Dear Joe,
I’ve been a social media and community manager in the OCR world for over seven years. That’s not just a job—it’s a commitment. I’ve poured my time, my energy, and my heart into this sport because I love it. I love the people in it. I love the grit, the growth, the community. I’ve read the comments, answered the messages, held space for the rants, the praise, the heartbreak, and the hope. I’ve seen what happens when people feel heard—and what happens when they don’t.
So when you say you want to hear from the community, I pay attention. Not because it’s new, but because I’ve seen this pattern before: the ask for feedback, followed by silence. Or worse, a dismissive shrug. A post that says “I’m listening” but makes it clear no one bothered to read what was shared.
Here’s the truth: people don’t expect you to fix everything. They don’t expect miracles. They expect you to listen. To show up. To acknowledge what they’ve lived through. And when you don’t—even if you meant well—it hurts. It erodes trust. It makes people feel invisible in a sport they helped build.
And while we’re talking about listening, let’s talk about AI.
Your recent post referenced using AI to “hear the community.” I use AI too. I use it to fill in the blanks, to help me shape my thoughts, to organize the chaos of my brain when I’m juggling caregiving, advocacy, and content strategy. But I never let it replace my voice. I never let it speak for me. I use it to amplify—not automate—my lived experience.
There’s a difference between using AI to support storytelling and using it to simulate engagement. If you’re not reading the comments, not sitting with the nuance, not metabolizing the feedback—then AI isn’t helping you listen. It’s helping you avoid.
When I use AI, it’s like scaffolding. I bring the fragments—the emotion, the random bits of thoughts and ideas, the insight, the lived experience. And it helps me braid them together when I can’t seem to unknot them. It doesn’t replace my voice. It holds space for it.
And that’s what this community needs: space. Real space. Not just for feedback, but for truth.
Spartan is the biggest player in the OCR world. That means your choices don’t just affect Spartan athletes—they affect the entire ecosystem. When Spartan dismisses feedback, it sends a message to every community member, every volunteer, every athlete trying to build something meaningful: your voice doesn’t matter. Your labor is invisible. Your loyalty is assumed.
Oh by the way. Please pay your employees and contractors 😉
And here’s the thing: Spartan does a lot of good. You’ve helped grow the sport, bring new athletes in, and create unforgettable experiences. You have supported so many charities. But moments like this—when listening is performative, when division is rewarded, when real labor is ignored—drown out the good. They make people question whether they belong. They make people feel expendable.
And it hurts even more when Spartan openly supports people who tear down the community. When ambassadorships and affiliate codes go to outlets that thrive on division—who gatekeep, who police, who profit off the very people they refuse to stand beside. Meanwhile, people like Russ—who shows up, who builds, who advocates, who gives everything to this sport—get ignored.
Russ is the founder of OCR Buddy. He doesn’t want the spotlight. He’s not doing this for recognition. In fact, he’d say he’s not doing his job if he sought it. But when the biggest name in the sport consistently uplifts those who divide and overlooks those who serve, it sends a message. And that message ripples. It tells the community that loyalty doesn’t matter. That labor isn’t seen. That the people doing the real work are disposable.
And then there’s the moment when someone says, “Joe, I hate you,” and your response is, “Welcome to the family.” Maybe you meant it as humor. Maybe you meant it as grit. But to many of us, it didn’t land that way. It felt like deflection. Like a refusal to engage with the pain behind the words. When someone says they hate you, it’s not always about hate—it’s about hurt. About feeling unseen. About wanting to matter.
We need to bring people into this sport, not drive them out. That means welcoming new athletes, honoring volunteers, and protecting the voices that make this space feel like home. It means choosing inclusion over ego, collaboration over control, and legacy over optics.
That kind of leadership doesn’t just hurt Spartan. It hurts all of us.
The OCR community is resilient. We’ve weathered race cancellations, price hikes, broken promises, and shifting priorities. We’ve held this sport together with duct tape and grit. Volunteers, age groupers, adaptive athletes, race directors—we’re not just participants. We’re the foundation.
So if you truly want to hear us, sit with us. Not in a livestream where comments fly by unread. Not in a one-way post. Sit down. Host a roundtable. Join a community call. Read the threads. Listen to the people who’ve been here through it all.
And if you’re serious, OCR Buddy and I would love to host that conversation. We’ll make space. We’ll moderate. We’ll bring the voices that matter most—the ones who’ve been showing up, year after year, race after race, even when it got hard.
Because listening isn’t just about collecting feedback. It’s about honoring the people who care enough to speak. It’s about showing them they matter—even if you don’t have an immediate fix.
I highly doubt you’ll read this. I doubt it will resonate. But I’m writing it anyway—because I’m a proud listener in this community. And I believe that listening, even when it feels like shouting into the void, still matters.
I’m not writing this to tear anyone down. I’m writing this because I believe in the sport. I believe in the community. And I believe that leadership means showing up when it’s uncomfortable. Listening when it’s inconvenient. And responding with action, not just slogans.
So Joe—if you’re ready, we are too.
With respect and clarity, A longtime community manager who still believes in this sport– Bonnie Wilson
Disclaimer: These are my personal thoughts and observations. I do not speak on behalf of OCR Buddy or Russ. Russ, the founder of OCR Buddy, doesn’t seek the spotlight—and wouldn’t be doing his job if he did. I speak only as someone who has watched this community grow, fracture, rebuild, and persist—and who still believes in its power.
