Almost ten years ago, I drove through the Ouachita National Forest in Arkansas on my way to visit my dad, and I heard a voice in my head as clear as if someone was sitting in the passenger seat.

You need to start backpacking again.

I hadn't backpacked in over 20 years. And even back then, I never went more than one night at a time. Funny thing — just a few years before that drive, I'd given away my backpack. The one that had made every move with me, state to state, even to Hawaii and back. Gone. And now, out of nowhere, something in me was absolutely certain I needed to go back out there.

I had almost no gear. A stove too heavy by today's standards. A sleeping bag that weighs about six pounds. That's it. I was closing in on 50 years old, and I didn't know a single person who could or would go with me. And a few years before that, I'd been in a car accident that broke both of my feet. So it wasn't just "do I have the gear." It was "do I even know if my body can do this anymore."

Here's the thing about a call like that — it doesn't come with a plan. It just comes with a knowing.

So I started watching YouTube videos. The how came back faster than I expected. A few months later, I drove from Florida to Georgia and did a small section of the Appalachian Trail, dragging my dog along for moral support. Guess what? She was way more terrified than I was. But we did it.

Then... radio silence. A year, maybe more, of nothing.

I moved to Texas and started doing these hybrid trips — backpack into a walk-in site as far from everyone else as I could get, set up camp, then day-hike for a few days from there. It was good for dialing in gear. Good for solitude. But it still wasn't the trip.

Then more radio silence.

Looking back, I think we tend to judge a manifestation right in the middle of it. Those quiet years where nothing seemed to be moving? I could have easily decided the whole thing wasn't working. I didn't. I just... stayed the kind of person this mattered to. And eventually, life opened a door.

The Trip I'd Been Waiting For

The original plan was the PCT, Section J, in Washington. Seventy miles. I was nervous just thinking about it.

Then fires happened. Washington was off the table.

We pivoted to the Appalachian Trail in Vermont. A hundred miles instead of seventy. I want to be honest — I was already nervous about 70. Now I was staring down 100, and it turned out to be a much harder 100 than the one we'd planned. The AT is brutal. Sharp climbs, sharp drops, barely any flat ground. Going up felt like an hour on a stair climber with a weight strapped to your back. Going down was somehow worse — that's when my knees started talking to me.

We got lucky with weather, mostly. One night of rain. One thunderstorm we rode out safe in a shelter. Otherwise, close to perfect. And after the heat dome back home in Arkansas, that felt like a gift all by itself.

Night Six

I admit, more than once out there, I wondered what I was thinking.

Night six is the one I keep coming back to. I was lying in my sleeping bag in a shelter, both hips aching in a way that scared me a little. I remember wondering if I'd actually hurt myself. Wondering if I could even finish.

And here's the part that makes it worse — the day before, we'd stayed at the Inn at Long Trail. A real bed. A hot shower. The chance to wash our clothes and repack our gear. The easiest bailout point on the entire trail. I skipped it. We kept walking.

So now I was one more night in, pretty much locked in, with sore hips and a mind that would not shut up.

Can you believe that's the moment that taught me the most?

I woke up the next morning anyway. Did the pack-up routine. Ate breakfast. Hit the trail. And something shifted. Through hikers call it "getting your trail legs," and I honestly didn't think it would happen for me on just a 10 day trip, especially with the sleep I was getting — which, by the way, was basically none. Left side, drift to sleep, hip pain. Roll to my back, not used to lying flat, back pain. Roll to my right side, drift to sleep, other hip starts up. Repeat that all night, every night, for ten nights. If I'd worn a fitness tracker, I would have failed sleep quality spectacularly.

But somewhere in there, the hiking got easier. Not painless. Just... possible.

Are We There Yet

Here's what I noticed, and it's the whole reason I'm writing this post.

Every single time my mind drifted into the future, to the shelter — how much farther, are we close, when do we stop — the trail got harder and the journey felt much longer. But when I brought myself back to the actual step I was on, the trees around me, the fresh air, my breath, the sound of my own steps, I could walk. Not because the mountain got smaller. Because my relationship to the mountain changed.

That's when I started saying my affirmations. Not rattling them off — really feeling them. One I pulled from Charles Haanel, and also later shared by Joseph Murphy:

I am whole, perfect, strong, powerful, loving, harmonious, and happy.

I probably said that a thousand times over ten days. I also used a treatment from Joseph Murphy: Wholeness, beauty, and perfection flow through every atom of my being. The healing power of God now restores me to perfect health.

It wasn't magic. My hips still hurt. I was still exhausted. But I could be exhausted and still feel strong. I could have miles left and still feel happy. I didn't need the trail to be finished before I let myself feel those things.

The Tooth I Almost Didn't Mention

Right before this trip, I found out I might need a root canal. A crown I'd recently gotten had a nerve root that appeared to be dying, and I developed a fistula on my gum from the infection draining. My dentist warned me that travel — especially flying — can make things flare up fast. Pressure changes, swelling, the whole face going sideways overnight. Like I needed that visual! She gave me an antibiotic just in case and told me to fill it if things got bad.

I didn't want that to be my story. So I said my affirmations, and I went hiking anyway.

The fistula grew a little, and then, out of nowhere, it retreated. A week after getting home, I'm still symptom-free. My dentist said sometimes a nerve root just dissolves on its own and no root canal is needed. That's the plan I'm holding onto.

I'm not telling you affirmations healed my tooth. I don't know that, and I'm not going to pretend I do. What I do know is that I didn't spend 100 miles checking my gum and bracing for disaster. I had a preference. I did what I could. And then I let it go and went hiking.

That's the part of manifesting nobody talks about enough. Letting go isn't the same as not caring. It's just no longer requiring a certain outcome in order to be okay right now.

Walking Out

Day ten was our last full night. On day eleven, we hiked out of the woods and hitched a ride into town — and I say "hitched" like I had any idea what I was doing, because I didn't. I'd never hitched a ride in my life and wasn't totally sure it was even a good idea. I mean, you hear the stories! You've watched the movies! However, a kind man and a young woman picked us up on their way to church, and it turned out to be one of the sweetest moments of the whole trip.

I couldn't help but laugh at that. Someone who once needed to drag an unwilling dog onto the AT for moral support was now casually sticking her thumb out on the side of a Vermont highway. That's not nothing. That's ten years of becoming someone.

The Part I Actually Want You to Take With You

I think we make manifesting so much harder than it needs to be, because we're always checking on the shelter.

Is it here yet? Is it working? How much farther? What if this pain means I chose wrong? What if I can't do this?

Meanwhile, there's an entire life happening under our feet that we're barely experiencing, because we're too busy measuring the distance between here and there.

I never walked 100 miles. I walked one step. Then another one. Sometimes joyfully, sometimes painfully, sometimes wondering what in the world I'd gotten myself into. And somehow, all of those very ordinary steps added up to something that looks almost impossible from where I started.

Maybe that's true for the business you're building. The money you're calling in. The relationship you're healing. The dream you've been carrying around for years without a clear "how."

You don't have to walk 100 miles today.

You just have to walk this step.

If you have something you're here to share, but you're struggling to find the words for it, this is one of the things I'm most passionate about helping people do.

The Message Blueprint is about getting clear on your message and putting words to what you do in a way that feels like you—and makes sense to the people you're here to help.

If your business has evolved, your message feels a little muddy, or your website just doesn't sound like you anymore, I'd love to help.

Book a free call and let's talk.