So So I'm trying not to have a panic attack, but it's not working. Welcome back to Just Ruck. I'm your host, Lindsay, and this past weekend I set out on my 46 climbs challenge. My Goal, four mountains, one pack, and a plan to push hard for suicide prevention. But on Phelps Mountain, one slip on a rock led to something I didn't expect. A full blown panic attack on my way down. In this episode, I'll share how rucking prepared me for that moment, both physically and mentally, and what it taught me about carrying the weight when your confidence slips. All right, look, I wanna give it a little content note here. The story includes foul language references to suicide and a recorded panic attack. So please take care of yourself as you listen and know that I've also included resources for mental health and suicide prevention. In the show notes, it was just after 6:00 AM at the Adirondack Lodge. Headlamp was on pack weighing in at 21 pounds, and the goal was clear as a bell in my head. Phelps first, then tabletop, and maybe even more for the weekend When EL was done, the morning was cool, quiet, and so full of promise. Until I realized even the basics weren't going smoothly. You know it's funny as I studied my maps and read everything before, but long story short, this stupid hat's gotta go because it is interfering with my headlamp. So here we go, Mr. Hat. Head on backwards, headlamp on forwards, dangly hairs out of the way. I'm readjusting headlamp so that it's happily reflecting off my glasses. Now, cheese, rice, I can't win for crap. Should probably just turn it off. I'm not meant for hiking in the dark, I guess. I don't know what happens if I do turn it off. Oh, I can see just fine. That's what happens, i'm just a hot mess. I'm just funny'cause I'm morning person, but apparently not this morning. Even with a clumsy start, the trail carried me toward Marcy Dam. The woods were dark, the ground thirsty from drought, but I was moving and feeling good. Just enough morning light. The sun's not up yet. Got enough wind light to I can see Rocks and roots, just barely. I can see them better than when I had a head lamp wrong. Now. Rucking had trained me to accept those messy starts, adjusting straps, socks, even mindset, keep moving forward one foot after the other, and then came that moment. Every hiker weights for the first glimpse of the mountains. All right. I'm coming up on Marcy Dam here. Now, back in my twenties, which was what, 30 freaking years ago, this dam was intact. You actually could walk across it. We used to hang our bear bags off of it and then watch the bears. Totally. Uh, pick them up and eat all your freaking food. Oh, my mother. Loving God. But I'm sorry, I just saw the mountains for the first time. I've been in the woods this whole time. Holy cow. I'm gonna cry. God, I love it here. That was a surge of awe. The reminder of why I do this and it hit hard, but the miles ahead, they're pretty darn real. 3.5 did the trail split and then a steep mile up Phelps. I knew the uphill would be work, but I didn't know was that the real test would be coming all the way back down. Now from Marcy Dam, the trail splits up towards Phelps. It's only a mile from the junction to the summit, but in the high peaks, a mile can mean a lot of steep rocky work. Now, rucking has taught me to manage my load and pace, and I leaned into those skills here. All right, I'm at the trail split from Van Hoberg Trail going up to Phelps Mountain. Uh, it says I got one mile to go, but I'm at the base of the mountain, so that means it's all uphill. Um, it's been 3.5 miles to get here and, uh, 244 meters of elevation, and it took me an hour and 45 minutes. I am not pushing myself today. I don't care. I start at 6:00 AM. If it takes me all day to do these two mountains, so be it. This wasn't about speed records, it was about steady steps, electrolytes, and listening to my body. One hiker passed me head into Marcy, another one ahead of me onto Phelps. I'd likely have to summit all to myself, but I was perfectly fine with that. There's something in the woods. Ugh. Oh my God. That burps for you, Annie, by the way. Annie, you said push it to the trail head and then just take it easy going up. No, no. I sloth my way up here, and then I'm gonna sloth my way up to the mountain. Why? Because I wanna finish this and I don't wanna get hurt and I'm by myself. Sloth mode was working. The pack felt manageable. The toe socks and darn tough combo were keeping blisters away, and the Advil was holding my knee in check. It was just me. The rocks and the climb, and after an hour of steady upward grind, I made it Ooh, boy. I made it up to this top of Phelps, a little windy up here today. Um, I fell once going up a pretty big scramble and, uh, yeah, my mo's just lost traction, so it kind of, kind of ruined my confidence here and I'm trying not to let that get ahold of me, but I made it to the top. Hey, guess what? That fall once was more than just a stumble. So halfway up a slam, my boot lost its grip. I slid backwards. My arms were suddenly flailing, and then I wedged them between two rocks holding me in place while my feet dangled over. Well, nothing I knew right away. I kind of pulled a muscle in one arm, and I also knew I couldn't stay there. The only way out was to loosen my hold and keep sliding until my feet found purchase on something solid and then regroup. So about five minutes. And that's how long it took me to sit at the bottom breathing, trying to rebuild that confidence I had just lost. And then. I tried again. This time. I made it. It didn't end my climb. I still reached the summit, but that seed had planted. That slip was so gonna come back to haunt me on the way back down. All right, wanna stop here a second, because reaching the summit, my third of my 46 high peaks was a huge deal. I didn't bound up Phelps. I didn't run the trail. I sloth my way. One step, one slip, and one breath at a time. And honestly, it's exactly what Rucking trains you to do. Every loaded mile I've put on back home that flat park loop, the long green way, stretches those, built the engine that carried me here today. Not fast, not flashy, but strong enough to climb a mountain. So standing up here looking across tabletop and beyond, I felt grateful. Grateful for the training, for the chance to climb, for the cause that I was hiking for. This was the win I came for. If the story ended here, it would be simple. Another summit, another check mark, and another high peak complete, but mountains and mines. Yeah, they don't work that way. What goes up has to come down, and that is where the real test began. Oh baby, hang on. Because the ride down, that's where everything changed. One slip on a wet slab was all it took to shake my confidence. And once that seed of doubt took root, the mountain got a whole lot deeper. Okay. Um, I am, I am not doing well. Uh, I barely got off the summit. I've got the hardest part where, coming up where I fell earlier, um, it's beautiful, it's sunny, but for somebody who has, um, vision issues. It's making the descent very difficult and since my confidence is shot already from, uh, we shit don't have a panic attack on the mountain. You dumb ass twat. So I'm trying not to have a panic attack, but it's not working. That one slip on the way up had planted that seed, and now every single rock slab, every shifting shadow, that seed was sprouting fast. My legs are strong. My pack felt good, but I didn't trust my eyes or my footing. I can do this. Strong ass bitch. He got up a fucking mountain, he can get down the thing. I just don't trust my eyesight since I have vision problems and I don't trust my foot placement since, uh, when I say I fell, I felt pretty good the way it took me quite a bit of ways down a rock slide. I'm sorry, I don't mean to cry. But I'm just trying not to have a panic attack and it's not working. This wasn't just nerves, it was the start of something bigger. My breath was so shallow, my chest was tight. Tears right there under their surface of how they were all over the surface. They were slopping my glasses everywhere and I didn't wanna admit it yet, but I was sliding into a panic attack. Okay, here's one where I can sit. I can do this. Oh, this is an easy fucking mountain. This is not a hard one. There are so many more that are harder than this. You got this. You already got up it. Come on, girl. Spiral was on every step was a negotiation between fear and willpower. I was moving but slower than I had gone up because climbing up and slipping means you fall into the mountain coming down. Gravity is a bitch. By the way, I am on what they call a rock slam, which is like a rock sidewalk. Sounds fantastic, right? Don't have to pick your legs up, don't have to climb all the boulders. No, you just have to trust the grip on your boots, and I don't trust it. I think I'm going down slower than I've gone up because if you fall going up, you fall up. The mountain wasn't just wet. It was pretty much soaked from an all night rain. Every slab, glisten, every root was slick. And for someone with vision challenges, the contrast of sunlight and shadow made every puddle look like a hole. Every rock like a trapped door. Okay? Confidence is coming back a little bit. I think whatever shit attack I just had where I'm crying, there's no crying, hiking, this is dumb. It accomplishes nothing. What's the purpose of crying? God damnit, hate this, did it? I mean, I feel really good and like when I get down off of these things, I feel like. Freaking Shera, wonder Woman, In those moments, I, yeah, I leaned into humor or mantras on little things like rucking has taught me sit if you have to, but scoot if you must. Grab a tree. Laugh at the snot. Rockets. Keep on moving one small victory at a time. It's a puddle. Oh, I think this rock where I fell. We will find out. Either that or it's just a rock. I sat on to get up, but Oh, why? There's so many burps. No, this is just a rack. Rack. There's this rack I sat on, but I'm just, Christ, I feel like absolute teenage kid. Hi, would you like me to butt slide down you? I think I'm gonna butt slide down you, I mean. When I went and watered a tree, it turns out I watered my underwear. So it's not like I care if my ass is wet. If anything, it'll just make it look like I didn't pee my pants. Okay? You know, laughter does not erase the fear. But it breaks that spiral long enough to reset long enough to breathe, shake it off, and face the next slam. And then the real test came, yeah, the original rock, that exact spot where I'd slipped on the way up, the place that it cracked my confidence in the first place. This is the rock. I fell down. I probably have 50 yards. Oh, yes it is. Hello you little fucker. Okay. And I'm not the only one that fell down this. There's a path off to the side here. Do I stay on trail, fall down the rock that I fell up? Or do I take this extra side trail and piss off, um, the DEC? But you can guess what I'm doing. I bet you can guess. I did it. I got past the spot that had shaken me. I did the stuff the DEC didn't want me to do because I didn't wanna fall sh don't tell him I'm sorry. I was a sissy. It's okay. I'm here to talk about it. But that, that was a little victory all in itself and reminding me that even a panic attack, you can move through it. And once I got past that fall spot, the panic, well, it didn't vanish, but it loosened its grip. Now it's just boulders. Okay. And I'm gonna take my time. All right. I am off the insanity. Whew. I'm gonna go take my time through the boulder field until I get back to the trail junction. The slabs gave way to the boulder field. Still work, still slow, but different. The danger didn't quite feel so sharp anymore, and every step was still willpower. My mind was tired, rung out, and even as my body felt fine, the idea of pushing on the tabletop. Just didn't sit right and that choice became clear. Yeah, I made the right call. I'm at past the Trailhead on my way back to Marcy Dam. Tomorrow's another day and any day in the Adirondacks is a good day. Especially one where you actually did climb a mountain. It's a good day. Now I have a knife, three and a half mile walk out, so it's about a 5K to go. We are in 10 K in, so a nice, um, 15 kilometer day. That's not bad. I mean, not what I wanted, but I did it for a good cause, one that I really believe in I had started my day thinking two mountains. I ended with one, but that one taught me more than any other mountain could have because the real victory wasn't about reaching the summit. It was recognizing when enough was enough on paper. Phelps should have been a moderate climb, but the mountain doesn't care what's on paper. Hell doesn't even care about you. And what saved me that day wasn't just hiking skills. It was the habits I've built through rucking. So here's a few things that I carried with me when my body was steady, but my mind was starting to slip. Number one, pace and patience. So rucking has taught me to settle into a rhythm slow. Steady repeat on the trail. That meant I didn't burn out on the ascent. And when the panic did hit on the descent, it gave me permission to move at my speed, not somebody else's. Number two, micro goals and rucking. You count the telephone poles, the street lights, or the minutes on the clock at a mountain. It was one me down or. Just to the next tree or micro goals to keep your brain from spinning out. They shrink the problem to something that you can actually finish. Number three, body checks. With a R, you learn to pause, sip water, adjust the straps, shake out your shoulders, and on Phelps, those pauses became survival. Breathe, drink, reset. Go again. Number four, self-talk and humor. Carrying the weight has a way of stripping you down to raw honesty. You either curse or you laugh, or sometimes both. Out in the mountain, the butt scoots, the burps. Even the snot rockets, they were silly, but they broke the panic spiral. They gave me just enough lightness to keep on moving. And last but not least, number five. Know when to stop. Rucking teaches discipline, but also respect for your limits that day. Choosing not to push into tabletop wasn't weakness, it was wisdom. The hardest weight to carry sometimes is your own pride, and putting it down can be the strongest move you make. These lessons aren't just for Phelps, they're for life. For any time the weight you're carrying on your back or in your head feels too much. You don't have to be fast, you don't have to summit everything. You just have to keep showing up one small step at a time. And by the time I hit the junction again, I knew I was done, not defeated, done my leg still had gas, but my mind, man, she was spent. And in that moment, choosing to stop was the right call. The miles back to the Adirondack Lodge were steady, uneventful, and just the crunch of boots, chatter of nut hatches, and the relief of knowing that I was almost home. Sometimes the victory isn't about a photo at the summit, sometimes it's just walking yourself safely back to the trail head. Oh, what a successful day. I'm gonna call it a successful day. I did a mountain and I came back with all of my appendages under my own power, and that right there, my friend, is worth every bit. Now comes the fun of trying to find your name. Holy nine five Batman. One of the few first nine fives. I was 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, number lucky number seven, and I am back. So here's what the weekend has taught me. The mountains will always humble you. You can train, you can plan, and you can ruck mile after mile, but you can't control everything. What you can control is how you respond to when things get heavy, and Pacing yourself. Resetting. When panic rises. Laughing. When you need to laugh, and knowing when to say, eh, you know what? Enough for today. Those aren't signs of weakness. They're habits of resilience. And resilience is exactly what rucking builds. This whole journey was part of the 46 climbs, which raised awareness and funds for suicide prevention. Over the course of one week, I didn't get the four mountains I had planned. Instead, I checked off one high peak, two LP Niners and other local climbs totaling 6,021 feet. In honor of those we've lost and those that are still fighting. If you or someone you'd love is struggling, please know that you're not alone. I've included some resources for mental health and suicide prevention in the show notes. So please take care of yourself. Now if this episode is connected with you, try following me on, just rucking it at Instagram or Facebook and join us over at Substack at just rucking it.substack.com for companion posts and training reflections. That's where I share more of the lessons the trail teaches me. And where you too can join that conversation. And remember, life is rocking wonderful. Even if you cried and imp peed yourself a little.

I am gonna blow a snot rocket. Oh, that was a beautiful snot rocket.