You can’t change who you are, but you can change what you have in your head, you can refresh what you’re thinking about, you can put some fresh air in your brain.
~Ernesto Bertarelli
On the morning of my 45th birthday, I stood at the bathroom mirror and stared at a reflection that startled me. “You have a problem,” I said to the woman glaring back at me. Resentment and fear showed in her eyes. She was angry with me. And I was disappointed in her.
The past decade had been a whirlwind of work, travel and staggering stress. I had evolved into someone I didn’t like very much and allowed myself to veer off-track; it felt like I was living someone else’s life. The power to my creative outlets had been shut off and I had stopped writing.
Privately, I was fighting a battle against brain fog and depression. And I feared I’d never be able to end my love/hate relationship with alcohol.
Physically, I was just as broken. An unhealthy lifestyle had padded my body with excess pounds. My knees ached, my back hurt, and I was plagued with insomnia. Mornings were like a bad dream and required large doses of coffee and ibuprofen, an attempt to take the edge off the pulsing headache that resulted from the glasses of wine I’d consumed the night before.
I didn’t know myself anymore. Oh, how I missed that adventurous, creative girl who had a passion for words and art and loved the outdoors. I longed to get in touch with her again.
That encounter in the mirror, followed by an argument with my husband, were the push I needed to reclaim control of my life. My husband told me I’d probably feel better if I’d “just get out of the damn house once in a while.” So, I did. The argument ended when I grabbed my coat and walked out the front door.
Outside, I stared into the gray January sky. Then, without thinking, I put one foot in front of the other and followed the pavement. I was a mile from home when I realized I hadn’t even thought about the argument. The world around me came into focus, and a tiny spark of hope fired in my brain. As I turned toward home, I considered the possibility of making a new start — where pursuing creativity seemed the most logical solution to my troubles.
That first mile began a chain reaction of events that would reshape me — literally — and give me renewed purpose. I enrolled in a program to help me stop drinking, and then purchased a fitness tracker and a new pair of sneakers. It was the beginning of a journey that would eventually lead me to someone I’d been dying to meet — me.
By March, there was a noticeable difference in my outward appearance, but the real changes were happening on the inside. As the weeks passed, I transitioned from sidewalks to walking paths to narrow, winding mountain trails. And by summer, my new addiction was fresh air and altitude.
Something powerful happened on those rocky forest trails. There was shift. My brain started functioning at a higher frequency — as if someone had flipped a switch and turned on the creative energy. The inner critic fell silent, as I let my thoughts wander and explore, the same way I let my eyes explore the landscape. Not only did those steps and miles help me decompress, but they invited a world of new stories and ideas to unfold.
My senses came to life as I learned how to use meditation and mindfulness. As I hiked, I focused on the rhythmic crunch, crunch, crunch of the trail under my shoes and the whisper of wind through the pines. I noticed everything. Tiny ants clung to blades of grass, and chattering birds scolded me from the branches overhead. I breathed in the rich scent of loamy earth on north-facing hillsides, where the sun warmed my face, and cool, damp air caressed my arms. I stopped often to take it all in — to breathe, whisper a few words of gratitude, and capture the experience with my camera.
All this led to a physical transformation that resulted in more than 30 pounds of weight loss and eliminated a long list of aches and pains. It also led to a spiritual transformation, where I gave myself permission to stop ignoring my calling. That small, creative voice that used to hide behind excuses was now running down the trail in front of me, waving and shouting, “Come on, follow me!”
The trail saved my life. It made me sane. Made me strong. And helped me find myself again.
What started as a simple “time out” on a cold, winter afternoon led me to the place I was meant to be — which, most days, is spent in front of a computer screen, crafting stories and editing images I hope someone, somewhere will enjoy. But I’m always within calling distance of a trail — that place I go to often to rediscover my joy and reconnect with a world of age-old miracles and new ideas.
— Ann Morrow —