I grew up in a tiny town in New Hampshire. Quaint, quiet, quintessential New England. And very, very white. Racism wasn't something we talked about growing up. Racial injustices didn't affect me. They still don't. I have grown up privileged and white and still, at 35 years old, largely uncomfortable discussing topics like racism. As a white woman with a platform and an amazing community, I preach constantly about being open-minded, being empathetic, being an ally and a voice for marginalized groups. And still, it makes me uncomfortable. I question: Who am I, a white woman who can go for a run without worrying about being killed simply because of the color of her skin, to raise my voice? What do I even know? What if I say the wrong thing? What if I offend someone by trying so hard to say the “right thing?” But as alisonmdesir wrote in outsidemagazine today, that discomfort I feel? It pales in comparison to the discomfort black women and men feel every day on the run and beyond. It’s a...