We never really know the impact we have on someone. But every once in a while, a message slips through the noise and touches down like a sacred echo.
That happened to me the day before I left for a wilderness trek with my closest friends, the "Adventure Girls." Among my packing lists and final errands, a Facebook message landed from a woman I'd met only once, years earlier. Her boyfriend had just died. She was grieving, disoriented. And somehow, my recent posts that included a quote from Anaïs Nin, something about listening to the body, had struck a chord.
"Thank you for sharing, it's making a difference for me right now," she wrote. "Please send your laughter up to the heavens for him."
Her words hit me. The grief and the gratitude. The unexpected connection. I carried that message with me, literally and energetically, into the Grand Canyon.
The Descent
This was no casual stroll. We were hiking nearly ten miles into the canyon, 4,380 feet down in November, with snow at the rim and unknown terrain ahead. Everyone had been training for this day. Everyone but me.
I had spent the past year chasing something else entirely: love. The soulmate, twin flame, once-in-a-lifetime kind. I was so focused on that search, I barely noticed that life had handed me another type of path. One where the only way forward was… down. Into the body. Into the moment. Into myself.
As we set out on the Bright Angel Trail, the scenery was breathtaking, and so was the reality. My legs weren't ready. My gear felt unfamiliar. The other women, who had trained together, seemed more prepared. I was so concerned about trailing behind when we stopped for lunch at mile three. And that's when it happened.
My body said: Don't stop.
So I listened.
The Solo Choice
I left the group. Not out of defiance, but necessity. I wasn't sure I'd be able to start again if I rested. And even more, I wasn't sure I could finish if I didn't honor my own rhythm.
This is where I now recognize the deeper lesson, one I didn't have words for at the time: sometimes the trauma in our system doesn't scream "no." It whispers it in silence or hesitation. And sometimes, the nervous system says "go", even if the mind disagrees.
So I went.
The solitude was daunting at first. But as the path leveled and my confidence rose, the canyon began to mirror something back to me. I wasn't just walking through rock and time, I was walking through layers of identity, through doubt and desire and the ache of not-yet-ness.
There was no music. No conversation. Just the sound of my own breath and the quiet unraveling of beliefs I hadn't questioned in years. About love and worthiness and what it means to be ready.
A Trail of Self-Recognition
I'd been running around thinking I needed to fix myself, become better, do more before I deserved the things I wanted. But out there on the trail, without my phone or my to-do list or any of my usual ways to avoid being with myself, something unexpected started happening: I actually began to like who I was. Not because I'd suddenly become perfect or figured everything out. Just because I was there, putting one foot in front of the other, even when my legs hurt and I was covered in dust.
The weirdest part? People started appearing. Other hikers would stop and we'd end up talking. Some shared these incredible stories, others just gave a quick "you've got this!" as they passed by. Complete strangers from all over the world, and somehow we all seemed to understand we were in this together, cheering each other on just for showing up and trying.
By the time I reached Phantom Ranch, I was exhausted, exhilarated, and emotionally cracked open. The moment I dropped my pack, I remembered Carolyn's message. Before heading to dinner and falling asleep, I scribbled a note that read, "Sending joy and laughter to Aaron." We hung it alongside our prayer flags at dusk.
Sometimes we hike for ourselves. Sometimes we hike for someone else's healing, too.
The Ascent
Two days later, I set out again, this time ahead of the group, in near darkness, guided by a headlamp and a gut feeling. I made new friends. Shared stories. Took photos. And climbed what felt like a lifetime in reverse.
Those last few miles were absolutely brutal. But somehow, between the encouragement from other hikers and this voice inside me that I was finally starting to hear, I kept going.
I wasn't the strongest person out there. Definitely not the fastest. I just had to keep paying attention to what my body was actually telling me.
What I Realized Later
At the time, I thought this was a story about perseverance.
But looking back now, I think something bigger was happening.
For maybe the first time in years, I stopped running away from what my body was feeling and trying to push through to some imaginary finish line. I started actually listening to that quiet voice inside that somehow knows things before my brain figures them out. That feeling of "yes, this is right" that you can only hear when you stop trying so hard to be somewhere else.
We all have our own canyons. The ones we didn't train for. The ones we only realize we're walking once we're already halfway down. Sometimes we're distracted by desire. Sometimes we're weighed down by unhealed layers of grief, fear, or doubt.
But if you pause and feel beneath the story…
There's always a truth waiting to meet you.
Come Back to Your Inner Compass
If you've been chasing love, certainty, purpose, and still feel like you're not there yet, I invite you to stop running.
Start listening.
Your body already knows the way.
And I've created tools to help you hear it.
👉