I went home this past weekend.  I’m not sure how long it takes for your childhood home to become “where I grew up” instead of “home” but I’m not there yet.  My hometown is known for the Kittitas County Fair & Rodeo and no matter how hard I try not to, we almost always make it home that weekend, even if it’s only for a few days.

Right as we were packing, I threw my tennis shoes and some workout pants into the suitcase with the random thought that perhaps I’d hike Manashtash ridge, a steep hike I took often while in my late high school years and summers home from college.

I woke up Friday morning in my old bedroom, Jon had taken off for his 19 mile run (insanity), and I slowly sipped my coffee deciding on whether or not to do it.  I threw on my workout clothes, and when I told the kids I was going on a hike, Addy (age 6) said she wanted to go with me.  My first thought: there is NO WAY she can do this with a happy heart.  Second thought: I want my precious alone time.  I began to explain to her that this is not an easy hike, and that it would even be hard for ME to finish it.  She didn’t care one bit.  Third thought: Maybe she can do this, and maybe it won’t be terrible, and maybe I shouldn’t be the one squashing her dream of making it to the top.

So we filled our water bottle, put on her hand me down pink converse and hit the trail.  Manashtash ridge has an elevation change of about 1700 and is approximately two miles to the top.  At the top there is a book to sign and a lovely view, and once I mentioned the book to sign, that was her driving force.  She explained that she wanted to write her full name instead of her short name because she knows how to spell it now.

About half way up, pointing to the hill with the summit.  So close, but so far away.

After signing the book!

We ran into several other hikers who were all impressed that Addy was even attempting this.  One guy was following us up near the summit, and he was talking to my “rockstar” and told her how awesome she was.  She was fading and when we were only 100 feet away from the top she said her legs hurt.  I asked her if she wanted to turn around and her determination pushed her through that final bit.

She did it.  We did it.  We signed the book.  We took our obligatory photo.  We drank some water and turned and headed back.  The trip back was rough.  A few falls from both of us, quite a few tears, and lots of conversation and encouragement.  Our mountain top lasted five minutes and we were back to the struggle.

From the summit, the man who cheered Addy on at the end took our photo.

I am so proud of her.  There are many things to be proud of in this day.  I’m proud she hardly complained.  I’m proud she finished.  I’m proud she noticed small things like flowers on the trail and mountain peaks in the distance. I’m proud she got back up when she fell, but most of all I’m so proud she persisted when I initially shut her down.  She tried something really hard and brave.

Fear of failure has crippled me most of my life.  I don’t want to try, because if I try I might fail, and if I fail I might be rejected, and if I’m rejected, I’m unloved, and if I’m unloved I must be unloveable.  And when I’m not “not trying,” I’m overachieving with the same mindset.  If I’m not achieving, I’m not valuable, and if I’m not valuable, I’m not loved, and if I’m not loved, I’m unloveable.  Years and years of trying to rewrite this personal narrative and although I’ve made progress, I still struggle with it every day.  Who am I to squash her dreams because of my poor narrative?

Friday’s hike gave me hope.  Hope that my story and struggle doesn’t have to be her story and struggle.  Hope that maybe one day I can leave my narrative behind and try because I want to and rest because I can.  Hope that maybe these kids have a chance at loving and believing in themselves in a world that tends to tell them otherwise.