The peanut butter sandwich that changed everything was objectively terrible—stale bread, cement-thick filling—but I was sitting at 4,247 feet with steam rising from my socks when the math finally added up: thirty-eight years of carrying weight that was never mine to begin with. The sandwich was terrible—stale bread, cement-like peanut butter—but I was sitting on this waterlogged piece of wood with steam rising off my socks, and I felt lighter than I had in years. My feet were destroyed, my shoulders ached from carrying twelve pounds that …