Becoming

What scares me the most about this hike isn’t the blisters, the cold rain, or the black bears. It’s that I know the trail will change me. 

Twenty-two weeks living outside, walking more than 2,000 miles—of course it will change me. 

I look forward to who I might become, or maybe who I’ll rediscover. I hope the trail burns away the noise and leaves something raw and true. But I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t afraid. 

There’s a version of myself I haven’t met yet—someone forged in isolation and sweat and hunger—and I don’t know what he’ll be like. What if I lose the me I know and don’t like the version that comes out the other side? 

I’ve already been to some dark places in my mind. PTSD has dragged me into the shadows more than once. I’ve sobbed on the side of a running trail at night during ultramarathon training, broken by the weight of invisible things. I know what it means to unravel. I know the terrain of my own collapse. 

And yet, I’m going. 

I crave the fire that melts away the false parts of me. 

I just hope that in losing myself, I find something better—or truer—waiting underneath.