FOSTERING COMMUNITY
20 and blissfully lost.
That’s where it started. Climbing, of all things. Six months later, I’m staring down the community board at my local gym like it’s a crystal ball. "Now Hiring” a flyer reads.
Mad Rock? Well, it beats bagging groceries for kale obsessed tech bros who treat oat milk like currency. So, I apply.
Next thing I know, I’m standing outside what looks like a call center. But actually, it’s the HQ of a global climbing brand. I’m overdressed, sweating in my “business casual,” resume in hand, while my interviewers look like they’ve just rolled out of a sprinter van. Puffer vests. Trucker hats. I was scared shitless. The same feeling you get leading for the first time. Everyone swears you’re safe, but your brain’s like, “We’re decking today.” I crammed in everything I could about Mad Rock. The gear, the innovation, the founder, the mission to make climbing accessible. Genuinely cool stuff. I guess I sounded convincing, because one hour and a follow-up email later, I had the job.
So it began, retail work for a climbing company 15 minutes from home, located in the armpit of LA County. You know the kind of place people drive through and say...nothing. Despite the global presence, there were nine of us running the show. Nine. The next few years? Not a rollercoaster, those come with safety bars. Think tech startup vibes, minus the catered lunches and a lot more “we all wear many hats” energy. And honestly, It’s admirable. In all seriousness, working on a team where everything you do actually matters is rare. It’s fulfilling. It takes a village. But over the almost four years I’ve been here, one thing has stuck with me most: community.
LA is enormous and exhausting. It’s all micro scenes and niche bubbles inside other niche bubbles. It’s like social inception. Climbing, somehow, is gaining ground. Celebs at the gym. Seeing old high school acquaintances I never thought in a million years would take up the sport. It’s interesting. But why climbing? I won’t get into that. There are already a million heartfelt essays answering that. Although, one thing I've noticed is people crave belonging. A place. A something. That’s just human nature. And trying to foster that? Easily one of the biggest challenges of my career.
I was given the role of event coordinator at HQ in year two. It sounded doable, and it was. Planning, logistics, organizing. It was fun. Mistakes were made, but learning curves are part of the game. The hardest part? What do people even want? What do climbers want? What does this community need? What does climbing mean to them? To me? Many ethical, moral, and philosophical spirals accompanied my planning cycles. But it was worth it. Watching people enjoy the events we put together? Nothing beats it. Not because attendance meant “success,” but because there’s something truly beautiful about people choosing to show up. Choosing to engage. Choosing a hot, tiny warehouse over Netflix or the air-conditioned glory of their two-story corporate gyms.
From local film screenings to board comps, we’ve set a standard. We’ve shown what it means to be a community-first climbing brand. Not to brag, but seriously, what other gear brands are doing this? Turning their headquarters into an actual community hub? I wish more did. Tell me if I’m wrong, because I’d love to be wrong. In an era where climbing shoes are coming close to the cost of a car payment and brands are chasing larger margins over accessibility, community is becoming much more than vital to climbing. It’s affinity group leaders opening the door for newcomers and the marginalized. Your local developer teaching the new gen how to bolt a route. The route setters, taking less-than-ideal pay and working long hours to make sure you can pull on quality plastic lines. It’s all so important.
Climbing is so much more than your daily workout. It’s a sport built on communal efforts to keep it alive. Now I'm almost 24. Weaning off the growing pains of being blissfully lost. Climbing has never meant more to me than it does now because of community. For you, that might look different. Maybe it doesn't. At the very least, I hope you feel something.
Luna De Aguayo
