Raising Her Wild: Motherhood, Mountains & Building Standhope

by Mary Martin

The Mountains That Know You

The Pioneer Mountains in Idaho have a way of pulling the truth out of you. They don’t care who you are off the trail—your title, how busy your week was, or how little sleep you got the night before. You show up as you are, and somehow, that’s enough.

Every time I drive into the Copper Basin, with those peaks rising out of the sage, I feel it immediately. A kind of quiet reset. Like the mountains already know me. And in a lot of ways, they’ve watched me become who I am now—a mother, a race director, and a woman trying to hold onto both.

Before Pyper

When I first found Standhope, I wasn’t a mom yet. I just loved being outside. I wanted to be part of something meaningful—something real. I stepped into the role of Assistant Race Director in 2020 without fully knowing what I was getting into. The race was small, grassroots, a little rough around the edges—but in the best way. It felt human. Personal. Like the kind of place where people still looked you in the eye and shook your hand before a race.

I didn’t have some big vision back then. I just worked hard, showed up, and slowly fell in love with it. Looking back now, I can see it clearly: Standhope was shaping me long before I realized it.

Then Everything Shifted

Then I became a mom.

When my daughter Pyper was born, everything shifted. Not in a dramatic, movie-like way—but in a quiet, steady unraveling and rebuilding. I was still the same person, but also completely different. I understood exhaustion in a new way. I understood time differently. And I understood how hard it is to hold onto the parts of yourself that existed before becoming a mother.

Especially the wild parts. The adventurous parts. The parts that want to push, explore, and do hard things.

And I started to feel this tension I hadn’t felt before: Can I still be this version of myself? Is there still space for me out there?

Building Something That Holds Both

By the time I took over ownership of Standhope, I wasn’t just thinking about logistics, permits, or course markings anymore. I was thinking about mothers. I was thinking about what it actually looks like to train when you have a baby—what it feels like to say goodbye to your child and keep running. What it means to want something for yourself and still show up fully at home.

And the truth is, no one told me how to do both.

So I started asking myself: What would have helped me? What would have made this feel possible instead of overwhelming? What would make a mother feel like she belongs here?

That’s where everything started to change.

Standhope is still hard. It’s still wild. The mountains haven’t changed. But what has changed is the space we’re creating within it.

We’re building something that says: you don’t have to choose. Not between being a mother and being an athlete. Not between caring for your child and chasing something big.

We now have on-course nursing and pumping tents so moms can take care of their babies, even from the mountains. Breast milk transport back down to the finish line. Family-friendly finish lines with kid races where kids aren’t just welcome, they’re part of it. Crew access for families, so you don’t feel separated from your support system. And a Mom Runner initiative to highlight and support women doing both.

Not because someone told us to, but because I lived it. Because I know what it feels like to stand in both worlds.

Raising Her Wild

And somewhere in the middle of all of this… is her.

It’s Pyper growing up watching it all unfold. Watching her mom build something. Watching me work, struggle, show up, and keep going. Watching what it looks like to love your family deeply and still carve out space for yourself.

We’re raising her outside. In the dirt, in the mountains, in the in-between moments after work and before dinner. Some days it’s big adventures. Some days it’s just a short walk before sunset. But all of it counts.

Because she’s learning that this life—this wild, grounded, intentional life—is something she gets to have too.

There Is Room for Both

I used to think I had to choose. Between stability and adventure. Between motherhood and independence. Between staying grounded and chasing something big.

But the mountains have taught me otherwise.

There is room for both.

And if I can build anything through Standhope, it’s proof of that—for myself, for other women, and for the next generation of girls growing up watching it all unfold.