Higher Ground & Uncharted Waters
Losing someone you love alters the way you view everything. Words feel hollowed. Time becomes warped. And the absence of loss begins to look like a privilege. Familiar landscapes become unfamiliar, while distant horizons begin to carry a different kind of meaning. As an early emerging therapist learning to accompany others through their own experiences of grief, uncertainty, and change, I found myself making a quiet promise over this last half year: to preserve my own sense of perspective as best I could by continuing to seek out new ones—no matter how far, or unexpectedly close, they might be found.
That being said, there was something unexpectedly humbling about finding myself breathless on a mountain and uncharted waters in my home country.
After spending a weekend in Alberta surrounded by friends, both old and extended, I found myself reflecting on how rarely we allow ourselves to recognize that meaningful journeys don't always require crossing continental oceans. For someone who spends so much time dreaming about distant landscapes, unfamiliar languages, and faraway horizons, I didn't expect one of the more profound moments of movement this year to happen only a province away, standing high above Kananaskis beside someone who understood grief without needing it explained.
It had been seven months since I last saw Kristine. The last time we shared space, we were gathered around an insurmountable loss following someone's quick but difficult journey with cancer—now trying to make sense of a world without our person in it. This time, we climbed toward something else. Not closure. Not answers. Just immediate altitude, perspective, and the quiet understanding that moving forward rarely feels the way we imagine it should. Carrying the burden and heavy weight of loss often feels less like setting something down and more like learning how to redistribute its weight so that you can continue putting one foot in front of the other.
Somewhere along this three and a half hour and 785 metre elevated ascent of King Creek Ridge in Kananaskis Country, surrounded by expansive skies and mountain peaks, I found myself internally reflecting on how grief changes shape but rarely disappears. The cool alpine air wavered gently around us up top while the warmth of the mid day sun beamed steadily below, creating a peculiar sense of both comfort and exposure. Near the beginning of our climb, a coulle of butterflies crossed my peripheral—fleeting yet unmistakable puttering reminders of transformation, rebirth, and personal growth. In the distance, the soft calls of colourful birds punctuated an otherwise emulated stillness—a quietness we ourselves were slowly learning to inhabit. Beneath our feet, earthy soil, loose pebbles, and fractured stone ground rhythmically against our soles like a mortar and pestle—steady, deliberate, and unrelenting. With every step upward, I was reminded that grief, too, reshapes us through repetition, friction, and time. It simply accompanies us differently as we continue forward.
Ironically, one of the most memorable moments of the hike occurred after we had begun our descent from the top. Having jokingly remarked to Kristine that the first half of the the journey had been "smooth sailing all around" (despite the tingling in my thighs and cramping in my calves) --I remained blissfully unaware that my fanny pack had become entirely unzipped, scattering its contents (wallet, passport, etc.) somewhere along the trail behind us. It wasn't until I heard a loud thud echoing against the rocks that I turned to find a small green container of Vaseline lip balm at my feet—the same untouched lip balm I had bought for our person before her final hospital visit. Once we realized what had happened, we couldn't help but laugh, joking that this was exactly the sort of sarcastic correction she would have made in response to any premature confidence about the journey ahead. As we continued descending, we found ourselves casually accompanied by colorful butterflies along the trail—gentle reminders that transformation, grief, shared laughter, and growth rarely travel separately.
Every step upward demanded patience and presence. There wasn't much room for rumination when the ground beneath you required attention and the horizon kept widening with every switchback. Standing above the tree line, looking out across the Rockies, I couldn't help but think about how many versions of ourselves we leave behind as we continue moving through life. Some out of necessity. Some out of survival. Some because the people who loved those versions of us are no longer here to witness who we're becoming.
And yet, somehow, they still come with us.
As we concluded the descent from King Creek Ridge, we watched a looming rainstorm slowly consume the mountains behind us. There was something quietly ironic about escaping the storm, knowing that only days earlier, much of Kananaskis had been evacuated due to emergency flooding. Perhaps it served as one final reminder that life, much like grief, is not about avoiding every storm, but about trusting our ability—and the people beside us—to keep moving through them.
Another part of this weekend entailed a different kind of lesson in movement. Joined by another close friend, Danielle, alongside extended family friends gathered to celebrate one family's final season in their longtime home of 13 years before embarking on a new chapter in Nova Scotia, we found ourselves navigating the rushing waters during a river rafting excursion in Canmore. River rafting, as it turned out, became its own unexpected metaphor. There were moments of calm and swift moments where the current demanded immediate attention. There were sudden drops that elicited equal parts caution and adrenaline, stretches of turbulence where instinct urged resistance, and sharp turns that required complete trust in the people surrounding you.
When the river inevitably broke over the sides of the raft, the glacial water struck with a startling, almost stabbing coldness—brief but all-consuming. It was impossible not to momentarily think of grief itself: how waves can arrive unexpectedly, stealing your breath, demanding your attention, and reminding you that some experiences are not meant to be resisted so much as endured and moved through. We laughed when we were swallowed by splashes unexpectedly. We shouted profanity and positive peril through moments of uncertainty. We paddled harder when instructed, even when we couldn't fully see what lay around the bend.
Before entering the final stretch of the river, we witnessed what felt like a god-sized eagle perched silently along the riverbank, observing us with an almost unsettling stillness. Whether coincidence, projection, or something more symbolic, I couldn't help but reflect on the idea that when an eagle appears, we are being called to be courageous, stretch our limits, reject the comfort of the status quo, and strive toward something higher than where we currently stand.
The river seemed to mirror something familiar: the ebbs and flows of carrying external pressures, the unpredictability of grief and change, and the reality that navigating uncharted waters rarely happens alone. There was comfort in recognizing that while none of us could fully control the current, we could support one another through it. The barriers that kept us upright weren't physical structures but rather the collective strength, encouragement, and trust shared among those in the raft. By the end, what remained wasn't the memory of fear itself, but the realization that fear, excitement, joy, and uncertainty had all managed to coexist in the same experience.
As the weekend drew to a close, I found myself returning to the idea of taking the higher ground. It isn't a destination we arrive at, but a perspective we earn through continued movement. Sometimes we gain that perspective by climbing mountains. Sometimes we find it by surrendering to the current. And sometimes, what initially feels like a small ripple ultimately carries the force of a crashing wave. We discover that the landscapes closest to home have been quietly preparing us all along for the journeys whose colours we have yet to fully imagine.
Healing, I've come to realize, rarely announces itself in grand revelations. More often, it arrives unnoticed—in humor, in moments of courage, in the people who remain beside us, and in the growing willingness to trust ourselves enough to continue moving toward horizons we cannot yet fully see.
Growth rarely comes from certainty, but through our willingness to engage in curiosity, embrace vulnerability and committed chaos, and remain open to discovering new perspectives within ourselves and the world around us. Whether through travel, therapy, friendship, or grief, the goal was perhaps never to arrive unchanged, but rather to trust ourselves enough to continue the journey anyway. In many ways, therapy asks the same of us as mountains and rivers do: to tolerate uncertainty, to remain present through discomfort, and to discover that our capacity to adapt, endure, and grow often extends far beyond what we initially believed possible.
Taking the higher ground and entering uncharted waters is less about reaching the point of summit and more about choosing to keep ascending.
Choose movement despite the madness.
Choose curiosity through the chaos.
Choose yourself.
