Some trails are beautiful. Others are brutal. This one? It’s both.
Self-reflection is like scrambling up a steep, exposed ridgeline with no trail markers, no handrails, just loose rock and the echo of your own breathing. It demands something rare: stillness, honesty, and the kind of courage most people spend their lives avoiding. And make no mistake, it’s not a scenic detour. It’s a grind. One that can leave your legs shaking and your soul raw.
But the views? They’re unmatched.
Because what you see when you finally look inward can change everything.
A Moment on the Edge
I remember the first time I realized I was carrying survivor’s guilt. I had left the military after an injury; honorably discharged, with every logical reason to step away. On paper, I did the right thing. But emotionally? I felt like I had failed.
I couldn’t shake this quiet, gnawing sense that I had abandoned something sacred. That I had let my brothers down. That I had taken the easy way out while others were still on the front lines.
When the names of my friends began appearing on the casualty lists, that weight didn’t lessen. It became an ever-growing burden. And that weight didn’t stay in the past. It followed me into parenting, into relationships, into the mirror.
I would ask myself:
“How can I lead my family if I’m a coward?”
“How can someone love me if I don’t even like myself?”
Those questions hit like altitude sickness, quiet at first, then suffocating. Naming them felt like standing at the edge of a cliff, staring down without a rope. But that moment, raw and unsteady, was the beginning of the climb out.
Because once you name it, you can face it.
The Descent
Much like the trails we hike, the terrain we face in life is ever-changing, sometimes circling us back to old challenges, other times pushing us into new ones. I thought that moment on the edge naming the guilt was my turning point. And it was. But healing, I’ve learned, comes in layers.
In October of 2023, I fell off a cliff while bouldering. I broke my cheekbone, shattered a tooth, and sprained my ankle. It took nine months for my body to heal.
Nine months.
That number stayed with me. It wasn’t just because of the slow recovery. It was also because of what was quietly happening inside me. It felt less like a return to what I was and more like a gestation. Like something was being formed in the dark; slowly, painfully, but purposefully.
When I finally decided to return to climbing, I believed I was ready. No fear. No hesitation. I returned to the cliff I had fallen from determined to finish the route that had left me broken.
But the moment I placed my hands and feet on the first holds and shifted my weight, I froze.
Terror gripped me. I couldn’t move.
That’s when I realized: I wasn’t just afraid of falling. I was still carrying trauma I hadn’t acknowledged.
You don’t always know you’re wounded until you’re standing in the same place you got hurt. Facing the cliff brought everything to the surface. And in that paralyzing moment, I learned something new about trauma:
You can’t fully understand how it impacts you until you face it head on.
You can’t fully heal until you know how it’s impacted you.
“Your vision will become clear only when you can look into your own heart. Who looks outside, dreams; who looks inside, awakes.” — Carl Jung
Whatever setback, failure, pain, or heartbreak you’ve been through, there’s no shortcut around it. You have to go through it.
And maybe, just maybe, the valley isn’t where things go to die. Maybe it’s where something new is being born in you. Painful. Hidden. Sacred. Sure, the descent into the valley broke me, but it also made me stronger.
Trail Markers in the Fog
Self-reflection gives me language for pain I couldn’t explain. It doesn’t fix everything overnight. But it gives me a map. It helps me trace the roots of shame and fear. I recognize the stories I’d been telling myself, and start rewriting them.
Healing doesn’t come from pressing harder, it comes from pausing. From turning inward, and letting the truth rise to the surface.
It taught me what I now call confident humility. It is that narrow ridge between knowing what you’ve learned and acknowledging what you still don’t know. That posture has reshaped how I lead my family, love my friends, and offer grace to myself.
Because self-reflection isn’t just about facing the pain. It’s about transforming it into wisdom.
The Trail Ahead
Self-reflection is one of the hardest disciplines I know. It asks you to sit with your shadows, not to shame them, but to understand them. And it almost always comes with discomfort.
But like any brutal hike, it also leads somewhere better.
Not because the pain disappears. But because you learn how to carry it differently.
“It is not the mountain we conquer but ourselves.” — Sir Edmund Hillary
So if the trail feels steep right now, don’t rush it. Don’t numb it. Sit still. Listen. Let the silence say something. That’s where transformation begins. Because sometimes the hardest terrain leads to the most breathtaking views—not out there, but within. And the courage to look inward might just be the bravest step you ever take.
