Becoming my authentic self in middle age—or technically past it, since statistically I probably will not live to be 96—has been an interesting awakening.

Part of me wishes this version of me had shown up sooner. She could have saved us both a lot of time, energy, overthinking, and probably several unnecessary emotional support snacks. But this is my journey, and I am learning to honor the timing of it.

For most of my life, I tried to control situations to protect myself and the people I love. Turns out, that is exhausting. Also, spoiler alert: you cannot control everything. You can barely control whether your phone battery survives a day on the trail.

Over the last year, I have learned that life becomes substantially more peaceful and joyful when you stop trying to manage everyone else’s happiness and start paying attention to your own.

Watching Courage Up Close

A tremendous amount of my growth has come from discovering strength, courage, and resilience I did not know I had.

Some of it came from watching our daughter leave a marriage that was only a week old and begin picking up the pieces of a life that had suddenly combusted. Watching her choose herself through heartbreak changed something in me.

It reminded me that choosing yourself is not selfish. It is brave. Sometimes the strongest thing you can do is walk away from what is hurting you, even when you had hoped it would be something beautiful.

That lesson stayed with me.

Searching for Something More

I started searching for deeper meaning and purpose. I grew up with religious doctrine, but over time I became more spiritually aware while leaving the interpretation of one single book behind.

Maybe there is a bigger plan. Maybe there is not. Maybe we are all living in some kind of simulation—and if that is the case, I would like an exit button immediately.

Still, I kept searching.

I began reading philosophers’ teachings, books about energy, watched documentaries, talked to practitioners, began sound healing and reiki, and spent more time in nature. Somewhere along the way, I started coming back to myself.

Nature has a way of stripping things down. No notifications. No expectations. No need to explain yourself. Just trees, rocks, birds, bugs, questionable trail conditions, and whatever emotional baggage you hauled in with your backpack.

Sweet Sleeping Spot

After my short but impactful time hiking with the STA Challenge, I found the courage to take an overnight solo camping trip back in March.
It was hard but I benefited from the experience and knew I needed to keep taking solo nature trips.

But then I did not go again for six months.

A couple of weeks ago, I finally went back out for another overnight adventure, and it felt completely different. The first trip had been about getting away from noise. This time, I found myself wishing I had some.

Over the last several months, I have deepened a friendship with a beautiful soul who loves the outdoors as much as I do. We have covered a lot of miles together, and I have learned that being alone on trail is not always as magical as Instagram makes it look.

Sharing the moments with someone adds a lot of joy. Someone to laugh with when you take a wrong turn. Someone to say, “Look at this tree or omg this fungi.”

Still, I wanted to go and solo was my only option this time.

My sleeping quarters were awesome: a one-room shack with three twin beds, a gas heater, and solar electricity that did not work. It sat on the edge of a cliff in the Red River Gorge area, surrounded by views, a clear night sky, and the kind of quiet that makes you hear every thing.

I wish I had more than one night there, but I saved that spot for a future visit.

Red Byrd Arch Called

The next morning, after hiking Muir Valley, I headed toward a marker on my map: Red Byrd Arch Trailhead.

My original plan had been to hike to Coperas Falls, but after seeing the very dry, very nonexistent waterfall situation at Muir Valley, I changed plans. After talking trails with my friend, I landed on Red Byrd Arch.
The trail immediately stood out to her, and it pulled me in.

I did not put it together at first—because ADHD sometimes has me three scenic miles behind the rest of the conversation—but Red Byrd Arch really lines up with a red cardinal bird.

Cardinals have become important to me over the last year. I see one on almost every hike. I consider them messengers in nature, little reminders to slow down, observe, honor truth, and give love in every situation.

So naturally, I headed down an unmarked trail off a rutted gravel road in the middle of nowhere. Because this is what choosing myself looks like now.

A year ago, I would not have attempted that trail alone. Honestly, I probably would not have gotten out of the car. But I am not the same person I was a year ago. I am stronger. And I was going to find that arch.

Lost, But Not Really

I lost the trail at least five or six times.

Thank goodness for offline GPS maps and my Garmin SOS device, because the trail was overgrown, full of blowdowns, and generally acting like it did not want visitors. I also had my first trail encounter with a coyote.
We chatted briefly. By “chatted,” I mean we looked at each other, both decided this was not the day, and agreed to go our separate ways.
It was unnerving, but I kept walking.

Along the way, I came across bent trees that appeared to be Native American trail markers. I had seen trees like that before, but never so close together or so clearly aligned with a path. They all seemed to point toward the large arch and waterfall area.

I paused there for a while, thinking about the history, the intention, and the wisdom it took to create markers for people who would travel through long after the original makers were gone.
It felt powerful.

Soon after, I came to some minor but steep rock scrambling. There was a real chance I might not be able to get back out the same way I came in.

But I trusted myself.
I trusted my body.
I trusted that I would figure it out.
And I did.

The Reward

The reward was a massive, breathtaking arch all to myself.
It was sacred. Peaceful. Beautiful.

For a few minutes, I stood under that giant piece of earth and stone and let myself feel it all: the fear, the effort, the pride, the grief I had carried in, the doubt I was learning to release.

I wish I could have stayed longer, but the hike in had taken much more time than expected. Between losing the trail, climbing over obstacles, and stopping every five minutes to confirm that I was not about to become a missing-person poster, daylight was becoming a concern.

So after about 15 minutes of soaking in the beauty of that place, I turned around. And something strange happened. On the way out, I did not lose the trail once. I moved quickly and confidently, almost as if I were hiking an entirely different trail. I do not know what made the journey back easier, but I was grateful.

I felt accompanied by something calming my mind, releasing the anxiety of being completely alone in the wilderness, and reminding me not to stop coming to nature to heal.

Maybe it was spirit. Maybe it was self-trust finally showing up. Maybe it was the cardinal energy. Maybe it was simply the fact that I had survived the scary part and knew I could keep going. Whatever it was, I welcomed it.

Nature Does Not Fix Everything

Nature does not magically fix every hard thing in life.
It does not erase grief, anxiety, self-doubt, heartbreak, or the complicated work of becoming yourself. But it creates space. It quiets the noise long enough for you to hear what is true.

Sometimes healing looks like therapy, boundaries, medication, rest, hard conversations, and choosing yourself.

Sometimes it also looks like getting a little lost in the woods, talking to a coyote, climbing some rocks, and standing beneath an arch that makes you feel very small in the best possible way.

At the trailhead, I cracked open a celebratory NA beer, shed a few tears of accomplishment, released some doubt, and smiled big. Then I spent the next couple of hours chasing the sunset on the drive home, which felt like the perfect ending to a powerful day.

I am still figuring out how to let go of self-doubt. But I know this:
I am stronger than I was a year ago.
I trust myself more.
And somewhere between getting lost, finding my way, and standing beneath that arch alone, I found a little more of myself too.

Live a great story, friends—an authentic one.