From an early age, I came to understand that my people are warriors. My late dad taught me that being Comanche means being strong, powerful, and resilient. I have called upon those traits time and again when facing challenges in life and in my career as a professional hammer thrower. One of those trying moments came last weekend, when I didn’t make the cut for the Paris Olympics.
Going into the Olympic track and field trials, I was feeling so much more confident and prepared than in years past—like when I missed making the 2021 Tokyo team by just five centimeters. Not earning a spot this time around is a hard pill to swallow, especially since I am ranked second in the world, and have hit the qualifying mark numerous times. But I’m not the first great athlete to have had a bad day, and my journey continues on—because my mission to inspire Native American youth is so much more important than this one meet.
This country’s shameful history of oppressing Indigenous people makes representation a really tricky concept for Native athletes like me. I wear the Team USA jersey proudly, because it’s all I have ever known, and yet, I’m determined to use my platform to educate people about the realities of Indigenous life. I have an opportunity to inspire others, bring community together, and make a difference for future generations.
I want people to understand the adversities we have faced—like being stripped of our traditions, having our children and our land taken away, and battling disproportionate rates of violence and health problems—while also appreciating the rich diversity of our cultures and communities. Native Americans have always been here, and we’re still here.
I’ve been an athlete for as long as I can remember, but back when I was a kid, I wasn’t thinking about making history or making it to the Olympics. Instead, I was simply following the path my dad so desperately wanted for my three older siblings and me. He was my first coach, and steadfastly determined to give his kids a better life than his own humble upbringing in Oklahoma’s Indian Country. He believed playing sports could open up doors in our hometown of Lawson, Missouri, a small city with a population of about 2,000 people and very little diversity.
In 2003, our lives were changed forever. I was 8 years old when my dad was diagnosed with Stage 4 liver cancer. He also happened to be living with diabetes. Everything at that time was such a blur. The cancer progressed really quickly, and it was too late to do chemotherapy. Within a matter of months, he was merely skin and bones.
When the end was nearing, my mom brought him home for hospice care in our living room. I remember lying in bed with him and feeding him ice cubes during those final days. At that age, you don’t really understand what death means, but you cherish those small moments. My dad passed away in his 40s from liver cancer due to alcoholism, the same way his dad had died.
My dad’s death was devastating in so many ways. Not only did I lose my first mentor and my biggest cheerleader, but I also lost my connection to my Comanche culture. He taught us kids to be disciplined and hardworking, so I dedicated myself to living the life he wanted for us. I participated in basketball, volleyball, softball, soccer, gymnastics, and track and field, with dreams of someday playing in the WNBA. Never did I consider hammer throwing as a career path, as there was little awareness of the sport at the time, not to mention very few women who looked like me competing on the world stage.
Not only were sports a way to honor my dad, but they also let me see a world outside of where I grew up. I did my best to ignore classmates who asked if I lived in a teepee or said I looked like Pocahontas from the Disney movie, but those comments just added to my desire to leave my hometown and do something bold. I can’t entirely blame people for their ignorance, since that’s what our school system has taught kids about Native life for so long. But even back then, I knew there was a bigger world out there. My mom sacrificed so much as a single mom. Even with all the burdens she had to bear, she never let us give up, knowing that sports could take us somewhere in life.
My dad’s death inspired me to pursue a dietetics college degree, in hopes of addressing health problems that are so prevalent in Indigenous communities—from obesity to diabetes and alcoholism. I was lucky enough to attend Kansas State on a track and field scholarship. But, it was only a partial scholarship, so I also worked part-time to make ends meet.
I had thrown shot put and discus in high school, but I didn’t pick up a hammer until my freshman year of college. Before that point, I had never even seen the sport in action. A primer for those who haven’t witnessed it: Athletes throw a metal ball—for women, weighing 8.8 pounds—attached to a grip by a steel wire for distance. First, you wind it around your body to gain momentum, then quickly turn a few times to build upon that, and finally release the hammer into the air, all within a certain time limit.
When I got into the sport, the American record holders were throwing 75 meters and I was only throwing 53, so I definitely didn’t have any expectations of greatness. In the beginning, I was just focused on not falling over. But I got better with practice and went on to become a three-time Big 12 champion and a four-time All-American during my collegiate career.
For me, hammer throwing is absolute poetry in motion. It’s so freeing in the moment. When you step into the ring, your mind goes blank, you take a deep breath, and you have to just trust in the work you’ve done up until that point. This sport requires so much, both mentally and physically, but I still make sure to have fun with it.
Unfortunately all the training and repetition took a toll on my body, especially my knees. I ended up having three meniscus surgeries in college, in part because I rushed the rehab process and didn’t give myself time to fully heal. That was definitely frustrating, but I did my best to maintain a positive attitude, knowing this is all part of the athlete’s journey.
After college, I decided to go pro, even though my college coach warned me that there’s no money in track and field, especially in hammer throwing. In 2019, my first year after turning pro, I didn’t make it to the world championships. But I did make a different championship team called “The Match” which was encouraging. I was just getting going when the pandemic shut down all competition.
Then came the 2021 Olympic trials. I didn’t expect to make the team, but it was still gut-wrenching to come so close. At the same time, almost making it motivated me to put my head down and prepare for the next season.
All that determination and hard work paid off, because in 2022 I had one of the greatest moments of my career: I made history as the first Native American woman to win a world track and field championships medal, taking home the bronze. The outpouring of support after that accomplishment made me realize the importance of what I’m doing. It’s not about making money or earning medals. It’s about serving as a role model for Native youth and inspiring them to pursue their dreams.
Growing up, I didn’t know of any successful Indigenous athletes other than Jim Thorpe, the first Native American to win Olympic gold in 1912. Despite being one of the greatest athletes of all time, he faced ongoing discrimination throughout his life and died in poverty and poor health. I’m here to change things for the next generation. I want little girls to see someone who looks like them—wearing my hair in braids, introducing myself in my Native language, and proudly representing the Comanche Nation up on the podium and on Nike N7 billboards.
Knowing what it would mean to my community if I made it to the Olympics, I went into this year’s track and field trials ready to crush it. I’ve had a stellar season so far, throwing for 75.99 meters earlier this year. But even during the qualifying round on Friday, things weren’t feeling right. I was struggling to find an easy throw, where it’s just simple, smooth, and effortless. I really didn’t like my throw in the first round, but I let it be since those marks don’t count for the final round and I didn’t want to exert more energy than needed.
On Saturday, I rested up and hoped it would all come together for the final round. The next day, I woke up feeling mentally prepared with tons of energy, plus my body felt good. I went in with a clear plan, trusted my gut, and didn’t doubt myself for a second—but it just wasn’t my day. Of course that hurts, but thankfully my family was right there to ensure I didn’t crumble or crawl into a dark corner. Not making it to Paris won’t break me, because my purpose is so much bigger than sport.
My community has been incredibly supportive of me every step of this journey, and it’s far from over. When I step onto the field, I am proudly representing the United States, the Comanche Nation, and my family—especially my dad. Yes, making it to the Olympics someday is still very much a goal of mine, but even if that doesn’t happen, I know I’m living my dream, breaking barriers, and creating a lasting legacy. I’m doing my part to end the cycle of intergenerational trauma while showcasing the incredible strength, power, and resilience of Native people on a global stage. And that’s more important than any gold medal could ever be.
This essay has been edited and condensed for clarity.
