I didn’t expect a winter trek to become a mirror. But it did. Somewhere between the wind slicing through my gloves and the nights where sleep simply refused to show up, something quietly shifted. It wasn’t an epiphany. It was the slow-burning kind of knowing that creeps in when your distractions freeze along with your toes. On the first night, while everyone else tucked themselves into borrowed warmth, I stared at the tent ceiling wondering what kind of fool signs up for this kind of discomfort. But there was no running. Just the scratch of …
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