Return to the Trail

October 14, 2025

Last year, I hiked 107 miles through the northern Washington Cascades on the Pacific Crest Trail.

It was the most physically demanding ten days of my life—up and down endless mountains, across snowfields and water crossings, through heat, bugs, and exhaustion.

And I loved it.

This year has been different.

With everything that has happened,

my body and nervous system have been in conservation mode, saving energy for simple survival, with little left for movement, adventure, or, honestly, any kind of physical effort at all.

Until recently.

I didn’t go on my first real hike until the end of September.

I thought I was just returning to the trail—

but the trail had plans of its own.

For my return to the trail, I chose one of my favorites—beautiful, familiar, but not overused. It had just enough incline to remind my underutilized muscles what they were made for, stretches of flat ground for rest, and no mud to battle.

I promised myself I wouldn’t go too far back. I needed a limit.

It was a beautiful afternoon—the sun streaming through the trees, red huckleberries glowing like tiny lanterns, the air thick with the scent of moss and earth. The forest felt like freedom and home.

At first, my body resisted, stiff and uncertain after months of stillness. But as I moved, something shifted. My muscles sighed in relief at being used again. My lungs expanded with gratitude. My heart beat like a drum of life returning. I might have even broken a sweat.

As I walked, I spoke to God—thanking Him for my strong body, my resilient spirit, and the goodness that’s still to come.

“I am safe. I am strong. I am home,” I repeated, matching my breath to the rhythm of my steps, smiling at fellow hikers and their dogs along the way.

I went about a mile and a half before turning back—far enough to remember what it feels like to move, but not so far that I’d regret it tomorrow.

On my way back, I ran into people I hadn’t seen in months. Their faces, their warmth, their simple greetings filled me up in ways I hadn’t realized I needed.

And then—near the trailhead—I saw three more hikers: one a familiar friend and her child, and beside her, someone I shared a complicated and painful history with.

She was part of the story I’ve been unwinding all year—the tangled web of deception and heartbreak mind-fuck I’ve been healing from. One of the women who carried her own wounds from the same man.

One of the women who helped me know the truth and finally break free.

Seeing her there stopped time for a moment.

Her smile was soft, kind, and full of knowing—

and for a split second, I didn’t know what to do.

My body froze somewhere between fight and flight.

Every instinct remembered the pain, the confusion,

the way her name had once lived in the shadow of our relationship.

I never imagined what it would feel like to see her in person—

now, after everything.

This woman had walked through the same fire,

whose story had collided with mine in the most painful, grotesque way.

And yet, when our eyes met, all that armor fell away.

There was no blame, no resentment, no comparison left to cling to.

Only recognition.

Recognition that required connection.

And the only natural thing to do was to hug.

When we did, it wasn’t casual—it was real.

A true embrace that lingered, saying

I see you. I know your scars. I carry the same ones.

We survived. We are free.

When we finally pulled apart, I exhaled something I didn’t know I was still holding.

We chatted for a while after. I had to keep from staring at her—this woman who, for so long, I had compared myself to.

The one I once searched for clues about, trying to reconcile the story he told me with the truth my soul already knew.

She was beautiful. Sweet. Kind.

And standing there in front of her, I didn’t feel jealousy or threat. I felt peace.

I wanted to be her friend.

As I walked the final stretch back to my car, I felt tears and gratitude mix in my chest.

For the body that brought me here again.

For the forest that has always held me.

For the divine choreography that placed her at the end of my first trail back.

It felt like a homecoming—

a reminder that healing doesn’t just happen in stillness.

Sometimes, it happens one step at a time,

on a familiar path,

beneath a canopy of light,

when the trail—and life—welcome you back.

And with that embrace, that meeting, that grace,

came the quiet confirmation—

it was never just me.

No matter what he wants to say.