reminded of why it’s been hard for me to be a queer person in running communities. Almost every person we passed fit the mold of a stereotypical runner: skinny, white, seemingly cisgender, dressed in spandex or short flowy shorts. When I first moved back to Maine, I tried to find my running home and found I was often the only queer or nonbinary person in each of the running groups I tried. While I had the privilege to be able to shape shift to fit in—I could pass as cisgender and could hang in most running-based conversations—that’s not how I wanted to show up. I wanted to show up and run as myself.

I spent my twenties in running communities and guiding outdoor trips for and with really lovely straight people. I joined a running group and even started running half-marathons and marathons. In 2018, I was at my speediest, skinniest, and in a committed relationship with my Garmin watch and the Strava app. But then I got injured, had to take time off of running, and I came back slower. All of a sudden, running wasn’t as fun—instead of trending faster, I was trending slower. I’d gained weight and I didn’t like the photos of me posted online by my running group. Garmin and Strava were no longer my friends.

Then the pandemic hit, and I started trail running by myself. I had tried it before, but I struggled to keep up with my speedy friends and had decided it wasn’t for me. Running alone in the woods in 2020, I finally gave myself permission to slow down, walk up hills, and run in a way that felt good. I stopped wearing my Garmin watch and began pausing to take pictures of flowers and stick my head under waterfalls. 

I’ve known I was queer for as long as I can remember, but for most of my life, I was adamant that my queerness was not a central part of my identity. But the less I tried to fit into straight spaces and the more I found spaces where I could be my full self, the more queer I realized I was. In 2019, after over a decade of guiding backcountry canoeing and backpacking trips in mainstream outdoor spaces, I started guiding outdoor trips for a queer organization. On one of those trips, I realized it was the first time I’d ever been able to fully relax and be myself as I led a trip. Playing in the woods with other queer people felt like letting out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. With groups of queer folks, I didn’t feel this same need to prove myself. I could let down my guard. That first summer of guiding queer folks, I realized that I had been trying to fit myself into boxes that other people had made for me, boxes that didn’t quite fit. Leaning into my queerness has meant noticing what boxes I’ve been placed into that don’t feel right, noticing the paths laid out for me that don’t fit—noticing and choosing paths that feel and fit better.

With running, what this has meant for me is realizing I don’t have to do it a certain way. It’s okay if I’m not always getting faster. It’s okay to walk up hills—and even down them! Stopping on a run to eat blackberries, take a picture of a view, or forage for mushrooms are now some of my favorite parts about running. I’ve learned that I feel most at home in my body when it’s moving, when my calves are working and my quads are flexing. I forget about mirrors, I don’t think about what I look like, I’m working on not checking my pace—I just get to become another body moving past trees and squirrels and frogs and snakes, alive and alive and alive. 

My partner Eva and I started Kindling Collective,  a queer centered outdoor gear library based in Portland, because, like the running world, the outdoor recreation world is predominantly made up of straight, cisgender communities. While people in these spaces may say they’re for everyone, you’re often only really welcome if you can show up and hang with the in-crew. And if you don’t already speak the language, know the people, have the skills? Then that space, that activity, that world, isn’t really for you. At Kindling, we wanted to create a space that centered queer people. We put queer people first when designing programming and structures that reduce barriers to the outdoors. We wanted to create opportunities for queer people to do outdoor activities they love in communities where they don’t have to twist or stretch or make themselves smaller or more palatable in order to fit in. We wanted to create spaces where queer people could try an outdoor activity for the first time in an environment that celebrates being a beginner, taking risks, and making mistakes. And we wanted to create a library of outdoor gear that anyone of any identity can use, as long as they’re on board with supporting and affirming queer folks.

I want everyone to be able to feel the way I do now when I go on slow, meandering runs with my queer friends—joyful, strong, safe, playful, and alive, alive, alive. 

MSC invites you to stop by fellow Maine Outdoor Brands member, Kindling Collective

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