“What a place to find ourselves,” Nate mused.

Since the moment he said the words, I’ve been meditating on the double entendre. We were outside of Crested Butte, on our second pass of three for the day: Copper Creek. Nate had improbably acquired backcountry permits for both Maroon Bells and Conundrum Hot Springs in a single weekend and had invited me along for the latter. We had met up the previous evening, camped near the trailhead, and had hiked roughly 10 miles toward the hot springs — the long, scenic way. When he said, “What a place to find ourselves,” Nate meant that the scenery was unparalleled. Hiking in this area of Colorado during peak foliage season is somewhat unreal. Every viewpoint we got seemed even more pristine; we were practically living inside a postcard. I couldn’t help but feel so enormously grateful.

Still, what nagged at me was the other meaning to his words. While he was pointing out our physical location, I was thinking much more broadly: finding ourselves. Ourselves, as in, who we are. I suppose my mind wouldn’t have gone this direction if it didn’t feel like both Nate and I are at a crossroads in our lives.

Nate, for his part, has a one-way ticket to Kathmandu in less than a week. Theoretically, he’ll be back early March. This decision wasn’t a rash one, but rather the result of a series of setbacks. When we graduated from Colorado College in 2019, Nate got an ostensibly “big boy” job: he worked as the Western Slopes representative of Conservation Colorado. And in this role, he worked faithfully for a solid four years, gaining serious organizing skills and becoming practically the mayor of Durango in the process. A year ago, he decided to step down to work in a field that aligned more with his passions. He quickly picked up work as a wilderness therapy guide, just for the company to go bankrupt this last winter. A few months later, Nate pivoted to raft guiding, just to be told he didn’t work efficiently enough, and then gained employment with another wilderness therapy outfit. He worked his last shift a few weeks ago, feeling utterly burnt out but willing to put in the time that he had promised. Kathmandu was calling.

The fluctuation in work life would’ve been enough for Nate to deal with, but along with it came with constant unraveling plans. Some of his close relationships deteriorated; he got ill before a race he planned to run in August; he had to completely reorganize a rafting trip after several key friends dropped out. While he wasn’t bent out of shape, he did admit, “Literally nothing has gone to plan this summer.”

Meanwhile, I’ve been battling a lack of plans. Finishing a contract job back in June, I have been applying constantly to jobs with what feels like little momentum. I gave myself July and August to frolic around and enjoy myself, fitting in applications where possible, and I did have a heck of a lot of fun. I backpacked, climbed, trail ran, camped, and traveled to my heart’s content. I vowed I’d use the spare time to get sick at climbing and trail running, and I am arguably at my top level in both now. But after all the moving around, the “funemployment” is no longer much fun. I am frustrated and burnt out. I’ve applied to, on average, a new job every three days. And yet — I spend every day trying to add structure and routine to my life and stay upbeat.

My relationships — with my close friends, my town, and myself — all feel in flux. I no longer feel like I know exactly what I want or where I should be anymore. I feel … stuck. And after trying to create movement all this time, I kind of wish the world would just move.

In a lot of ways, I felt like this little backpacking trip was a moment for Nate and I, individually and together, could “find ourselves.” Removed from society and cell service, we could just be. We could cover miles and elevation while hashing out all of the mixed emotions we had about the current state of our lives — and in the most picturesque setting.

Nate’s ready to get lost in his travels. He’s manifesting a journey full of peaks to summit, people to meet, new places to explore. I’m so excited for him, though I’ll miss him a lot — he’s perhaps the most consistent support I’ve had since May, when it felt like most of my life was unraveling.

Me? I’m less certain. I know I’ll keep waking up every day and trying to create movement. One thing I pride myself on, even though it wears me down, is that I can keep summoning motivation even when things look and feel bleak. I guess I recognize there is no other choice. But beyond movement, I think the larger goal is to keep finding myself. Because I think she’s lost.

I’ve been living so much in anticipation of events, that I’ve hardly taken any time to consider the events themselves. It really hit me this last Saturday.

All summer, I’ve been training for an event hosted by my climbing gym, CityROCK: Battle Royale. It’s a sport climbing competition that they last hosted in 2019 and in fact was won by Paris 2024 Olympic athletes Natalia Grossman and Colin Duffy. After 5 years, CityROCK had decided to bring it back. It differs from the gym’s typical “Downtown Local” comps in that there’s a cash prize ($500 for first place) and the tie breaker boils down to “the battle route.” Essentially, the battle route is such a challenging route that your goal is just to make it as far as up it possible, not necessarily finish it. If you are the male or female who makes it the furthest, you are automatically put into the finals round. Otherwise, the judges are looking at your top 3 hardest finishes. There are 20 routes, #1 being the easiest/fewest points and #20 being the hardest/most points. You get extra points if you “flash” the route (i.e. finish it on your first try) and additional points if you lead the route, rather than top rope. You get 4 hours to get your 3 routes and the top 8 climbers in each category advance.

In 2019, I was far too intimidated to compete in Battle (and knowing Natalia won, I’m honestly glad I didn’t throw my hat in the ring). But my climbing has progressed so much in the last year, it felt silly not to give it a shot this time around. I climbed hard all summer long — getting on harder routes outside than I had ever attempted, pushing myself on the toughest routes at the gym, and climbing through fatigue and fear. I had being working so hard, in fact, that I hadn’t even really imagined what Battle would actually be like.

In the months leading up, my main concern was that a ton of really strong women from Boulder or Denver would show up and blow me out of the water. While I may be one of the strongest women at CityROCK, CityROCK is just one gym in one town in Colorado. My goal with Battle was not to win; it was to hold my own. I really wanted to make it to finals, at least, and make a decent showing.

When I arrived for the comp on Saturday, after months of worrying about a bunch of adult women showing me up, I was in for a bigger surprise. A lot of incredibly strong kids had come to give Battle a try. When I say “kids,” I mean high schoolers. But not just any high schoolers — high schoolers donning matching North Face USA Climbing hoodies, clearly comp kids who do these contests all the time. They looked not only strong, but serious. All business.

My fellow CityROCKers and I were definitely put through the wringer in qualifiers. For my part, my top 3 routes at Downtown Local comps are usually in the 15-20 range — e.g. I send #15, #17, and #18. This comp was way stiffer. I warmed up on #13, which probably was 5.11+/5.12-. I struggled on #14 and #15. I mercifully sent #16 but had to downgrade to #12 to just get 3 routes. And #12 was no gimme either! My attempt at the Battle route, which one of the setters speculates was 5.13c, was brutal. I wasn’t down about it, though. I was genuinely proud of myself of persevering through these tough routes, and I couldn’t help but laugh with the other CityROCK adults as these kids showed us up.

I was afraid that having #12, #13, and #16 wasn’t going to be enough to get me to finals. But it was more than enough — I got 4th in qualifiers! I’ll take that to the bank for sure, considering I had probably a decade on the ladies who got the top 3 spots. But now came the part I hadn’t thought about: finals would be in front of a large crowd of folks who had paid to spectate. Could I climb well under that sort of pressure? I didn’t know.

Gratefully, there were 3 other CityROCK members who made it to finals: Julie, Wiley, and Jono. Two men and two women from the host gym made it — it felt like we were the home team! The pressure felt a little more manageable knowing that the crowd knew us the best and would cheer for us the loudest. However, that couldn’t ease all of our nerves. As finalists, we were all put in “iso” (isolation) as the crowd filed in. We couldn’t see the routes at all, sequestered in the upstairs training area. As these high schoolers monkeyed around in iso, somehow still full of energy, the rest of us weathered adults tried to stretch and stay warm without exhausting ourselves further.

After we got 2 minutes to view each of the two finals routes, we were lined up. We all had a specific time to be called down to the climbing area, followed by a waiting period before climbing, then climbing itself. Each competitor got 6 minutes per route with a 7-minute break in between. However, before climbing each route, we had to sit in front of the wall, our backs to it, while our fellow competitors were attempting it and the crowd was cheering. To say it was stressful would be an understatement.

Mercifully, based on our qualifying rankings, Wiley and I would go down to the wall at the same time and climb at the same time. In addition, Jono would be climbing his second finals route while we climbed our first. This boosted our morale enormously.

When we got down to the gym floor, the crowd screaming and cheering, I felt overwhelmed with pride and emotion. I’ve never experienced a competition like this before. When I finally got on the wall, for the first time all day, all the jitters went away. I felt strong, controlled, and supported. I had so much fun. Though I didn’t finish either of the finals routes, I am totally satisfied with my effort. And I’ll never forget that halfway up the second route, though he was also climbing, Wiley yelled over to me, “Great job, Sarah!” He got third place — the only non-comp kid to podium.

I don’t know if visualizing finals beforehand would have helped me. The whole experience taught me so much about myself, though — how much I’ve grown as a climber and how much further I have to go. How I deal with stress and pressure and fatigue. How I maintain a positive attitude in light of setbacks. How I perform in front of an audience. What I’m most proud of, though, is how I showed up for myself and my gym. To fall off that second finals route, untie, and run into a big bear hug with Wiley and Jono made me feel such joy that the outcome was practically meaningless.

Before the day even started, I just kept repeating the mantra: Do your best. Have fun. I think I succeeded.

I don’t think I was a dreamer as a kid. It’s not that I had no aspirations, but rather saw infinite possibility. I didn’t latch onto one particular dream or accomplishment because there were too many to choose from. Instead, I just worked really hard at what I did. I worked hard at school, on the field hockey field, and in the climbing gym. Whatever I did, I just tried to do it well.

When I was very little, I had an obsession with Annie, the musical. I do recall wanting to be her, on stage, for a brief time. Once that impossible dream subsided, like a lot of kids, I thought I wanted to be a veterinarian “when I grew up.” Accompanying my dad to put down our golden retriever, Dixie, at age 12 quickly dispelled that idea too. I don’t remember having any career ideas in my teens, and I certainly wasn’t ready to declare a major when I applied to colleges. The reason I majored in psychology wasn’t because I wanted to be a psychologist, either; I just loved the classes and never felt like the work was real work. It was just fun. I wanted to spend my four years enjoying my education, not loathing it.

I recently realized the lack of dreaming in my youth when I went climbing in Rifle for the first time. Rifle is certainly one of the most renowned climbing areas in the United States, but possibly the world. As a child, I would leaf through the climbing magazines in the rock gym, seeing photos of Rifle and similar crags, waiting for a parent to pick me up. I would think wow, but I never thought, Wow, I want to go there. I want to climb there someday. It didn’t even occur to me that somehow, that could be a version of my life. But now I’ve lived in Colorado for 9 years and have not just climbed in Rifle, but a number of world-renowned climbing destinations.

Making it to Rifle wasn’t just fulfilling a would-be childhood dream. Making it to Rifle was a testament to the climbing expertise that I have so relentlessly pursued for the past 18 years. Rifle has practically no moderate-level climbs — the ones that do exist, as the guidebook says, are polished and uninspiring. To have a good time at Rifle, you have to be climbing at an expert level. Or be really good at accepting failure. Because even as an expert, you will fail at Rifle. Again and again and again.

For a while now, I’ve been stewing on this idea of expertise in adulthood. To me, the greatest joy of growing up has been finding passions and tenaciously seeking more information, more knowledgeability, and more experience around them.

While climbing has been part of my life since I was just 9 years old, many of my current passions have only developed over the last 8 years or so. Take running, for example. I barely had run more than a 5K before college. Then two years ago, I qualified for the Boston Marathon — I ran the Austin Marathon at a pace of 7:26 minutes per mile. That’s mind-boggling to me, still. Was that even me?

The joy of qualifying, however, wasn’t just crossing the finish line at a wicked-fast time (for me). It was all of the work I had put into it. I had chipped away at running races, learning how to train, fuel, and recover for several half marathons and two marathons prior to Austin. The desire to improve and optimize my running was insatiable, and still is. Now training for my second ultra marathon, I am so wholly fulfilled knowing how much more I have to learn. I am learning more about endurance running practically every day. And learning more about climbing every day. And learning more about myself every day.

I have lamented to several people that when I took AP Psychology in high school, I was taught that adulthood (as defined in developmental psych) is basically broken into two categories: work and love. It’s about what you do to make a living and who you spend your time with. But what happened to play? Play is so important in childhood, but it falls to the wayside as we age. But in my current state of being, play is all I have. I am unemployed and single. Does that make me less of an adult? (Maybe a little.) But there’s so much value in play for me because I am growing and developing passions that I never dreamt I would be skillful at. Passions that have taken me so many new places and taught me what I’m made of. Without play, I don’t know who I would be, what I would do.

My uncle Carey is nearly 72 years old, and he is an expert wind surfer. The best part? He started in his 50s. After years of traveling to Hood River, the US wind surfing mecca, he and my late aunt Debbie moved to Mosier, just 5 miles east, with a population of less than 500. He wind surfs every day that it’s warm enough and the wind is blowing hard enough; he skis Mt. Hood when it’s too cold to wind surf. I remember seeing a Facebook post of his last year of him in his full wet suit, smiling ear to ear, standing on the shore with his board.

He wrote: “Pretty late in the season to be windsurfing for me, but no snow so whatcha gonna do? Glad I went! NE wind 30-35, air and water temps both ~47 degrees. Toasty in the drysuit except for the hands.”

I showed several friends and family the post, because all I could think was: this is someone in the family who gets it. That the love for play can dispel everything else. Who cares if the conditions are poor? I want to push myself.

When I asked uncle Carey last year about how he got into wind surfing and what it means to him, he said, “This is the greatest part of my life. The fact that I’m out there with people decades younger than I am, holding my own … it’s incredible.”

Maybe I didn’t dare to dream a lot when I was a kid. But as an adult, the only thing I dream about is how I can keep playing for the rest of my life.

October 9, 2023

It’s been two months since we lost our dear corgi, Chowder, and I can’t say I’ve processed the loss fully. I suppose grieving is never a complete process; you continually learn how to cope with the reality of the situation. Over time, I’ve found that you start smiling in memory of the passed loved one, rather than tear up. But it’s been a lot of both for me.

When we first lost Chowder, I was bereft but had no emotional space to be. I was far from home — both Colorado Springs and Warwick — with other stressful matters at play. I wanted to give Chowder the proper thought and mourning he deserved, but I couldn’t do it. I’m trying to now.

Chowder had a special place in all of our hearts. I can honestly say he had a unique relationship with each of us. For me, he was in many ways my soul dog. We grew together in our ability to let others in — to find a lot of comfort in being around others, even in silence. In these last couple years, I really felt touched and honored that he spent time with me. That he’d follow me into rooms and sit under or by my chair while I read or worked or watched TV. He wanted to be with me, and I with him.

I just spent the weekend with my college roommate, Marta, and we talked about the “Roman Empire” trend — how men seem to think about the Roman Empire way more often than you’d expect. “Do you have any ‘Roman Empires’?” she asked me. “Something you think about all the time even though it doesn’t necessarily make sense?”

The first thing that came to mind was Chowder. I tried not to get choked up when I realized I hadn’t thought of him in this way in a couple months. I genuinely would wonder what he was doing in my free time. Whether he was lying on the porch or sitting at the top of our hill, watching. I wondered if he’d gone to the park and had had a fun time.

There were many times on this trip where I would stare out the car window and think how much it would hurt to go home and not see him. I would tear up thinking about the last time I saw him — April, for the Boston Marathon, him happy and healthy. No one could have prepared our family for this devastation.

As much as we talk about Chow fondly and put on a brave face for our other dog, Heidi the dachshund, I know we’re all denying how much we actually are hurting.

It happened on my first full day home. My dad, Fletcher, and I were standing on a busy Manhattan street. We were just chatting when a pedestrian with a corgi passed us. It was like all the air around us got sucked up. There was a palpable beat as we watched the dog totter off, its cute corgi butt fading into the distance. We took a collective deep breath and tried to return to our conversation. That’s when I knew that we were still so incredibly hurt.

I’ve put off this post for a long time now, thinking I couldn’t do it until I really could let out the sobs. I wish I could give that corgi one last squeeze, as much as he hated to be held. I wish I could watch him sprinting up our hill in anticipation of a treat from my mom. I still think he’s going to be seated at the top of the steps outside the door when I go home.

I just hope that he wasn’t in pain when he left us. I’m not a very religious person, but I do think he’s supervising us, the way he always did. I’d like to think that the good things, the lucky things, the serendipitous things that have happened to me in the last couple months are his doing. I hope he’s proud of us and understands why we haven’t been able to confront his death very well. I know he knows we loved him so deeply and unconditionally; but I wish I could give him more, somehow.

August 3, 2024

It’s been a year without Chowder now, and everything that I wrote remains shockingly true. I didn’t have the heart to post about him in October, but I feel strongly enough that he deserves the attention now. Not a day goes by without me thinking about our beautiful boy. Love and miss you, Chow.