There’s something about walking into the woods with no clear goal except forward. No Wi-Fi, no loud apps fighting for your attention—just the crunch of your own footsteps and the ongoing question of, “Wait… was that the right turn?”
I didn’t set out today expecting much. No expectations, no itinerary. Just a trail I heard about from someone who said it was “easy.”
(Note to self: anyone who says a hike is “easy” while smiling is hiding something.)
Act I: False Confidence and Questionable Life Choices
It started off great. The sky was moody in a cinematic kind of way. Birds were chirping like unpaid background actors. I had snacks. I had shoes that almost matched. I was mentally prepared for a light walk and some thinking.
Then the path tilted.
And kept tilting.
You know that feeling when you walk uphill so long that you start questioning whether gravity is actually angry at you? That was me. Fifteen minutes in and I was negotiating with my calves.
“Just get me to the top and I swear I’ll stretch next time.”
(Reader: I won’t.)
Act II: Internal Dialogue Meets Altitude
Somewhere along the trail, I started talking to myself. Not out loud (yet), but internally.
- “This is fine.”
- “You’re fine.”
- “Everyone wheezes this much, right?”
- “This is the kind of suffering that builds character.”
It’s funny how hiking brings out the full range of emotions—confidence, regret, wonder, panic. Sometimes all within 12 steps. At one point, I told myself I was definitely not lost, just taking an unfamiliar but scenic route. Did I believe that? Not really. But I said it with enough energy that it felt true.
Act III: The View, the Silence, the Shift
And then it happened.
That moment you didn’t expect. The pause.
Not a finish line. Not a reward. Just a patch of ground where everything softened. The trees parted just enough to give me a glimpse of something wider—mountains stretched far away, sunlight tangled in the leaves, a quiet so thick it made your chest ache a little.
You can’t plan these moments. They just happen. And when they do, the racing thoughts calm down, your breath slows, and you remember: this is why you came.
Not for cardio. Not for steps on an app. But to stand still and feel something shift, even slightly.
Act IV: Realizations and Dirt
You realize, out here, that being “lost” isn’t always about location.
Sometimes it’s just about feeling disconnected—from people, from yourself, from whatever version of you used to feel more grounded.
But the wild thing is, you walk long enough and something inside you catches up. Not because you’re trying. Just because space was finally made for it to show up.
And sometimes that’s enough.
Also, I tripped over a root 30 seconds later. So if you’re expecting a fairytale ending, sorry. This is more of a muddy boots, snack crumbs in your pocket, mild dehydration but emotionally stable-ish kind of story.
The Walk Back: Tired But Lighter
The return trip was quieter. Not because I was physically done talking (I wasn’t), but because my mind had gone from spiraling to softly humming. You know that state when you’re still tired, still unsure, but somehow… okay?
That’s what the trail gave me.
And for the first time in a long while, I didn’t feel like I had to fix anything. I just had to be.
So if you’re feeling a little off, a little scattered, maybe even a little dramatic—come hike with me.
We might get turned around.
We’ll definitely snack too early.
We might laugh at dumb trees or name rocks we step over.
But in between all that, we might just remember what it feels like to come back to ourselves—step by messy step.
Until then,
Pack your shoes. Don’t trust the trail signs too much. And if you see someone on a hill mumbling encouragement to themselves, that’s probably me.