As I moved myself up the steep, trailless path of Coomasaharn Horseshoe in County Kerry, I found myself filled with chatter.
The first peak was too steep.
I’d get lost.
My legs and joints were too tired.
Unusually, I allowed myself breaks and considered. I decided to lean into my commitment of trust, reminding myself I can listen to my body & clue into when & if I need to return early. Out of stubbornness, it’s rare that I allow myself choice in that way. I often label changing course as a sign of weakness.
As I continued to climb, familiar peaks I’ve walked in previous weeks became visible. The Irish sea at Rossbeigh shining in its many blues, the entrance to Tír na nÓg reminded me that this landscape is inside my very bones. I continued to mosey through the boglands, finding an occasional hole, near boot-robbing mud, as I walked.
I love the way my heart pounds the blood into my ears as I climb. That was one of the first somatic clues I had that reminded me I was alive, even in the years that I was living mostly outside my body. When I arrived at the section that was exposed on both sides, my body began to rumble.
The trembling in my legs reminded me of the many times I thought was on the edge of death. Most recently, after seeing someone I’d dated unexpectedly who violated my trust in San Francisco & on the ascent toward my very first skydive in Davis, California. Jumping (or falling, really, if we’re being honest) from that plane was truly a blend with fear. That plummet reminded me that I have capacity to move forward, even if I’m in a state of terror. I decided to inch myself onto the exposed trail, doing my best to focus on what’s ahead, rather than the 100 meter drops to my left and right.
I wished for someone to soothe my fears as I have in the past. Without company, I decided to trust myself to assure and cradle me. I took deep breaths, feeling how much sturdier I am when I’m wider. I felt into the history of the many hikes & moments I thought I’d never manage at my back.
With each step, I gathered my eyes forward, saying a series of mantras aloud. “You’re doing so good, baby. You’re so brave. One step at a time. Look at how far you’ve come. You’ve got this. You’ve done so many hard things.” These words looped as I took breaks every so often to allow the shaking in my legs and hands to settle. I paused and ate a bag of my favorite Irish crisps Deirde’s mom, Anne, introduced me to. I thought the salt might settle me as I had reached the point that it seemed less safe to turn around than continue.
Once I reached the bogland beyond the narrow bits, I was reminded of the rush that greeted me as my feet met the ground after a 13,000ft freefall. I screamed to no one and everyone, “I’M A BAD BITCH.” That looped just as the mantras before had.
The sun filled me with laughter at the absurdity of how I’d managed to coach myself, celebrating the arriving on the other side of fear. I spent the next several hours walking, soaking up the seaside and peaks around me, reflecting on the blend practice. I marveled at my tenderness with the part of me who was terrified, and celebrating the part of me who can felt the many reps of pulling myself back from & through the depths.
I am, as it turns out, a bad bitch.
I reflected on how much of the last stretch of my life has been a practice of dancing with fear, mostly of the unknown. I’d long dreamed of returning to the homelands of my ancestors. I was blocked largely by my hatred of bureaucracy & the worry I wasn’t capable of standing on my own two feet so far from the world & loves I have known in the Americas.
In spite of those tugs toward thoughts of what could go wrong, I took each step to land myself in that sunshine soaked hike in Kerry, surrounded by Irish hares, sheep, robins. I applied for the visa that’s allowed me to live here, sold/donated/gave away most of my belongings, & closed the majority of my life in the US.
Don’t get me wrong, there were many moments where the whispers of my ability got loud. I'm a lucky gal with friends who believe in me, who remember my strength when I can’t myself.
Now, I feel my ability to move and be with fear. The chilly waters of alpine lakes & rivers of Colorado, sea swims in Scotland, Northern California, & the Emerald Isle - they’ve taught me what I used to forget:
I am brave.
I can do hard things.
Although I have betrayed myself at times, I’m beginning to re-remember that I can trust myself; to move toward beauty even if every cell inside me is vibrating with the risk of what could go wrong.
I am the threads that braid fear & trust.
