I’m the kind that eases into the day with movement, meditation, and a dash of creativity. A slow roll, if you will.

Lately, I’ve been thinking of my mornings less as a routine to optimize and more as a container for writing practice and grounding my nervous system.

Do you fancy yourself a morning person or night owl?

Personally, I’m more alert in the wee dawn. And have more brain power—which wanes throughout the day—drastically.

So I have to get while the gettin’s good. Which brings me to….

Writing.

I’ve decided it’s time for consistency.

Why? Because it lights me up.

Especially when you tap into that elusive flow state. Everything falls away and words pour out. It’s just you and the words. You and the story.

Sweet bliss.

What’s your doorway to the flow state?

I learned recently that great writers aren’t simply born great.

Like they didn’t come out of the womb writing epic novels. Did you know this? I didn’t.

Ya know how you’re watching a movie and an actor portrays a writer and they sit down one evening, maybe two, and voila—they have an instant classic best seller on their hands?

Sabotage!

I was under this illusion until my writing teacher slapped me in the face. (Don’t worry, not literally;-)

Writing, like training for a long hike, requires practice. And consistency. And boring reps.

Meeting frustration that inevitably comes with the 5th weighted-pack stair repeat and saying, not today, NOT today, little demon—I will persist!

So.

I made the decision to set my alarm for 4:30 am. To write.

You read that correctly: 4:30 am.

Yeah…..that lasted for about 2 weeks. But despite the 4:30 am fail, I have been writing daily. On my computer. In my many notebooks.

I even bought fancy new pens.

This is how I’m slowly bringing a bit of the summit high into my daily life—morning trail run, meditation, and writing practice.

It’s imperfect, but I’m enjoying creating something out of nothing. Finding meaning from adventure.

It’s shifting my energy in the best way.

I’m less resentful of the “have to but don’t love” things like: doing the dishes, scrubbing the toilets, laundry, work. Ya know…regular life stuff.

Writing is freeing and connects me with the muse or helps me understand my own mind.

Freedom and connection—the same reasons I started this newsletter: Wild Calm.

I love connecting with capable women who want to grow their edge in wild places—like Grand Canyon or the Teton Crest Trail (two of my favs).

And building a steady nervous system. Balancing Wild with the Calm. And Calm with the Wild.

If you’ve found yourself drawn to this little corner of the Universe, I hope at least some of that resonates with you, too.

So what do you love? What lights you up? What do you want to do more of?

Personally, I love epic (and micro) adventures and so I made a video of my Cotopaxi attempt from this past February. Creating the video had me all up in my feels.

Isn’t it fun re-living your adventures? I think that’s part of why I enjoy writing and creating videos - bringing a piece of the summit home with me.

Although I didn’t summit Cotopaxi (due to avalanche risk), I thoroughly enjoyed this trek and highly recommend a visit to Ecuador.

So…here’s a 5 minute slice of my non-summit Cotopaxi trek (video version)—A Cotopaxi Story: The Summit Was Never The Point

May you have many days of flow states, joy, and hiking ahead of you.

As always, thank you for reading.

-Haley + Fitz

P.S. If you enjoyed this post, would you consider sharing it with a friend? Fitz loves meeting new people - he gets the Zoomies just thinking about it.

We started the day with an announcement from the organizer: “check your introvert at the door.”

The hair on my neck raised and I resisted an eye roll—why is introversion so misunderstood? It doesn’t automatically mean shy. It’s simply how one recharges the ole battery.

I’m an introvert–who needs her solo time.

Sprinkle that on top of a sensation-seeking, highly sensitive (HSP) nervous system—one foot on the gas, one foot on the brake—and welcome to my world.

The content was good. Helpful even. I enjoyed my conversations with writers I met. We exchanged contact info and offered to beta read for each other.

Sterile walls. Fluorescent lights. Crowded room. Air conditioning on full blast so we wouldn’t fall asleep. Overstimulation came online and my HSP self spoke up—where’s the nearest escape hatch?

Tapping my foot, I was crawling out of my skin. I really would like to hear the last two speakers. But I’m done.

I stood to leave, eager for sunlight when words from the morning echoed…check your introvert at the door.

Time warped and I traveled back to the past. Winter 2007.

I was at dinner with my college boyfriend in Oxford, Mississippi. At a restaurant somewhere on the Square. I was content filling my belly with fried okra and chicken and listening to the exchange between our friends.

My boyfriend–let’s call him James–grew agitated. At me. Because I wasn’t talking. Not actively saying words out loud.

I had driven 4 hours in icy weather in Wanda the Honda to meet him in Memphis for a concert I wasn’t invited to (Foo Fighters) so he had a place to stay at my grandmother’s house. The next day we drove to Oxford to meet friends for dinner.

My battery was in the red–11%. Quickly approaching nada. James assumed I was mad and needed an attitude adjustment. He said so. At the dinner table. In front of our friends–he kindly informed me in a hushed voice.

We’d been dating for 4 years.

At the time, I didn’t understand why I couldn’t be more talkative. These were my friends too. I liked them. We had history. I wanted to be there.

But I couldn’t contribute. Why isn’t it okay for me to simply be present and listen?

My extroverted boyfriend didn’t understand. I didn’t understand–I just knew I wasn’t meeting social expectations and felt awful about it. Like something was wrong with me. Broken.

Present day warps back into focus. April 2026.

I left the writers conference early. I drove home, woke Fitz from his nap, led him outside and plopped down in the green grass. Bare feet on the ground. Sun on my skin. I admired the clouds drifting across the pale blue sky. I exhaled. My system relaxed.

I’m now aware I have sensitive wiring. I process everything–I mean EVERYthing and once the battery drains–I need nature, solo time, and chai tea STAT.

Nature and hiking have always been calming. Regulating. Endurance hiking activates a flow and awe state for me.

What I really needed (and did) was reduce input. I made myself that chai, grabbed my fantasy book, and cuddled with Fitz on the couch. For hours.

While sensitivity isn’t often celebrated or understood, I’ve come to appreciate it’s a superpower on the trail.

You’re viscerally attuned to your body and the natural world. You intuit body cues. You make better trail decisions. You are transformed by the trail. It’s deeply satisfying–and exhausting.

Just know that when I go dark–it’s not you. Nothing is wrong. It’s just the wiring–I have a bougie energy budget.

I dive deeper into HSP and hiking in this post if you’re interested:

PS. I’m curious- are you a highly sensitive hiker? What do you do to recharge?

Most mornings now, I light palo santo, sit cross-legged on my meditation cushion, close my eyes, and ponder.

I’ve begun reading Meditations by Marcus Aurelius. And this particular gem clings to me like dirt on trail shoes.

Naturally, my mind meandered to the idea of achievement.

I have goals.

I’ve always had them for as long as I can remember. In my earlier years, my path was more traditional: degree, residency, job, car, house, relationship.

Still working on that last one.

Then, I accidentally completed my first misogi (Two rules of misogi: 1. A really hard thing 2. Don’t die)

Something shifted. I jumped timelines.

My goals became more adventure-focused: Ironman, Mt. Rainier, Indian Himalayas, faster rim-to-rim-to-rim, a 50 mile trail run.

I like goals. They provide purpose. Clarity. Structure. There’s nothing wrong with goals, per se. But—

It can be a trap.

I fell in love with the rush. Take me back to my Mt. Rainier high—alive, free, untethered, powerful, present, centered—grounded in my bones.

It’s intoxicating.

I chased highs only to dread daily life.

My skin crawled with ants anytime boredom edged in—which was just ordinary life: going to work, cleaning the house, walking the dog, meeting a friend for dinner. Rinse. Wash. Repeat.

I distracted myself by planning bigger and longer adventures. India. Peru. Argentina. Iceland. Ecuador. Grand Canyon (again and again).

But then my Cotopaxi non summit slapped me in the face. I didn’t make it. Not even close. I was disappointed and relieved. And then disappointed some more. But why did I want the summit so badly?

We often want the summit—whatever the summit is—because of how it makes us feel. So let’s start there. Perhaps summits aren’t THE point, but ONE data point. Of what’s possible.

Maybe we can bring pieces of those summit highs into our present. Into bite-sized trail snacks that are more sustainable.

How do I want to feel?

Here’s my list. It’s not grand. Or unattainable. Some (or all) are works in progress.

I can technically generate these states from within—sitting on a meditation cushion—or trail running, or writing, or reading, or playing ukulele, or sitting on the grass with Fitz, or listening to friends or family update me about life over hot tea and a croissant.

Fall in love with the process itself. You may reach the summit. You may not.

You may find yourself climbing another peak entirely and not until you reach the top do you realize you were on a better path all along but couldn’t see it at the time.

It’s worth repeating: Fall in love with the process itself. The little things you do each and every day. The way you do things.

Fall in love with your life. The non-highlights. The non-summit moments. The margins. This is the discipline of not rushing your life.

Don’t get me wrong—I still love my big adventures. It’s part of who I am. But the secret sauce is in the smaller moments.

Because the present is all we really have.

Fitz Roy knows that better than most. He teaches me every day—how not to outsource aliveness to only those mountaintops.

If you’ve made it this far, thank you for reading.

P.S. I’m curious: What does your bite sized trail snack look like? What’s one word that describes how you want to feel each day? I’d love to know.

I collapse under a tree on the North Rim of the Grand Canyon seeking solace from the brutal sun. I can’t move.

But I have to inspect my feet. I gingerly remove my hiking boots. And my socks.

Oh this is going to hurt.

A collective gasp echoes on the rim.

Holy shit, Haley! Your feet!

I fight back tears and my body stiffens. I build the dam quickly but I’m fighting a raging river.

Exhaustion like I’ve never felt before mixed with a dash of panic–interesting concoction.

I can barely breathe, much less respond. Get it together Haley.

Inhale. Sniff. Exhale.

Subscribe now

My new friends inspect my feet like I’m some exotic animal at the zoo. I’m a Leo and generally like attention, but not this kind.

Did I do something wrong? I mean, obviously, my feet are destroyed. But it felt deeper somehow–like a character flaw.

It looked as though someone had taken a meat mallet to my feet. And I was only half way done.

I just crawled out of the Grand Canyon. 21 miles. 6,000 feet elevation gain. 10 hours.

My feet. My bones. My whole body ached in ways I never thought possible.

I told everyone I was hiking 42 miles in the Grand Canyon–a rim-to-rim-to-rim–(R3) all in one push. No camping. Our goal: 42 miles in less than 24 hours.

I vaguely recall a shuttle on the North Rim. No one mentions the shuttle. Or entertains the idea of stopping. I don’t bring it up.

I push the thought from my mind.

Stuff my swollen, zombie feet back into my boots. Swallow. And gird my lady loins to re-enter the canyon for a second time.

What would compel someone to hike 42 miles in the Grand Canyon in less than 24 hours? Great question.

A few months prior–

I had moved into Nashville and joined a climbing gym. Where I signed up for a workout class called “Sick Monkey.” Where I met other sick monkeys who enjoyed a certain kind of torture–I mean–fun.

Type II fun.

I was invited on the R3. Hmm…Let me think about it.

I grew up hiking with my family in National Parks and visited the Grand Canyon as most tourists do–safely from the South Rim.

I had heard of Rim-to-Rim, but never this R3 thing.

I backpacked. I day-hiked. I just finished my first century–a 100 mile bike ride.

I thought I was in pretty good shape.

But I needed lightweight hiking boots. My broken-in leather boots were way too heavy for a 42 mile through hike.

So like any rational human I visited the local big box outdoor store to inquire about appropriate footwear. Grand Canyon. 42 miles. Less than 24 hours.

I need ankle support. Something light weight. I tried the boots. Seemed to work ok.

But—they were stiff.

I attempted a break-in period, but only 6 weeks remained till the June trip. I planned to “doctor” my feet as I do before backpacking.

Something involving duct tape and band-aids.

At the time, I barely knew 2 folks on the trip and we were joined by 4 other sick monkeys from across the country.

Optimistic, excited, clueless—I stepped onto the South Kaibab trail at 12:40 am on June 1st, 2013. Our new friends took off–road runner cartoon-style–down the canyon.

Ten minutes into the hike, we encounter slow-moving zombie dudes wavering on the trail.

They were concluding their R3 in just under 24 hours. I wonder what took them so long.

Halfway down to Phantom Ranch, my heels start talking to me. Hot spots. But the rest of the group was hiking so fast, I felt the pressure to move.

I’ll stop at Phantom Ranch and tend to my blisters then.

Blisters tended. Slightly less painful. I place one foot in front of the other when I hear aggressive growling from nearby brush.

Still blanketed in darkness, I moved quickly away from the animated brush. I didn’t want to know what was making that noise.

Daylight breaks through the bottom of the canyon. My heels scream at me to stop. I stop. Doctor my feet. Gauze securely in place, I stand up.

There’s an urgency to move–to catch up to the group–that propels me forward.

Not even the beauty of the canyon creates pause. I don’t want to be left behind. My feet numb and ease the sharp pain. Numbness is better than excruciating pain, I reason.

Spirits lift slightly as my energy unknowingly leeches through my feet.

Sun arches high overhead, heating the air. We meander through the Box Canyon, Cottonwood Campground, turn left at Manzanita and commence the brutal climb to the North Rim.

The last mile felt like ten. But we made it. Ten hours and twenty-one miles for Rim-to-Rim.

Halfway through.

I told everyone I was hiking rim-to-rim-to-rim. So that’s what I’m going to do. I’m not quitting halfway.

Am I stubborn? Or reckless? Or somewhere in the middle? Life is rarely ever black and white. Most of the time it’s gray.

Had I known what was to come, I probably would have hopped on that shuttle. But some experiences are meant to be lived the hard way.

After stuffing my emotions into my backpack, I entered the canyon. Again. Except this time, I wasn’t just battling my feet. I was up against a new competitor–the dry desert heat.

She is one feisty, fire-breathing dragon.

In early June, nights are cool on the rim–40 F–while the canyon floor can reach temperatures of over 100 F in the heat of the day.

Downhill. Beautiful views. Suffocating heat. I can do this, right? Am I making the right decision?

Seven miles downhill to Cottonwood Campground, we stop.

Salt capsules protruding from my hiking shirt, someone makes a joke about lumpy boobs. I’m not impressed. I’m hurt–physically, emotionally–and I’m wavering.

Wavering on a breakdown.

Haley, keep going - we’ll catch up. I was a slow-moving zombie and it made sense–they would catch up.

All day there were hikers on the trail. Now, as the sun moved towards the horizon, I found myself alone.

I turn my head searching for my crew. For signs of human life. Am I on the right trail?

Keep moving. I have to keep moving forward. Panic clawed at the edges of my periphery. Breathe. One foot. In front. Of the other.

Sean catches up to me.

My body exhales as he talks. Excessively. About his pregnant wife. His yet to be born son. All the adventures they would do together.

I’m so grateful for the distraction. Anything to keep my head out of the growing black abyss. That somehow resembled the Box Canyon at night.

Haley, I have to stop. Nature calls. Keep going, I’m right behind you. I swallow. Hold back tears. Right. Okay.

I’m alone again. This time in darkness. Muscles ache and twitch–threatening to collapse me to the dirt. A wave of nausea forces a pause.

Delirium and panic–what an interesting tincture–one I wouldn’t wish upon my worst enemy.

Are there mountain lions here? Every corner could be my last. Whew… no feline beast.

Just the fire-breathing dragon herself. I’m in an oven.

I don’t know if I can keep going. How am I going to do this? Just get to Phantom Ranch. All I have to do is get to Phantom Ranch.

An eternity passes–empires are built and toppled in the time it takes me to get to Phantom Ranch–but I arrive.

I enter the Phantom Ranch cafe in the evening. Bright lights. Loud hikers. Laughter. I recoil at the contrast. Don’t they know I’m dying here? What’s there to be happy about?

I crash on a bench. Someone gives me lemonade and food. Ah… sweet relief.

What the actual f** am I doing?

If I ever get the bright idea to do this death march again, I want to remember this moment of defeat. Of utter exhaustion. Of nauseating idiocy.

I’m angry. I’m scared. I’m not sure if my body will cooperate.

I’m reminded of intense muscle cramps from my soccer days as a kid. Except this time–there’s no car, no trainer, no one to get me out.

I surrender. I lean on the guys in the group. To tell me what to do. When to eat. When to drink.

I’m completely dependent on them.

We move from the Phantom Ranch cafe to picnic benches–a Herculean effort I might add–30 yards away. I collapse again and gaze at the stars.

The brilliant Milky Way. It should be mesmerizing. It should be awe inspiring.

It’s not.

All I want is for a helicopter to extract me from this giant, atrocious hole in the ground.

Worry overrides my thoughts. We still have 7 miles, 7,000 feet of elevation gain to go.

Dread. Nausea. Delirium. And scorpions.

Ladies, it’s time. Haley - you follow Dan. We commenced the slow walk—later I would learn it was named the mountaineer step. Slower is faster. It was all I could manage.

Time warps. Portals open. Disney characters dance in my periphery. Someone tells bad dating stories. Gas is released.

Did that come from me?

Jokes are made. These guys I hardly know. I can’t bring myself to care. It wastes too much energy. I have no energy.

They tell me when to eat. When to drink. I wobble. Nausea. I pause. Breathe. Continue.

How much longer? How long have we been out here? My parents are worrying. I should be out by now.

Minutes pass like days.

Someone takes my pack. Grabs my arm to hold me steady. It’s okay. I’m not alone. I’m not alone.

Sun begins to peak above the horizon. I look up and see the endless terrain. The rim miles away. What is this sorcery? How can it be daylight again?

Anger. Anger is good. It can be alchemized into resolve. Determination.

Fresh hikers began chittering down the trail. Turn around I mentally yell at them. It’s not worth it. But no words escape.

I inhale deeply–fresh mule manure overwhelming my nostrils.

We’re getting closer. Almost. There. Just. Keep. Going.

Thank all that is holy. I’m out of that wretched hole in the ground.

I crumple. I remove my boots. It’s bad. They look really bad. Should I go to urgent care?

Everything hurts. Stings.

Food. Shower. Sleep.

I made it out. 28 hours, two sunrises, 42 miles, 20,000 feet of elevation ascent and descent.

I fly home and land in Nashville. My feet are so bad my mom and sister meet me at my house. I cry. I’m in so much pain. They stay with me. Drive me to work the next morning.

I’m in flip flops. I can’t wear shoes. I’m wheeled into my office in a wheelchair.

A coworker strongly suggests I go see a physician. The physician is stunned. Are you okay? Sometimes people get PTSD from something like this.

What? PTSD? No, I’m fine. I just need sleep.

I was not fine–not at that moment. For months, I never wanted to see a Grand Canyon picture again. I swore I would never return.

I canceled my Kilimanjaro trip, forfeiting my deposit. I never wanted to be in this situation again. My first R3 shattered my feet. And my spirit.

I needed to recover physically, mentally, and emotionally. And while that trip cracked me–It also woke something up.

Somewhere along the way, the pain alchemized. The broken flower pot watered a seed that was dormant. It presented a new fork in the road. An alternative path.

I could stay. I could stay within this box.

But I couldn’t. Not really.

I had to find out where this other path would lead.

That other path led me ice climbing, to Cozumel for an Ironman, to Mt. Rainier, and then eventually back to the Grand Canyon.

I was scared. Nervous.

But, I was ready to meet the fire-breathing dragon once again. Respectfully, of course.

The second R3 (2 years later)—I saw those same stars, the same night sky. And I thought–this is it. This is why I’m here. For this moment right now. I feel it. I understand.

I shaved 10 hours off my original time. I had better shoes, better nutrition, and a mindset shift.

I didn’t intend for my first Grand Canyon to be miserable.

I swore I would never return. But something softened in me. Something woke up.

And so I returned. Seven more times.

I return for the reminders. Of how far I’ve come. For the pain. For the beauty. For the feeling of freedom. Aliveness.

For the majestic contrast of being in that canyon at night–a little ant looking up at the cosmos. Perspective. Nervous system reset. A dose of awe and desire. This is why I return.

Maybe you’ve felt the pull towards something bigger. Or are curious about a Rim to Rim.

Save yourself and learn from my mistakes.

If you’ve made it this far, thank you for reading!

See you on the trails,

Haley

P.S. Are you planning a Rim-to-Rim in the Grand Canyon? Let me know, I’d love to hear!

There’s a particular kind of woman who looks completely fine from the outside. She’s capable. She shows up. She carries responsibility because it’s just part of her role here on Earth. And underneath all of that, she is running on fumes she’s too proud to count.

Haley Peel was that woman. So was I. We have all been in that place.

Haley spent most of her professional life in pharmacy, first in hospitals, then in the corporate world. Precision. High pressure. Responsibility as the baseline expectation. She was good at it. She moved into leadership. She mentored people. She was, by every visible measure, succeeding.

Subscribe now

She was also a sensitive woman in a field that didn’t have much room for that.

“I used to think something was wrong with me,” she told me. “I’d force myself to be social even when my battery was completely drained. That led to a lot of inner negative dialogue.”

She knew she needed to change something. But she didn’t find a therapist, she found a trail.

Hiking had been part of her life since childhood, family trips out West to the National Parks, but as a young pharmacist it became something else. A regulation tool. A place where the pressure could move through her instead of just sitting in her chest. She came back from the trails calmer, more grounded. Regular frustrations stopped landing as hard.

For a long time, that was enough.

When the Canyon Breaks You

Then she signed up for the Grand Canyon Rim to Rim to Rim.

I think about the version of ourselves that says yes to something enormous before we fully understand what we’re agreeing to. There’s something honest about that impulse. We know we need to be changed. We just don’t always know how much it’s going to cost.

42 miles. 20,000 feet of elevation change. Less than 24 hours.

Haley had no real frame of reference for what that meant. She chose the wrong footwear. She had no idea what she was doing. And 28 hours later, she emerged with battered feet and something worse: a broken spirit.

The physical recovery was one thing. The mental spiral was something else entirely. She canceled her Kilimanjaro trip. She didn’t want to see pictures of the Grand Canyon. She questioned whether she ever wanted to attempt anything like it again. Her parents had been terrified, and she felt the weight of that.

This is the part of transformation stories that usually gets skipped. The part where it’s just wreckage, and you’re sitting in it, and you don’t know what comes next. That’s the messy middle. Most people live there longer than they ever planned to.

What I’ve come to believe, working with people in the middle of their own journey, is that the mess isn’t a detour. It’s the actual terrain. You don’t go around it. You go through it, and what you find on the other side isn’t a different version of yourself. It’s a more honest, authentic one.

Stories like Haley’s are exactly what the Self-Led Life was built for. If this one landed, start here — it’s the post that explains everything.

Two Years, One Step at a Time

Haley found her way through. It just took two years.

She didn’t return to the Grand Canyon right away. Instead she tried ice climbing, then an Ironman, then mountaineering. Each one a controlled risk. Each one building what she was actually after, even if she couldn’t name it then: self-trust.

“I fell in love with inner transformation through physical discomfort in breathtaking environments,” she said. “These trips were nervous system resets. They gave me something to look forward to, a challenge to work towards, community with like-minded people. Each one led me to feeling more grounded and more trusting of myself.”

When she finally went back to the Grand Canyon, she was different. Not fearless. Different.

She also stopped needing everyone around her to understand.

“Not everyone gets why I pursue challenging peaks or endurance hiking. They may worry about my safety. Some think it’s nuts.” She paused. “Over the years, I’ve learned to listen to my own intuition instead.”

That shift, from needing to be understood to trusting what she knows, is not a small thing. It cost her something to get there.

A Designed Life

There’s a word Haley uses that I keep coming back to: cocooning.

After a big trip or a stretch of heavy social obligation, she protects her recovery time. She doesn’t apologize for it anymore. She learned about highly sensitive people through the work of Dr. Elaine Aron, recognized herself in it, and stopped fighting her own wiring.

This is what it looks like to stop outsourcing your self-knowledge.

She frontloads her mornings now. Movement first, trail running or strength or a sauna. Then writing. Then the pharmacy job. Afternoons are for her goldendoodle, Fitz Roy, and evenings are quiet. Mobility. Meditation. Ukulele, sometimes. Dinners with friends when she has the bandwidth.

Weekends are for what she calls micro adventures. Planning the next big one.

It’s a designed life. Not perfect. Not finished. But deliberately hers.

I asked her what she wishes someone had told her when she could see what needed to change but couldn’t move yet.

She didn’t hesitate.

“You’re not behind. You’re exactly where you’re meant to be.”

And then: “Fall in love with the process. Design your life to embody the qualities you want to feel when you reach your summit. Find one small thing, even five minutes, that brings you joy each day.”

That’s not the advice of someone who skipped the hard part. That’s the advice of someone who went through it and came out knowing something real.

Haley is a pharmacist and a writer and an endurance hiker. She helps capable women prepare their bodies and nervous systems for iconic hikes. Her newsletter is called Wild Calm, which is the most accurate two-word description of who she is that I’ve encountered in a long time.

She’s working on a Rim to Rim Readiness guide ahead of the North Rim reopening this May, and she’s beginning to shape a longer story rooted in her adventure experiences.

She is, by her own admission, still in the middle of it.

Aren’t we all.

Erin Gregory is the founder of Erin Gregory Creative, a strategic communications and brand consultancy serving mission-driven organizations. She writes the Self-Led Life on Substack and hosts Notes from the Messy Middle, a podcast exploring meaningful work, pivots, and the messy reality of building something that lasts. She lives in Columbus, Ohio with her three daughters.

Stories like Haley’s are exactly what the Self-Led Life was built for. If this one landed, start here — it’s the post that explains everything.

Recommend Erin Gregory Creative to your readers

If you’re trying to build something sustainable instead of just successful, if you want work that serves your life instead of consuming it, if you’re tired of the hustle narrative and ready for something more interesting and authentic - this is for you.

I’ve been teaching myself how to play the ukulele lately.

It has nothing to do with hiking…

But it’s part of my world and I wanted to share it with you.

Subscribe now

I’m envisioning myself sitting around a campfire playing bluegrass.

Just last week, I played Wagon Wheel (Old Crow Medicine Show) and for a blissful moment, there was only the music.

Everything else fell away.

It had me thinking about beginner’s mindset.

If you’ve ever tried something new, you might well know the feeling of frustration.

You must be willing to be bad—speaking as an adult with perfectionist tendencies—before you see improvement.

Which can take awhile—G chord, anyone?

I still have a lot to learn—ukulele, life, hiking.

So I went down a rabbit hole about hiking in wild places, and a few things stuck with me—

#1 John Mackey (co-founder of Whole Foods) has hiked both the Appalachian Trail (AT) and Pacific Crest Trail (PCT).

Which means….this corporate guru has spent months on trail, off grid, and NOT in a boardroom.

I can’t stop thinking about the contrast—tailored suits to dirtbag chic.

#2 Emma Gatewood “Grandma Gatewood” became the first woman to hike the AT solo.

At 67 years old.

A grandmother to 23.

A domestic violence survivor.

And not only that, she hiked the AT TWO more times later on in life.

It certainly changed how I think about what’s “too late” or “too old.”

#3 Most women hike for reasons that have nothing to do with achievement.

• Experiencing nature.

• Being active.

• Being free.

• Clearing the mind.

When I read that, it didn’t surprise me.

It felt like recognition.

I think that’s the part people miss—

Hiking isn’t just about miles and elevation.

It’s about what it gives you back.

Anyway, those are a few things I didn’t know.

I thought ukulele didn’t have anything to do with hiking.

But it does.

Starting something new—whether it be ukulele or hiking or something in between—you have to be willing to be bad before you can be good.

If you’ve come across something on the trail that has shifted how you see things, I’d love to know.

Hit reply or comment below.

Cheers,

Haley + Fitz Roy

Midnight. I step out of the Refugio onto the snowy slopes of Cotopaxi.

Elevation: 15,953 ft / 4,854 m—only 6 hours and 3,394 vertical feet to the top.

I can do this, right?

Diego motioned me forward. ‘After you, chica.’ Right. One step at a time.

A heavy mental fog accompanied me—a new climbing partner—and a sigh escaped as I veered left past the Refugio bathroom to begin the ascent.

Seven days of acclimation hikes, sleepless nights, and oxygen debt warranted this heaviness. I just wish I felt better right now.

‘Come back alive, Haley.’ My dad’s pre-trip warning resurfacing in my thoughts.

Thin air scraped my lungs. Dried my mouth.

Inhale. Whoosh. Exhale through the mouth.

Pressure breathing.

Thank goodness I remembered this from Rainier; it calms the nerves and pushes oxygen into my lungs and brain.

My entire world shrunk into my headlamp light—boots and a frosty staircase.

I stole a view of the stars—and wobbled.

Snapping my gaze back to the ground, I chastised myself.

Rookie mistake. Now’s not the time for star-gazing.

Energy is precious at altitude.

Beyond my light, Cotopaxi waited—calm, impossibly quiet.

She coaxed me forward into the black void, teasing—despite unease invading my body.

Inhale. Exhale. Step. Crunch.

I crept up the sharp incline—close to my climbing partners—careful not to raise my heart rate.

Slower is faster in mountaineering—especially at high altitude.

I check my Garmin—an hour and half.

Good, my heart rate is low. But, why do I feel off? I need to slow down.

The radio crackles, breaking the silence. We stop. ‘Chicos, tenemos novedades.’ Guys, we have some news.

Cotopaxi—a 19,347’ active volcano—had been on my mind since 2024—a way to ring in my 40th.

My adventure ambitions were high–a 50 miler trail race, Mt Rainier, and Cotopaxi.

I checked off the 50 miler, Mt Rainier, and earned two injuries in the process. Sidelined–I pushed Cotopaxi back.

No one likes injury, but silver lining–I revamped my training for alpine-specific strength.

February 2026—my new timeline for Cotopaxi.

End the Year of the Snake with a high-altitude adventure. And begin the Year of the Fire Horse riding a summit high.

What could go wrong?

‘Come back alive.’ My dad insisted.

That IS the plan.

There is objective risk in mountaineering. But sitting on your couch all day carries risk too—it’s just less immediate and more socially acceptable.

Nevertheless, my chest tightened at his words.

I had 4 prior mountaineering expeditions under my belt—including six weeks in the Himalayas up to 18,500’—but, nine days to 19,000’ made me wary.

Six days prior to summit bid—our first hike up to 10,500’ on Ilalo began with a siren—blaring.

Literally.

My heart slammed against my sternum. Evacuation drill? Cotopaxi IS an active volcano.

The top of Ilalo rewarded us with rainbow rings around the sun and fresh watermelon.

But not before navigating steep, slick, muddy trails.

Our next adventure began early as the bus stopped abruptly—in the middle of the dirt road.

Someone darts from the back of the bus out the door.

Wait, what’s happening? Is he sick?

Flashbacks of my Patagonia ’25 debacle resurfaced. A story for another time–but, spoiler alert—it concluded with Search and Rescue extracting me from a nauseating-fetal position- situation.

One adventure I never want to repeat.

Everyone piled back in the bus and we continued winding up the mountain. Twenty minutes later, the driver slams on the brakes again.

‘Nope, no! We can walk, we can walk!’ someone shouts from the back.

Now what?

A mudslide chewed away part of the road ahead. Slabs of dark chocolate earth spilled down the slope. Our bus may make it across… or may not.

Not wanting to embark on that particular quest—we began our hike an hour earlier.

Over the next few days, our climbing team grew close.

We came from six countries and four generations, yet our similarities outweighed our differences—united in shared purpose.

Our days rewarded us with breathtaking views of Cotopaxi, waterfalls, and arduous scree fields.

We met wild horses, two local guide dogs, and interesting humans along the way.

I regret not bringing my rain pants.

Turns out—we were not, in fact, in dry season.

But the occasional downpour could not dampen my spirits.

We ate well, but restful sleep was not on the menu.

Despite exhaustion—and surprisingly comfortable beds—the thin air held my nervous system hostage.

Each restless night compounded the fatigue.

Climb high. Sleep low. Eat. Drink. Repeat.

I prayed my body made enough red blood cells. My legs were strong and headaches mild.

Summit day approached and Cotopaxi played hike and seek—teasing us before clouds covered her again.

We built in a technical skills day prior to the bid—the mountain doesn’t care how fit you are if you can’t manage a rope.

As we strapped on crampons, cinched harnesses, and gripped our ice axes—the mood grew quiet.

Weather and avalanche warnings sobered us—no summit is ever guaranteed—and risk management is essential.

All the acclimation hikes, restless nights, and nervous anticipation led to the final Cotopaxi countdown.

Summit day eve—and we sat in the bus—tense and somber.

Rain delay.

50-50 chance of an attempt.

Is this it then? A false start?

I sighed.

If it’s meant to be, it’s meant to be. This—I have no control over.

‘Guys, let’s go.’

Game on.

Alert and invigorated by the cool, misty air, we climbed the hour to the Refugio—a half of a mile.

At the Refugio—we ate and the guides briefed us.

Rope teams were assigned. Now—time to get horizontal—6 hours till midnight.

I never slept and didn’t expect to—my nerves throttling me as I listened to my playlist. Tears escaped.

Picture montages flashed in my mind.

“Come home alive, Haley.”

What is happening right now?

Lights flickered on. It’s time—get ready. 11 pm. Friday, February 13th.

I layered on winter gear, strapped on my harness, and pulled on heavy-ass mountaineering boots.

Can I really do this?

Outside, Cotopaxi waited—calmly.

Midnight. Fresh snow. Sheer slope.

Brain fog—wired, but tired—and strong legs make for an interesting sensation combination.

I glance at my Garmin. An hour.

Wait. Aren’t we supposed to have a legit break right now?

I focus on what’s in front of me.

Step. Breathe. Step. Breathe.

An hour and a half. I need a break.

The radio crackled. We stop. Spanish words are exchanged.

Translation: Guys, I’m sorry. It’s too unstable. We continue—we trigger an avalanche. We have to turn around.

Relief. Instant relief.

I can tumble down the mountain and collapse into a warm sleeping bag—my body begs.

Yes, but I will be so disappointed in the morning—my mind argues.

Relief and regret. An interesting pair.

No one argued. No one complained. The mountain had spoken.

Minutes pass and an uncomfortable cold threatened my hands.

Where are my mittens? And my puffy?

We smiled. We took pictures. We appreciated the unique landscape.

We accepted Cotopaxi’s terms, thanked her, and turned around.

An hour and a half up, and less than 15 minutes down to the Refugio.

I fell into the best sleep I had all week—my nervous system exhaled.

Four hours later—sunrise—I wander outside and look up. Tears blurred my vision–it wasn’t meant to be.

Summits are never guaranteed. I know this. My brain knows this. And agrees.

But still.

My body feels what it feels—both relief and grief.

Cotopaxi gave me a gift that day—it just took a few weeks to realize it.

It’s easy to chase summit highs, but where the secret sauce lies—is in the journey itself—regardless of outcome.

Prior to this expedition, my intention was to only hang summit pictures on my wall. Only summits were worthy of recognition.

Cotopaxi taught me otherwise.

Summits are sweet—but perhaps the journey itself is richer.

P.S. Have you ever had to turn around on an adventure? I’d love to hear what happened.

Returning to cubicles and emails after a week of high altitude, volcanoes, mudslides and international adventure falls, well… flat.

I could barely contain my eye roll while riding an elevator with a fit, young male colleague who animatedly described his fear of elevators.

To be fair, our office flooded a few weeks ago, and the elevators WERE previously a hazard.

Subscribe now

And I’m not trying to shame someone’s fear.

But contrast that to navigating steep, high altitude glacial terrain in an awe-inspiring landscape with real risk and hazards.

Just sayin…My tolerance this week was still lingering at altitude—thin.

I’ll be honest–I’m still physically and emotionally recovering from my Ecuador trip.

Eight days of cumulative sleep and oxygen debt, high altitude living, and intense physical activity (plus international travel) compounds on a nervous system, especially a highly sensitive one.

Sleep, food, and more sleep were my priorities this week.

Re-entry into normal life has proven challenging and I remind myself not to make any big decisions while recalibrating.

I climbed high and I’m still integrating.

I figured I would break down my Cotopaxi adventure into a 3 part series:

• why you should adventure travel

• the Cotopaxi story

• and a how-to guide for integration

So this week: why adventure.

In my favorite non-fiction book, The Comfort Crisis, Michael Easter asserts that the constant comfort of today’s humans may actually be the cause of many physical and mental issues.

We live in climate controlled boxes disconnected from nature seeking continual comfort at all costs–and while we may be living longer, collectively we are unhappy and unhealthy.¹

I wrote a poem about boxes and why I seek adventure (warning: I was in a pondering, slightly despondent mood).

I’d like to share it here.

Boxes:

Wake up in a box

Drive to work in a box

Park in a box

Take a box up to the 10th floor

Walk to my box

Where I sit

And stare at 3 boxes all day

And escape to my tiny hand-held box

Moments of connection?

Or is it commiserating?

And I wonder why I feel

Listless

Bored

On autopilot

Agitated

Frustrated

Numb

The numb kicks in

The noise of society

Trapped

The chaos of the world reflects my

Inner chaos

I scream

Can anyone hear me?

I’m drowning

That’s when I know:

“The mountains are calling

And I must go” - John Muir

I step onto the trail

And in one moment

I am transformed

I can breathe again

I can exhale

What is it that I feel?

I’m excited

I am alive

I’m excited to be alive

I smile

I feel my heart

Fulfillment in each beat

I am light

Peace.

Gratitude.

Contentment.

#Trails for Transformation

#Break out of the box

How did I even get here?

Wait.

Stop.

Who has the key?

Wait.

Did I have the key all along?

Observe the boxes in your life and how they impact your state of being.

I don’t exaggerate when I say trails have the power to transform.

And yes, YOU have the key to unlock your boxes.

Five Benefits of Adventure Travel

1. Sublime emotion

Nature can invoke feelings of awe—fear, vulnerability, respect for nature and inspiring energy—vitality, joy, oneness, freedom, harmony. Even a form of transcendence.²

Pretty powerful stuff if you ask me, need I even go further?

2. Recalibration and Attention Restoration Theory (ART)

Nature can recalibrate the nervous system in a way city living cannot.

Our attention is money.

We are constantly bombarded by ads and reels competing for our attention so we can consume and make other people lots of money.

Our brains are exhausted and on overdrive.

ART postulates that nature can restore attention and improve executive functioning. We can experience flow and improved creativity.³

3. Presence

Whether I’m hanging from a rock face in the Tetons (roped in, of course) or hiking in Ecuador, I’m rarely worried about meetings and emails.

Adventure travel literally takes you off autopilot and inserts you directly into the PRESENT moment.

Where all life really exists anyway.

It lifts the veil of matrix illusion and gifts you with aliveness, joy, gratitude, adventure.

4. Expansion

Travel, especially international travel, cultivates compassion for other ways of living, beliefs, and opinions.

Add that with a little Type II hiking fun and your worldview and your nervous system expands.

Your capacity for living grows and you learn a little more about who you are and what you’re all about.

5. Resilience

Type II fun–miserable in the moment, but deeply satisfying in retrospect–grows resilience in a way that cities and boxes never will.

Your body, mind, and soul learn how to move through discomfort and perhaps even embrace it, after a time.

Type II adventures strip away all the layers of WiFI, addictions, unnecessary attachments and reveal your inner Wild Calm.

Your true state of being.

Bonus Benefit:

6. Gratitude & Inspiration

In our comfort-driven, climate controlled modern world, it’s easy to take for granted all the conveniences—warm shower, comfy bed, a toilet, toilet paper.

After a wilderness excursion, I am ALWAYS more attuned to gratitude for the most seemingly minor conveniences.

And I’m always inspired to reevaluate my priorities.

I tend to simplify and let go of “things” and simply slow down and enjoy life and living more.

What This Means For You

You are a successful, high-performing, highly capable woman.

But…

If you find yourself a little restless, agitated, or wondering if there’s something more out there–it may be your inner Wild Calm urging you to sign up for an outdoor adventure.

It doesn’t have to be a grand Cotopaxi trip (although I highly encourage it:-), it may be simply finding a local park or river and simply spend time off grid (ie. no phone) and gaze up at the sky.

Thank you for reading this far.

If my Cotopaxi integration continues to progress, stay tuned for:

• Part 2 - The Cotopaxi Story

• Part 3 - The Integration Diaries.

P.S. Have you ever stood at the base of something that scared you and chosen to go anyways? I’ll tell you about mine next week.

P.P.S

Your Next Step

If you are ready for your first Iconic Hike and want to feel confident and capable, I would love to help you prepare.

Most people wing this part (like I did on my first Grand Canyon). Don’t.

If you’re training for any big hike: grab my How to Go from Doubtful to Iconic Hike Ready in 12 Weeks—the complete training system for beginner women tackling their first iconic hike.

This System is Perfect for You if You Want to:

💪 Build hiking-specific fitness without spending hours at the gym every day

🥾 Know exactly what gear to buy (and what you can skip) with tested recommendations

🎒 Feel confident your body can handle the distance, elevation, and challenge

🧠 Quiet the self-doubt and trust yourself when it gets hard

📋 Follow a clear, step-by-step plan instead of guessing what to do

⛰️ Stand at the summit knowing you earned it through smart preparation

This guide meets you where you are.

Ready to start the fun? Get the guide here: How to Go from Doubtful to Iconic Hike Ready in 12 Weeks.

Not sure yet? Subscribe to Wild Calm for free weekly training tips and adventure stories.

Sources:

1. The Comfort Crisis by Michael Easter

2. https://pmc.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/articles/PMC6424873/#sec1

3. https://pmc.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/articles/PMC11050943/

Wow.

What. An. Adventure.

I have a lot to process.

And I can’t wait to tell you ALL about it.

But I need to cocoon, recover, and integrate for a minute first.

Don’t worry… I will share all the stories, pictures, and maybe a short video.

Subscribe now

Sometimes I feel like I need vacation from my vacation. Especially those Type II vacations, if you know what I mean!

This will be a short one this week since my energy budget is in the red…

But first…did you catch it?!

You may not have (totally okay), but I slipped in an audio file these last two posts.

I relaunched my podcast!

Introducing…the Wild Calm Podcast!

If you feel like changing things up a bit, you can listen to the last few posts here:

How to Stay Calm Under Stress—The Wild Calm Philosophy

Training Hard is Only Half the Equation: How to Taper the Right Way

Or if you’re new here, here are a few posts to get you started:

• How to Hike Grand Canyon Rim-to-Rim: 7 Mistakes to Avoid

• How to Pick Your First Iconic Hike—The Best Way

• How to Train for Your First Major Mountain While Working Full Time

All right that’s it for now.

And stay tuned for insider deets on my Cotopaxi Climb and maybe even a practical “how to integrate guide.”

Subscribe now

See you on the trails,

Haley + Fitz

Goodness, it’s been a week in Nashville with unprecedented ice storms.

Cotopaxi training met me unexpectedly—cold camping in my home with my pup, Fitz Roy.

Warm blankets and a fantasy book (Dire Bound) prevented me from totally spinning out around hour 36 of no power, no heat, in temps of 1-18℉ (not common for Nashvillians).

As I write this, my heat is back on and I am SO grateful.

I figured this was a good time to explore The Wild Calm Philosophy..

But first, a question (or a few…)

• Have you ever googled “how to stay calm under stress” at 2 am?

• Have you ever needed a way to untangle the mental noise?

• Or the feeling of being stuck on a loop that never ends?

• Or have you ever felt extra vulnerable (maybe on a solo hike)?

If so, you’re not alone.

You were probably told to breathe deeply, meditate, hydrate, and exercise.

Good advice, but the thing is—stress inhabits the body, not only the mind.

Wild Calm answers the question “how do I stay calm under stress?” by teaching you how to build capacity before the stress hits — and how to meet it when it does.

Rock climbing in the Tetons, stress may present as sweaty palms, heart pounding through your chest, and panic edging out your vision. (Oh wait, was that just me?)

You certainly don’t have to be hanging off the side of a cliff (or building…anyone else watch Alex Honnold and Taipei 101?!) for the stress response to inhabit your body.

So, What is Wild Calm?

Wild Calm is my philosophy for building an inner mountain of strength, stability, and wisdom—shaped by intentional discomfort, awe, and stillness—it’s how you carry yourself, on trail and in life.

Wild Calm is for those ready to expand through outdoor adventure—WHILE honoring their nervous system.

Cultivating Wild Calm allows you to get comfortable being uncomfortable. Allows your nervous system greater bandwidth to manage trail (and life) stressors.

What Wild Calm Is Not

Clearing up Misconceptions…

Sometimes folks assume I’m antisocial or shy when I go off-grid (aka silence and alone time) after a group hike.

Nope. (Any other HSP women out there?)

I need to recharge, process, and integrate before re-emerging from my cocoon into the land of social butterflies.

Wild Calm is NOT:

• Avoidance of confrontation (it’s not you, it’s me)

• Conquering a summit or proving toughness (hello, Strava stats)

• Staying small (life begins at the edge of your comfort zone)

• Pushing through injury & calling it strength (ahem, guilty)

• Toxic positivity (good vibes only)

You need a framework that both stretches and honors your nervous system.

The Wild - Fierce Preparation

I choose hikes that scare me a little because in the friction—that’s where expansion blooms.

Wild isn’t only pushing your edge—it’s an amalgam of awe and beauty, of aliveness, an appreciation for different perspectives, an exploration into others ways of being.

Wild Means:

• Choosing discomfort (you don’t avoid hard things; you prepare for them)

• Testing your edges (hikes that push you to discover what you’re capable of)

• Embracing the unknown (Weather, unexpected obstacles, annoying people)

• Being alive to sensation (Cold, heat, fatigue, exertion, the full embodied experience)

• Refusing to shrink (Not letting fear keep you from your best effort)

Wildness requires preparation. The more prepared you are, the more enjoyable (and free) the experience.

Start before you feel ready. Confidence comes by taking that first step.

Wild isn't just physical preparation. It means proving to yourself you can do hard things.

Because you can.

The Calm - Mindful Presence

Nature does not hurry, yet everything is accomplished. - Lao Tzu

Feel your feet on the ground, your clothes on your skin.

Notice the warmth of the sun on your face and the wind rustling your hair.

Breathe in the fresh pine mountain scent.

A steady stream of water gently flows in the background.

Your backpack is a comfortable weight— a hug, if you will. Your muscles ache in a good way.

You’re moving your body and you feel strong—alive.

A deep calm washes over you.

Everything is as it is meant to be.

• Sun and rain

• Light and dark

• Joy and sadness

• Blessings and challenges

Calm means:

• Listening to your body - Noticing cues before they become crises

• Pacing yourself - Not burning out in the first 3 miles

• Honoring recovery - Rest days are training, not laziness

• Responding vs. reacting - Making conscious decisions instead of panic moves

• Being present - Not just grinding through, but experiencing the trail

• Trusting the process - You don’t need to force; you’ve done the work

Calm is an inner knowing that everything is meant FOR you.

You discern between what you CAN and CANNOT control.

And you let go of the rest. You release resistance to what IS.

The Integration: Where Wild Meets Calm

How they work together, not against each other

I stepped onto the Cowlitz glacier field and admired the clear, starry night. Just after midnight we began our summit bid for Mt. Rainier.

I prepared extensively for this climb.

And now I focus on what I can control (my breathing, proper fueling, mental stamina), place one foot in front of the other, and be present in this awe-inspired moonscape.

Everything I need on my back.

Trusting my body and mind.

I soak it all in.

Moving my body over challenging terrain.

Is meditation.

Is medicine for the soul.

It’s healing in a way that soaks into the bones of your being.

Embrace your Wild Calm.

The Wild Calm Cycle:

1. Prepare Fiercely (Wild)

• Research your hike obsessively

• Train consistently for 12-16 weeks

• Test gear, nutrition, pacing

• Build physical and mental capacity

• Prove to yourself you’re capable

2. Show Up Present (Calm)

• Trust your preparation on summit day

• Listen to your body’s signals

• Pace yourself sustainably

• Stay in the moment (not the mile count)

• Respond to conditions with flexibility

3. Recover Intentionally (Calm)

• Honor post-hike rest needs

• Process the experience

• Let your nervous system recalibrate

• Integrate the lessons

4. Choose the Next Edge (Wild)

• Use your proof to tackle something bigger

• Don’t let comfort become complacency

• Keep expanding your capacity

• Repeat the cycle

I believe you need both Wild and Calm for balance.

1. Too much wild and you burnout.

2. Too much calm and you’re bored, stagnate.

You don’t need to set foot on Mt. Rainier to experience Wild Calm. Test your edges and find the right balance for you.

The HSP Advantage in Wild Calm

Maybe you’ve been told one of the following:

• You need to toughen up

• You’re too sensitive

• You’re too quiet

• You’re too talkative

• You worry too much

Here’s the thing - you’re not too sensitive.

1. You process deeply

2. You’re more perceptive than the average hiker

3. You feel trail magic and awe more intensely

4. You prepare well so you can enjoy the trail to the fullest

5. You’re more in tune with your body signals so you know when to lean into the wild and when to settle into the calm.

Wild Calm in Practice

What this looks like on trail

Our objective: Maroon Bells 4 Pass Loop in one push - 27 miles, 4 passes each peak around 12,000’.

My hiking partner suggested we attempt Snowmass (14’ner) as part of the push.

I agreed on one condition: if I need to turn around, we turn around.

I was training for Mt. Rainier and had a 50 mile trail ultra under my belt so I agreed to push my edge.

1,000 feet up Snowmass, 40 degree boulder scree fields, barely half-way there, thinking of the 3 other passes, 20+ miles left…my body signaled dread & hesitation.

Feeling worked way too early in the hike—I paused.

Assessed.

I voiced concern.

Disappointment hung wordless in the air between us.

I voiced concern again.

I’m so glad I turned around. We completed the 4 pass loop safely. It was the right decision.

Practical Examples:

Wild Calm Training:

• Wild: Showing up at 5am for hill repeats when you’d rather sleep

• Calm: Taking a full rest day when your body asks for it

Wild Calm Nutrition:

• Wild: Pushing your fueling capacity (eating even when you don’t feel like it ie. altitude)

• Calm: Listening when your stomach says “not that food right now”

Wild Calm Pacing:

• Wild: Continuing when you want to quit (but you’re not injured)

• Calm: Slowing down when your heart rate is too high

Wild Calm Gear:

• Wild: Testing gear relentlessly to prove it works

• Calm: Trusting your tested systems on summit day

Wild Calm Mental Game:

• Wild: Pushing through discomfort (this is hard AND I’m doing it)

• Calm: Breathing through panic, reframing fear, staying present

Wild Calm in Daily Life

Wild Calm isn’t just for hiking–it’s a life philosophy.

I have a close family member living with a progressive illness.
Cruel in its layers: grieving who they were, grieving what’s coming, and one day, grieving their absence.

It brings a tangle of emotions — fear, regret, anger, sadness, frustration, shame, blame.

I’ve leaned on Wild Calm.

Wild Calm builds the inner and outer foundation — you are the mountain — so you can withstand what’s beyond your control, the thunderstorm that moves through.

Wild is allowing myself to feel what I feel.
Naming it. Noticing it in the body.

Calm is letting the energy move through — trail running, screaming into a pillow, sauna and cold plunge, dancing.

There is always a counterbalance.
Joy ↔ sorrow.
Light ↔ dark.

Cultivate your Wild Calm so you’re not swept away by the river when it surges.

If you are swept away, that’s human.

Wild Calm helps you find your footing.

Final Thoughts

I’ll leave you with this…

1. You are stronger than you think. Strength doesn’t always mean “suck it up.” Strength can mean crying and expressing vulnerability.

2. Know yourself. Know your edges—when to push, when to retreat. Life begins at the edge of your comfort zone- Neale Donald Walsch.

3. Give yourself permission to F.A.I.L. Forever. Acquiring. Important. Lessons.

4. Your sensitivity is your superpower. You are not broken. Nothing is wrong with you. Hone your intuition. Let it serve you.

5. You regret more of what you DIDN’T do, more than what you did. Sign up for a group hike or trek.

6. Hiking is medicine for the soul. Let the mountains transmute your pain, grant you perspective, and make you so grateful (for a warm bed and hot shower).

7. Wild and Calm are not opposites - they are partners. Dance with both.

If you’ve made it this far, thank you for reading!

Until next time and see you on the trails…!

Haley

I dedicate this to all the highly sensitive hikers out there.

• You need to toughen up

• You need to smile more

• You’re too sensitive

• You’re not excited enough

• You need to calm down

• You’re so quiet

• You talk too much

• You’re too serious

• You’re overreacting

• You’re overthinking it

• You’re anxious—Just relax

There’s not enough Snickers in the world for this shit.

Here’s what they don’t understand—I’m (actually) not shy, I’m processing.

And that processing— the heightened awareness, interpretation of inputs, need for preparation— it’s not weakness, it makes me a better hiker.

What Being HSP Actually Means

You might be a Highly Sensitive Hiker (HSP - Highly Sensitive Person) if:

You are easily overwhelmed by

• Strong smells (trailhead toilets…hello Camp Muir!)

• Bright lights (headlamp light in your face, harsh sun without warning)

• Loud hikers (trail speakers…omg, the worst!) UNLESS you are solo hiking in bear country—then, acceptable.

You crave deep conversations around a campfire. Not trailhead small talk.

You need significant alone time before and after group hikes to recharge.

You’re flooded with emotion at sunrise summits—tears of beauty, awe, and accomplishment.

You process decisions deeply—which hike to do, what gear to bring, who to invite as a trail companion.

You can’t “just wing it” - you need to prepare, plan, anticipate obstacles.

You feel trail magic more intensely than others seem to — a perfect view, wildlife sighting, the sounds of wilderness.

Your energy budget is bougie. Once depleted, no amount of Red Bull can bring you back.

According to Dr. Elain Aron’s research, 20-30% of the population displays the HSP trait.

You are not broken.

You are not weak.

It’s just that most folks around you don’t understand you.

It’s an innate trait.

You are intuitive. Perceptive. Observant.

It’s your superpower.

I didn’t “fit in” from a very young age. For years, I thought something was wrong with me.

• Why can’t I be more outgoing?

• Or talkative?

• Or cheerful?

• Or make friends easily?

• Why do I feel so drained after social outings? Even ones I enjoy?

• Why do I freeze when I enter a room full of loud, vivacious people?

These questions plagued my young highly sensitive hiker self. I sought feedback—from friends, coaches, self-help books.

I gave myself mantras:

• I am calm

• I am strong

• I can do hard things

• I will not take things personally

But here’s the thing: My body didn’t get the memo.

Even though my mind said “just relax,” my nervous system screamed “we need to feel safe, we need to run away quickly from the woo boys - (you know, boys who yell “wooo!)”

I didn’t understand why at the time—but I’ve always felt most home in nature—hiking. Nature regulates your nervous system. It emits a calming frequency, grounding your energy.

Growing up, I always looked forward to my family’s annual National Park hiking trips.

My happy place.

The Superpowers - HSP on the Trail

We feel deeply—like darkest depths of the ocean—deeply.

On trail, this translates to:

1. Deep processing = better decision-making

   We research. We study topo maps. We test gear and plan for mishaps. So when summit day arrives, we’re ready.

2. Sensory awareness - safety & beauty

   Sunrise summits elicit a river of awe through our body. Not only do we witness the magic of nature, we viscerally feel the power. We sense weather changes & trail conditions - a built-in risk assessment tool.

3. Emotional depth = profound transformation

   When the trail gets hard, we don’t avoid the discomfort. We observe. We connect with our why. We make friends with the pain cave. We surrender, we transform. #embracethesuck

4. Subtlety detection = reading your body

   We intuit internal body cues—noticing signs of dehydration, pain before it turns into a crisis. We adapt early.

   Admittedly, interpretation of my body cues and solutions improved over time— after many hard-earned lessons.

5. Need for solitude = thriving solo

   The chaos of modern living easily overstimulates - we crave solitude. Solo hiking is thriving. We need nature and alone time as much as we need oxygen.

The Challenges

1. Overstimulation on trail

   Crowded overlooks, loud trail speakers, and woo boys overwhelm our nervous system. We arrive early, bypass the crowded overlooks (for better views), and mean girl glare at the woo boys (kidding, not kidding).

2. Need for more recovery

   We bookend solo time before and after big hikes. After a big trip, I clear my calendar for a week and cocoon myself with chai, a soft blanket, a good book, and my pup, Fitz. Sprinkle in restorative, slow, solo time in nature.

3. Absorbing others’ energy

   We pick up on group dynamics and tension easily. Without boundaries, this drains the highly sensitive hiker. Breathwork, movement, and mindfulness clear the field.

4. Emotional overwhelm in hard moments

   When I viewed the carnage of my blistered, battered feet half way through my first 42 mile Grand Canyon rim-to-rim-to-rim hike, I fought back an ocean of tears. It’s okay to release the flood gates. Breathe.

How to Prepare as a Highly Sensitive Hiker

Our nervous systems are more raw and absorptive than the average hiker. I’ve grown to appreciate and work with, not against my HSP nature.

There are techniques that expand our capacity to deal with the woo boys of the world.

Your wiring adapts when you stress your nervous system and then intentionally calm it down.

I am more resourced to navigate chaos when I consistently incorporate grounding practices.

How you can prepare

Before your trip:

1. Contrast therapy - cold plunge & sauna. Cold stresses (activates fight/flight) and then intentionally calm with your breath (activates rest/digest). Your body will adapt and self-regulate for other perceived threats.

   This has been a game changer for me.

2. Daily breath work - Inhale 4 counts. Hold 5 counts. Exhale for 7. Repeat x 10. Your body thinks I’m breathing like a calm person, I must be calm.

3. Walk barefoot on the Earth - The Earthing Movie (on Amazon) highlights the benefits of skin contact on earth to absorb the natural charge. Very restorative.

On trail:

1. Earbuds with your personal playlist—I use when I’m in the pain cave or need an escape from a stressful sleeping situation (ie. bunking in a refugio with 35 smelly strangers).

2. Kindle with your favorite book—on longer trips, a good book regulates my nervous system through escapism.

3. Anchor—a bracelet or totem to bring you back to the present or remind you of your why.

To All the Highly Sensitive Hikers Out There

There is nothing wrong with you.

We are simply wired differently.

You don’t look at a plant that’s not thriving and try to change the plant. You adjust the plant’s environment. You find out what nutrients give it life.

What nutrients give you life?

For me:

• Solo sunrise trail runs

• Rest days where I literally do nothing (okay, I’ll read adventure fantasy)

• Small groups of people who understand silence isn’t awkward

• Training hikes where I process emotions and connect to my why

The Truth About Highly Sensitive Hikers

We are not weak. We are not fragile. We are not overthinking.

We are:

• More prepared than most

• More aware of risks

• Better at listening to our bodies

• Safer decision-makers

• Deeply connected to why we’re out here

Our sensitivity is not a flaw. It’s a feature.

Here’s What I Wish Someone Had Told Me

Your need to prepare isn’t anxiety —it’s wisdom.

Your sensitivity to your body is a superpower—not a weakness.

Your need for alone time isn’t antisocial—it’s self-preservation.

Your deep processing isn’t overthinking—it’s how you stay safe and capable.

You don’t need to become someone else to summit mountains.

You need to become more of yourself—and trust your highly sensitive hiker traits are exactly what will get you there.

I’ll End With This

I spent years thinking I needed to toughen up, to stop being “so sensitive.”

Then I completed an Ironman. Climbed to 18,500’ feet in the Himalayas. Summited Mt. Rainier. And returned to the Grand Canyon six more times after my disaster.

Not by becoming less sensitive.

By leaning into it.

By preparing. By honoring my energy. By listening to my nervous system. By hiking my own hike.

My sensitivity doesn’t hold me back. It’s my superpower.

Yours is too.

If you’ve made it this far, thank you for reading!

Haley

P.S. What nutrients give YOU life as a highly sensitive hiker?

I gaze across the glacial field to the 45 degree slope where a teammate punched a hole in the earth with his body. Only his arms, head, and a quarter of his heavy-ass pack were above ground.

Shit! Crevasse.

He pushed himself on high ground and continued moving up the steep incline.

Impressive. Especially considering the weight of his pack.

Early morning and clear sunny skies around 18,000 feet - our rope team was up next. My stomach twinged. Nerves?

I already went to the bathroom so that can’t be it. Right?

Several weeks of the most treacherous, high-altitude hiking I had ever done culminated in our team crossing the 18,500 feet Dhana Dura pass in the Indian Himalayas.

Breathing thin air felt like sipping oxygen through a thin straw. Never fully satiated.

I check my glacier boots and crampons and try calming my nerves.

Dread lingers in the periphery as I face what I must do–haul my 65+ lb pack up the steepest glaciated slope I have ever hiked.

Haley, it’s time.

Butterflies danced in my chest as I lead our rope team of three up the steepest section of our Himalayan traverse.

Dammit, my pack is EXTRA heavy this morning.

My tent mates felt like today would be a good day for me to carry the heaviest group gear.

Breathe. One step at a time. I can do this. Damn, this is a steep trail.

Ice axe in my right hand and hiking pole in my left, I kick step my way up the slope. Soon we’ll be at the summit - the climax of this expedition.

Calves burning. Quads on fire, I keep my breathing steady.

Straps pressing into my stomach, I silently curse my teammates when…

Nature calls. Not No.1— No. 2

OH no. No. Not now. Well, shit.

I can’t exactly stop- we’re smack dab in the middle of the steepest section and my pack will slide off the face of the mountain into oblivion if I set it down.

Can I hold it? I’ll have to. NOPE.

This is happening. This. Is. Happening… I’m shitting myself. In my WHITE pants.

This will be funny one day, right?

I don’t stop, I keep moving up the slope. Because, I mean, what else is there to do? I don’t want to slide down the mountain. I’ll clean up at the summit.

Surrender. Breathe.

One foot in front of the other.

As I approach the summit, excitement floods my system overriding any anxiety from my bathroom situation I pray no one notices.

I breathe a little easier as the terrain levels out, a huge smile on my face and victory in my bones.

Until a teammate informs me… It’s a False Summit.

You’ve got to be kidding.

Why I Went

The call to the Himalayas

One year prior to this unfortunate white pants situation, I wanted to do something drastic. Something life-changing and longer than my typical one week excursions.

A sabbatical of sorts.

My goals were simply: improve my mountaineering skills, experience another culture, and see the Himalayas in person!

I didn’t grow up dreaming about the Himalayas, but I never could have foreseen how my first Grand Canyon disaster would lead me to places and peaks I never dreamed I would walk.

I watched the film, Meru—a documentary about Conrad Anker, Jimmy Chin, and Renan Ozturk, climbing the notoriously difficult Shark’s Fin located in the Garhwal Himalayas, Uttarakhand, India.

One glance at the auto rickshaws, the winding dirt roads etched in the mountains overlooking the Ganges River (car sickness and all), the famous white-capped peaks, and I was sold.

I knew—I would have my own international expedition one day.

I always wanted to do NOLS– National Outdoor Leadership School–but pharmacy school, residency, work and real life came first.

Until the pull became too great.

“The mountains are calling and I must go” - John Muir

My prior experience consisted of a few endurance hikes, an Ironman, a botched Mt. Rainier attempt, and a week long mountaineering course on Mt. Baker in the Pacific Northwest.

Even then, I was nowhere near ready to climb in the Himalayas. Trails are next level in those sacred mountains.

I was twitterpated…and terrified.

Your first big hike might not be the Himalayas.

But the principle is the same.

Don’t wait until you’re “ready enough.” You prepare for everything you can control and the mountain meets you where you are. You gain confidence in handling the rest.

The First Week - Arrival & Adjustment

What nobody prepares you for

The Himalayas don’t ease you in gently.

Day 1-3: Nashville - NYC - Dubai - New Delhi - Ranikhet: 18 hours of flight time plus a 10 hour overnight bus ride. Delhi chaos–noise, pollution, cows, people everywhere, horns, utter chaos. Despite shock and sensory overload, I was so excited to be on my very own expedition.

Day 4-5: Ranikhet (NOLS basecamp): Gear prep, food rations, packing our 100L (yes,100 LITERS!) backpack, taking bucket showers, visiting the market, eating gulab jamun, and avoiding eye contact with the monkeys so as not to provoke an attack.

You know, normal stuff.

Our objective was to traverse 60-70 miles, summit two passes–Kafni Kol at 17,500’ and Dhana Dura at 18,500’—over ~5 weeks to allow for acclimatization.

There was no guarantee we would complete the traverse. At a certain point: we would commit fully (complete traverse) or backtrack.

Porters and mules would carry our technical gear and (3 of 5 weeks’) worth of food rations up to Zero Point (12,000’). After which, we were on our own (with NOLS instructors).

Day 6 - 12: A six hour nauseating jeep ride, negotiating washed out roads (post-monsoon season) to drop off point: Loharkhet (5,000’)

• Trekking with a 62 pound pack

• Learning “how to poop” in the field (without toilet paper)

• Map reading, field cooking, tying common knots

• Fixed rope ascension (how to climb out of a crevasse) - which resulted in shredding my hands. Pro Tip: Wear gloves

• Landslides, river crossings, boulder fields

• Mountain folk, sheep, chai tea shops, route finding, bushwacking

Remind me never to complain about another U.S. trail again.

The humbling: I thought I was fit. I’d done rim-to-rim-to-rim. I’d completed an Ironman. Made a summit bid for Mt. Rainier. This was different. Sustained effort, day after day, challenging terrain, and backcountry-high-altitude living.

What surprised me:

• Small communities living in remote, high-altitude terrain - one family beckoned us into their abode during a deluge of rain & offered us chai

• “Trail” is a loose term in the Himalayas - (more like scree fields, thick brush, raging rivers, glacier fields, and occasionally a nice dirt path)

• How quickly “cold” becomes normal

• How easily our porters -in jeans and flip flops - carried technical gear over boulders and landslides

The group dynamic tension:

Different paces. Wide age range. Different experience and fitness levels. Different life experiences.

Sleeping 4 to a tent. Personalities rubbing wrong when sleep and oxygen-deprived.

I quickly realized this wasn’t just a physical challenge– it was testing every fiber of my being.

Your first big hike will do this too - not at this scale - but the principle holds:

What you think will be difficult (the physical aspect) often isn’t the hardest. It’s the mental and emotional game. The group dynamics if you’re hiking with others. The way discomfort reveals who you actually are, not who you think you are.

The Climb - Building to 18,500 Feet

The progression & key lessons:

Lesson 1: Altitude Doesn’t Mess Around

Around 14,000, I learned one of many lessons - altitude doesn’t care how fit you are.

We checked O2 sats daily - mine were in the low 90s. Nothing alarming at altitude, but I could feel it. I was in Ironman shape at the time, but the mountains did not care. Daily living felt exponentially harder.

What it taught me:

• Respect what you can’t control

• Ironman fitness is not alpine fitness

• Listen to your body or pay the price (headaches, nausea, or worse)

For your first big hike:

Even if your mountain isn’t at altitude, there will be something you can’t control – weather, heat, fatigue, personalities. Preparation means knowing your limits, when to push and when to turn around.

Lesson 2: The Mind Will Attempt Sabotage

During the hardest weeks–between 14,000 and 18,500 feet– my mind decided to play the subterfuge game.

• I can’t breathe.

• My pack is too heavy.

• This is too hard.

• I don’t know if I can do this.

• I don’t want to be here.

Sabotage!

My body? It was still moving. My legs worked. My lungs pulled in thin air (through a straw).

What it taught me:

• Your mind will try to protect you by quitting

• Knowing the difference between “I can’t” and “I don’t want to” is critical

• YOUR mind is YOUR house. You CAN direct your thoughts.

• Remember your WHY

• Remember to pause and look around at the magnificence of nature and the cosmos. The unfiltered Milky Way–my goodness–words can only attempt to do it justice.

Wild Calm emerges with continued presence - not thinking about 17,000 feet when you’re at 14,000 feet.

For your first big hike:

Around mile 7 (or 17 or 27), your brain will try to sabotage you. This is normal. Are you in actual danger? Or is your mind just uncomfortable? Discerning between the two is part of preparation.

Lesson 3: Surrender Isn’t Weakness

Which brings me back to that glacier - the false summit - and my bathroom situation.

Our day had only begun as I led the last rope team of 3 up Dhana Dura pass - and I crapped my pants. My white pants.

My elation at summiting the pass overroad my initial distress at shitting myself - until I learn we had not, in fact, summited.

On a glacial ridge, exposed, absurdly heavy pack–I needed to clean up.

I move away from the group as best I can (maybe 10 feet) - in full view of the mountains, the gods, and anyone else unfortunate enough to look my way.

It was humiliating. Embarrassing. It was also necessary.

I told no one what actually happened.

The day got worse from there - a rock scramble to the 18,500 foot summit. I’ll admit- a brief reprieve and short celebration.

But we still had to get down.

I lead my rope team down a steep, icy slope– I slip (with my 65+lb awkward pack)--somehow falling in slow motion. I self-arrest–turning on my stomach, kicking my feet into the slopes and burrowing my ice axe into the glacier.

I stand up, collect myself, and keep moving.

Off the glacier only to meet endless miles of scree fields. At one point, a section of scree was too steep, so we set up an assembly line to haul packs.

When it came time for my pack, one guy shouts: “Damn, I can’t complain about my pack anymore. This is heavy!”

I feel both validation and defeat. Cold. Tired. Hungry. Dirty. Get me to camp!

Running out of daylight. I lose my balance and fall again.

Miles of moraine and scree as far as the eye can see.

Hail rains down, pelting my face with sharp pricks.

Nature calls - No. 1 this time - but I still have my harness on and can’t get it off in time–so I piss myself.

I don’t even care.

We keep moving. Morale sinks.

We stop while our instructors scout a site for camp (back on the glacier). I am quiet and hold back tears. Until…Haley, are you okay?!

Four magic words. The dam releases and the deluge of tears flows.

I lose it. Complete meltdown.

My team springs into action - the guys remove heavy gear from my pack and distribute it equally.

Another retrieves my pink puffy, someone gives me a jolly rancher, and another wraps their arms around me in a bear hug.

I surrender. I surrender to it all.

I let it all go - my tears, my humiliation, my embarrassment, my ego, my bowels (well, not in THAT moment).

For your big hike:

Something will go wrong. Your feet will hurt. You’ll need to pee (or poop) at an inconvenient time. You’ll be slower than you’d hoped. The weather will change.

You won’t prevent all problems. It’s about being flexible and adaptable enough to handle them when they come.

Surrender isn’t giving up. It’s working WITH the mountain, not against it.

The Crux of The Climb

The moment it all made sense.

We weren’t guaranteed a summit of both passes - Kafni Kol at 17,500 or Dhana Dura at 18,500. In fact, even our instructors had never summited Dhana Dura until our expedition.

We made the traverse.

What I remember most:

• Not the views (though they were otherworldly)

• Not the accomplishment (though I was proud)

• I remember the Wild Calm.

Backcountry expeditions strip away all that’s unnecessary - social media, static, chaos, societal pressures–and you just…exist (and survive).

You’re present:

• Breathing.

• In Awe.

• Aware.

• You slow down.

• You’re fulfilled. Connected. In tune.

Wild Calm isn’t something you find outside of you. It’s what remains when all the bullshit is stripped away.

At 18,500 feet, there’s no room for:

• Worry about work

• Stress about relationships

• Anxiety about the future

• Ego about who you think you are

There’s only: Breathe, step. Breathe, step. Be. Here. Now.

That’s why I came.

Not the summit. But the stripping away of all that is unimportant. Of clarity that comes within the chaos of the storm. Authenticity. Presence. Peace.

For your first big hike:

You don’t need 18,500 feet to find this.

Your first 11 mile hike with 2,000’ of elevation gain will do it too - if you’re open, if you’re present.

Wild Calm isn’t about the altitude.

It’s about willingness to sit with discomfort long enough for your mind to let go and just BE.

Pro Tip….sauna & cold plunge contrast therapy creates Wild Calm-even in the city. Not much to think about in 45 degree water except breathing through the sensation. This literally rewires your neural pathways for better stress resilience - which helps in everyday life and mountain life.

Coming Down - What I Brought Home

The descent and integration:

Coming down was harder than hiking up. Physically and emotionally.

Physically

• Uneven, steep terrain with an absurdly heavy pack

• Exhaustion from altitude, terrain, and weeks of sleeping on the ground

Emotionally

• Ready to be home (and take a shower, eat a burger) but not ready to resume normal life

• Post-summit blues - it’s over, now what?

• Re-entry to civilization

• The question: Who am I now that I’ve done this?

What the Himalayas changed in me:

1. My relationship with discomfort

Embrace the suck. My threshold for discomfort received a MASSIVE upgrade. When you intentionally stretch your comfort zone (you don’t need the Himalayas to do this), you rewire your mind and body for calm in the midst of discomfort.

Suddenly, traffic jams aren’t such a big deal anymore.

2. My definition of strength

Strength isn’t always powering through. It’s knowing when to rest. When to surrender. When to ask for help. When to slow down. When to speak up. When to let things go.

It’s an inner knowing without an outer show.

3. My approach to preparation

I became obsessed with alpine training and nutrition – because I’d experienced unpreparedness and the impact. But I learned there are limits to how much you can prepare. At some point, you let go and trust that whatever happens is meant to happen.

You surrender. Be present. Learn. Adapt. Adjust. Integrate.

4. My understanding of Wild Calm

It’s not something you achieve or check off your to-do list. It’s what’s left (inside) when you strip away everything else - ego, fear, control.

Mountains will strip it away for you, if you let them.

5. My belief in what’s possible - and a change in perspective.

What I previously aspired to achieve–job, house, relationship, the NEXT milestone–somehow didn’t seem quite so important.

I shifted from an outer game to an inner game unfolding.

AND, if I could do THIS - from a pharmacy desk, what else is possible?

Turns out: a lot.

• Mt. Rainier. Cotopaxi (training now). More rim-to-rim-to-rims. 30-50 mile through-hikes.

The Himalayas showed me I was more capable than I believed.

Your first iconic hike will change you too.

Not because of the altitude or the distance or any ego stats.

Because you’ll prove to yourself: I am capable of hard things. I can prepare. I can surrender. I can trust. I can find wild calm in my discomfort.

That makes all the difference in the world.

What This Means For Your First Big Hike

So what does a 6-week Himalayan expedition have to do with your first 11-mile day hike?

Everything.

The principles are the same, even if the scale is different.

1. Prepare, but don’t wait for perfect

I was NOT ready for the Himalayas, but I went anyway and learned on the mountain.

You won’t feel 100% ready for your first big hike either. That’s normal. Prepare as best you can (train, get the gear, learn the route), then trust yourself.

Waiting for ‘ready enough’ is fear in disguise.

2. Respect what you can’t control

Altitude and glacial living taught me humility. Your mountain will too- through weather, fatigue, unexpected challenges.

Preparation includes contingency plans, not trying to control every aspect.

3. Pack Light, Test Your Gear

Due to the technical nature of the trip and extended time in the backcountry, our packs were necessarily heavy. That being said, every pound matters. Test everything on training hikes.

Nothing new during your trip.

4. Mind Your Mind

Your brain will attempt to sabotage you. Practice staying present. Use mantras.

Be IN THE section IN THE moment.

Don’t think about 12,000 feet when you are at 8,000 feet. Set small goals (just get to that tree, then I’ll reassess).

Wild calm is a consistent practice, not a destination.

5. Surrender when the mountain demands it

Sometimes you turn around because of weather. Sometimes you slow down because of fatigue. Sometimes you crap your pants.

Flexibility isn’t failure. Laughing at yourself is wisdom (and good for the soul).

6. The Mountain Teaches What Training Can’t

I learned more in 6 weeks in the Himalayas than in 6 months of training.

Your first big hike will teach you things no training plan can.

Let it. Stay open. Be humble. Learn.

The Invitation:

You don’t need to book an expedition to the Himalayas to experience what I’m describing.

Your first iconic hike - whether it’s Grand Canyon rim-to-rim, a 14er, or a long day trek - will teach you these same lessons if you’re prepared and present.

Here’s what you need:

1. Physical preparation (so your body can handle what you’re asking of it)

2. Mental preparation (so you have a strategy for sabotage)

3. The right gear (tested, broken in, appropriate for your hike)

4. Realistic expectations (it will be challenging, that’s the point)

5. Wild calm practices (breathwork, mantras, mindfulness)

This is what I created in Your First Iconic Hike to guide you.

It’s everything I wish I’d known before the Himalayas - the physical training, mental prep, gear, nutrition.

Not so you do it perfectly. So you do it prepared enough to let the mountain guide you the rest of the way.

Ready to start preparing? Grab the guide ($47) HERE

Want to follow along as I train for Cotopaxi?

Subscribe to Wild Calm for free weekly training tips, adventure stories, and mountain wisdom.

Subscribe now

Closing

The Himalayas didn’t make me fearless. They taught me courage - to take the next step even when I’m afraid.

They didn’t make me strong. They taught me what strength actually is - surrendering when necessary.

They didn’t give me wild calm. They showed me it was already there, under all the static.

Your first big hike will do the same for you - not (necessarily) at 18,500 feet, but wherever you are.

The question isn’t: Am I ready? The question is: Am I willing?

If you’ve made it this far, thank you for reading! See you on the trail,

Haley

P.S. What mountain is calling you right now? Comment below and tell me. I love hearing what’s on your Thrive List.