What frightens you?
I woke up this morning to watch the sun rise over the mountains. The river on the east side of this idyllic bed and breakfast property in Springdale, Utah was coursing with life as the sky changed from blue to orange to yellow, and my heart filled with the anticipation of another sweet day in nature. Coffee in hand, I planned my final day of hiking in Zion National Park. As I perused the various trail options on the park map, I had every active intention of avoiding Angel’s Landing, the one hike that struck the strongest chord of fear in my body. I’ll do two or three lighter treks today, I thought. In my heart of hearts, I admit to myself that I have doubts about if I’d be physically or emotionally able to complete a hike like the Angel. As I continue to make a tentative itinerary for the day, though, curiosity beckons. I fill my pack with water, food, and my emergency kit, then hop in the car for the short drive toward the park.
On the way, I quickly visit the local gear company to return the dry suit I had rented to hike the Narrows yesterday. As I visit with the man helping me with the gear, I casually ask him what he thinks of Angel’s Landing. “What do you know about exposure in hiking and climbing?”, he asks. I share my simpleton understanding – that it’s when you have a lot of air around you and the potential for a steep fall. He validates that response and expands on it, noting that many of the hikes and summits in this striking park (and elsewhere, for that matter) are more taxing psychologically than physically. He shares that Angel’s Landing is one of them, largely because of the exposure. You do have a lot of air around you, you have sharp drop-offs on either side of you, and the fear of mis-stepping or falling or any number of dangerous outcomes can overpower the focus it takes to simply take the next step in front of you. “If you can navigate the fear, and have the physical capacity, you can complete the hike for sure.”
I thank the man for his explanation, then leap back into my car as curiosity grows still further. Maybe I’ll just go see if there is a parking spot at the trailhead, I think. I don’t actually have to hike it; I just want to see. Hoping that maybe the parking area – which serves as one point from which multiple trails radiate – might be full, I approach it and notice one final space available, situated as close to the trailhead as can be. I pull in, turn the car off, and get out of the car, gazing at the face of the beautiful rock formation, and I get nauseated with fear at the thought of trying to climb it. Fascination and awe lead me on, and I feel drawn to the challenge. Surprising myself, I start up the trail toward the first switchbacks, enjoying the views of the aqua Virgin River as it weaves through the canyon with towers of layered rock hugging it on either side.
We are not strangers to fear. We all experience it in one way or another. In some ways, fear is a survival mechanism, a sort of panic-button that our body activates when it feels it is in danger. It heightens your awareness to the situation in front of you. If you see a bear, you want your sympathetic nervous system to awaken; you want to be aware and prepare for what to do next. If you hike to 1,500 feet of elevation along the spine of a wild cliff, you want to be aware of the tree roots and slanted rocks that line your path and to navigate them accordingly. Responding to fear from a healthy, regulated, compassionate place allows us to respect the gravity of a situation, leverage the fear and awe that accompany that situation, and make sound decisions under duress.
On the other hand, there are triggers and traumatic experiences in our lives that can become so engrained, so codified into our nervous system’s fear response that our body reacts with paralysis, anger, hypervigilance, or other secondary reactions. We freeze, our feet glued to the ground, unwilling and unable to move forward, move backward, or move at all. We get caught in reinforced, hard-wired, fearful loops. And so often, it is not our fault. Situations and histories of abuse, abandonment, loss, grief, and other trauma – if we don’t learn how to move through them well – can render us stuck.
In these stuck places, we might shame or criticize ourselves for being afraid, or shun the fear, or try to convince and rationalize our way out of it. We might take onto our own shoulders the shame that others pass to us when they find our fear and trauma to be inconvenient. We might train ourselves to think or dream small so as not to offend others or get our hopes up (in case we fail). If we’re not careful, it can be easier to give our precious attention to the risks and reasons not to do something, rather than balancing our perspective with the benefits. And in the end, in choosing any of these avenues, we dampen, stagnate, and wither rather than grow and flourish.
I follow the paved portion of the path, reflecting on fear. Curiously, I ask myself: What frightens you right now? I give myself an honest answer: Heights, falling, failing…exposure. At a certain point along this trail, much higher up in elevation than where I am right now, there will be stretches where I am completely exposed to the elements – every gust of wind, every loose rock or root ready to trip me if I step the wrong way – and there will be nothing to catch me. I am dizzy with vertigo as I hike another switchback, and I pause to let my body adjust to the height.
How do we move through our fear? I think back to a season in my life that was wrought with fear. A season of that left me feeling on-edge, unsafe, uncertain about the future, and camped out in tension. A season that exposed the cumulative trauma that has taken place in my lifetime, and the ways I’d avoided addressing those painful memories and the fears that grew from them. A completely different scenario, with so many parallels to this hike in front of me. I question again, how do we move through our fear? One step at a time.
Step one, acknowledge the fear, the trauma, whatever it might be. Don’t suppress it, don’t shame it, don’t judge it. Validate and allow it. Learn to sit with it, curious and compassionate, and let your body adjust to it before taking the next step forward.
Step two, in my own story, was to lift it up in prayer to God’s hands and allow Him to heal the triggers and memories at the root of every fear. This was the hardest work I’ve ever had to do in my life, even more so than working through medical school and residency. But little by little, healing and peace came, and my hike through life became more steady and sure-footed along the way.
Step three, desensitization and disconfirming experiences. From the new, healed path, allow exposures to the things and people that used to frighten you. Little by little, you will see that you are strong enough to confront them well, gently, healthfully. Pursue opportunities that prove the opposite of your fear. If you were told you’re not worthy of love, read what God says about His love for you in Scripture, and be with the people He’s placed in your life who do show you your worth. If you were afraid you couldn’t do X, Y, or Z – try, and be willing to learn from the attempt even if it doesn’t go well. If you are afraid of heights, find a trail that is just a few feet higher than the last one you hiked, and go from there. This is brave and difficult work; it is an evolution that takes a lifetime to grow through. But our hearts and lives come awake before our eyes if we stay patient, committed, and compassionate toward the process.
I realize that the same goes for today, and I start training my mind for the upcoming exposure. I think back on other exposure-laden hikes I have done in the past, and I realize I am prepared for today. I set my aim for the next rock along the path or the next crack in the trail, and once I get there, I choose another one to step towards. Up the many switchbacks I go, weaving and pausing, weaving and pausing, giving myself needed moments to acclimate to the height and the increasingly steep drop-offs. At the same time, I soak in the vastness of the rock formations before me, the canyon below me, the sunny blue sky above me. One stretch of trail faces a beautiful, bright canyon, and I pause to admire the view, allowing myself to look down to the floor of the canyon which I now stand rather high above. Then, carefully, I pick my next target on the trail and keep going.
And as I go, I find myself not only marveling at the views but welcoming the fear that comes with them. Inviting it, but not submitting to it, not allowing fear to overpower my focus. Enjoying and delighting in the process. Because every step I take is proof that I can move beyond the fear rather than be hindered by it. My body shakes at times, and I respond to the trembling with pause and compassion, not shame or reproach. It’s okay to be afraid. We can turn around if we need to or if we do not feel safe. Our worth is not contingent on finishing this hike. Let’s pause here, and there, and here, and just get used to this. You’re doing great! What in the past for me has tended to sound like more critical, militant, and tactical messaging is now lathered with grace and kindness. And that feels so much more healthy. And somehow, fear has become my ally.
I approach Scout’s Landing, where the more intense climbing begins. A single thick chain lines the narrow 1/2-mile of trail that remains, tickling the spine of the rock formation, with some intervening lapses in the continuity of the chain. One. Step. At. A. Time. I climb, I crawl, and sometimes I slip and slide and wiggle my way along. I cast all pride and dignity aside, more focused on safety than on doing this gracefully, and I giggle playfully with other hikers who are doing the same. Very few fellow hikers trek here today, and the ones that do are equally cautious, encouraging, and kind (though admittedly, some look way more comfortable than others, and I watch in awe at how easily some move over the path). One group of climbers from my home state of Minnesota are here climbing together, and we laugh at finding out that we are practically neighbors. With an approximate scramble upward of around 500 feet in elevation, gripping handholds and footholds in the rock, the path gives way to a broad landing with panoramic views of the valley below and the mountains surrounding it. Somehow, I am here. In a place where I never thought I’d be – In fact, in a place where I told myself I wouldn’t or couldn’t possibly go.
This vista is unparalleled. My eyes fill with tears and I am left breathless by the colors and peaks and valleys and shadows filling the landscape in front of me. And as my mind fills up with mental photos, my heart fills up with peace and awe and wonder. I sit and enjoy some packed snacks, visit with two couples also enjoying the cliff today, and lift prayers and praise from the summit where lore tells that angels land. I wish there was a way to stay here forever. The other hikers agree.
After quality time with these views, it is time to make the descent. I slowly climb down, happily, steadily, refreshed, encountering multiple kind faces and impressive vistas along the way. Grateful for the last four hours of reflection, exertion, and learning, I make my way toward my final hike for the day at Watchman Trail. The sun is slowly falling to the horizon line, and it is fixing to be a beauty of a sunset.
Captivated Me 