“A journey of a thousand miles… often starts because you are supremely uncomfortable with where you currently stand.”
If you’re reading this it’s because you’ve somehow heard of my goal of making 40 hikes by the time I turn 40 next spring.
As I type this, I’m a 39 year old mother of an 8 year old, experiencing the heat and humidity that is Northwest Arkansas in early August. If I’ve learned anything in the past 39 years, it is that summer always turns into autumn, autumn always turns into winter, and winter always turns me sad. This project, in part, is a way to combat the doldrums of winter by creating a challenge that pushes me to move and get what sunshine is available while I can.
But also: Turning forty. Career transition. Post-pandemic malaise. Babies growing. Body changing. Feeling stuck…Not wanting to feel stuck.
As the non-quote above implies, I’m in a situation that feels unique in my own details but familiar in the general context: A woman transitioning into middle age with little experience and even less grace. Change is bad but being uncomfortable and stuck is even worse.
What I do know is that, in almost every situation, I do better with structure. Parameters that deal with specific tasks and boxes to check are my mental equivalent of a fence around the playground. “Go wild,” says my inner preschool teacher, “but do it in this space, in safety, so you don’t get lost, hurt, or exhausted.”
I’m well aware that mine is not the first “hiking as an analogy to life transition” writing. Wild, anyone? And that’s okay. As a writer, I’m actively working through both the fact that there is “nothing new under the sun” while also believing that everyone has a story to tell.
Here are some parts of the story that I’m interested in exploring:
What is the difference between hiking and taking a walk? What situation calls for one and when should we pursue the other?
What does safety look like? What does this look like for outfitting on a trail? And how does one take others into account? (A wise word from my mother: Beware of snakes, both those with and without legs.) How do overcoming or at least acknowledging the danger inherent in physical activity translate into psychological safety?
What is the difference in rest and renewal? When is our body asking for one and what are the signs that we should push for the other?
What does way-finding look like in our age of electronic mapping? How are we supposed to process signs both real and emotional?
On top of both of these things I want to share practical information and real life advice for other women who want to get out and hike. What did someone paint pink and tell you that you need versus what you actually need?
Another factor, is that the documentation of this experience is an important part of it for me. While I don’t consider myself a true “hiker”, I do consider myself a writer. They are similar in that to become the thing, you must do the thing. I am hoping that by using the same 40/40 parameters (ie. an essay for each hike), I will continue become better at both. Interviews, essays, and recommendations. I have this really annoying personal goal of making the world a better place via helping others and I truly hope to do that through my writing.
Which is where you come in. I’d love to hear your thoughts. Any or all of it: The self-challenge, the hiking, the advice, the people who you know about / who you look to within the outdoor space, the middle-age doldrums, the post-pandemic exhaustion, the things you think about at night now that your child doesn’t sap every once of decent energy from you… seriously, any of it. hello@paigemeredith.com
I can’t wait to hear from you.