No One Prepares You for the Comedown

2 hours ago
4 min read

Every hike seems to be a metaphor for life.

Last month I went out on a trail that was well shaded and still covered in snow. It forced me to take much smaller steps and walk at a much slower pace up to avoid slipping and falling. Somewhere along the climb it hit me how unnatural that pace felt for me.

I'm always moving fast, talking fast, rushing toward something. Often before I’m even sure where it is I’m going.

There's just an ever present sense of urgency.

A sense that there's never enough time.

A sense of needing to push myself and persevere.

Because right there on that trail, I felt it: my body in fight-or-flight. My chest tight. My breath shallow. My shoulders near my ears. Even on this peaceful trail, my body was bracing for something.

This thing is, I'm getting to the top of the mountain either way, whether I let myself take a break and catch my breath or just push straight through.

So I sat on a stump and wondered: Is my hike somehow less valuable if it takes me five or ten extra minutes? Or is it actually more valuable if I allow myself to breathe deeply, look around, and fully take in my surroundings?

Sometimes the challenges that force us to slow down are what teach us a gentler way forward. What if I could move through life with self-compassion, the way snow on a trail demanded I tread more carefully?

A woman alone, in the woods.

At one point I crossed paths with another solo woman seizing a beautiful day.

We exchanged smiles and a quiet hello. A small moment of camaraderie. Two people simply enjoying a beautiful day.

But a little while later I passed a man on the trail.

And my body did something different.

I saw him before he saw me. He was bent down to tie his shoe.

My hand slipped into my pocket and wrapped around the pepper spray I carry. My mind started running through fictional scenarios about what I might need to do to defend myself.

He was startled to see me when I looked up and bumbled some awkward but cheerful explanation about his shoe being untied. He seemed like a nice, older man, mid 60’s, British accent. Someone’s dad maybe.

We carried on in opposite direction and I looked back several times to be sure.

I couldn’t help but think about how this feeling of not being safe has been increasing lately.

I can only attribute it to the cultural conversations happening right now. The uprising in awareness of the imbalance of power and mistreatment of women. The way women have had to move through the world like prey being hunted, since almost the beginning of time.

One more reminder of how often our bodies live somewhere between grounded presence and survival.

The Downhill trajectory

How many times in in life, have I focused so hard on just getting to the “top” of whatever mountain I’m climbing. We convince ourselves that once we reach that summit, everything will feel clear. That’s when I’ll be happy. That’s when I’ll know what to do next.

When I finish school.

When I get married.

When I have kids.

When I go to yoga teacher training.

When I leave my toxic job.

When I launch my business.

When I take that next vacation.

You don't know what lies ahead after that but you convince yourself it will all be smooth sailing then. But then you get there. And after a brief moment of elation, you realize another kind of climb waits for you on the other side.

The come down.

It's like the day after Christmas. The advent countdown is over. Nothing but a cold stretch of barren winter ahead. Read about my 2019 post YTT menty-b in this post.

Hiking downhill can be harder than the climb. It’s tough on your knees. You’re bracing your weight and stepping in strange ways so you don’t slip or slide. Gravity seems eager to pull you downward faster than you want to go.

You trip over sticks. Your heels slide out from under you. Pebbles get stuck in your shoes. You pause to look around for something sturdy to hold onto. Anything that will help you find your footing again.

The view on this side of the mountain looks different.