We all face a climb—a gap between who we are and who we might become. It is the mountain we ascend, step by step, rising above the sweeping valleys below.
For some, the path is a carved trail laid out clearly with purpose. For others, it is a rugged face, loose rocks beneath our feet, barely holding as we press upward. Yet still, we climb.
Some steps feel impossible. The ground crumbles, the wind howls—will we ever reach the summit? Is there truly a peak above the clouds?
The mist rolls in, swallowing the mountaintop, blurring the journey. Yet we keep moving. With each step, something shifts. The mountain molds itself to our struggle, and slowly, we rise.
Behind us, old hands marked the first trails—those who dared to climb when no path existed. Beside us, familiar voices echo through the thin air, urging us on. Above, faint shapes emerge—figures waiting at heights we have yet to reach.
The wind lashes out and the mountain quakes. A fall would be fatal—the slope crumbles beneath us. We climb not for a promised summit, but for the climb itself.
When we look back, we realize that the mountain was never beneath our feet; it rose within us.
By Jeffrey Cooper