Some people collect souvenirs from their travels. I collect gut punches from hard things.
Trekking. Running. Healing.
All of them sound nobler on paper than they feel at hour twenty-two when I’ve run out of snacks, patience, and reasons. And yet, I keep coming back. Not because I enjoy suffering—I’m not that evolved—but because these moments, the really punishing ones, are the only time I feel honest.
The rest of life, no matter how full it looks, has room for bluffing. But there’s no bluffing at 3AM when you’re bloated, sleep-deprived, and halfway up a mountain with cramps, wondering who signed you up for this.
I did. I always do.
Every time I put myself into something I’m not sure I can finish, it becomes a test. Not of endurance. Not even of discipline. But of identity.
Am I still the woman who left home at 18 with no map but a refusal to settle?
Am I still the one who chose to summit her own life instead of following the script?
There’s no medal for doing this work.
There’s no Instagrammable closure.
Just a quiet, gnawing question I return to: am I still her?
Hard things are where that answer lives. They’re where I catch myself mid-spiral, midway through a trail, or mid-conversation with a version of myself I thought I’d buried. There’s a very specific kind of honesty that arrives when your emotional bandwidth has been chewed to bits and your ego is clinging to its last protein bar.
I’ve learned to respect that honesty. It shows me what no spreadsheet, no affirmation, no “You got this, girl!” can.
Because when the pain shows up early—not at mile X or on day three, but ten minutes in—when the familiar confidence doesn’t kick in, when everything feels heavier than last time, that’s when the real test begins.
And sometimes I fail.
Sometimes I cry. Sometimes I stall.
Sometimes I perform Olympic-level bargaining with the universe just to get through the next five minutes.
And during those moments, the loudest voice isn’t the one cheering me on.
It’s the one whispering, “You’re slipping. You’re soft now. Maybe you were just faking it before.”
That voice has been with me longer than I’d like to admit.
It showed up the day I turned down a summit because I had my period and couldn’t tell if I was tired or ashamed.
It showed up when I couldn’t finish a 5K after trekking through the Himalayas.
It shows up when I open Instagram and shrink into silence because someone else looks fitter, faster, more feral.
And that’s why I seek out the hard again.
Not to prove anything to the world.
But to check if I can look that voice in the eye and stay.
If I can keep going, even when it’s not sexy or inspiring or linear.
If I can reclaim a bit more of myself from the places I once abandoned her.
The hard doesn’t just demand effort. It demands clarity.
You don’t get to pretend out there.
Not when your body’s falling apart and your brain is taking attendance on every reason you ever quit.
The only question that matters is: Will I keep showing up anyway?
And I do.
Not because I know I’ll succeed.
But because there’s something sacred about trying with nothing but your ragged breath, busted knee, and that flicker of belief that maybe—just maybe—you’re still built for it.
So no, I don’t look at maps. I don’t plan the terrain.
I prefer the surprise. The ambush of difficulty keeps me honest.
I want to meet the challenge as I meet myself—mid-stride, unsure, and wildly, stubbornly alive.
And if I feel like a fraud halfway in? Good. That means I’ve arrived exactly where I need to be.
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