“It is not the mountain we conquer, but ourselves.” — Sir Edmund Hillary
Somewhere above the tree line, where the air thins and the weather turns with little warning, I learned that the most important gear you carry isn’t on your back, it’s within you. Resilience isn’t a trait you’re born with. It’s something that gets forged under pressure, refined by exposure, and strengthened with each stumble, misstep, and summit attempt.
I’ve taken falls, literal and emotional. I’ve had plans rerouted by rockfall, weather, and grief. And each time, I return to the trail a little wiser. Not harder, but softer in the way that old leather molds to your shape. That’s the kind of resilience I want to pass on to my children. Not the brittle kind that shatters under pressure, but the flexible kind that bends and absorbs the impact.
Reactivity Blocks the Trail
Reactivity is like hiking without adjusting to the altitude. You’re short of breath, quick to fatigue, and every small obstacle feels like a summit. It narrows our window of tolerance, making us less available to ourselves and those around us. When our kids are in meltdown mode, it’s often because we’re living at the edge of our emotional capacity. There’s no margin, no buffer zone. We’re reacting, not responding.
Dr. Dan Siegel, a clinical professor of psychiatry at UCLA, coined the term “window of tolerance.” This term describes the optimal zone of arousal. Within this zone, we can function and cope effectively. Outside that window, we’re either in fight-flight-freeze or collapse. Reactivity (snapping, shutting down, over-correcting) pushes us further from that zone.
And when we parent from that reactive space we don’t build resilience, we reinforce survival mode.
Receptivity Opens the Path
Receptivity, on the other hand, is what widens that window. It’s like learning to pace yourself at high altitude: breathing more slowly, adjusting your rhythm, attuning to the environment. It’s about noticing, noticing again, and then responding with curiosity instead of control.
Dr. Lisa Feldman Barrett, a neuroscientist and psychologist, reminds us of how emotions work. They aren’t hardwired reflexes. Emotions are constructed experiences, shaped by context, memory, and meaning. This means that when we model curiosity and emotional granularity for our kids, we’re doing something important. By naming feelings with nuance, we teach children to recognize and understand their emotions. Allowing space for their experience helps their brains learn to handle stress better next time.
Receptivity is the trail head of resilience.
The Last 100 Yards
Receptivity, as it turns out, isn’t just a mindset, it’s a practice. One that gets tested in the moments that stretch us past what we thought we could handle.
In 2023, my daughter and I summited Mt. Elbert , the tallest peak in the Rocky Mountains and the second-highest in the lower 48. She was 13 at the time, and we had studied the trail, and mentally prepared ourselves. But nothing prepares you for the experience of false summits; and we encountered three of them.
Each time we crested a ridge, our hearts lifted: “This must be it.” And each time, we were wrong. Another slope. Another push. Another letdown.
There’s something quietly brutal about false hope. It can feel more crushing than the climb itself. False summits reveal our expectations, our assumptions, and our limits. They mess with your head and hollow your motivation. But they also do something else: they offer the invitation to recommit; not to the destination, but to the process.
Resilience is forged in those moments. Not when things are going as expected, but when we realize they aren’t, and keep going anyway.
Eventually, we found ourselves just 100 yards from the true summit. But by then, we were toast. The altitude was brutal. Our legs were jelly. The wind was biting. She looked at me, eyes tired and full of doubt, and I knew exactly how she felt, because I felt it too.
We paused. We breathed. We didn’t push. We received what the mountain was asking of us: presence, patience, belief.
And we kept going. Step by step, breath by breath. We made it.
Those last 100 yards didn’t just take us to the top. They built something in both of us that no shortcut ever could. Because what carried us wasn’t motivation, it was resilience.
Resilience Is Not the Absence of Struggle
Here’s the thing: resilience isn’t built in the absence of difficulty; it’s built through it. But not just any adversity will do; it’s the combination of challenge and support that forms the foundation. Like belaying a young climber from below; we don’t remove the climb, we just make sure they’re not alone in it.
Brené Brown, a research professor and storyteller, says it plainly: “Connection is why we’re here.” And it’s the connection that builds the scaffolding for resilience. When kids are overwhelmed, our calm presence tells their nervous system, “You’re safe.” It’s co-regulation before self-regulation. We widen their window by staying close when things fall apart.
We don’t have to fix the problem. We just have to stay.
The Long View: Raising Mountain-Ready Kids
The short-term goal is balance. We want kids who can regulate, who can pause before reacting, who can name what they feel. But the long game? That’s resilience. We’re raising kids who can handle no’s, losses, failures, and friendships that don’t last. Kids who know how to keep climbing when the clouds roll in.
It’s not about avoiding the storm; it’s about becoming the kind of people who know how to anchor themselves when it hits.
So next time you or your child finds yourself overwhelmed, ask:
Am I reacting or receiving?
Is this moment asking me to control, or to be curious?
Is the trail hard, or is it my pace that needs adjusting?
What the mountain asks of us isn’t strength, it’s honesty.
Resilience isn’t a solo summit. It’s built in the mess of the middle, with scraped knees and second chances. And each time we return to the trail we remember: we are capable of more than we thought. Not because we’re unbreakable, but because we’re willing to bend.
We’re not built on summits, we’re built in the stretch. And maybe that’s the heart of resilience:
Not proving we’re strong, but choosing to be honest, even in the climb.
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