ENMy path began early, on a football field, as the first female to play men’s varsity football at my high school.
It was the start of a ride shaped by determination, disruption, and the willingness to move forward even when the road wasn’t made for me. That ride carried momentum, but it also carried weight. When you break barriers, there’s an unspoken expectation to be perfect, to get it right every time, because every step feels like it represents more than just you.
This is My Path, My Ride and it’s the beginning of a series that honors where we’ve been, how we’ve moved forward, and the rides that brought us here. By sharing these journeys, we’re creating space for connection, understanding, and a deeper sense of who we are as a collective.
Very early in life, I knew I wanted to help people. The familiar pull of wanting to make a difference. I used to quote Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. and Gandhi, believing deeply in the idea of being the change you wish to see. It feels fitting that I’m writing this today, on Dr. King’s birthday, reflecting on how that calling has guided every turn in my path.
In 2015, my path led me from a career as a mental health counselor, supporting 12–18-year-olds navigating addiction and behavioral challenges, into law enforcement as a police officer. I believed that if I could support people in crisis within hospital walls, perhaps I could make an even greater impact on the front lines, in the moments when people needed help the most.
That path eventually led me to the Police Unity Tour: a three-day, 250-mile bike ride from New Jersey to Washington, D.C., honoring officers killed in the line of duty. It was 2019, and I was in the middle of one of the hardest years of my life, a year that nearly took it. Not because of the people I served in the field, but because of the environment within my own department.
This is the first time I’ve shared this publicly: the bicycle saved my life.
When the pandemic canceled the in-person Police Unity Tour in 2020, I rode the 250 miles anyway, alone, on familiar city paths. Two weeks later, George Floyd was murdered. As a Black woman in a blue uniform, I felt torn between identities that the world insisted were incompatible. I felt helpless. As police officers, we don’t protest or rally and for good reason. Neutrality matters. But my calling, my path to disrupt and move where others said I could not, was whispering again.
So, I listened.
I created Bike Ride for Black Lives to bring my community together during a time of deep pain and division. If I could ride to honor fallen officers, I could also ride to honor Black Americans fighting for justice. That ride, that moment, shifted my path once again. Through community bike work, I began to find joy after a season of darkness. The bicycle became more than movement; it gave me healing, survival, and clarity. It restored me physically, emotionally, and mentally, and that clarity began to reshape how I saw my future and my role in service.
That clarity carried me forward into a new chapter. I transitioned from law enforcement into the bike industry, stepping into the role of Community Specialist at SRAM. For the first time, I was given a proverbial seat at the table and with it, the opportunity to help shape SRAM’s Community Program. It was an honor, but it was also a responsibility that carried real weight, because I knew what was possible when community, purpose, and the bicycle came together.
I want to pause here to acknowledge the moment we’re in. Times of change bring hope, uncertainty, and fear all at once. Those feelings are valid. But it’s in moments like these that staying grounded in our values matters most, the commitments we make to one another and to our communities.
At SRAM, one of our most foundational beliefs is that the bicycle represents freedom. And today, I want to be clear: we remain steadfast in that promise. Not just through our products, but through our people, our programs, and our purpose.
In 2024, while pursuing my second master’s degree in social work, I led the Underrepresented Cyclist Study, using a community-based participatory approach to ask a simple but critical question: How can SRAM do better? What makes people feel truly welcome in cycling?
The answer was clear: culture.
Culture sets the tone. It shapes belonging or the absence of it. It’s not about checking boxes; it’s about creating spaces where people feel seen, supported, and celebrated. Our Community Program is where all of this comes together, built on two pillars: Inclusion and Impact, and Connections and Stories.
Inclusion and Impact is about real support collaborating with grassroots organizations, funding mechanic workshops, expanding access to bikes and education, and putting our resources where our values are.
Connections and Stories is about presence, showing up, listening, and sharing the human stories that remind us why we ride. The joy. The challenge. The resilience. These stories go beyond specs and gears; they speak to the emotional bond we have with the bicycle. Because inclusion isn’t a moment, it’s a movement. One that grows as we listen, learn, and evolve.
My hope is that My Path, My Ride becomes a platform for the real stories of our people. Our storytelling centers on the lived experiences of our employees, their paths, their rides, and the moments that shaped them. These voices bring authenticity to who SRAM is, showing how our culture, craft, and mission come to life every day. Whether in the workshop, on the trail, or in our communities, each story reflects progress, mobility, and contribution, individual journeys connected to a shared legacy of movement, innovation, and purpose.
I’ll close with this: components help a bike move forward, but the true heart of cycling has always been the people. It’s you. It’s the community we’re building together.
Thank you for being part of this ride.
Thank you for allowing us to share our culture, our people— starting with my path, and my ride.
