About halfway to Snow Lake, I regret every decision that brought me there.

At the trailhead, though, it’s pure optimism.

I've packed my snacks, filled my water bottle, and convinced myself that climbing a mountain sounds like a lovely way to spend the day.

Then, somewhere around the 3-mile mark, reality kicks in.
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The rocky switchbacks seem steeper than I remember. The elevation gain sets my lungs on fire.

I'm tired and my legs hurt. I stop and pretend to take a drink of water so I can secretly catch my breath.

Then I look up and realize I still have that much farther to go?

This was a terrible idea. For a split second, turning around sounds incredibly appealing.

But I never do. I keep walking.

Eventually I find my rhythm again, the trail levels out, and my second wind shows up. Before long, I'm standing at the top wondering why I ever doubted myself.

It happens every time.

Which made me realize something:

Almost everything worthwhile feels like a mistake in the middle.

Take writing for example. An idea gets you fired up, you draft the opening, and then somewhere around paragraph four you're convinced you've forgotten how to write.

You can't see the finish line, and suddenly your inner critic becomes very confident.

That's the point where most people mistake discomfort for failure.

It's amazing how often this comes up when I'm helping a client shape a story. When it starts feeling hard or messy, they think they're doing it wrong.

In reality, they're just halfway up the mountain.

Keep going.

The view is probably closer than you think.

Erin

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