I started hiking last Spring to exercise my lungs. Somewhere along the way I found strength in other areas of my body. My mind stopped racing as often. My heart started softening. Then I read a story about an indigenous practice of carrying stones to the river and releasing them. Giving grief a shape, a weight, something the body can feel before it lets go.
I do not belong to that tradition, I won’t borrow what isn’t mine.
But the idea stayed with me.
That trauma has mass.
That memory lives in the muscles.
That the only way to release something is to carry it on purpose first.
So, I choose things. Not rocks. Memories in trauma.
I decide before I lace up what I am bringing up the mountain with me. I name it quietly and let it settle in my pack without ceremony. And I climb.
My first stone was the night my mother found out about the abuse. The night I needed protection and was given blame.
I carried the sentence she handed instead of comfort. I carried the way my body folded in on itself. I carried the confusion of being both harmed and accused in the same breath. It sat heavy between my shoulders as the trail inclined. I thought about the way her face never even flinched.
Halfway up, I noticed my jaw was tight, breath shallow. That old, familiar bracing.
When I reached the summit, tears streamed down my face, but I did not rage. I did not beg for understanding. I did not rehearse what should have been said and done.
I stood with my head to the sky and spoke softly into the air: It was not my fault.
The mountain didn’t answer. It didn’t need to.
I walked down without that moment strapped so tightly to my back.