I hiked to the top of a mountain today. arms open. sun on my face. standing above a lake that looks like it belongs in a movie.
a year ago I couldn't walk to the mailbox without negotiating with my own brain for forty minutes first.
I'm wearing a sweatshirt that says "May Be She's Born With It, Maybe It's Sertraline" at the top of a trail I would have cancelled on twelve months ago. not because I was tired. because showing up anywhere felt like dragging a body that didn't want to move through a world that felt like it was made of cement. spatula.
a woman passing me on the trail read it and stopped. she didn't say anything at first. then she said "50mg?" I said "100." she said "same." then she looked at the view and said "we made it up here though." and kept walking.
that's it. that was the whole moment. two strangers on a mountain. two dosages. one view neither of us would have seen if we'd listened to the version of ourselves that said don't go.
the before version of me would have stayed in bed and googled this lake instead of standing above it.
the after version has her arms open and dirt on her shoes and a sweatshirt that tells every person on this trail exactly how she got here.
nobody hikes to a view like this to prove they're fixed. you hike here to prove you're moving. and moving is enough.
what's the first thing you did that the old version of you would have cancelled on
Hiking has become much more than just a physical activity for me; it’s a beacon of hope and a testament to the power of perseverance, especially when dealing with mental health challenges like depression. Before I embarked on this journey, even simple tasks like walking to the mailbox felt overwhelmingly hard due to the fog of depression and anxiety that clouded my mind. It was as if each step required an internal debate, a convincing conversation with myself to push through the inertia. Wearing my sweatshirt that reads, "May Be She's Born With It, Maybe It's Sertraline," I realized how important it is to normalize discussing medication openly. Sertraline, an SSRI commonly prescribed to treat depression, became a significant part of my healing process, helping ease the mental barriers that once made moving through the world feel like trudging through cement. On that mountain trail, a simple moment of connection with another hiker sharing the same medication dosage underscored that we are not alone in this struggle. It highlighted the unspoken support thread that weaves through communities who confront similar battles every day. This shared understanding uplifted me more than words could describe, reinforcing the idea that while medication plays a crucial role, human connection and acknowledgment are equally vital. The lake view from the summit was breathtaking, but the true victory was in the act of showing up and moving forward despite the past months of debilitating hesitation. No one hikes up a trail like this to prove they’ve conquered everything; they hike because every step forward—no matter how small—is a success worth celebrating. If you’re struggling with mental health, I encourage you to find that one activity that motivates you, be it hiking, painting, or simply stepping outside your door for a breath of fresh air. Combining therapy, medication, and personal effort can gradually transform the daunting into the doable. You don’t have to be fixed right now; just moving is enough, and every step you take is a testament to your strength and resilience.
