About Me
Shortly after my mom died tragically, my husband and I attempted to climb a mountain with our toddler and infant strapped to our backs. After hours of hiking, we were 85% of the way to the summit when the weather forced us to turn around. I remember the ache of it so clearly. My soul desperately needed the summit, but my children needed us to go back down.
A year later, on the anniversary of my mom’s death, I returned to that same mountain alone.
I was an experienced hiker, but I had never really hiked or camped solo before. That morning, I arrived to the news of a forest fire burning on a neighboring mountain. At the lodge, I asked the teenager working the desk if it was still safe to hike. He said it was probably okay. I trusted the guidance of someone who could barely grow a mustache and headed for the trailhead anyway.
As I packed my gear, I immediately felt how different it was to do it alone. The insecurity rushed in fast. Did I pack enough food? Enough water? What if I got lost? What if I got hurt? My nerves were so big I could barely eat breakfast before starting the climb.
The trail wound upward through smoke from the wildfire, and before long I couldn’t tell if I was breathless from the incline or the air quality. My thoughts spiraled. I briefly imagined ending up on the evening news: “Woman lost near spreading wildfire.” Above the smoke layer, where the trees began to thin, I started to feel dizzy. I knew I was hiking too fast, pushing too hard.
Eventually I sat down on a rock and cried.
I cried for my mom. For the brutal year behind me. For how hard it felt to simply keep going.
As I sat there debating whether to turn back, a bird flew through the trees and landed directly in front of me. It stayed for a few quiet moments before flying away again. Somehow, that tiny encounter was enough. It reminded me that I still had a choice in how I moved forward.
So I let myself slow down.
I ate. I drank water. I promised myself I would simply take the next few steps slowly and steadily, trusting that turning back was still available if I truly needed it. As I continued, something shifted. My breathing settled. My mind quieted. Eventually, instead of listening to fear, I started noticing the forest around me.
And when fear returned on the harder parts of the trail, I sang out loud and kept walking.
Step by step, I climbed higher until I finally passed the place where I had turned around the year before.
And when I reached the summit, I cried again — not from grief this time, but because I felt profoundly alive.
Later, I found an alpine lake tucked into the mountain. Clear water. No people. Pure freedom. So I did the only thing that made sense in that moment: I jumped in naked, laughing at the absurd beauty of being fully alive in the middle of grief. Afterward, I sat on a rock in the sun, drinking the beer I had carried to the top, overwhelmed with gratitude for my life and for myself.
Life is not linear. Healing is not linear either.
You can be carrying immense grief, trauma, uncertainty, or burnout — and still experience moments of deep joy, clarity, freedom, and aliveness. The hard parts of life do not disqualify you from feeling fully alive. Sometimes the way we move through those moments changes everything.