A Case of the What Ifs You Can’t Shake

This is the companion post to Episode 2 of the podcast. If you haven't listened yet, head there first

Remembering the year leading into this hike I remember feeling chronically underprepared or ill-equipped to accomplish such a feat. I remember anxiety spiralling trying to convince myself it wasn’t the scariest thing I had ever decided to do, that I wasn’t over committing myself, that I hadn’t puffed my chest to full of hot air, bravado, and very little knowledge or capability. But isn’t that so like what women are taught? Reflecting now, I did all the right things. I did countless hours of research. I asked all the right questions of all the people I knew had done these things, that I trusted to teach me. I had taken the WIlderness survival course. I had logged thousands of hours outdoors and not yet died. I was capable. I had educated myself. I knew what would likely happen, what could happen, and what I would do in most situations, the ones I could imagine at least; and, for anyone with anxiety and a touch of obsessive compulsion, you know that those thoughts are far more creative than most real life scenarios ever grow up to be. I had done the work.

I think a lot of what had motivated me to do this was the fact that I had just gotten into grad school, a dream that I had spoken into existence, and then busted my ass to make it real. I had decided it was going to happen, and as the ink in the flesh of my ribs reads, the universe conspired to make it happen, but despite my naiveté of a youthful Thoreau tattoo, I had worked fucking hard to make that happen. Do I believe in the magic of the world, the whimsy of a little witchcraft, the calling in of a desire, and the alignment to make it happen? Fuck yeah. But I am also a realist that recognized that intentionality brings forth manifestation. If I want something I have to work for it. If I want to be someone, I have to act like that person. If I want to experience things in life, I have to do the work to make it happen and show up to soak it in. 

I had just begged the universe for the biggest dream, to continue to learn and explore the world through an academic lens, in a place that upon first glance, for me, was mystical. I had moved my entire life, picked up, packed up, and drove off, to start fresh in a new place, in a time I so desperately needed to escape some big, malicious, and cyclical trauma that had been weighing on my shoulders and deeper in my soul. And here I was, going to school to get a doctoral degree, on a full ride, with extra funding for being a promising scholar. Here I was, being a big girl (TM) and having my own tiny house in the densely packed woods of the South Hills of Eugene, in a little hippy artsy town filled with wonder and green. 

I watched Mile, Mile and a Half and suddenly felt it so deep in my bones that this hike was something not just that I wanted to do, but that I needed to do. I made a commitment then and there to myself to do everything in my power to make it happen. And, stupidly, I dragged my friend into it too.

Not stupidly, because the beginnings of this dream were alone, and when I shared this dream, this deep and unrelenting desire to be in this place, to walk endlessly among those mountains, I was reaching out a hand, and truly, a part of my heart to this new friend. I was whispering, this is who I really am, is that okay? Will you still like me? And her immediate answer was, yes. 

So when I think back on this period of my life, so filled with questions and doubt, and a heaviness of looming pressure to do the thing that scared me so much, but that I also knew I wanted so deeply; I remember the bad stuff. I remember crying for hours on the dark hardwood floor of my shitty apartment, begging Chase to reassure me that I had done all the things, and that I was in fact, capable. I remember the nightmares of being lost and without resources, I remember the big case of what ifs that I could not shake from adhering to my bones. 

And when I listen to us tell this part, the exciting planning, prepping, permit part, I hear such joy. I hear the beginnings of something that turned into the magical journey of so many collective experiences, personal triumphs, and painful lessons. I reflect now considering the parts of me that were polished to shine in the grit of this great walk, and the pieces that I shed and left behind, like an old skin while a tougher and stronger one took it’s place.