the hike
I went hiking with some friends a few days after my birthday this week. I haven't been hiking in quite a while, and honestly it was hard. But so is life. And hiking was about to help me understand.
Climbing up a steep path with a few far more experienced hikers, I was trying not to let them see me falling behind. We'd only been hiking for ten or fifteen minutes, and I felt pathetic for how much pain I was in. I can't do this, I thought. I started thinking about how I could convince them to just finish without me and pick me up on their way back down. My ears and neck and throat hurt from the cold air, my legs hurt from the climb, and my mind hurt from the realization that if I couldn't even make it fifteen minutes up a mountain, I probably needed to give up on a number of other hiking-related dreams I've had. My mind couldn't think of anything other than, I can't do this, I'm not gonna make it, I'll never be able to do this kind of thing. It made every step even heavier and harder. We turned a corner, and just as I prayed we were almost there, I realized that the path became steeper and longer than any portion so far. I called for a rest, apologizing, embarrassed, feeling ridiculous.
So we stopped. A few seconds later, Sarrah said she was winded too, and I noticed sweat dripping down Whitney's face. It was surprisingly comforting, realizing that I wasn't as pathetic as I thought. I asked Whitney what she thinks about when her body is in so much pain; she said she thinks about how amazing it is that her body is capable of doing this, even when it's so hard.
We made it to the top of the trail, to a beautiful lake. We took pictures, rested, and headed back down. But I couldn't stop thinking about the trek up. Now that it was over, I felt like it hadn't actually been that bad, but I knew I'd been miserable on the way up. Why? Part of why the ascent had been so hard for me was because I had no idea how far I had to go. I had no control over the length of the trail or the elevation gain. I didn't know if I was capable or not. If I had to do it again, I'd feel much more peace because I knew I'd done it before. As I started voicing these thoughts, Whitney said hiking had taught her a lot about letting go of control or certainty. At those words, I knew God was out to teach me something.
She continued to say that the pain of hiking had taught her to let go of self-criticism and instead embrace her capabilities. While I had climbed the mountain being angry at myself for the pain I was feeling, she was congratulating herself with every painful step because she was proud of what her body was capable of doing.
I've been learning to climb the mountain of emotions. My tendency, even as I push and push and push myself up the mountain, has still been to condemn myself for the pain. When I have a sad or mad feeling I can't quite explain or reconcile, I tend to think those same thoughts I thought on the mountain - I can't do this. I can't. But our hike made me realize the tiny perspective-shift I needed to make; I needed to realize that even as I am frustrated with myself for feeling pain, it is that very pain that proves I am climbing the mountain. And when I feel like I can't take one more step, I need to realize that I've already taken a lot of steps, and that's worth being proud of.
And it's okay to ask for a break, to let the people around me know that I'm worn and hurting. In fact, it might be when I speak up about my weakness that other people speak out about theirs, like Sarrah did on the mountain. Best of all, I'll know that I'm not alone.
And so here I am, looking up a long, steep path that is my year of being twenty-four. I know I have a long way to go. It's scary to me that I don't know how long the trail is or how hard it will be. I don't know if there's another ascent around the bend, or if the lake is just a few raspy breaths away. But I know this: I want to start being my own encourager, to start congratulating myself on how far I've come and on the step I just took, and to speak up when I need a break.
This year, as I take more painful, tiring steps, I want to breathe deep enough to remember to look up and take in the beauty that is around me. Because even when it's hard and hurts and feels impossible, I am still on the trail, and it is a beautiful place to be.
pc - sarrah rempel
Climbing up a steep path with a few far more experienced hikers, I was trying not to let them see me falling behind. We'd only been hiking for ten or fifteen minutes, and I felt pathetic for how much pain I was in. I can't do this, I thought. I started thinking about how I could convince them to just finish without me and pick me up on their way back down. My ears and neck and throat hurt from the cold air, my legs hurt from the climb, and my mind hurt from the realization that if I couldn't even make it fifteen minutes up a mountain, I probably needed to give up on a number of other hiking-related dreams I've had. My mind couldn't think of anything other than, I can't do this, I'm not gonna make it, I'll never be able to do this kind of thing. It made every step even heavier and harder. We turned a corner, and just as I prayed we were almost there, I realized that the path became steeper and longer than any portion so far. I called for a rest, apologizing, embarrassed, feeling ridiculous.So we stopped. A few seconds later, Sarrah said she was winded too, and I noticed sweat dripping down Whitney's face. It was surprisingly comforting, realizing that I wasn't as pathetic as I thought. I asked Whitney what she thinks about when her body is in so much pain; she said she thinks about how amazing it is that her body is capable of doing this, even when it's so hard.
We made it to the top of the trail, to a beautiful lake. We took pictures, rested, and headed back down. But I couldn't stop thinking about the trek up. Now that it was over, I felt like it hadn't actually been that bad, but I knew I'd been miserable on the way up. Why? Part of why the ascent had been so hard for me was because I had no idea how far I had to go. I had no control over the length of the trail or the elevation gain. I didn't know if I was capable or not. If I had to do it again, I'd feel much more peace because I knew I'd done it before. As I started voicing these thoughts, Whitney said hiking had taught her a lot about letting go of control or certainty. At those words, I knew God was out to teach me something.
She continued to say that the pain of hiking had taught her to let go of self-criticism and instead embrace her capabilities. While I had climbed the mountain being angry at myself for the pain I was feeling, she was congratulating herself with every painful step because she was proud of what her body was capable of doing.
I've been learning to climb the mountain of emotions. My tendency, even as I push and push and push myself up the mountain, has still been to condemn myself for the pain. When I have a sad or mad feeling I can't quite explain or reconcile, I tend to think those same thoughts I thought on the mountain - I can't do this. I can't. But our hike made me realize the tiny perspective-shift I needed to make; I needed to realize that even as I am frustrated with myself for feeling pain, it is that very pain that proves I am climbing the mountain. And when I feel like I can't take one more step, I need to realize that I've already taken a lot of steps, and that's worth being proud of.
And it's okay to ask for a break, to let the people around me know that I'm worn and hurting. In fact, it might be when I speak up about my weakness that other people speak out about theirs, like Sarrah did on the mountain. Best of all, I'll know that I'm not alone.And so here I am, looking up a long, steep path that is my year of being twenty-four. I know I have a long way to go. It's scary to me that I don't know how long the trail is or how hard it will be. I don't know if there's another ascent around the bend, or if the lake is just a few raspy breaths away. But I know this: I want to start being my own encourager, to start congratulating myself on how far I've come and on the step I just took, and to speak up when I need a break.
This year, as I take more painful, tiring steps, I want to breathe deep enough to remember to look up and take in the beauty that is around me. Because even when it's hard and hurts and feels impossible, I am still on the trail, and it is a beautiful place to be.
pc - sarrah rempel
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