The trail never promises anything.
Not good weather. Not clear views. Not even that the map is right. You start anyway. Changing into your hiking shoes in the parking lot that usually smells like pine needles and earth, knowing that at some point the path will disappear into rock or mud or your own doubt.
Abuse literally changes the brain. I grew up in it so any idea I had of what trust meant was completely wrong. I was taught that what looks safe can suddenly turn, that reassurance can be followed by harm, that your own instincts aren’t always believed – even by you. This was reiterated in domestic violence.
After enough of that, trust doesn’t feel like a warm, open thing. It feels cautious. Measured. Sometimes almost silent.
Somewhere along the road, I began to think trust meant certainty. A guarantee that if I kept walking long enough, the overlook would be worth it. The climb would make sense; the ending would redeem the effort.
The truth is, trust is not believing that everything will work out perfectly – because a lot of the time it doesn’t – it’s knowing you’ll be okay no matter what happens.
I didn’t realize this on the way up a mountain. I realized it on the way down – descending into a narrow path that would lead me to a waterfall hidden somewhere beneath the trees.
The trail dipped quickly, roots twisting under loose soil, the air growing cooler with every step. Hiking down is its own kind of vulnerability. Gravity pulls you forward faster than you want to go. Your knees absorb the impact. You have to trust your footing without seeing too far ahead.
And that’s when I felt it – that old reflex shaped by years of surviving harm – the instinct to scan every shadow, to assume something unseen might change the rules.
Abuse doesn’t just fracture trust with other people. It fractures trust with your own pacing. Your own yes or no. It makes every descent feel like a risk instead of a choice.
The closer I got to the sound of water, the quieter the woods became. I found myself hesitating. The only sound was the rhythm of my own breath and the steady rush of the falls – it was uncertainty and my body was screaming warning signals.
I used to stop when that feeling rose up. Now I slow down instead.
I notice the ground beneath my feet. I notice the damp smell of the moss. How the earth softens near the edges of the path. The trail doesn’t demand that I be fearless – only present.
Trust, I’m learning, isn’t blind optimism. It’s the quiet skill of listening inward. Taking a sip of water before you’re thirsty, pausing to check the map without shame, turning around when your intuition says enough.
When I finally reached the waterfall, it wasn’t dramatic or cinematic. Just a steady curtain of water folding over dark stone. No summit sign, no wide horizon. Just movement – constant, patient, unhurried.
Standing there I realized something I hadn’t understood on the hike down: trust isn’t about reaching the highest point. Sometimes it’s about allowing yourself to go deeper, into places that feel unknown but not unsafe.
Healing hasn’t made me trust the world blindly. It’s made me trust my ability to respond. To leave when something feels wrong. To pause when my body tightens. To keep moving when fear is just an echo and not a warning.
The hike back up was slower. Quieter. My legs, tired, my thoughts softer. I wasn’t chasing a view anymore. I was carrying a realization that felt heavier and lighter at the same time – that uncertainty isn’t the opposite of safety.
Sometimes uncertainty is the place where safety finally becomes internal.
I don’t hike because I know exactly what waits at the end of the trail.
I hike because somewhere between the descent and the sound of falling water, I learned that trust isn’t about perfect outcomes.
It’s about knowing that whatever version of me walks back out of the woods – muddy, thoughtful, still healing – will be okay.