Some mornings, I’d wake up and sit on the edge of the bed, toothbrush in hand, wondering if I had it in me to pretend I was fine again. The pretending was heavier than the silence.
It didn’t look like a breakdown.
I still showed up. Smiled when expected. Hit deadlines.
But under the surface, it felt like something essential had slipped through a crack and I didn’t know how to ask for it back.
So I started walking. First out of habit. Then out of restlessness. And then—without knowing why—I signed up for a trek that scared me.
Not because I wanted transformation.
I didn’t have that kind of optimism. I just wanted to go somewhere no one expected me to be okay.
The trail offered that. It met me with fog, uneven ground, burning legs, and a strange kind of silence I couldn’t hide from. It asked nothing except that I keep moving.
The first few climbs nearly broke me.
My body resisted everything. Breath ragged. Knees tight. Every part of me kept insisting I didn’t belong there.
Still, I walked.
It wasn’t discipline.
It wasn’t strength.
It was something simpler—a refusal to quit before giving it a fair shot.
In those early hours, I noticed something I hadn’t felt in years. My body—this thing I had fought, criticized, starved, hidden—was still showing up for me.
Not beautifully. Not efficiently. But honestly. There was no performance. No edits. Just me, inching forward.
That felt unfamiliar. Uncomfortable. And strangely comforting.
Movement had always come with conditions.
Burn this. Earn that. Control everything. Rest only when exhausted.
Trekking shattered those rules.
I had to eat well, or I’d collapse.
I had to rest, or I’d slow everyone down.
I had to listen—not to punish—but to survive.
There was no scoreboard. No calorie counter. No mirror.
Just sore legs, wind-chapped cheeks, and an aching back that demanded care, not critique.
The shift wasn’t loud or poetic. It happened somewhere between tea breaks and blisters. My body stopped being a project. It started becoming a partner.
Trekking wasn’t romantic. It was frustrating, exhausting, and inconvenient.
I’ve slipped in wet grass. Cried quietly inside tents. Packed and unpacked the same gear with numb fingers.
But buried inside the discomfort was something I hadn’t expected: a sense of okay-ness.
Not happiness. Not pride. Just a subtle acknowledgment that I was still here. Still trying.
The trail didn’t heal anything. It just stopped letting me lie to myself.
It removed all the ways I distracted and deflected.
It narrowed my world to just breath, feet, and the next step.
And somewhere in that repetition, I stopped disappearing from my own life.
I came back stronger, but not in the way people think. My legs carried more weight. Sure. But more than that, I stopped trying to escape myself every time things got uncomfortable.
I ate with more kindness.
I rested without guilt.
I moved not to shrink but to feel.
There was no “before” and “after.” Just a slow shift from disconnection to something like self-respect.
That was enough.
Actually, that changed everything.
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