It wasn’t a single event; no big bang, no single tragedy or tectonic shift. It was a day at a time. Things changed. I changed. It was so gradual I didn’t see it. Erosion reshaped me as it reshaped the landscape. I saw a different self at the summit and I recognized it.

I can’t pinpoint exactly when it started, but when I look to the past, I can see it’s been happening for a long time. A few loose stones here. A slip of debris there. Occasionally, the wind and rain would settle. The slippage would slow. But what time has shaped cannot be entirely remade.

There were periods of settling; the ground stable. There were periods where the forces of nature—of fate, perhaps—would deposit enough solid material I could climb a few feet higher. The skies would clear. I could stretch my legs and climb again.

And there were periods of flooding. The very earth slipping away beneath my feet. Scrambling—occasionally losing my footing—I’d find all the progress I’d made gone. I’d be farther down the slope than I’d begun.

I’ve been at the bottom. The view is daunting, and the trek seems impossible. The mud would flow, washing over my feet and threatening to take me with it.

But I’ve learned to find my balance. I’ve learned to climb.

Somewhere at the top is as self I’ve been trying to be; perhaps a self I once was before the erosion began. I’ve made it to the top—or nearly—a few times, but the rains came. The rains will always come. Freedom, pride, and peace wait at the summit. I’ve seen the toll time can take. I’ve felt the ground shift. And I have learned to persevere.

The view is worth the climb.

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