The Courage to Start Over

Beginning again doesn't always mean going back to the beginning.

I used to think starting over required some dramatic moment.

Quit the job.

Move somewhere new.

Walk 2,000 miles.

I've done some version of all of that.

And yes, those decisions took courage.

But the older I get, the less convinced I am that the dramatic decisions are always the hardest ones.

Sometimes starting over is admitting that something you once wanted isn't what you want anymore.

Or changing your mind after you've spent a long time being sure.

Sometimes it's looking at something you've invested years of your life in and asking a question you'd rather not ask:

Is continuing still the right thing to do?

That's a hard question for me.

Because I like forward motion. I like knowing where I'm going. I like being able to look backward and make sense of how one thing led to another.

Real life hasn't cooperated with that very well.

Leaving the Appalachian Trail didn't solve my life. If anything, it sent me home with a clearer sense of what mattered and absolutely no map for what to do with that information.

So I tried things.

Some worked.

Some didn't.

There were things I was certain would become a big part of my life that quietly disappeared from it. There were directions I went in for a while before realizing I didn't want to keep going that way.

And there have been plenty of times when I've looked around and thought, I really thought I'd have this figured out by now.

At 41, I'm starting to suspect that's not how this works.

Maybe there isn't a point when the trail finally straightens out and we get to spend the rest of our lives confidently walking in one direction.

We change.

Life changes around us.

Something that was right for us ten years ago might not be right anymore.

That doesn't automatically mean we should leave it behind.

I think that's important.

Sometimes starting over is the brave choice.

Sometimes staying is.

Sometimes we're changing direction because we've finally been honest with ourselves. Other times we're just uncomfortable and looking for the nearest exit.

I wish I had a reliable way to tell the difference.

I don't.

But I've gotten a little more comfortable with the idea that changing my mind doesn't necessarily mean everything that came before it was a mistake.

You don't really start over from zero.

You bring the miles with you.

I think that's one reason I've always loved the white blazes on the Appalachian Trail.

A white blaze tells you you're still on the route.

When you're walking hundreds of miles, it's easy to get caught up in how far you've already come or how impossibly far you still have to go.

But most of the time, your actual job is much smaller.

Find the next blaze.

Walk toward it.

Eventually another one appears.

Life doesn't give us white blazes, unfortunately.

There are plenty of times when I would really appreciate one.

But maybe beginning again doesn't require knowing exactly where the new path leads.

Maybe it's enough to be honest about where you are, make the best decision you can from there, and take a step.

Then see what comes next.