My husband and I started indoor rock climbing a year ago. Heights and I aren’t friends, but after learning to scuba dive last April, I figured I could handle one more activity that terrifies me.
One of my key takeaways on my first day is that despite all my nightmares, I would not plummet to the ground if I slipped. Yes, I’d be hanging in the air, but I’m literally attached to my climbing partner (aka my husband) on the ground through the magic of ropes tied in a figure 8 knot, a belay device, and a locking carabiner.
But because climbing is still a challenge for me, I found myself staring up at the wall and trying to choose the route that will get me to the top with the least amount of anxiety. If a certain route looked too hard from the bottom, I didn’t want to try it. Once on the wall, I found myself scaling it as fast as possible to get it over with and prove to myself that I could do it. And inevitably, when adrenaline and anxiety kicked in halfway up, it felt like I’d failed somehow.
But that’s not what climbing is about.
Learning to climb
Climbing is as much of a mental game as it is physical. It’s not about how fast you can climb up to your destination – it’s about the journey.
Needing to stop halfway up a wall to breathe through a surge of adrenaline doesn’t make me a failure. It means I can pause, look around at my options, and then plan where to best place my foot or hand to make my next move. It also means I am able to both hear and receive support in the form of my husband shouting “You got this!” or “There’s a good foothold to your left!”
And speaking of my husband, communication with your partner is a huge part of climbing. I need to signal when I need more slack or tension in the rope, when I’m ready to descend, and when I need a break.
Climbing is helping me rebuild my confidence and learn to be present with something that makes me uncomfortable. And it hit me that this is the perfect metaphor for my mental health journey.
One step at a time
Recovery and healing is an uncomfortable process. Some days, it feels like staring up from the ground at far I have to go and wondering what’s the point. Other days, it’s like making it halfway up, shaking with anxiety, looking down and seeing how high up you are, and not wanting to move.
But through therapy, I’m learning to pause and look around. And when I do, I remember that I have the resources and support I need to help me take the next step. And the next. And the next.
Even when I scale a wall one time, it doesn’t mean that I’ll never encounter that same challenge again. But it does mean I’m more prepared for the next time.
