Trust Defeats Eek at the Edge of Change
This week has felt like standing at a trailhead with multiple signs pointing in different directions. There’s tonight’s Volunteer Celebration, my first podcast conversation Thursday, an upcoming talk in nine days, clients to prepare for and follow up with, and a calendar that seems to be filling faster than I can fully absorb what’s happening. Add to that leading four Mountaineers hikes to Pratt River Trail, Saint Edward State Park, the Middle Fork of the Snoqualmie, and birding at Union Bay and I’m buzzing. Alongside the excitement, I feel a familiar flicker of unease—part eagerness, part hesitation, part quiet wonder about whether I’m truly ready for what I’ve been working so hard toward. And yet, beneath it all, I’m hearing a small, growing voice: trust. Herein is my example of how trust defeats eek at the edge of change.
The Quiet Voice of Trust
Lately, I’ve been noticing how two currents move through me at once. One is the small but persistent voice that says things tend to work out, that courage is not about certainty but about showing up, putting boots on the trail, and being willing to enter the arena even when the outcome isn’t guaranteed. The other is what I’ve coined “eeekness”, a blend of excitement and dread that arises whenever something meaningful is about to happen.
The pressure isn’t all negative; it feels alive. Part of me wants to slow down, ground myself, and linger in the comfort of familiar trails and snuggles with Ajax. Another part is energized, curious, and eager to move forward. The fear underneath isn’t about failing so much as losing myself in the process. It’s about keeping all the balls in the air without pleasing others at the cost of my own self. My mind keeps asking, “Have I done enough? Am I ready?” Yet the new self I’m slowly learning to lean into (Thanks, Tama Kieves!) is that I always seem to be ready, somehow, when the test / hike / client session / talk arrives.
Middle Fork of the Snoqualmie: Closer Than We Thought
On a January 20 outing to the Middle Fork of the Snoqualmie, something quietly symbolic happened. Back in November, my first time on this trail, Dingford Creek Bridge had felt out of reach, as if it required more effort than we had imagined. This time, as we continued beyond the campground where we stopped in November, it suddenly dawned on me that the bridge was much closer than we had realized—and entirely worth the extra time it took to reach it.
The metaphor felt almost too perfect. So often, we assume our goals are distant and daunting, when in reality we’ve already been walking toward them for years. Perhaps this season of conversations, leadership, and visibility isn’t something I’m racing toward after all. Perhaps I’ve been steadily moving in this direction, one steady mile at a time.
Saint Edward State Park: Trust and Adjust
At Saint Edward State Park, I felt a different kind of clarity. After receiving conflicting comments from previous hikers (“appreciated the educational bird breaks”; “too many breaks for the cold temperatures”) I adjusted to “regroup at junctions and keep within shouting distance, but keep yourself safe and warm first.”
The forest didn’t care about deadlines or expectations, and the trail didn’t demand certainty. Ajax was back from surgery, his first hike since November. People moved at their own pace, each carrying stories of injury recovery, resilience, and quiet courage. One hiker even decided that one trip up the bluff was enough for her. And that was okay!
Looking back, I realize how much of what I’m preparing to speak about is already woven into my everyday life. Listening deeply, encouraging gently, offering feedback with compassion, creating spaces where people feel safe enough to grow. These aren’t skills I’m scrambling to acquire. They’re practices I’ve been living for decades. The upcoming podcast and talks aren’t departures from my life; they’re natural extensions of it.
Union Bay: Trust the Courage to Linger
Birding at Union Bay offered a different kind of teaching. Watching birds move through reeds and across the water, I felt the rare permission to linger without agenda. In a culture that prizes speed and productivity, noticing can feel almost rebellious.
It reminded me that growth doesn’t always look like forward motion. Sometimes it looks like stillness, curiosity, and the willingness to stay long enough to truly see what’s unfolding right in front of us. A new naturalist later commented in her evaluation that she wants to participate on more naturalist trips. My heart soared with the realization that our wonderment pace and experience with 37 bird species had succeeded in winning over another steward. Her trust in me resulted in a new, blossoming passion in her.
Ajax and the Simplicity of Joy
On quieter rambles through Salmon Creek Ravine and Hamlin Park, Ajax’s joy was unmistakable. My little man is just as grateful to be back on the trails as I am to have him, moving without expectation, guided by scent, light, and the simple pleasure of being outside.
Walking beside him, I felt a quiet realization settle in: I am not striving toward something foreign or artificial. Talking with classmates on a podcast is a collaborative conversation. Teaching feedback skills is what I’ve been doing for decades. Exploring how to infuse fun into movement is what has sustained my curiosity and energy for more than fifty years. I’m not preparing to become someone new; I’m stepping more fully into who I already am.
Mixed Feelings at the Edge of Growth
And still, beneath all of that experience and familiarity, there is an honest whisper: “I secretly wonder if I’m ready for what I’ve been striving, yearning, and asking for.”
Part of me still wants to prove myself, but a growing part is shifting toward trust. I’m beginning to see that mixed feelings are not a sign of inadequacy or unpreparedness. They are often the signature of growth itself, marking the moment when excitement and fear meet at the threshold of something meaningful.
Courage, I’m discovering, isn’t about silencing the EEK. It’s about walking forward with it, letting it coexist with trust rather than compete with it. So here I am—boots on the trail, heart open, ready not because everything is perfect, but because the moment has arrived.
If you find yourself standing at the edge of something big, feeling both dread and delight, know this: mixed feelings are not a problem to solve. As my spiritual coach, Tama Kieves, would say, “They are often the clearest sign that you are exactly where you need to be.” Tonight I step forward into a new, visible role as Seattle Mountaineers Hike Leader of the Year 2025, Trip Reporter of the Year 2025, and Mountaineers Service Award Recipient 2025. One I’ve been building toward for more than 30 years.
