Pulling an R

Refusing to move on

I am camped out here. Smack dab in the middle of the trail. I am pulling an ‘R’.

For several years, I worked in the wilderness with children who were at a point of mental health crisis. They came to the program fully loaded with internal issues and we handed them a backpack fully loaded with external necessities. Hiking up a mountain with a heavy heart and a heavy backpack was a sure way to bring emotions buried deep to the surface. It was difficult to carry on once the anger, fear, or pain began to boil. This was usually the point when our students would sit in the middle of the trail and refuse to move. We called this pulling a refusal, or an ‘R’.

It was tough on the group, but necessary work for the child. If you can’t feel it, you can’t heal it, right? But feeling it sure can stop you in your tracks.

Sometimes these broken children just needed the steady encouragement of a compassionate staff member and a high five to get back on the trail. Sometimes it was the understanding and empathy of a peer who has been where they are that convinced them they could make the journey. A hug and a helping hand led the way.

Sometimes it just took time. A lot of time. There were nights we ended up camping out trailside while we gave them the space they needed to get up the courage to move forward again. One of the gifts of wilderness was we had nothing but time.

February 27, 2025

My pack feels so heavy right now, my feet so unsure.

It is hard to write, hard to focus, hard to think clearly.

Everything just feels hard.
Each step takes a monumental effort. Yet when I look behind, I am barely moving.

The journey ahead feels impossible to imagine.

So I don’t.

I sit down here in this moment.

I rearrange my pack.

I drink some water.

I take a nap in the sun.

I know I have to move forward eventually. I can’t seem to find the motivation.

It’s not that I am not thinking about it. I am making kind-of plans. At least I have ideas about the future.

They are clouds in the sky though, floating away from me.

I build a fire.

Friends sit beside me offering understanding, empathy, or their presence.

So much big love, so many hugs, and so many people willing to help me carry my load have shown up to give me the strength to carry on.

And sometimes I feel more courageous and put my pack back on.

Then I feel the weight.

The tears come and I collapse into a pile on the ground.

When I am emptied of tears, I try to stand again.

Only I can’t, I still can’t.

I sit back down and cry some more.
I am just camping out here in my grief.

I don’t know how to move forward yet—it’s not that I don’t want to. Patience is necessary as my heart works this out.

I have no idea how to future think right now. I am just taking one day at a time. And often that looks like just sitting here. I feel weak and guilty for not being strong enough to keep climbing up this mountain.

When I do look ahead, I see people who have suffered heartbreaking losses carrying heavy loads, some far heavier than mine. They look so much stronger than I feel. I know I will be there one day. In the meantime, I am grateful for everyone who is beside me as I sit here working up my courage to get back on the trail.