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On Friday I lived two different lifetimes in one day: awe on a ridge and agony on a vet clinic floor. The contrast hit with a force that surprised me. One moment I was standing on Cougar Mountain, watching a mentee step fully into his confidence as a newly minted hike leader. A few hours later I was choking back wrenching sobs as my dog emerged from surgery, sutured and bleeding, relying completely on our care.

When Awe and Agony Collide in a Single Day

The morning was the kind of December miracle hikers dream about. Overcast skies but dry, no wind, and very few people. At the overlook named the “Million Dollar View” on Cougar Mountain, I pulled on a warmer jacket and took a long drink of electrolyte water. My mentee set down his pack with satisfaction and opened his pack for treats he’d brought for his hikers. Set his alarm for 15 minutes. Asked how everyone was doing. Something in his posture said, without words (those came later in our debrief), that he was having fun.

I passed around my binoculars. He passed around German cookies. The group settled into the moment as though time had paused just for us. Later, back at the trailhead, hikers thanked him for a wonderful day, and I watched him shift to self-satisfaction. He emailed me afterward to say he now understood what it feels like to enjoy leading instead of simply enduring it. His words landed deeply because one year ago at Otter Falls and Big Creek Falls, I felt that same shift. Seeing him grow into the role became a quiet moment of fulfillment for me too.

When Responsibility Breaks Your Heart

That glow stayed with me while I wrote two trip reports at home. It stayed with me until my daughter and I began driving north to Everett to pick up Ajax. With each mile the knot in my stomach tightened. The closer we got, the more the nervous energy rose. I tried to stay steady, yet the anticipation felt sharp.

Nothing prepared me for what we saw inside the clinic. Ajax came out disoriented, shaved, stitched, and dripping blood from a surgical drain. My daughter turned pale. I began crying before I could even form a full breath. The refrain I could not shake was simple and painful: we chose this for him. Not life-saving surgery or heroics. Just a procedure we hoped would help him in the long run. Yet it was still our decision, and he had no way to understand why he hurt.

Agony for Us Both

When my husband reached into the car to support Ajax under his belly (forgetting that was the site of his sutures) and Ajax yelped, something inside me cracked open. His cry was pure pain. It also pulled forward a memory I had not expected to feel so strongly. Sixteen years ago we said goodbye to our older dog Emily, and the grief of that day resurfaced with surprising force. I had to step outside and walk the block, sobbing as quietly as I could. My husband told me I needed to settle before coming back inside. He was not wrong. Ajax picks up on my energy. Always has.

Ten minutes later, I returned. I sat beside him, coaxing him to eat, and watching for any sign of wretching. Today, while my husband caught up on much-needed sleep, Ajax rested beside me without his cone, peaceful and trusting. In that moment I realized he is not lost to us. He is simply paused. Today, on his own, he chose a slow twenty minute walk, which felt like a small victory.

Learning to Regather in the Middle of Everything

This week has shown me how close to each other awe and agony sit. Nature gives me spaciousness and beauty. Ajax has always been part of that wilderness for me. When he and I walk together through the mountains or on trails, we move in synch. Thinking of losing him someday is almost excruciatingly unbearable. Yet the fleetingness of our time together makes these moments sharper and more meaningful.

Something softened in me as I realized that he is healing in his own time. Something softened even more when I recognized how much responsibility asks of the heart. Caring for a creature who cannot understand why he hurts is both beautiful and brutal. It requires tenderness, steadiness, and the willingness to feel everything instead of numbing out.

What Awe and Agony Teach About Love and Mettle

What stays with me 24 hours later is how these extremes shape me. Awe in the mountains show me what leadership, mentorship, and growth can feel like at their best. Agony in the clinic reminded me what love asks of us when nothing is certain or easy. The two experiences were separated by hours, yet they belong together.

The writer Tama Kieves suggests that challenge is the teacher and our response reveals our mettle. I understand that differently now. Mettle is not about gritting teeth or staying tough. It is about staying present when joy and grief arrive moments apart. It is about accepting that the highs do not protect us from the lows and the lows do not erase the highs. And it is about letting each moment, however fleeting, open the heart instead of closing it.

Resting in the Middle

There are days when I reach for chocolate to soften the edges. There are days when the trail feels like the place where I can breathe again. Both are essential for me to navigate a life I care about and that is constantly surprising me.

Yesterday I learned something I had been circling for a long time. The work is not to avoid the extremes. The work is to let them shape me without losing myself. Awe and agony will continue to arrive. In the space between them, there is a fragile kind of grace that keeps teaching me how to stay open. That teaches me how to be uniquely me, vulnerable and steady.

I don’t think I’ll ever view Christmas the same way again. But I’m ever so grateful for hikes that go for us in blustery in-between times and for a precious dog who came back to us. May your holiday season fulfill you in all the many, many possible ways it can.