“We don’t need to know in advance that we can survive the whole journey. We only need to know that we can survive this moment.”
Called by the Mountain
The Precipice Trail had been calling to us each summer on our vacations to Acadia National Park. Each year, I would glance up at that sheer wall of granite and say, Not this time. Too risky. Too much.
But this August was different. My youngest son had just turned fourteen — steady of mind and heart. His older brother was twenty, confident, strong, and protective. Between the two of them, I thought: maybe I could do it this year. Maybe we could try the Precipice Trail.
A Trail of Warnings
The trail climbs 1,400 vertical feet in less than a mile, weaving across narrow ledges, iron rungs, and sheer cliffs. I had read about the danger before — a middle-aged man had fallen to his death attempting to descend.
Even so, reading about “exposed ledges” is different than gripping them with your own hands. Within minutes of starting, we faced the first iron ladder. Just a few rungs off the ground, but a warning of what was to come.
We passed hikers already turning back. At the fifteen-minute mark, fear rose in my chest: Had I misjudged? Was this the wrong call for me, for my sons?
Parenting in Reverse
My older son moved ahead, pointing out handholds and footholds. Each time I cleared a feature, he said, “You’re doing so well, Mom.”
I felt the role reversal keenly: parenting in reverse, my son guiding me across granite the way I once guided him across playground climbing frames. Tenderness mixed with fear.
I began to speak aloud to steady myself:
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I can do this.
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I can climb a ladder.
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I can walk on a ledge.
My boys echoed back, “Yes, Mom, you can.”
Learning to Stay Present
Fear threatened to overwhelm me whenever I thought too far ahead. The only way through was to stay here, now.
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Four points of contact.
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One hand, one foot, then the other hand, the other foot.
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Don’t look down.
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Breathe.
I realized how manageable fear becomes when I focus on the moment in front of me. One rung. One breath. One step.
It reminded me of childbirth: you cannot survive labor by fearing the next contraction. You survive it by meeting the one you’re in.
The Summit
When we finally reached the top, relief flooded my body. The sky stretched wide, the Atlantic shimmered in the distance.
Had I known in advance how difficult the climb would be, I would never have dared it. But sometimes we are better off not knowing. Because within us is the capacity to hold what is hard — more than we ever imagined — if we take it one moment at a time.
What the Mountain Taught Me
The Precipice Trail offered me more than a summit. It offered lessons:
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Fear shrinks in the present tense.
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Love can echo through encouragement: “Yes, Mom, you can.”
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My children are not only my charges but also my guides.
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Life itself is just like that climb: precarious, unpredictable, yet possible when held step by step.
Grief as Another Precipice
I have known other trails that felt impossible to climb. Losing my son. Losing my husband. The drop-offs of grief were just as steep, the fear just as suffocating.
If I had known in advance the length and weight of that journey, I would have said, I can’t. But life doesn’t demand the whole thing at once. It demands only the next step.
Grief, like the Precipice Trail, is survived one rung at a time.
Practices for Holding What Is Hard
When life feels unmanageable, try anchoring into the present with these simple practices:
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Name what is here now. Describe what you see, hear, or feel in this moment.
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Feel the ground. Notice the support beneath your feet or seat.
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Breathe. Slow your exhale. Let it remind your body you are safe right now.
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Take the next step. Don’t leap ahead. Just move the hand or foot in front of you.
One Step, One Breath
I will never forget the sound of my sons’ voices echoing on the granite: “Yes, Mom, you can.”
Courage is not the absence of fear. Courage is fear carried carefully, step by step, until it transforms into trust.
We don’t need to know we can survive the whole journey. We only need to know we can survive this moment. And one day, we look around and realize: we are standing on the summit, hearts wide open to the impossible beauty of it all.
