Sick Of The Mountain

Yesterday, I worked out with my trainer, like I always do on Tuesdays.

He texted me beforehand: It’s beautiful out. Let’s move outside today. Bring a hoodie.

I was excited.

He’s been building trails and doing cool things on his property, and I thought—perfect. Fresh air. Movement. Something different.

I needed it.

Because lately, I’ve been carrying the kind of weight that comes from having your foundation decimated—and still having to show up and lead.

And I saw this as a way out of that. A break. A reset.

So I show up.

We start inside like usual. Warm-up. Lifting. Movement.

We get into a deep conversation—stoic philosophy, personal transformation, the difference between showing compassion for people who throw rocks and actually setting boundaries around who gets access to me and my energy.

All of it.

Then finally, we head outside.

I’m ready. Woods. Trails. Movement.

Nope.

He points to a wheelbarrow full of potting soil and says,

“You’re going to push this up and down my driveway for X minutes. In between, curls, presses, push-ups.”

I thought, are you fucking kidding me?

There’s a forest right there.

Trees. Dirt. Actual nature.

And I’m… pushing a wheelbarrow up a driveway?

But I didn’t say it.

I just did the work.

And it was hard.

And the whole time, he’s trying to motivate me—

“You’re strong.”

“Keep climbing the mountain.”

“Life is just the next mountain.”

Blah, blah, blah.

And normally, I get it.

But yesterday?

It didn’t land.

The more he said it, the more something in me pushed back.

I hate the mountain.

I’m sick of climbing mountains.

I’ve climbed enough.

And I don’t mean literal mountains.

I mean the kind that don’t just challenge you—

they level you.

The kind that take out everything you built, everything you knew, everything you thought was stable…

and leave you standing there trying to figure out who you are without it.

The kind that crack you all the way down to your foundation—

hitting every fear, every wound, every vulnerable place you’ve ever had.

The kind that force you to rebuild your life and your identity from the ground up…

and then, somehow, ask you to do it again.

The kind you don’t opt into.

The kind you have no other choice but to carry.

At some point, I told him.

He laughed.

Understood exactly why I said it.

And then, of course, made me push the wheelbarrow a little longer.

Which, honestly, was probably good for me.

But it gave me something I didn’t expect:

Clarity.

I don’t want to live my life constantly bracing for the next climb.

I don’t want every season to be about endurance, resilience, or proving how strong I am.

I’ve done that.

What I want now is different.

Flat ground.

Sandy beaches.

Warm water.

Endless sun.

Not because I can’t climb.

But because I don’t want to anymore.

Author's Note: I am still going to climb real mountains.

Lots of them.

Ones all over the world.

I just need a break from the metaphorical ones that ask so much of me.