Heartbreak has me clutching at a void. Where there was once love and curiosity, there is now pain. It’s an ageless tale. We love with our entire selves, only to find that it cannot continue. Writing about it just seems like a reminder of my failures — a collection of conversations gone wrong.
I’ve delayed pouring my emotions onto a piece of paper because they’re still really fierce. It’s easier to ignore them than to face them head on. Denial echoes in my mind, allowing me to believe that the destruction wasn’t entirely my fault.
But when we’re given the chance to sink or swim, what do we do?
How did I handle heartbreak before?
A few days ago, I remembered that the mountains saved me from myself during a different chapter of my life. When faced with thoughts of suicide, I knew I was left with two options: Sink or swim. So, I threw myself at the Appalachian Trail with enough desperation to actually complete the thing.
It wasn’t the journey that most people imagine. I fell every day for at least two months, opening scabs on my knees over and over. I cried a lot. I was terrified, knowing that I was in above my head. There was a lot of hunger, uncomfortable hitches, and tons of doubt. I hadn’t ever been on an overnight backpacking trip before, let alone attempted to hike through 14 states.
But something changed for me on the Appalachian Trail. Instead of defining myself by my own doubts, I started to think about the possibilities. The seemingly pointless ups and downs gave me a direction – even if it was only metaphorical.
And the reality is that growth is painful. It’s not like little worms wake up one day to find that they’re beautiful butterflies. Their skin rips. Their bodies shift. And they have to create space for the future.
So, what should I do next?
Today, I’m thinking about all the pain that spilled out of me over the course of those 2200 miles. The Appalachian Trail was a reset, a growth opportunity and a necessity.
With a Pacific Crest Trail permit in hand, I think it might be time to drain myself of my burdens once again. It’s scary to say the words out loud, because decisions limit you. But my heart keeps tugging at my ribs, whispering that it’s time.
