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As I sat on the plane, about to embark on what I hoped would be the greatest adventure of my life so far, my feet would not stop tapping. Tap, tap, tap. Sitting still in my tiny seat felt like torture, and I probably drove the person sitting next to me crazy. I shifted this way and that, sighing audibly and wishing that I could pace up and down the aisle. Anxiety had been plaguing me for weeks, and it was coming to a head. It started the day that I handed in my resignation to my boss, letting him know that I would be leaving my position to hike the 2,200-mile Appalachian Trail (AT) from Georgia to Maine. That’s when the nightmares began. Each night, I would wake up with a gasp, shaking and clammy, my pajamas soaked in cold sweat. I would toss and turn in bed while the world slept, gripped with worry over my future and the decisions I was making. I asked myself the same few questions on a loop. Was I crazy? Quite possibly. Irresponsible? Most definitely. Would I regret it? I couldn’t know, but I also couldn’t shake the question. It would have been much easier, and perhaps smarter, to stay the course in Washington, D.C. For seven years, I had worked my butt off to create a life and build a career there. I had put an exorbitant amount of time and energy into my education, relationships, and especially my jobs—only to drop it all like an old hat as soon as things finally seemed to be falling into place. But I was burned out, and I felt deep in my bones that it was time to go. When I first arrived in the city that I would call home for the next several years, jonesing for the chance to work in environmental conservation, I didn’t even own a smartphone. By the time I left for the AT, I was exhausted from constantly having to stay plugged in. Checking email and taking work calls in the evenings and on weekends were not just expected, they were required. I quickly learned that changing the world, or having a fast-paced career in a big American city rather, does not allow for great work-life balance. At least not in my experience. That did not make leaving any easier, though. To leave stability—a meaningful job, a regular paycheck, a boss I respected, friends that I loved—behind to chase a dream, one I didn’t know if I was even capable of achieving, seemed bonkers, even to me. But the idea of hiking the AT had sunk its teeth into me, and despite my attempts to brush the idea aside in favor of furthering my career, it just wouldn’t let go. Finally, I was giving in. As time marched on toward my leave date, panic set in. Each night, I’d wake up shaking from another bad dream. Each day, I’d find myself scouring the blogs, social media posts, and YouTube channels of thru-hikers from years past, hoping to find evidence that all this anxiety was both normal and worth it. I ached for confirmation that I was making the right choice, that everything was going to be okay. But life doesn’t offer that sort of certainty, and no amount of reading could assuage my fears. I had to leap into the void without being able to see what lay ahead. Thankfully though, the peace that I’d so desperately searched for in the weeks leading up to the start of the trail finally found me as I stepped through the famous arch at Amicalola Falls State Park in Dawsonville, Georgia, where the approach trail begins. Once my feet started moving, my brain could finally rest.
