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1. Go Outside
I could feel the weight of my pack pulling me backwards. The trail was nearly vertical, so standing up straight was not an option — I would have tumbled all the way back down the hill that I had been trying to hike up. So I hunched forward, practically hugging the steep trail in front of me.
The smell of cool earth filled my nostrils. One hand would reach for a promising root or rock to grab before letting go of the last. Clutching the newest untested tree branch, I thought to myself, “This is a far cry from strolling down a pine needle pathway, whistling with a walking stick.”
I didn’t really think through what hiking the Appalachian Trail would be like, but I definitely had never imagined this. Clinging to any available landscaping so as not to topple off the mountain, with the small hope that I could summit before hunger took over, and sit to enjoy the view for lunchtime.
Back in the summer of 2018, I had reached a level of serious burnout, and left my job. I moved out of my house, put my things in storage, and started a journey of becoming unencumbered, to work out the angst that showed up inside me. (That same fall was also when Cohort 26 started.)
I stayed with family throughout autumn, helping with projects. In the spring, I started traveling in between our cohort sessions to just write and be immersed in nature. I wanted to go to as many diverse ecosystems as my budget would allow.
My first stop in February of 2019 was El Yunque National Forest in Puerto Rico, our closest tropical rainforest. Then came Iceland in March, with its extreme landscape of volcanic fire and ancient ice. I couldn’t get enough of the changing terrains and all the mystery and camaraderie they held — pieces of these places seemed to echo and murmur a resonance with the unlabeled emotions I was trying to put words to.
After our cohort wrapped in May, I still felt so unsettled on the inside. A lot of thoughts and feelings continued to need big open space to come out and be felt, so I decided I just needed to be outside and keep moving forward. Literally. I didn’t even want to walk a trail that was a loop. So, I picked the longest trail in my vicinity that I could keep walking in one direction: the Appalachian Trail. Whatever belongings didn’t make the cut to join me on the trail went into storage, and off I went to hike the AT in mid-May.
I had a deep intuitive need to be in the forest. I have no other way to explain it — it was an immovable knowing, “I am going to do this thing.” Mind you, I had never even spent a night alone in a forest before. I have never been less prepared for anything than I was then, and I’ve also never been more sure of anything. It felt like I was trying to come home to myself, and the only thing I knew was the forest was my starting place.
2. Give Something Away
My first day began in Harpers Ferry, West Virginia — at the halfway point of the trail, which runs from Georgia to Maine, and around 2,200 miles. In 72 days, I walked a little over 400 painstaking, tedious miles from West Virginia to the border of New York.
Carrying everything you need is one thing; packing your fears is another. Faced with the uncertainty of the journey at the start of my trip, I had packed 10 days worth of food, which amounted to 20 pounds. My first day on the trail, I started off carrying 60 pounds of gear, food and water.
Each hiker has their own story of overpacking and then “shedding” the non-essentials. By day two I could feel my heart pulsing in the bruised soles of my feet. Every step a searing ache that made standing still too much to bear. “Keep going!” my thoughts shouted back down to my feet with every painful protest. Needless to say, it quickly dawned on me, I had more than I could carry.
But even as I realized it was too much for me, I had to find a way to get rid of it. Surrounded by the culture and habit of “leave no trace,” there wasn’t exactly a Goodwill or food pantry accepting donations nearby for me to find immediate relief of the extra weight. So my second new habit was born — find meaningful ways to give something away.
Crossing through a state park became a new joy — a mecca for unprepared day hikers forever grateful for my variety of tuna packets and granola bars. Finding a fellow “AT Thru Hiker” that needed something I had in tow was a special delight.
Before I knew it, I was lighter. I narrowed all I was carrying to exactly what I wanted and actually needed, to still find that I could not outgive the forest. The trail community has a beautiful camaraderie with veteran hikers and the towns it weaves through, creating organic moments of delight called trail magic. Caches of fresh fruit stowed in coolers, jugs of water tied to a tree when a creek bed dried up, or “barbecue ‘n beers” brought to a particularly beautiful summit.
I had more than I could have ever planned for, imagined or carried. I realized, this is a freedom — I have everything I need. I can go anywhere, I can do anything, and I am okay. Choosing what I carried without fear’s reasoning and joining an ecosystem of generosity, left me feeling unburdened and I started to LOVE being in the woods.
3. Talk with someone who loves me.
One day, I found myself hugging a hill, wondering if I could make it. My legs were burning, my arms were quivering, my whole body hurt and it was so hot. It wasn’t even midday yet, and the thick humid heat of June hung in the air. Standing still, sweat poured from every pore, cascading down my face, and collected at the ends of my eyelashes every time I looked down.
I looked up through a chandelier of salty droplets, each blink sending rivers of sweaty tears streaming down my cheeks. It felt like my whole body was crying. I was soaked. And I thought, “I don’t think I can do this.”
This is the moment I decided to call my mom. “Mom,” I said, “I need you to talk me up the hill. It’s really hard today.” Without skipping a beat, she launched into a story I can’t remember to this day, but it worked — I got to the top. I looked back and the muddy cliff I had just ascended and blearily said, “Mom, thank you. I wouldn’t have made it to the top of the hill without you.”
There was something really powerful in that call — we didn’t talk about anything profound, it was just the connection that carried me through. She knew me, and she was just herself.
As more hard days ensued, I made calls more regularly. “It’s been raining for days!” I moaned to my sister. “My gear is wet, I just don’t think I can carry around all this extra water-soaked gear anymore.” And in her knowing, older-sister wise way said, “Well, you can’t quit on your worst day; I feel like you’ll regret that. Wait for your best day. So if it’s really hard, today’s not the day you’re gonna quit.”
Each time I reached a new hard point, this new habit kicked in. “I think I need help. I don’t think I can do this. Who can I talk to that loves me?” They had words and stories to carry me to the next place and remind me of who I am. So I worried a little bit less about my battery charge, and started using my phone a little bit more.
From time to time, I would remember that I have the least amount of things I’ve ever had in my entire life, and I also felt the most taken care of that I have ever felt in my entire life. Going in, I feared the forest, not knowing what was going to happen. But it changed; I realized I am — we are — a part of the whole forest ecosystem.
Finding Home
Back in New Haven, I allowed different, new routines to settle in over time. I moved away from the freedom of being able to roam freely everyday. I let older habits find their place back in a life of convenience and relative comfort.
And while I did that, I also remembered the practices that became habits during those 72 days in the woods. Be outside. Give something away. Speak with someone who loves me.
Seems straightforward now, but it took 72 days and just over 400 miles to clarify it. Today, these three grounding practices seem absolutely necessary and at the very center of me being able to create anything:
- Be outside. Sit under a tree. Be in the breeze, sunlight or rain, whatever the weather, step outside.
- Give something. Everyday I have something of myself to give. Whether it’s time, an actual item or assistance — find a way to give.
- Speak with someone who loves me. Be around others.
There’s a habit now, of going out my front door and taking all the big feelings and thoughts from the day to walk among the trees. Whether it’s the echoes of a hard conversation or a news update that just feels too heavy to put words to yet — I bring it to the nearest cluster of trees.
And the beauty of this routine continues to put me in the way of moments and people that I can give to.
So when I get overwhelmed by all that is out of my control — and it’s easy to freeze and hide away — I ask. Where am I showing up? Who is around me? What are the invitations and the people that I want to spend time with? Sometimes it’s simply calling my mom and listening to an endless story (my mother could talk a stone to death). Sometimes it’s sharing how much I love a poem that you shared.
It seems to me, the grace of these times is the increasing call for beauty. Big, beautiful stories, songs, art and experiences. The kind of beauty that helps me to remember to un-freeze, and take a step outside to experience the people that I love as I realize alI the things I have to give.
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