Those stats won't even make most people blink, but the numbers don't tell the whole story.
Every summer, we are blessed enough to enjoy a family vacation. We've made it a priority. Our goal is to always stretch our comfort zones while exploring this big, wonderful world, and to discover new things about ourselves.
When the boys were young, we spent much of our time teaching them life skills and nurturing a love for the outdoors and travel. Fishing, hiking, animal tracking, flower and plant identification, site-seeing and the like.
Now that the boys are just about grown, we find ourselves reiterating some of the most important life lessons, but also just enjoying seeing them freely doing the things we used to have to push them to do. We are relishing in the fruits of our labor; sharing experiences with them as adults.
We are also navigating the approaching new space known as the empty nest. Learning to appreciate the time we now have to do things with each other, separate from the man-children.
We've had our share of challenges during our marriage and child-raising years. But we survived and thrived thanks to a few basic (seemingly common-sensical) themes: respect, friendship, love, and the deepest desire to see the other achieve their dreams.
It's that last one that forces us out of our comfort zones. We believe so deeply in the other, that we know, better than anyone else, how to motivate, inspire, and push them beyond what they thought was possible. We support and encourage each other so the fear of failure loses all its grip.
So today, with his encouragement, I faced fear again. The hardest part of aneurysm recovery has been the PTSD; at times, an almost crippling fear of the event happening again. Even though it appears my aneurysm wasn't triggered by anything in particular and certainly nothing within my control, I fear doing something that may trigger high levels of stress, increased blood pressure, physical exertion, etc.
When he suggested we tackle hiking Hogsback as a family, anxiety set-in, BIGTIME. The questions swirled...what if it happens again? What if I die on that mountain? What if I'm just so out-of-shape that I can't do it? What if I'm not mentally or physically tough enough? What if I embarrass myself? What if I disappoint him?
The time for the hike came, and it didn't take long for me to realize just how tough this was going to be. The trail is technical, lots of tree roots, rocks, etc. Foot placement is key so I spent much of my time looking down; so much so that I nearly knocked myself out by running smack into a partially fallen tree with my head...TWICE!! Gifted and graceful, that's me!
I was bringing up the rear most of the day, watching the rest of the group navigate the trail and incline seemingly effortlessly. Meanwhile, my every step and every breath was labored. Stopping frequently to catch my breath, wipe away tears, mumble a few choice curse words (or a combination thereof), I tried to maintain perspective. I'm not an ultrarunner. I'm not 19. Or 23. I'm a middle-aged, overweight, woman who has no business being on these trails except to prove to herself than she CAN.
I took a lot of baggage up there with me today. A lot of fear, a lot of self-loathing, a lot of apprehension, a lot of grief. Today was both the 5-month anniversary of my aneurysm and the 2-year anniversary of my grandfather's passing. With each tear that fell from my cheeks to the soft dirt below, a little of that baggage also fell away. The fear was replaced with confidence. The self-loathing with empowerment. The apprehension with appreciation. The grief with celebration.
There were times I wanted to quit. Times I wanted to turn around and go back the way I came. Times I couldn't find the humor in the shenanigans the others enjoyed. Times I nearly convinced myself I didn't belong there.
But there were also times I beamed with pride; for my boys and myself. Times I allowed myself to giggle at how crazy this whole idea was and wonder outloud how and why people do this "for fun." And at the summit, there was plenty of time for reflection, gratitude, and appreciation.
Ultimately, he was right. He usually is. He believed in me. Every step of the way. He knew I could do it even though (and especially because) I doubted myself. His words encouraged me and his touch energized me. He looked at me and held me with a grace, gratitude, and pride that took any breath I had left away. He was gentle, empathetic, humorous, and ever-positive. But he also wanted to make sure I did it all by myself. This was my victory, no matter how inconsequential it may seem to those who consider such a feat trivial.
Today, I climbed a mountain. And stood victorious at the top. The mountain didn't conquer me. It came. We fought. I won.