The Trailhead
The Parking Lot
The engine is off.
The keys are sitting in the cupholder.
I've already checked that I locked the car... twice.
My backpack is on.
My boots are laced.
I've got enough snacks to survive a small apocalypse.
And yet...
I can't get myself to take ten steps.
So I sit there.
Watching people come and go.
The retired couple that somehow hikes faster than I ever will.
The guy with calves the size of my future.
The golden retriever that looks happier than I've been all week.
Everyone seems to know exactly what they're doing.
Meanwhile, I'm sitting in my car wondering if I should just...
...leave.
The Drive Home
I've done it before.
More than I'd like to admit.
Drive an hour.
Sometimes two.
Get to the trailhead.
Look at the sign.
Feel my stomach drop.
Turn the car around.
Go home.
The hike never even starts.
If you've ever done this too...
First of all, hi.
I'm glad it's not just me.
The Conversation in My Head
People think the hardest part of hiking is the climb.
It's not.
The hardest part is the five minutes before you start.
Because that's when your brain becomes an Olympic-level negotiator.
"You're pretty out of shape."
"You can always come back next weekend."
"It's probably too hot."
"What if your knee starts hurting?"
"What if people pass you?"
"What if you can't finish?"
And my personal favorite...
"Remember when this used to be easy?"
Oof.
That one stings.
Here's the Weird Part...
None of those thoughts show up halfway through the hike.
They live in the parking lot.
They wait at the trailhead.
Because that's where possibility still exists.
Once you start walking, something changes.
The overthinking gets replaced by breathing.
One step becomes another.
The trail starts asking your body questions instead of your mind.
What I'm Really Afraid Of
I've spent a lot of time wondering why the trailhead scares me so much.
I don't think it's because I'm afraid of hiking.
I think I'm afraid of meeting the version of myself I left behind.
The girl who thought twelve miles sounded like a fun Saturday.
The girl who didn't think twice before throwing a backpack in the car.
The girl who lived in the mountains.
Every trailhead quietly asks me the same question.
"Can you still do this?"
Some days...
I honestly don't know.
The Truth
I've gained over 100 pounds.
I've spent years away from backpacking.
The boots still fit.
I'm just different now.
And I think I've been mourning that version of myself for longer than I realized.
What the Trail Doesn't Care About
Here's what I've started noticing.
The trail has never once asked me how much I weigh.
It has never asked how long it's been since my last hike.
It has never cared what pace I hike.
Only people care about those things.
The trail doesn't.
The trail just waits.
Patiently.
Exactly where I left it.
A Deal With Myself
A few weeks ago I made a deal with myself.
Don't think about the summit.
Don't think about the mileage.
Don't even think about finishing.
Just get to the first bend in the trail.
If you still want to turn around...
You can.
I've never turned around at the first bend.
Not once.
Because by then, something has shifted.
I'm no longer sitting in the parking lot wondering if I belong.
I'm hiking.
Maybe That's the Point
Maybe that's the real purpose of the trailhead.
Not to separate hikers from non-hikers.
But to remind us that courage doesn't happen on the summit.
It happens in the parking lot.
It happens when your heart is racing, your brain is trying to convince you to go home, and you open the car door anyway.
Maybe that's why every trail begins there.
Not because it's where the path starts.
But because it's where the excuses end.
P.S.
If you've ever driven all the way to a trailhead...
...only to turn around and go home...
Welcome to the club.
I have a feeling there are a lot more of us than anyone is willing to admit.