“I don’t think I can do this,” he said.

Back at the trailhead we had each shared our biggest fear about the climb. His was a fear of heights. Not an insignificant thing on or off a mountain. A few hours into it, he hadn’t had to stare that fear in the face. Now he did, as our next steps would include a short but steep climb, a traverse across a narrow trail with steep slopes on either side, and finally, another steep pitch bordered by a crevasse.

“I don’t think I can do this,” he said.

We had stopped at an outcrop to put on our crampons. He turned his face away from the slope and gripped the sides of a boulder. We all silently went about gearing up, sensing that for the moment, all we could do was give him a safe space in which to be afraid. Not try to talk him out of it, or tell him what to do or how to do it. Fear doesn’t need fixing.

“I don’t think I can do this,” he said.

Looking up from my boots, he was sitting on a rock, his wife kneeling at his feet, carefully attaching his crampons to his boots. It was like watching Jesus washing the feet of his disciples, showing them what love does in the face of fear.

“I don’t think I can do this,” he said.

And then he did. He stepped out onto the slope and headed straight up. Like climbing a ladder that is leaning up against the side of a house, but with nothing to hold on to. One step ahead of him, his cousin told him to fix his focus on her feet rather than the steep slope on either side. Behind him another cousin told him to simply take five more steps. The one in front was terrified too, but by focusing on him she momentarily forgot that she was afraid too. The one behind him called upon her experience as a Cross-fit coach to help him simply take the next right step. Step-by-terrifying-step, he made his way to the other side of the thing he thought he couldn’t do. He did it himself, but he didn’t have to do it alone.

When did we decide that being vulnerable is an act of weakness? From what I saw up on that mountain, it is one of the most courageous things we can ever do.

Two days later, we passed that same steep stretch on our way back down.

“I can do that,” he said.

Climbing Mount St. Helens is a long slog. A slog worth making, but a slog nonetheless. The first third of the ascent is on forested trail, the second third involves scrambling up and over boulders, and the final third is on scree—a mass of small loose stones that cover the slope. I hate scree. Every step forward involves a slip backwards.

I’ve made the climb several times, and while it’s never been piece-of-cake easy, there was one climb that took the hardest cake. On that particular day, as I made my way up that scree slope, all I could think about was how hard it was, and the more I focused on how hard it was, the harder it got.

This is so hard.

It was like I was my own boot camp drill sergeant, determined to humiliate myself into giving up and going home.

Every this-is-so-hard thought was energy wasted. It was going to be hard no matter what. I still needed to keep climbing. Partway up the scree slope from hell I stopped and took stock of my situation. I could see the top, most of our climbing party already there. To make it there myself meant simply taking one step after another, pausing to rest when necessary, and then continuing on. Putting the energy I’d been expending on telling myself how hard it was towards taking another step instead, the going got a little less tough, until finally, I stood on the summit. From there I could look back on where I’d come from, take stock of where I was, and envision what might be possible in the future.

Having just marked a year of the pandemic, this has been an especially difficult week for many of us as we reflect individually and collectively on just what this year has meant, cost, and exposed. In many ways, making it through the year felt a lot like climbing on one long scree slope. Every step forward hard earned, only to be followed by a slip backwards. Simply put, it was a very hard year for everyone, and strikingly so for those hit hardest. Some of those hardest hit were the very people working to make it easier for the rest of us.

While there is hope ahead, and a light glimmering at the end of the pandemic tunnel, it is difficult not to think about, talk about, and rail at just how hard it has been, still is, and will probably be in the future.

Acknowledging the hard is different than dwelling on it.

Acknowledging the hard is necessary and important. It reminds us of the truth that life is rarely easy, and gives us a chance to remember that we are capable of doing hard things.

Dwelling on how hard things are is wasted energy, using up some of the strength and stamina necessary to actually reach the top of whatever mountain we are climbing. To make it there means simply taking one step after another, pausing to rest when necessary, and then continuing on. When we put the energy expended on telling ourselves how hard it is towards taking the next step instead, the going gets a little less tough. Once at the top we will be able to look back on where we’ve come from, take stock of where we are, and begin to envision what might be possible in the future.

Whether in our own homes or out in the world within our reach, there is so much in need of our attention. The work it will take to tend to those needs and to build the better world that we want to believe is possible will be hard. But then, we are capable of doing hard things. Let’s save our energy for actually doing them.

— I offer this post with the acknowledgment of the immense and unearned privilege that has been mine, not just during this past year, but throughout my life. People say we shouldn’t compare our “hard” with that of others, and there is some truth in that. Hard is hard. However, it is also true that there are barriers, burdens, and battles that I have never had to face that others live with every single day—

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