Take the Hike Anyway

This spring, I was sitting in my office with the realization that I would not be paid for an entire quarter's worth of work sitting in my lap like a thing too heavy to hold but too fragile to sit down.

I started asking myself the usual tree of questions.

How large of a setback is this?

Can the damage be mitigated?

From where will I replace this money?

Losing four months of income could have been catastrophic for a single-income household.

As my brain raced through finances, anticipated income, debt, and ongoing responsibilities, I made a resolution.

I was going to give myself fourteen days to wrap up this business, make some decisions, and move on.

And as a treat afterwards, I would pick something off my "I've always wanted to but…" list and do it immediately.

For the next fourteen days, I canceled, transferred, bartered, and dealt until this was no longer an emergency but an opportunity of a lifetime.

That sentence still feels wild to write.

Because it did not feel like an opportunity when it landed.

It felt like a loss.

It felt like a threat.

It felt like the kind of problem that could swallow every plan I had carefully stacked around it.

But I have learned something about myself over the years.

When the plan becomes irrelevant, I do not need the whole future mapped out.

I need the next executable step.

Triage.

Stabilize.

Move.

I was already scheduled to be in Michigan with family in another six weeks for three weeks.

For the first time in my entire life, I had zero things to worry about day to day beyond existing and enjoying my friends and family.

So I Googled "personal training near me" and called the first listing.

I took their next available consultation on Friday and had my first session on Monday.

For four weeks, they created a specialized training schedule for my chronic and debilitating hip pain, and they trained me with the intention of helping me hike the Chapel Rock and Mosquito Basin area loop.

I had attempted this hike eighteen months prior.

Due to poor planning and completely unrealistic expectations, I had failed.

Not "failed" in a cute, inspirational way.

Failed as in my body and preparation were not ready for what I was asking them to do.

Failed as in the idea of the hike and the reality of the hike were not even close to the same thing.

Failed as in I had to admit that wanting something badly does not automatically give the body the capacity to carry it.

That part matters.

Because I think we often talk about dreams like wanting is enough.

Want the life.

Manifest the thing.

Make the vision board.

Say the affirmation.

Buy the outfit.

Book the trip.

And I believe in dreaming.

Obviously.

I have made an entire life out of refusing to accept that the current version of reality is the only version available to me.

But wanting is not the same as preparing.

The body still has to carry the dream.

The nervous system still has to tolerate the discomfort.

The legs still have to climb.

The lungs still have to breathe.

The joints still have to stabilize.

The mind still has to stay with the attempt when the trail gets harder than the fantasy.

That is why this second chance at the hike felt so important.

It was a beautiful two-birds-with-one-stone moment.

I had always wanted to learn proper form for lifting, and I was getting another run at a bucket-list adventure.

I cannot lie.

Weeks three and four of the training program were dense.

Dense in the way that makes you question your life choices.

Dense in the way that makes you aware of every weak point.

Dense in the way that reminds you capacity is not built through wishing.

But it provided exactly what I needed.

The sessions gave my body information.

The plan gave me structure.

The work gave me evidence.

My hip was not something to hate.

It was something to account for.

My body was not the enemy.

It was the vehicle.

And if I wanted that body to take me through Chapel Rock and Mosquito Basin, I had to prepare it for the actual terrain, not the romanticized version of the adventure I had in my head.

That is a lesson I keep learning.

In fitness.

In healing.

In business.

In parenting.

In life.

You do not get the future you want by punishing the body carrying you there.

You get there by training it.

Supporting it.

Listening to it.

Challenging it.

Fueling it.

Resting it.

Building capacity one repeatable choice at a time.

And then, eventually, you take the hike.

I completed the entire planned hike and some.

I walked hillsides.

Crossed rivers.

Climbed over fallen trees.

Ran across beaches.

Shimmied across cliffs.

It was breathtaking.

Would my body have preferred I covered fewer miles?

Yes.

Nevertheless, I prevailed.

I completed another line item on my list.

More than that, I completed something that had previously defeated me.

That is a different kind of confidence.

Not the shiny kind.

Not the "I never doubted myself" kind.

Not the kind that comes from pretending everything was easy.

The kind that comes from knowing exactly where you failed before, preparing differently, and returning anyway.

That kind of confidence has roots.

It remembers the first attempt.

It remembers the training.

It remembers the hip pain.

It remembers the uncertainty.

It remembers the moment the trail got hard and you kept going.

It remembers that you did not need a perfect body.

You needed a prepared one.

A supported one.

A steady one.

A body you were willing to work with instead of fight.

That is one of the reasons BPS matters to me.

Because I do not want clothing to be another place where people feel like they have to wait.

Wait until they are thinner.

Wait until they are stronger.

Wait until their joints feel better.

Wait until they look more like the people in the advertisements.

Wait until they feel confident enough to try.

No.

Wear the thing now.

Train the body now.

Take the walk now.

Sign up for the class now.

Ask for the help now.

Let the body you have become the body that carries you into the next version of your life.

Not through shame.

Through stewardship.

Through steadiness.

Through preparation.

Through one small decision after another.

The setback was real.

The financial pressure was real.

The failure eighteen months earlier was real.

The hip pain was real.

The fear was real.

But so was the opportunity.

So was the training.

So was the second attempt.

So was the view.

So was the body that got me there.

There are people in my life who would describe me as a control freak.

I agree.

Because I am the only one responsible for ensuring my life is not miserable.

I know that sounds intense, but I mean it.

I am responsible for the choices I make after the plan falls apart.

I am responsible for how long I sit in the disappointment.

I am responsible for whether I let the setback become the whole story or just the doorway into the next thing.

I am responsible for deciding whether I will wait for life to become easy or train for the life I actually want.

This existence is less about a perfectly orchestrated plan than the ability to pivot when the plan becomes irrelevant.

Sometimes the pivot is financial.

Sometimes the pivot is physical.

Sometimes the pivot is emotional.

Sometimes the pivot is putting on your shoes, calling the trainer, doing the dense weeks, and going back to the trail that humbled you before.

So if there is something on your "I've always wanted to but…" list, maybe this is your sign.

Not to romanticize it.

Not to rush it.

Not to pretend wanting is the same as readiness.

But to ask yourself:

What would it take to prepare?

What support would help?

What capacity needs to be built?

What version of me would be able to take that hike?

Then start there.

Start with the call.

The class.

The walk.

The lift.

The outfit.

The plan.

The first honest step toward the life you want your body to carry you through.

Take the hike anyway.

Not recklessly.

Not without preparation.

Not as punishment.

Take it because the life you want will ask something from you.

Take it because your body is allowed to become capable.

Take it because failing the first time does not mean the trail is closed forever.

Take it because the view may be waiting on the other side of your second attempt.

Sthira was built for that kind of steadiness.

For the training.

For the preparation.

For the second chance.

For the body that is still carrying you.

For the life you are brave enough to keep choosing.

Shop Sthira when you are ready to dress for the next attempt.

Ginny Boling is the founder of The Black Polish Society, a marketplace collective built around real people, shared growth, and clothing for those who are done hiding. She is also an operations and community development consultant.

Connect with her at ginnyboling.com.