My thoughts, my choices, and my steps became a well-choreographed dance with the land.
Putting one foot in front of the other is the only option you have when hiking the Na Pali Coast. You are entirely in the moment, co-creating with the earth right beneath your boots to ascend higher and higher.
Each step is a deliberate choice. Simple as it seems, every inch of terrain is vastly different. There is no taking for granted that the next step will land comfortably on solid ground, giving you leverage for the next.
In fact, I learned quickly that you have to stop at times just to regain your balance—to lift your head, breathe, and recalibrate. Why? To make sure you aren't building assumptions about what lies ahead.
After traversing a particularly solid stretch of trail, my pace naturally picked up. I was excited to be on easier turf, relying on that human instinct: when we feel safe and sure-footed, we allow ourselves to be less mindful. We use less energy to think, plan, and feel every single moment. It’s our natural propensity to cruise—what I call the "Woo-Hoo Factor."
It’s what we constantly seek as humans, whether we realize it or not. Yet, true growth and learning carry a natural degree of discomfort. Accepting that discomfort comes with growth can propel us faster and further toward our dreams. The more comfortable we become with discomfort, the less resistance we feel toward trying new things. And trying new things affords us the opportunity to live more fully.
When I caught myself "woo-hooing" into a mindless routine during the hike, I began a conscious practice on the trail. I chose to use natural intervals to call myself into a deeper level of awareness—opting to pause, breathe, look around at the majestic beauty of the coast, and allow for a natural reset.
In real life—and on hikes past—my approach was almost singularly focused on moving forward. I was driven to climb quickly, feeling my body conquer the terrain. In my younger years, I was motivated to prove myself or overcome the incline—treating the trail as something to overcome rather than something to be WITH. As I’ve gotten older, perhaps that drive shifted toward proving I could still make the climb, facing my own fear of discovering what my limits are as this newer, older version of myself. Back then, very little of the journey was about interacting with the land, following the rhythm of my breath, or finding stillness and gratitude for the majesty of the moment.
This hike was entirely new territory—not only because I was undertaking one of the most famously challenging trails in America, but because I was sharing it with Steve, my partner.
What felt fundamentally different this time was the level of trust I had in myself. I trusted my ability to integrate with my environment, calling upon the earth itself to support me. My thoughts, my choices, and my steps became a well-choreographed dance with the land.
At one point along the trail, Steve asked me to pose in a spot bathed in beautiful light for what he likes to call a portrait of me. When he asked spontaneously and enthusiastically, I have to admit I felt a momentary twinge of annoyance at having to break my flow—stopping the dance just to memorialize the moment.
Within a split second, I caught myself. I pulled back into the bigness of the experience.
This was the ALLOW phase in the trajectory of becoming:
Allowing Steve into the dance.
Allowing myself to be captured in a portrait.
Allowing the love that prompted him to capture me in that exact moment to actually sink in.
Living with awareness requires us to stay tuned in to ourselves. Why not expect beauty, stay open and receive the gifts the universe presents. While I was learning to dance with the physical terrain of the Na Pali coast, I was also learning to dance with myself: creating space for others to participate in my life without losing my own focus and center.
