When the Mountain Breaks You Open: A Story of Panic, Prayer, and Promise

This summer (2025) I hiked one of the hardest hikes in my life. I say this knowing that I live in “outdoorsy intensive” small town Colorado. Where everyone is training for their next ultramarathon, month long river trip, mountain biking trek, free solo....and the list goes on. I was hiking my first class 3 mountain, The Twilight peaks in the San Juan Mountains—a three-summit route known for its steep exposure, technical terrain, and moments that make you negotiate with God and reflect on your life (I added that last part). I did not go with the intention of learning my fear limits or finding overall contentment with my life if it had to end, I guess that's just a bonus knowing that I did survive. I thought I was just testing my limits and challenging my body to do something hard. But what happened on that mountain changed me in ways I’m still trying to process.

The first few miles up were not bad, hard but doable. Soon after my "not so bad" thoughts, the trail demanded more than I expected. The elevation gain was immediate, the air thinner than my breath could keep up with. And then came the technical sections—places where one misstep could mean something catastrophic. At one point, I found myself frozen on a narrow ledge, dry heaving from panic, tears streaming down my face. I was so overwhelmed I couldn’t tell if it was fear, surrender, or both. All I could do was press my forehead to the cold rock and whisper through sobs, “God, please. I can’t do this without You.”

And I meant it. I truly thought this might be the end. I started negotiating with God—“I’ve lived a good life. I’ve loved well. If this is it, I’m grateful.” And in the quiet terror of that moment, I felt something shift. Not in the mountain. Not in the weather. But in me. A presence. A deep inner knowing. This is not the end. There is more.

Then came the scree field—loose rock and crumbling ground, the kind of terrain that doesn’t forgive hesitation. I panicked and somehow found myself running up it. Not walking. Not carefully stepping. Running. Like my body had collectively decided, “We’re not dying here,” and hit a button I didn’t know existed.

Think chaos, not grace. Every step slid half a step back, rocks scattering like I’d just offended the entire mountain. My legs weren’t running so much as aggressively negotiating with gravity. At one point I’m pretty sure I was part sprinting, part crawling, part interpretive dancing.

My friends said it looked like I hit a literal turbo button—and honestly, it felt like it. Like some off-brand version of a cheetah, claws out, zero elegance, just blind commitment and a quiet internal monologue of don’t fall don’t fall don’t fall.

Fueled by adrenaline, fear, and something sacred I still can’t explain. Every part of my body was screaming—but somewhere in the middle of it, I realized:

My body can go further than my mind believes.

That realization unraveled something. For so long, especially after my divorce in 2023, I’ve felt broken—spiritually, emotionally, relationally. I’ve longed for healing, for marriage, for a family, and often felt like God was silent or far away. I didn’t know if I could trust Him with those desires anymore. But on that mountain, I started learning how to trust again. Not just God, but the body He gave me. The strength I didn’t know was still there. The faith that can rise even through panic.

I reached all three peaks. Exhausted. Crying. Shaking. But I stood on top of that final summit and looked out at the wild beauty of creation and felt something brand new: life. A deep soul-knowing that the promises of God are not dead. That what He has spoken over my life will still come to pass. And that maybe, just maybe, I can believe again—not in a perfect path, but in a faithful God who meets me in my breaking and carries me through.

This wasn't just a hike. It was a holy unraveling. A reclaiming of my body, my spirit, and my life with God.