Learning to Climb (With a Fear of Heights)

Looking down, it is clear that a fall from this height would kill me.

I never thought that I would be in this position: suspended on a cliff, my life clinging to a knot of my own device, each digit on my body forcefully pushing on tiny features in the rock face in order to keep me in place. One wrong move and I would slip, my bodyweight pulling full force on the rope, the knot I tied a few minutes before the only thing keeping me from plunging to an untimely, messy, tragic death. My fear of heights was intensifying, leaving me shaking in a precarious position where shaking was the last thing I needed to be doing.

The sun is blaring on the left side of my body as the waterfall roars in the background, the most immersive song in the soundtrack of the forest. The only other noise in the landscape is my labored breathing, captured solely by my own ears, as all other life in the vicinity is either on the ground far below or gracefully circling in the clear blue sky above, waiting for my demise. A spacious chasm exists between my body and all others. In this vertical space my only company is the ancient, slippery rock that I clung to desperately. 

While I made it halfway up the cliff, at this point I am stumped; there is no visible path up the wall from where I cling. My left hand pushes down on a tiny ledge the width of my pinky. My right fingers are crunching into a small hole that had formed in the limestone through millions of years of erosion. Below, a little bulge in the wall supports the weight of my right calf, straining with all its might to stay in place. Above my head there is a potential hold for my left hand, one that would ensure a smooth and safe movement to the next phase of the climb. The problem is I can’t figure out where to put my left foot. The entire wall in that area is smooth and devoid of any hold that would allow a confident thrust towards the sky. Without securing my left foot, there is no way up.

My heart begins to race, pumping through my ribcage. Sweat starts pouring down my face, fingers shaking, muscles aching, the combination of physical exertion and mental panic becomes exhausting. Turkey vultures start to circle above, their silhouettes periodically blocking the sun, their shadows swooping across the cliff and serving as an ominous prediction of what could happen over the next few moments.

After a few minutes of frantically looking around for the next move, the unfortunate reality of the situation is made clear by my friend below, who shouts up his advice on how I can continue forward:

“Trust your left toe. Put all your weight on it and move up. If you do that you can reach the hold with your left hand. Then you’re good. Just trust the toe.”

Trust it all to my left toe. Sure. Why not?

A deep breath in. A long sigh out. Shift the weight. Move my left knee over my foot. Keep the pressure in my fingers. Rotate my right heel towards the wall. Push down as hard as I can on my left big toe. Create the friction. Stick to the wall. Flex every muscle. Breathe in. Three. Two. One… 

—
I have never been comfortable with heights. Truthfully, I am terribly afraid of them. Always have been. No matter how hard I try, I can’t seem to shake it.

Whenever I come up to a ledge, be it in a building or on a mountain, my stomach sinks, my head starts spinning, I gasp, and immediately need to take a few steps backwards. In those moments all that pops into my head is how easy it would be to fall and what that experience may feel like.

When considering this deep and harrowing fear, a line from the TV show Louie resonates deeply. When discussing the main character Louie’s fear of heights, his friend says something to the effect of:

“You’re not afraid you’ll fall. You’re afraid you’ll jump.”

That’s what scares me the most about heights. Not that I could fall. Rather, it is the fact that it’s so easy to just hop over the rail and fall to my death, leaving everything behind. Honestly there’s a small part of me that would find a sense of relief from all the stress and pressure of life. But, thankfully, there’s a much larger part that would feel immense sorrow and grief that I’d no longer get to experience all the beauty that life has to offer. Up to this point, the latter part of me has won out every time. And I intend to keep it that way.

Yet the fear of falling remains in spite of all the logical reasons why it shouldn’t. I’ve tried more times than I can count to overcome this fear by facing it head on. I’ve traversed sketchy bridges, ziplined over mountains and waterfalls, hiked trails where one gross misstep would result in a death-confirming free fall. Heck, I even make sure to look out the window every time I fly. I’m serious about overcoming this.

So far, though, it’s all been in vain. 

The activity that has gotten me the closest to overcoming this fear is rock climbing. In part because it has helped me work through, and overcome, other fears in my life.

—
Back in college I wasn’t the social type. I never drank, and I found going out to parties to be both woefully boring as well as an experience that gripped me with so much anxiety that I couldn’t handle it. A typical Friday night usually involved me getting a takeout burrito and cozying up in my apartment (where I lived alone) to start a Modern Family marathon before bed. It was not uncommon for me to get home from class on a Friday evening, close my door, and not speak a word out loud until I was back in class on Monday morning. I’m still working out if it that’s a badass example of complete self-confidence, or a concerning cry for help that I ignored for years. 

Much of that changed one Friday when my friend Hannah invited me to go climbing at a new spot that had just opened up in town. Going out on a Friday night? I wasn’t sure. But the setting of climbing appealed to me more than clubs. “It’s super casual,” she said “and it seems more like your vibe.” My social anxiety was still sending me signals to go back to my house and enjoy a tasty burrito in the darkness, but I went along anyway and embraced the discomfort.

I arrived a few minutes early to what looked like an abandoned warehouse that hung a homemade sign displaying THE WALL on it. I wasn’t sure if I was in the right place. A sketchy warehouse by the river usually isn’t the setting for a pleasant and uneventful evening. Hannah and her group, allegedly, were already inside. Putting my concerns aside, I walked up to the door and opened it, not realizing that my life was about to change.

As soon as I walked into the building I felt a sense of calm and peace. A feeling that screamed, “Oh yeah…this is where I belong.”

A song from one of my favorite bands, Sigur Ros, was playing as I entered. I gazed up at the wall, then looked around to see nothing but happy, smiling people sitting in thrifted furniture chatting, laughing, and cheering each other on. Homemade granola was for sale for a buck on the counter, and there were a couple dogs hanging out with their owners throughout the place. This was the most comfortable I had ever felt since leaving home, and it happened in an instant.

Within ten minutes I had already made new friends and found an activity that would bring me peace and much needed socialization. Climbing, and its people, would help me work through my social anxieties while keeping the TV off and burritos unpurchased on Friday evenings. It became a refuge. An activity I enjoyed, and one I was pretty decent at. I formed great relationships with some of the folks there over the following months. Nothing too intimate, but it was a relief seeing more people around campus that I knew and could confidently chat with. Even today, ten years later, I’m still in touch with some of those original folks from The Wall. Silly as it may seem, that first night was a major turning point in my life that I look back at very fondly. I wish I could experience that initial feeling again.

The Wall closed down at the start of my senior year. Not enough memberships were sold. It was a crushing blow, but one that only affected a couple months of my time there.

When I shipped out to New Zealand for the spring semester to student-teach, I found a climbing gym that claimed to have the tallest wall in the country. I made sure to get there. Far away from home, an ocean away from being a continent away, I once again found peace up on a wall where no one could reach me. It was akin to wandering alone in the woods without my phone. I’ve always loved being unreachable. Even if just for a moment.

Back home there were no climbing gyms, and I wasn’t confident enough (and didn’t have any partners) to climb outside. This is where the tension existed in my affinity for the activity: I loved climbing and what it did for me, but I was still afraid of heights. This is why I had always relied on gyms.

In a climbing gym it’s almost zero-risk. There are waivers, safety checks, and corporate responsibility to make sure everything is in safe working order. You’re attached to expensive equipment that is completely fail-safe and checked repeatedly for its functionality. If anything even appears slightly off, the whole place closes and the equipment gets replaced. In all reality, there is no need to be nervous. I’d get a little skeeved out going really high on indoor walls, but then I’d remember that the gym wouldn’t be open if there were any safety hazards. It helped to see dozens of others doing the same thing at the same time, blissfully accepting the guaranteed safety of it all, many of whom were part of birthday celebrations and bachelor parties.

Now contrast that with the thought of climbing outside. Unless I went on a guided trip, all the responsibility for safety would be squarely on the shoulders of me and my partner. No waiver. No team of experts. No frequent safety-checks. Just me, a friend, and our ability to competently provide enough rope for one another and to tie the right knots, in the right way, to prevent us from falling to our death. As someone who struggles with confidence and competence, that wasn’t solace. That was sheer terror. Hanging from a wall on a knot of my own doing seemed like a reckless amount of confidence for someone who can barely keep my shoes tied throughout the day.

Not climbing outside, though, made me feel like an imposter. Like so much of my life I prevented myself from doing the really hard things for fear of failure. I claimed to climb and enjoy it as a hobby, and yet it was only in manicured settings rather than the “real deal” in the rugged wilderness. I felt like a naive enthusiast as opposed to a competent and confident expert due to my fear of failure (and in this case, failure resulting in severe injury or possible death). In other words, I felt like a fraud. Or worse: a poser.

So when my best friend Troy had learned how to safely and effectively climb outside over the past year, under the guidance of a very experienced group of friends, I wasn’t shocked when we were hanging out and he dropped this on me:

“Dude, you should come outdoor climbing with me. I can teach you everything you need to know.”

The thought filled me with dread. Troy was arguably the smartest person I knew, but did I still trust that we could escape that perilous situation safely? Sure, he had done it dozens of times before and was perfectly fine. But he’s also a biomedical engineer and good with physical directions, puzzles, and Legos. I am none of those things. Would I be able to manage hanging halfway up a giant cliff, knowing that the knot I tied was the only thing between me and an untimely death, devastated wife, and closed-off future, without panicking and making the situation more dangerous? Was I actually capable of learning something I sucked at to the point of risking my life on it? Or was this fear rooted less in the actual climbing, and more in my fear that I was a poser, incapable of actually being the person I wanted to be? There was only one way to find out.

“Let’s do it. This spring. Teach me everything you know.”

—

On a cold weekday evening in February I met Troy at our local climbing gym. As I walked through the door and stared up at the towering walls with people dangling from them in precarious positions, my feelings entering the facility were different than ever before. When I moved to the area a couple years ago I was stoked to see there was such a great gym in town. I was eager to rekindle that comfort and belonging that The Wall had fostered a decade prior. Typically I’d come here a couple times per week after work for some bouldering and top rope climbing with Troy. Gym climbing never skeeves me out. I know it’s safe and regulated, so I can focus purely on the climb. It’s a freeing feeling to be halfway up a wall knowing that no one can reach me even if they wanted to. Up there, I can’t be bothered. It’s a feeling I love that is increasingly difficult to come by these days now that a phone is always in my pocket. Taking a call on a wall, though, is nearly impossible (and ill-advised). “Sorry, can’t talk. I’m 30 feet in the air and trying to figure out where to place my big toe.” It’s the perfect excuse to ignore the world around me. And in this safe world of corporate-sponsored gym climbing, it’s a refuge.

Climbing in this way puts me in a state of flow. First coined by psychologist Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi in the 1970s, flow describes a mental state that could ultimately be a key to long-term happiness. Unlocking this power within our minds can be incredibly impactful. Being in a flow state has been shown in studies to reduce levels of stress and anxiety while increasing feelings of competence, resilience, and (as hard as it may be to describe) overall happiness. Given the power of this state of mind, much writing and research has been completed on the topic over the past generation, including how to create the experience virtually on demand. According to the research, in order to achieve a flow state, a delicate balance has to be struck in our minds. We must be fully engaged in an intrinsically meaningful task that is at the frontier of our already high abilities in that activity. In other words, when we are engrossed in a challenge that’s at the edge of our abilities in an activity that we’re already pretty good at, we can achieve this elusive flow state and experience all its powerful benefits. The opportunities here are literally endless. An activity that generates flow state could be anything from playing a difficult song on the drums, to making defenders miss on the football field, to making the perfect cut in a woodworking project, and (for me) moving your body in the precise manner necessary to move up a climbing wall. These actions, without even realizing it, can put our minds into a state of presence, peace, and happiness. It’s one of the reasons why The Wall helped ease my social anxiety: it put me into a state of flow.

Why is that? Cognitively, flow state is achieved because our brain has labeled a task as meaningful to our well-being, but it is almost sure that it can complete it. This means that our brain basically tells itself, “Okay, if I can be fully focused on this thing that’s really important, then I can probably do it and achieve the positive outcomes that will help my survival.” Once that survival mechanism kicks in trivial matters like the weather, that text we just got, or what we’re having for dinner don’t matter. In order to grow and complete the activity we must be completely focused on what we’re doing and how we’re doing it. There’s no time or space for our mind to wander aimlessly or to question our methods. We become so consumed by our actions that the rest of the world melts away and the only thing that matters to our brain is the moment. Thus we are put in a state of presence and immersion that doesn’t give negative emotions like anxiety or self-doubt space to exist. In a way, it almost sounds like a fleeting state of enlightenment: completely present and mindful without the constant internal monologue disrupting our experience of life as it is.

If a task is too easy then we won’t achieve flow; our brain can accomplish it without needing to be fully focused. For example, I can easily flip pancakes while holding a conversation because my brain doesn’t see the task as overly challenging. We also will fail to reach a flow state if the task we’re engaged in isn’t intrinsically motivating or meaningful. A necessary task at work might be difficult and at the edge of our abilities, but if we don’t actually give a shit about what we’re doing then our brain will have no incentive to fully focus on it. Flow also hinges on us already being competent in the activity we’re involved in. Playing quarterback is extremely difficult. So, naturally, we can achieve flow state by playing it, right? Not necessarily. If I’ve never actually played quarterback in a football game, when the time comes to perform I’ll have to overthink and analyze every single move and decision that needs to be made because I’m not confident or skilled in my abilities. That’s not flow. Our competence has to be at a level where we can perform the motions fluidly without thought in addition to the action being difficult. It’s not enough for us to do something challenging. We must also know what to do, and how to do it, subconsciously, thanks to hours of practice and internalization. For example, a quarterback doesn’t drop back for a pass in the Super Bowl and think, “Okay, I need to shuffle three steps to my left, point my left toe at a 45-degree angle, make sure my left elbow drives back into my hip, and get my follow-through closer to the right side of my body in order to avoid getting hit by the helmet of the defender just to my left so that the ball can drop exactly on the outside shoulder of my receiver forty-yards downfield.” Instead, they just do it. All of those actions happen without a thought because they can already do those movements naturally. The response is automatic and unanalyzed.

(That description, by the way, refers to a pass completed by New York Giants quarterback Eli Manning in Super Bowl 46, widely considered to be the greatest pure throw in the history of the National Football League. When asked how he pulled it off, Eli said that in those moments you just rely on your training and trust your body. There’s no time to think, you just do the thing. The ultimate description of flow and its amazing outcomes).

In modern life it can be hard to reach a state of flow. Our world has become so convenient and frictionless that it’s incredibly easy to glide through each day without necessarily needing to challenge ourselves or explore the limits of our abilities. We can coast through just fine, and live comfortably, without ever knowing what we’re fully capable of. It’s easy to go with the flow, but that can often prevent us from experiencing flow. Instead, we exist in a world where we live cautiously and carefully, and willingly submit to a neurasthenic existence that softens ambition, risk, and resilience.

One of the reasons I’m so drawn to climbing is because it’s one of the quickest ways to put me in a relaxed state of flow. When on the wall, I need to be fully conscious of every movement my body makes, from my left pointer finger all the way down to my right big toe. There’s no time to think about anything other than the present moment. And when the flow state really hits mentally I begin to flow physically, too. Up the wall, fluidly, in a way that feels like it's the most natural thing in the world. It’s addicting. It wasn’t just the comforting social atmosphere that drew me to The Wall all those years ago; it was the realization that, for however long I was on the wall, all of those things in life I was afraid of didn’t matter. My internal monologue shut up for once. For a few fleeting moments I wasn’t the socially anxious kid with low self-esteem; I was purely, fully, unequivocally my fullest self.

The same could not be said about what I was getting myself into. I knew nothing about lead belaying, so this process most certainly would not put me into a state of flow. Instead, this was a challenging task that was way beyond my competency that also risked my survival, which according to Csikszentmihalyi would put me in a state of, literally, “anxiety”.

Great.

Instead of confidently going through the motions, I knew I’d need to overanalyze every step of the process, every movement, every routine. Rather than supporting Troy on his journey up the wall effortlessly, my mind would be racing over what to do, when to do it, and how to make it happen in the best possible way. The normal relaxation I felt when I safely moved up a wall on a corporate-approved safety device wouldn’t be found in this experience. I would have to embrace my insecurities and work through the discomfort until my skills were at a level that made flow possible. Because an anxious person in charge of a serious task is not the best situation for anyone.

Even when my abilities were at the level where flow as possible, eventually, could I achieve a flow state when fear was brought into the mix?

At what point does fear overtake presence and confidence? And how would that impact my actions in the moment? Even with all my attempts to quell it my fear of heights was still very real. I imagined being halfway up the cliff outside, moving through a flow state, when suddenly my fear of heights would surge through my body. Could I remain relaxed, focused, and at the edge of my abilities if my flight or fight reflex was pumping through my veins? In reality I would need to achieve a flow state in both belaying and climbing for this challenge to work out safely; anxiety and fear could lead to devastating mistakes. The only solution, then, would be to embrace the insecurity and discomfort and move through it anyway. I would need to expand my comfort-zone mentally and physically to the point where belaying and climbing were no longer terrifying. Through practice and visualization the mechanics would need to become natural so that my focus could be solely on the next move of my body, not the fact that I (or Troy, for that matter) was suspended from a cliff relying solely on my own competence.

—

Troy and I stood on the thin carpet in a secluded part of the building, beneath a massive wall covered in hand holds. As soon as Troy pulled out his rope to begin my first lesson, my heart dropped and feelings of dread immediately surged through my veins. In this scenario I wouldn’t be able to simply focus on the mechanics of climbing. Instead, I’d have to remember and perform with confidence and fluidity a laundry list of maneuvers that would be the difference between Troy successfully scaling an impressive cliff and him falling to a horrific injury, or untimely death, entirely at my hands. He was sure to remind me of this reality multiple times.

Our plan would be for Troy to lead climb up the cliff, leaving me to belay in order to keep him safe. Lead climbing involves a climber moving up the wall and clipping their rope into carabiners that are placed along the route. If a climber were to fall, assuming their belayer (e.g. me) is competent, they would fall the distance to the last carabiner they clipped into below. Something this is just a few feet. In other cases it can be up to twenty. Regardless, falls can be dangerous if they’re not properly belayed or proper technique isn’t applied by the climber who is falling. My task would be to give Troy the exact amount of rope he needed for his ascent up the wall, and to be ready to catch him if he fell by pulling the rope in a specific manner while simultaneously jumping forward and running up the wall. My plan was, naturally, for Troy to not fall so that I wouldn’t need to test my abilities in this area.

Once he reached the top, he would secure the rope through a series of chains bolted into the cliff face, which would then allow me to “top rope” climb; a method of climbing that doesn’t involve falls, feels more secure, and is the type I was used to from climbing at the gym. This method of climbing was still dependent on Troy’s management of the rope at the top of the cliff and the knot I tied into my harness; another fact that filled me with dread. I was willing to learn how to belay Troy while he lead climbed, but was not willing to lead climb myself knowing that a fall could lead me to swinging into the wall violently and smashing my face. With a public facing career, and Christmas card photos to take as a newly married couple, I couldn’t risk destroying the money-maker.

“Alright,” Troy started, “so the first thing you need to learn how to do is flake the rope. Which basically means you get it organized and straight so that there are no knots while you are belaying.”

I was already lost.

When it comes to kinetic activities, I’m a slow learner. Ask me to memorize something or learn some complex concept and I can figure it out pretty quickly. I’d be happy to tell you all fifty states and their capitals in under sixty seconds or explain to you the complex reasons why societies either thrive or descend into chaos depending on a specific set of factors. But when it comes to manipulating objects, like tying ropes, building something, or wrapping presents, I am admittedly pathetic and useless. Growing up I could never put Legos together. I’d always mess up the directions, get frustrated, and smash them across the table. If you look closely at any of the IKEA furniture in our home, you’ll notice bookshelf backings are put on wrong, shoe racks are precariously balanced in an effort to make up for an early mistake in the directions, and there are always extra screws lying around that I assumed weren’t needed. When working at a gift shop in college I’d sometimes be asked by customers if I could wrap their purchases. My response was always the same:

“Can I? Yes. Do you want me to? Absolutely not.”

Feeling focused and determined, I mimicked Troy’s motions with empty hands. Troy then handed me the rope to try. Time to shine. I flaked the rope with a nervous sense of confidence, and ultimately it turned out okay. I breathed a sigh of relief. Maybe this wasn’t going to be so bad.

“Alright, that’s step one. Now we need to tie off the end of the rope so it doesn’t slide through the equipment.”

Crap. I guess that was the easy part.

Troy walked me through a series of seemingly innocuous knots that had rather extreme purposes.

“This knot will make sure, if I fall, that the rope doesn’t slide out from you and result in me falling to my death.”

“This knot will make sure that I don’t lose the harness and freefall without any protection, probably to my death.”

“This one will make sure the rope stays put at the top of the cliff so it doesn’t slip and fall while you’re climbing up, because then you’d fall to your death.”

One-by-one I practiced with full attention masking a deep sense of unease simmering within me. My confidence would shake when I’d finish a knot and Troy would say, “Yeah that’s fine…for now.” Which essentially translated to: I don’t want to discourage you on our first lesson, but if you do that when the time comes our families may want to start brainstorming our obituaries.

—

Once the knots were all tied it was time to practice actually climbing. Troy hooked himself up to an auto-belay system that allowed him to climb safely up the wall without any of my input. If he slipped and fell, the auto-belay would catch him and gently guide him down to the gym floor. This gave me an opportunity to practice giving him enough rope, getting my body in the right positions, and catching falls (albeit in slow motion) without any actual danger.

As time went on I felt quite confident in my ability to do the actual belay. Troy had enough rope, and he maneuvered up the wall comfortably. When it came down to the actual climbing, I was pretty darn good. Then came the words I was dreading:

“Alright, let’s practice a fall.”

Troy walked me through the mechanics of what to do if he slipped and fell on the wall. Now, keep in mind, this would all happen in a split second without any notice whatsoever. So I needed to have this maneuver down so comfortably that I could perform it in an instant without having to think about it. Taking too long to process what to do could result in Troy falling a dangerous distance before I caught him.

If you’re ever in the position of lead-belaying a friend, here’s what catching a fall requires:

First, you need to be absolutely locked-in and focused on your climbing friend. No checking Instagram to see if anyone liked your post about climbing outside, no letting your mind wander about what’s for lunch or how long the cliff has been there. Complete focus is necessary.

As soon as you sense that the climber is falling, you need to actually jump up and into the wall so the weight on the pulley system catches them before too long. And, while you’re jumping, you also need to pull down on the rope as hard as you can with your left hand while simultaneously pulling out and slightly (but not all the way) down with your right hand. In just a split second, if all goes well, you’ll end up suspended a few feet in the air, feet on the wall, arms pulling the rope taught. And, presumably, breathing heavy sighs of anxiety about what the hell just went down with some moist pants to boot.

(If you are reading this and happen to be an accomplished lead-belayer, feel free to chuckle with concern at how poorly I described that process. Also, please send your thoughts and prayers).

We practiced this over and over on the auto-belay, which mercifully allowed Troy to slowly fall to a point where we could see where he’d be in an actual falling situation. Each time he ended up stopping above the ground. Crisis averted. Still, though, this was a process that allowed me to move slowly, mindfully, and with plenty of time to think about what I was doing. Time that I wouldn’t have in a real scenario.

At the end of the session Troy said I had done well. He is also the most blunt of all my friends, so I took that as a compliment. Next, he said, we would continue practicing until I felt confident enough to get lead-belay certified by the staff at the gym. From there, we could practice indoors for real until the time came to go outside in just a few months. 

As I left the gym I felt a mix of emotions that were foreign to me. To be honest, I was completely and concerningly out of my comfort zone. Most of my body was warm with feelings of being an imposter, of not actually being competent enough to do this. The consequences of a mistake were not lost on me. I deeply questioned if I was actually an “adventurer”, and if I could actually do things this hard. Or, if when it came down to it, I was just a sheltered and weak man who liked to think about doing big, adventurous things, but proved to be too cowardly and incapable when the time to perform actually arrived. This thought left me terribly sad. Was being the person I wanted to be out of reach? Would I have to accept my role as an adventure-appreciator, never one to accomplish these triumphs on my own? Would I ever be “the man in the arena”, as Teddy Roosevelt once put it? Or would I remain, as he described, “a poor and timid soul who knows neither victory nor defeat?”

At the same time, though, I felt a sense of pride and excitement. In spite of all of those doubts, I was doing the thing anyway. I tied the knots even though I was uncertain. I practiced the falls even though I was afraid. I committed to becoming certified even though I was sure I’d be humiliated and told-off by the staff that this was for “real climbers”, not weekend warriors who bit off more than they could chew.

I was in the arena.

More than anything, I felt uncertainty. Actually being able to lead-belay Troy up a cliff was not guaranteed. There would be a point where I’d have to make a calculated decision on whether or not to actually move forward with this based on my abilities and confidence level. And it was not 100% assured that I would. Really, it was more like 50-50. And that excited me. It made me feel alive. It reminded me that life begins at the end of my comfort zone, not well within it.

All in all, I left feeling excited, happy, proud, scared, uncertain, incompetent, foolish, anxious, determined, a bit badass, and a bit wet in the netherregions. 

The exact feelings I was hoping to evoke this year.

—

Over the next few weeks Troy and I continued to meet at the gym for practice. And each time my incompetence at remembering physical tasks became concerningly apparent.

When starting out, without fail, I would forget how to tie a simple knot at the end of the rope. Then my brain would freeze when setting up the belay device. My hands would be on the wrong ends of the rope. I’d forget the motion to give Troy the slack he needed, and take out the slack he didn’t. Time after time I would become flustered and feel like I was in way over my head. Once we got through the initial jitters I would actually do okay; my belaying was improving with each session. We’d agree that I needed a little more practice, head home, and a few days later come back just so I could forget everything I had learned the previous session and start all over. Progress was minimal, but it was there.

After about a month Troy felt I was ready to test for lead-belay certification. My palms began sweating. This test involved a staff member from the gym analyzing my every move as I went through the entire process of belaying. Everything from flaking the rope to tying the end knot to how much slack Troy would have at each stage of the climb would be noted and assessed. The exam would end with a climactic fall from Troy, where it would be my job to catch him and prevent his fall from continuing down to the gym floor below where his previously signed waiver would probably appear as a reminder from the staff almost immediately after his body made contact. To say I was feeling Csikszentmihalyi’s diagnosis of “anxious” was an understatement.

On a fateful Wednesday evening we called over one of the staff members and began the exam. His presence, while calm, intimidated me. Immediately I forgot everything I was supposed to do. For the life of me my brain couldn’t figure out which way the belay device went and how to feed the rope through it. It was a maneuver I had done hundreds of times at that point, and yet my flummoxed mind couldn’t handle this simple task. The evaluator laughed and told me to just relax. “Get your head on straight, you’re fine dude.” A nice sentiment. And also easy to say with confidence when you’re not the one worried about the livelihood of your friend. I breathed, relaxed, and clipped in. It was time to go.

As Troy began to work his way up the wall all I could think about was the upcoming fall. Would I be prepared to catch him? How would it feel on my end to be vaulted up the wall by his momentum? These thoughts swirled through my mind as I did my best to feed him just the right amount of slack. I was anything but relaxed and present throughout the exam. All I could think about was the fall, the fall, the fall. My slack-giving was imperfect as my hands were shaking with nerves. Not exactly a vote of confidence for my abilities.

Before I knew it Troy was ready for the moment of truth. This is where I put most of my practice and energy into. I had rehearsed it a thousand times at home in my mind and in my kitchen. As soon as Troy fell I would need to pull down with my left hand, pull out and down with my right, and leap off my left leg up and into the wall to make sure he didn’t swing too fast and slam his feet. I had more faith in this little feat of athleticism than I did with tying knots; leaping was something I could do without much thought.

On the count of three, Troy let go. As he plummeted through the air I leapt with all my might and pulled down on the rope with every ounce of strength I had. My harness shot up towards the ceiling, pulling me with it part way up the wall. My feet planted against the vertical surface. In less than a second all was still. I was hoisted against the wall. My pants were dry. Looking up, I could see that Troy was dangling above me. He was alive.

“How’d it feel?” I yelled up to him.

“Pretty good! Soft. Nice job.” Knowing Troy, he wouldn’t have lied at that moment. His words of support gave me confidence. As far as I could tell, I was going to pass the exam!

I lowered myself, then Troy, back to the ground. As we began undoing the rope, I looked over at the evaluator to get my feedback.

“Really nice job” he started, smiling. “Good catch on the fall and your technique’s alright. You did well. But there are a few things you need to work on and that I’d need to see before I can give you the certification.”

My heart sank. I failed.

Realistically, woe to me for thinking I’d pass something so difficult on the first try. Such arrogance I came in with. But in reality this was the greatest blessing I could have received at that time. Failure exposed me. As I felt pangs of embarrassment and shame, I realized that most of my life at that point had been set up for me to succeed and comfortably sheltered me from the discomfort of true failure. I was in a healthy relationship. I was really good at my job. I often did workouts I knew I could finish. Over the past few years I had kept myself from going on adventures where completion and accomplishment weren’t certain. As time went on, due to my own insecurities and fear of failure, I had essentially created a “failure-proof” bubble around my life. Sure, I always achieved the goals I set. But that’s because the goals themselves had a low bar and included little to no risk. It’s why failing this exam stung so hard. My heart went into my chest and I began to feel horrible about myself. This is why I avoided failure: it exposed my deep lack of confidence and self-esteem. It attacked a vision I had of myself as being this confident, competent man with a bit of savoir-faire in him. Which was, of course, a facade supported by years of flaky accomplishments that never truly tested me. 

While hurtful, the failure was exactly what I needed. The truth was this setback didn’t attack the vision I had about myself; rather, it exposed how flimsy and fake it really was. It brought to light how little I had truly challenged myself through the years and how my life had become a bubble of carefully curated successes designed to fuel my increasingly fragile ego. This was why I avoided hard projects and strenuous living: I didn’t really want to fail. And now here I was, the first major project that made me feel like a fish out of water that I had attempted in as long as I could remember, and I was flopping around the floor suffocating with incompetence. The exam had burst that bubble I blew for myself. There I was, on the gym floor, publicly exposed for the first time. I felt vulnerable, weak, a bit ashamed. But I also felt free. As if I could see clearly who I was, where I was, and what I needed to do to get somewhere new. 

When jumping into cold water, the anticipation is often the worst part. We fret and fear about how it’s going to feel and how uncomfortable it may be. This fear of what might happen paralyzes us and keeps us on the deck, high and dry. Once we commit to taking the leap, though, everything changes. We realize that the water isn’t that bad. In fact, it’s quite invigorating. We feel alive. We laugh and hyperventilate as our body warms up to its new environment. A sense of accomplishment washes over us and we begin to invite others into the water with us. Suddenly, we are experts.

Fear of failure kept me on the deck of life for far too long. I had accomplished quite a bit in my life, but just about all of it was safe and almost assured. Taking a leap like this was rarified air. I was now exposed, in the pool, free from my previous inhibitions that kept me from jumping before. Once the initial sense of shame ran its course I actually felt a bit giddy. For the first time in years I was truly a novice. I wasn’t good at this thing. I kind of sucked, actually. And someone who was really good at it just told me that I wasn’t good enough. Harsh to hear when you’ve made a life that reinforces how good you think you are all the time. Which is why it was such a necessary message.

The evaluator gave me a few tips for my next attempt. I wasn’t far off, he said. I just needed more confidence and fluency. It would be the same message I’d receive from another evaluator in my second attempt at certification a couple weeks later. Which, by the way, was another failure.

“Close” he said, “but too rigid. You gotta be fluid, man. Like a dance. Here, let me show you.”

In other words: I needed flow.

I was a blank slate. An open-minded student. I followed every move the evaluator taught me and practiced with vigor as much as I could. Shame had evolved into excitement. I thought of all the activities I had kept myself from trying, just because they seemed too hard and I was afraid to fail. Heck, I even struggled to buy potting soil for plants in the house because I was worried I’d do it wrong and kill them off. And here I was actively failing for all to see; a public display of humility. Instead of crumpling into a ball of self-loathing I kept my head high and practiced the movements with the teacher by my side. Suddenly, all of those activities I put off trying seemed more enticing; the rationale behind the delays were absurd. I felt like a new man, in a new world, free from inhibitions. I was failing, sucking, and I loved it.

“You got it man! Exactly! You got the movements down. Next time, you’re gonna nail it. I gotta teach a class so I can’t retest tonight, but find me next time you come in and we’ll get you certified. I can sense it.”

The confidence was reassuring. The only problem was that Troy and I had scheduled our climb in 48 hours, and there was no backing out now. I’d have to go out to the wall without official certification; without the confirmation from trained experts that I was fully ready to do this.

“You feel okay going outside?” Troy asked as we packed up. I kept my gaze on my backpack, unable to look him in the eye.

“Yeah, I feel alright. I got this.” I thought about asking if he was okay climbing outside with me as his belayer. But I held back. Troy was an honest man, and I was afraid to hear what the truth may be.

I had resolved to go prove myself outside. And I was going to succeed after weeks of failure. No matter what. And I needed Troy to sense that confidence.

The resolve made me feel more alive than I had in as long as I could remember. A rebirth.

—

I awoke in my bedroom to an intrusive alarm after a pitiful attempt at sleep. All night my dreams focused around one theme: falling and dying. Each psychedelic haze of a scene was more dramatic and disturbing than the last. Upon waking, as if I had actually fallen asleep, the muscle I had pulled in my shoulder the day before began to ache. I did not have full mobility in my arm.

Maybe these are signs that I shouldn’t go, I thought.

But it was too late. In just ninety minutes I would be with Troy at the bottom of a cliff, looking to scale up. After all the work, the practice, the expanding of my comfort zone, I couldn’t back out now. It had to happen, otherwise I wouldn’t be able to live with myself. These feelings of insecurity, incompetence, and plain fear were what kept me from pushing myself throughout my life to begin with. To quit now would be another admission of choosing laziness and comfort over feeling fully alive. Too much of that leads to a life not worth living.

A bowl of hastily eaten oatmeal would have been an unsatisfying final meal, another reason to resolve myself to survive the day’s activity. Gab, who was wary of this entire experience, was comfortingly calm as I hoisted my backpack over my shoulders and grabbed my car keys. She seemed more confident than I was.

“Have fun! You’re going to do great. Just let me know how it goes so I know you’re okay.” Simple words that created a deep sense of assurance. She trusted me. Not just to succeed, but to come home and continue our amazing life together. It wasn’t just faith in her voice; it was a declaration of necessity on her part. I couldn’t let her down.

My arrival at the trailhead came a few minutes before Troy’s; enough time to sit and soak in the reality of what I was about to do. At this point feelings of nerves switched over to excitement. It was a picturesque spring day in upstate New York. The sky was a deep blue, tiny buds were appearing on every branch in all directions, and the cacophony of birdsong was sublime. Parked on top of the cliffs we’d be climbing, the view in the distance was stunning. A picturesque rural valley swept across the landscape, punctuated by the small city skyline in the distance and tiny hamlets scattered across the natural playground. Beyond the great plains were the Green Mountains of Vermont, dominating the horizon and blanketed in low-lying clouds that comfortably tucked its residents into the landscape. It was one of those sweeping views that make you feel infinitely big and microscopically small at the same time; a connection that binds you to the grand scope of life while also reminding you of your insignificance within it.

The silence was broken by the sound of rubber crunching on loose stone. Troy had arrived. He climbed into my passenger seat and together we ate bagel sandwiches I had picked up along the way. Lox on a whole-wheat bagel seemed to be a more satisfying last meal than the bland oatmeal I scarfed down an hour prior. 

Our plan was to hike down to the bottom of the cliff, practice on a “warm up” route, and then get to the “real” climbing; routes that would challenge our physical prowess and mental fortitude. In order to get to the climbing area we had to squeeze through a cave. Or, rather, a thin crevice that had, at some point in geologic history, separated two massive chunks of the same rock separated by the width of a small wingspan. I wedged myself between the cracks and immediately felt claustrophobic. Where climbing stoked my fears of having too much space, the lack of space in this traverse sparked fears from a completely different end of the spectrum. At its most narrow point my chest and back were both pressed against the walls as I hoisted my pack above my ears where there were a few more inches of open space. Twenty minutes of shimmying, squeezing, and awkwardly shifting heavy bags of climbing equipment left me tired and already sweating. Finally, we reached the light at the end of the tunnel and carefully navigated the 89-degree, slippery rock staircase that led to the forest floor below.

Once we reached the ground there was a clear trail to the bottom of the first cliff. We stopped and dropped our gear in the dirt. I carried a small, overstuffed backpack. It held my climbing shoes, chalk bag, harness, and a day’s worth of dried mangoes, cookies, and a few pears. Compared to Troy’s haul it was quaint. His packs consisted of seventy meters worth of rope, dozens of clips and carabiners, a tarp, and a large pole whose purpose mystified me. Real equipment for real climbers. If someone came upon the two of us it would be obvious who was more likely to end up on the evening news. Looking up at the cliff, even for the warmup, I knew that death would be all but certain in a fall. Too nervous to exist in the moment as it was, I scrolled through my phone while Troy did the dirty work of setting up. Distraction was what I needed in order to keep myself from becoming overwhelmed.

“Alright, it’s time.” I looked up to see Troy holding out the belay device. He was ready to climb, and, like it or not, I had to be ready to help him up there. No turning back now.

I took a few slow, deep breaths to calm my mind and remind myself that there was no evaluator here watching me. It was just me and my friend playing in the woods like we had our entire lives. The only difference now was that I needed to move some rope in a few different ways. Other than that, everything was the same as it had always been.

After inserting the rope into the device and pulling out some slack, Troy rechecked my work as well as my harness and body position at the base of the wall.

“All set,” he said with confidence, “so once I get up there I’ll hook into the pig-tails (hooks attached to the end of chains that were bolted into the top of the wall) then you can belay me down. From there you’ll tie in and then it’ll be top-rope. Just like the gym.”

This, clearly, was not just like the gym. The stakes were higher, the wall taller, the routes more difficult, the consequences more grotesque. But that wasn’t the entire picture. It was also far more beautiful and peaceful. There was no music blaring here, no waiting to get to a route, no shirtless dudes loudly showing off to the crowds below. Here was a serenity that could not be replicated inside a warehouse. Instead, the scene here, and the rock in front of me, took millions of years to slowly develop the majesty it emitted. And here we were, ready to move with the landscape that was so carefully carved out, taking what it would give us and understanding with humility when our agency as humans would be no match for the natural landscape. In that spot we were not tourists or observers; we were part of the environment, in inextricably one with all around us. 

That realization kept me calm, focused, and confident. I was in my element, in the elements, and there was no reason to be afraid. It was time to play.

Troy’s first few moves up the wall were complimented by my smooth movements on the belay below. While not perfect, it was my best performance up to that point. For the first three clips I provided the right amount of rope, not too much or not too little. Towards the top I became flustered as the rope got tangled around my feet for a moment and I needed to swiftly sidestep the pile, all at the same time that Troy was trying to get the rope into the final clip. This left him a bit short on rope, a definite annoyance for the climber, but it wasn’t a grave mistake. Poor timing on the part of a rookie, to be expected in this environment. When Troy hooked the rope through the pigtails and told me to “take” (meaning to take all the slack out of the rope so he could safely repel) I breathed a sigh of relief. He had made it up the wall, alive and well. I didn’t kill my friend. Maybe I was alright at this thing after all.

Troy unhooked from his rope, undid the knot, and handed me the flaccid end:

“Alright…your turn.”

Slowly I gathered myself, breathing deep, doing my best to remain present. Doing my best to remember my training, I carefully tied the knot through my harness and tightened it as much as I could. Troy looked on as the inspector.

“How’s this?” I asked nervously.

“It’s fine,” he quipped.

That wasn’t good enough.

“I don’t want fine,” I explained, “I need perfect for this.”

Together we retied the knot as Troy directed my every move from over my shoulder. Twist the rope twice. Take the end and feed it through the loop. Now feed it through both hooks on my belay. Follow it around the first knot, weaving it through, keeping it tight and to the outside. Pull it taught. Now add another brake knot on top of extra security. Tighten and sit back.

“There you go,” said Troy, “your best one yet.”

I stared down at my creation. Does my life really depend on this thing? I thought. Can I really trust it?

Troy worked himself onto belay and gave me the go ahead to begin. Gingerly, my hands and feet caressed tiny features in the wall in order to propel my body skywards. The rock was cold, still shaded from the early morning. My breath condensed quickly on its surface, providing moisture on an otherwise dry slab of Earth. After a few feet up, where a fall would only hurt my pride, I sat back and let go of the rock in order to test the rope. Leaning into my harness and swinging away the rope pulled, but the knot remained unmoved. There wasn’t a single sign of frailty or failure.

If it could hold my weight eighteen inches off the ground, it would hold it thirty feet off the ground as well. There was no difference.

The experiment boosted my confidence enough to continue working my way up with a bit of gusto. Technically it was an easy climb, hence the name “Warm Up”, with many large hand holds and full ledges to place my feet. The route required working my way up a crack feature on the left side, standing on a large ledge, and then working my way a bit back to the right for the final few moves in order to officially finish the route. I made it up to the ledge with ease and took a moment to catch my breath. My body trembled with nerves and adrenaline. Looking up at the wall, it was unclear how to maneuver in order to reach the top. From this point there were no good, solid holds; just little bumps and cracks that I’d barely be able to hold onto. The trembling increased as my awareness vignetted into a tunnel. This would be the real test, with a real chance at falling and testing the knot in a less controlled manner. I was high off the ground, too high to be honest. My heart raced. Troy attempted to give me advice from below, but when the brain is being captained by the amygdala technical advice does not translate. One sentence from Troy, though, made it through the internal screaming:

“You just gotta trust your feet.”

Looking up, I grabbed a protruding rock on the left side of the ledge. Then my left knee came all the way up to my armpit, resting on the one decent spot to place a couple of toes. From there my body propelled itself upwards, hoping to find something, anything, on the right side that would keep it stable. Luckily there was a knob that held three of my right fingers and, in desperation, I smashed my right foot against the wall thinking that the friction would keep it in place. A primal yell powered through my lungs as I made the move, echoing down the cavernous mountains to the river valley below. My fingers stayed in place, as did my feet. I had reached the top. It was done.

“Great!” I could sense Troy’s excitement at my finishing. “Just lean back and I’ll let you down.”

Panting (from nerves, not exhaustion), I let go and was gracefully lowered back down to Earth. Almost like the return to the start on an amusement park ride, it was a calming descent after an exhilarating moment. Still shaking, a sense of freedom washed over me. Scared, proud, relieved, and electrically charged, I was alive.

“How do you feel?” Troy asked once my feet hit the dirt.

“A lot of things,” I panted, “but overall good. I feel like the seal has been broken, like the mental block no longer exists.”

Troy responded with a monotone bluntness:

“That’s good. Because now we can start the real stuff.”

We packed up our gear and headed further into the forest on a narrow trail anchored on one side by the cliffs and the other by a sheer drop into the valley. A simple misstep would send small rocks plummeting into the cavernous bowl below, a not-so-gentle reminder to stay steady and to be mindful of each movement. Upon reaching the next wall I immediately knew what Troy meant about the “real stuff”. This cliff, compared to the “Warmup”, was taller, grittier, and flatter. There were barely any holds I could make out no matter how much I squinted. To my untrained eyes it just looked like a sheer, flat wall of limestone that would be near impossible to traverse up. Not only was the wall itself intimidating, but the climbing area was tiny. At the base of where we would begin were some mangled trees and, of course, the dropoff into the abyss below. Plenty of chances to fall, smack the head, crack the spine, and become the latest prey to this looming, intimidating, brutal feature that did not care whether we lived or died.

Once again, Troy needed to lead his way up the wall first in order to set up the top rope that I would be climbing on. Unlike the “Warmup”, which he breezed up without any issue, this route was a puzzle. Oddly enough, belaying him did not spark any jitters. A serene confidence washed over me as I anticipated each of his moves and danced on the dirt below, just like my instructor had taught me. As someone in need of constant validation, I wished the instructor was there to see my progress and hype me up during Troy’s long, difficult climb, and to assure me that I was in fact doing well. But that was impossible. I’d have to settle for just the two of us existing quietly in that primal space.

At one point Troy needed a break; this had never happened before. When he sat back into his harness and separated his tight grip from the wall, a wrong move on my end could have sent him hurtling downwards and smashing into the overhanging rocks that littered the route. In order to keep him in place I moved back as far as I could, my heels gently gracing the edge of the trail and the drop-off below, and sat back into my harness while pulling down as hard as I could on the rope. This counterweight kept Troy in place, hovering thirty feet above me. I began to chuckle. There were absolutely good reasons to be scared and worried, sure. In that moment, though, those feelings were washed away by a flash flood of serenity. Here we were, in the woods, Troy literally dangling in mid-air on a brisk spring morning. The waterfall continued to roar in the background as more birds stirred and added their cacophony to the soundscape. Ravens and turkey vultures competed for coveted territory in the air above, while a spunky red squirrel rummaged for forgotten acorns on the Earth below. This was a peace that could only be found at the edge of my comfort zone.

Troy eventually made it to the wall and faced a tricky repel down; I had to lower him as slowly as possible in order for him to avoid all the obstacles in our area. Once again it would be my turn to climb, this time on a more serious route. There was a high chance that, at some point, I’d slip and aggressively force all my weight onto my knot. There was an even higher chance that I wouldn’t actually be able to finish the route. And, if I were so lucky to make it above the treeline like the route required, there was almost a guarantee that my fear of heights would kick-in and I’d need to gather myself on the wall.

This was the true test.

Starting off I actually used the tree at the base of the cliff to work my way up the first section of the cliff. I always loved climbing trees growing up. During the summer I would habitually hop into the Norway maple in my front yard and take naps on a massive branch that jutted out across the yard. Climbing bark, instead of rock, connected me to the inner-child that simply loved to play.

I’m just playing, I reminded myself. Just playing…

The climb was exceptionally difficult. While there were places to grip and maneuver they were essentially microscopic. Looking down at my feet I don’t think they were actually ever on a hold; instead they were smeared against the wall, relying on friction to stay in place. The tiniest little bumps in the cliff held the pressure of my big toe and my thumb. I splayed my upper body out wide, keeping my chest and elbows pinned to the rock face in order to garner some sense of support and stability. Each movement was a calculated endeavor.

About a third of the way up the pressure in my toe gave way. My left toe slipped off the wall and dangled in the ether below. Luckily my hands were in secure positions and held in place, preventing a full fall and swinging like a trapeze artist above the trees. I gasped, then began hyperventilating for a moment. Slowly I placed my toe back where it had been, but in a slightly different position to provide more stability.

And then it hit me: the glass had been broken. 

I had come face-to-face with my greatest fear: slipping and falling off the cliff. I felt the intoxicating surge of adrenaline that assaulted my entire being in less than a second when that toe momentarily lost its place. My fears of falling, dying, rushed through my mind at hyperspeed and stopped abruptly by the time my next inhale had come. And, in spite all of that, there was a truth that could not be ignored:

I was okay.

Suddenly, my fear of falling subsided. No longer was I at the edge of my comfort zone. Instead, I had burst right through it and was exploring a new frontier of possibility. The limits I had placed on myself for so long were now shattered, with the rare opportunity to place new ones further out into the experience of life.

Before moving again I took a few deep breaths to let the adrenaline wear out its welcome. After the hormonal shower had passed feelings of presence began bubbling up. Feeling calmer than anticipated, I did the one thing I said I wouldn’t do: look back and down at the world around me. Turning my head, I could see my entire home area lovingly encased by various mountain ranges. And here I was clinging to a wall, hidden in the landscape that I called home. There was no longer any separation between the landscape and myself; we were one. Thoughts slipped away with each passing moment that the vast landscape met my gaze. Egotistical worries about how I looked or whether I was competent were nowhere to be found. Fears, so paralyzing for so long, shattered.

I entered flow.

From that spot I began maneuvering up the wall, effortfully but also mindfully. There was no more thinking or worrying about the possibilities; just movement from here on out. Raise the right hand, shift the angle of my left thumb, raise the leg up to my elbow, turn the foot 90 degrees, shift the weight, and push. Grab with the right hand. Smooth, steady, thoughtless. But wholly mindful.

At the top of the route was a large ledge that provided plenty of standing space. I hoisted myself up, got my bearings, and raised my arms in triumph. A warm sunbeam met my ear-to-ear smile which left me tingling with the buzz that comes from drinking the sweet nectar of life. From below, I heard Troy yell his request which echoed its way up to me:

“Ready to come down?”

“Not yet!” I shouted back. “I’m going to reward myself for a second.”

Endorphins showered over me on top of the ledge as my eyes bulged at the enormity of it all. Peace swelled within amidst an acceptance of the sights and sounds beyond. Not a thought entered my mind for a few moments; a rare experience of immersive presence. I was on top of the world, in some senses literally, which filled me with pride. The heights we can reach when we’re willing to expand the frontiers of our comfort zone are intoxicating.

Eventually I agreed, reluctantly, to be lowered down. While making my descent, I stared intently at the knot I had tied in front of me and smiled.

My best one yet.

—
I had come into this experience to face a complex web of fears that weaved together personal insecurities and external anxieties. To come face-to-face with inner demons and notions of incompetence. To feel fully alive in spite of how dreadfully uncomfortable that can be physically, mentally, and emotionally. To do something incredibly difficult that I didn’t think I was capable of doing, something that needed to be a complete success or it would not have happened at all.

At the end of the day the activity itself was fairly meaningless. I climbed up some rocks with my friend. I didn’t help someone in an emergency, change someone’s life, or make the world any better for having done it. I was, as French climbing legend Lionel Terray would say, a “conqueror of the useless”. But that doesn’t mean the experience wasn’t worthwhile. Quite the contrary.

Like many things in life I could have kept this part of me easy and comfortable. I could have just stuck to the gym, climbing progressively harder routes, but never really shattering the frontier of my comfort zone. It would have been easy to say, “Outdoor climbing sounds fun, but I’ll never be able to do that.” It would have been convenient to go on a guided trip where I didn’t have to develop any skills or do any of the work myself. It would have been frictionless to sit at home and wonder “what if” while strengthening a sense of mediocrity.

Each of those actions would have led to a more hollow, less fulfilling existence. With any activity we strive to do, whether it’s climbing, hiking, writing, painting, or playing an instrument, being a “poser” can be a very real and devastating reality. But it becomes worse when we don’t do anything about it. That identity is planted when we say we’d like to do something but never actually do it. It grows when we eschew opportunities to just give the thing, whatever it is, a try. It’s watered every time we say, “That’s too hard”, or “I’m too tired”, or “I’ll wait for the right opportunity”. And it flowers when we lose the resolve to ever bother trying after so many years of growing comfortable with our inaction. So much of our life is wasted wishing we could do something or be somebody when the opportunity to begin is always available to us, right now, if we are willing to take that courageous first step.

Instead of resting in my comfortable, frictionless incompetence, I did the hard thing. I pushed my comfort zone mentally, physically, and emotionally while taking the route of greatest friction. And in the heat it generated I lost myself: my sense of self-importance, a bit of my ego, and the feelings of shame that came with failing over and over. On top of that mountain I can honestly say I was truly, fully, ecstatically alive; charged with the immense energy and joy that is available to us in any moment we’d like to tap into it. All we have to do is venture to, and through, our edge.

Fear and insecurity still persists within me, of course. Feelings of confidence and competence can be fleeting, and there are still many moments when I am made painfully aware of how futile my efforts in certain areas (climbing still included) can be. But now I have a different point of reference to think back to when those feelings of insecurity, anxiety, and ego arise. No longer do I just look back on that first evening at The Wall when I cautiously ventured through the doors to a new life and sense of self. Now I can look back in my mind’s eye on that stunning view, kept to myself, heightened by my exhaustion and adrenaline and pride, coupled with a healthy bit of heavy breathing and an immersive state of flow. And in that memory I find confidence, I find peace, I find a deeper belief in what I’m capable of. It’s a reminder that my limits have shifted outwards, and that they can continue to as long as I’m willing to take the more difficult road less traveled.

We need more challenges like this. We need to confront our fears instead of hiding from them. We live in a world where we can essentially go our whole lives without putting ourselves in these types of challenging situations that force confrontation with the raw reality of our state of being. We can appear super confident on social media without actually knowing what we’re doing. We can hide behind a screen and text messages instead of being vulnerable face-to-face with another human. We can take the path of least resistance and never know “what could have been” because we were too afraid to bet on ourselves or our idea. We can settle, rather comfortably, and live out our lives as what Teddy Roosevelt described to be a “timid soul who knows neither victory nor defeat”. Having lived that way for years I can say, yes, it was a nice life. But to say it was purposeful, fulfilling, exhilarating, and worth living would be an overstatement. Whether it’s as simple as asking for a promotion or as intense as facing those situations that make us freeze, hold our breath, and paralyze us with intense dread, in order to live fully we must find the edge of our bubble and get to the other side, no matter what. 

If we don’t, we’ll suffocate. Slowly but surely.