Hiking used to be about the summit — the push, the pace, the photos at the top. But over the past few years, my body has changed. Neuropathy crept into my hands and feet, my lower back started whispering warnings I could no longer ignore, and I realized the trails I once sprinted through now ask for something different: patience, intention, and adaptability.
I’ve always believed in the healing power of nature. But now, I hike to heal — not just to explore.
Learning to Listen
In the early days of my symptoms, I tried to hike the way I always had. Fast. Focused. Ignoring pain. That didn’t last. What did last were the lessons I learned when I finally slowed down — when I started to notice how my body responded to terrain, to pack weight, to elevation.
I swapped out boots for trail runners with better shock absorption. I began using trekking poles not just for stability, but for rhythm. I traded steep summit scrambles for flowing ridge walks. And I started breaking long hikes into sections I could handle — giving myself permission to rest, to pause, to take it all in.
The Gear That Changed Everything
Let’s be honest: the right gear matters even more when your body is navigating challenges. Here’s what made a real difference:
- Trekking Poles: Lifesavers for stability and reducing strain on descents.
- Supportive Insoles: Helped reduce foot numbness and made long hikes manageable.
- Lightweight Packs: Every ounce matters. I now carry only what I truly need.
- Compression Layers: Help with circulation and fatigue, especially on cooler days.
- Sit Pads & Camp Chairs: I rest more often now — and that’s okay.
I’ll be sharing full gear breakdowns soon, but more than the items themselves, it’s about making choices that support your unique body and needs.
Why I Keep Going
Some days are hard. Some hikes are slow. But every step is a reminder that I can. I still get to witness golden light filtering through the trees, the hush of snow on an empty trail, the grin that comes with reaching a lookout I wasn’t sure I’d make it to.
Hiking with a chronic condition isn’t a limitation — it’s an invitation to hike differently, more mindfully, and with more gratitude.
And that, I’ve found, is a beautiful way to move through the world.