The Power of Shedding

After returning from North Carolina with a body requesting sleep, I slowed to a halt. My husband took off to coach a two-day track meet in Oregon, while my daughter stayed on campus to visit with friends. The hike to Annette Lake I had planned for this week fell apart when everyone canceled. I found myself wondering if they knew something I didn’t. Instead of the usual rhythm of moving, doing, and guiding, I was left with something else entirely: space.

A lovely sunrise over Magnuson Park and Lake Washington. My dog Ajax and I enjoyed 33 bird species on a frosty Saturday morning.

Peaceful Entertainment

For someone who builds her week around motion—coaching, hiking, teaching, planning, birding, walking—being sick felt like I was shedding part of myself. A sloughing off of my breakneck pace. Eleven appointments filled today’s (Monday’s) calendar. However, during the weekend leading up to those conversations, I gave in to what my body requested: rest, silence, nature, and permission to chill. For three of the past four nights, I turned the lights out at 8 p.m. and slept until after 6 a.m.

I read four books. I returned a hundred books to Little Free Libraries. I walked with Ajax through Magnuson and Hamlin Parks, identifying 33 unique bird species. I mowed the lawn, washed the car, and cleaned leaves from the driveway—small tasks, but immensely satisfying. I cooked healthy food. I grounded. Instead of a long list of doing, I … focused on being. On becoming.

Ajax wades in Lake Washington at the off-leash dog park on a beautiful, sunny, crisp Saturday morning.

I watched Despicable Me 4, which made me laugh. I watched 28 Days, which reminded me that healing is neither linear nor clean. And I watched Nyad, the remarkable story of Diana Nyad who swam from Cuba to Florida in her sixties, not on her first try—or even her fifth—but on her sixth.

Something about that story gripped me. The storms, box jellyfish, nausea, and sharks she went up against made me shudder. She persevered like I did when I broke my wrist on 2/22/22. I love stories of female protagonists overcoming all obstacles. They are so motivating. They remind me of what I would like to be for my clients: A beacon of light and hope, an example of what is possible if we get out of our way.

Cancellations

Then, there was supposed to be a hike to Annette Lake. At one point, I had nine people signed up. However, one by one, they all canceled, until I had just two people signed up. What the heck?

As someone used to having long wait lists for my hikes, this one felt like an anomaly. Perhaps the political climate is impacting people and making them less likely to hike right now. Maybe there are tons of other things going on this spring — I’ve certainly seen the number of offered hikes increase. Plus, I only let the sign-up window be two weeks long rather than six.

On a walk with Ajax, I wrestled with what to do. Go anyway? Cancel? Do a trip by myself?

Mt. Rainier peeks out of the sunrise clouds, due south of Lake Washington.

When I returned from my walk, I e-mailed an apology to the two remaining people on the roster, explaining what had happened and that I’d offer it again later in the spring. I felt two conflicting things: relief that I didn’t have to be outside in driving snow and pouring rain with just two participants, and disappointment that people I had hoped to connect with had bailed. One of the hikers has canceled every time she’s signed up for one of my hikes.

Wrong Interpretation

I’ve noticed how quickly disappointment can creep into my headspace. That voice that says, Maybe you’re burned out. Maybe you should stop trying to lead these hikes for a while. Maybe your hike-leading days are over before they truly start.

Baloney. I’m just getting started. As soon as I complete one, I sign up to lead another, eager to see what I can learn from the next group of hikers.

But this week, shedding expectations felt like a strength. Letting go of who shows up, how full the roster is, or whether the weather cooperates… feels liberating. Leadership isn’t about the number of people who join me—it’s about how I show up when no one else does. It’s about what I do to honor my body’s needs and enjoy Mother Nature in a way that heals and soothes me. And if it helps anyone else, then great.

Sunny Hamlin Park trail with my dog Ajax.

So, while I canceled my Mountaineers hike, it doesn’t mean I can’t go out alone. The question is: do I WANT to? Or would I like to continue to recover from whatever crud I brought home from North Carolina? And if I don’t go tomorrow morning, might I choose to do another birding outing with Ajax? Or maybe go on Wednesday instead, when the weather cooperates? Nothing is telling me to do a particular outing; it’s all about what will restore me and fill me with joy.

A Pause Worth Taking

This weekend, I didn’t go on a long hike. I didn’t meet a mileage or elevation goal. I didn’t crush a workout or make new connections. But I did rest. I did pay attention. I did connect with Mother Nature and her beautiful birds. And I did shed a skin that no longer fits.

In nature, shedding is essential. Trees let go of their leaves to survive the cold. Snakes release old skins to grow. Even birds molt to bring in new feathers for the next journey. There’s no drama in it. No guilt. Just the rhythm of pause, release, and renewal.