As I was boot-packing up the steep slope, a barrage of insecurities raced through my mind. I’m not fit enough for this, I thought, sweat dripping down my temples. My breathing was loud and labored, and my legs burned with every step. A 7-year-old zipped past me effortlessly, grinning as if the incline didn’t exist. That kid can go to hell, I muttered under my breath, both annoyed and envious.

Ahead of me, my partner moved steadily, as though on autopilot, his body accustomed to this climb from having done it almost daily throughout the winter season. With each step I took, my ski boots slid against the slick footholds, worn smooth by the hundreds who had climbed this path since the last snowfall. As I reached the top, doubt crept in, louder than my pounding heartbeat. What the hell am I doing? I can’t ski anything from up here, I thought, as the butterflies in my stomach swelled into a storm. We walked toward the drop-in spot, the ridge narrow beneath our feet. I stopped at the edge of the gully, staring down its steep walls. My breath quickened as I tried to calm myself. My partner, calm as ever, began talking me through each turn I would have to make. I nodded mechanically, unable to fully process his words, as my focus narrowed on the daunting slope before me.

When you push yourself beyond your comfort zone, there are only two choices: back out or fully commit. There is no in-between, no room for hesitation or half-measures. In moments like this, when the challenge ahead looms large, a profound stillness can settle over the mind. The noise of life fades into the background, leaving only the simplest, clearest decisions about how to proceed.

Since moving out West, I had been living far outside my comfort zone. You’d think I’d be used to it by now, but each new challenge brought its own fresh wave of doubt. My partner and I had uprooted our lives, leaving behind family and lifelong support systems in the midst of a global pandemic. We moved into a minivan and took jobs as wilderness guides in an area completely unfamiliar to us. Suddenly, I was responsible for leading groups of strangers—ensuring not only their safety but also their enjoyment—all while navigating landscapes and conditions that were still new to me.

Eventually, we moved to a new town to start over with new jobs, new faces, and the challenge of rebuilding a sense of community. During this period, we experienced significant losses, including friends and family, and endured the emotional toll of constant change. After some time, we decided to return to the place where we had first landed out West, hoping to rediscover the joy and sense of belonging that had initially drawn us there.

Each step of this journey was uncomfortable, with fear and doubt as my constant companions. Yet, every challenge contributed to what I think of as my “growth bank”—a mental reservoir of experiences that remind me I’ve faced hard things before and can overcome them again. Whenever life presents difficult situations, I draw on that bank as a source of strength, knowing I’ve navigated challenges in the past and am capable of doing so again.

At the time, I wasn’t conscious of how these challenges were shaping me. It wasn’t until my brother introduced me to an ancient philosophy—Stoicism, often summarized today as “A Guide to the Good Life”—that I began to see the bigger picture.

Stoicism is often misunderstood as a cold or emotionless philosophy. In reality, it’s about focusing on what you can control and letting go of what you cannot. It’s a deceptively simple but profoundly effective way to navigate life’s challenges. Modern interpreters, like Ryan Holiday in The Daily Stoic, make Stoicism accessible by connecting ancient texts from Marcus Aurelius, Seneca, and Epictetus to contemporary struggles. Universal challenges—conflict with friends, insecurity, fear of failure—are as old as humanity itself.

On a visit to my parents’ house, I spotted a copy of Marcus Aurelius’s Meditations on their bookshelf. These translated journals immediately caught my attention, and as I flipped through its pages, one quote from Book 5 struck me with particular force:

“So you were born to feel nice? Instead of doing things and experiencing them?”

The words hit me like a slap. I realized I had been mourning the loss of my comfortable, predictable life back East. But what kind of life is one spent avoiding challenges? Adventure, discomfort—even fear—these things were shaping me into someone stronger and more capable. As I reflected on Marcus Aurelius’s words, I began to see the same theme repeated in the lives of the adventurers I admired. Biographies of mountaineers and explorers often carried the same message: growth comes from stepping beyond the walls we build around ourselves. The late mountaineer Hilaree Nelson put it perfectly:

“…there is so much aversion to risk-taking. I don’t think that’s the right direction…we have to risk if you want to learn anything about yourself. If you want to expand the self-imposed walls we put around ourselves…that is how we move forward and create things.”

Her words echoed those of Marcus Aurelius, proving that the need for risk, discomfort, and challenge as pathways to growth transcends centuries. In a world that often prioritizes convenience and comfort, these truths remain as relevant as ever.

Standing at the top of the ridge, my heart raced as my partner dropped in first, his voice echoing up to me: “Conditions are good!” It was my turn. My skis were strapped on, but my feet felt rooted in place. I shuffled forward to the edge, the steep slope ahead demanding complete commitment. My ski tips hovered over the void, gravity tugging at them, and I knew the only way down was to lean in, trust myself, and make the first turn.

In that moment, my mind stilled. The only thought was Marcus Aurelius’s quote: Would I do this hard thing, or would I remain stagnant, trapped in comfort?

I leaned forward and dropped in. The first turn was shaky, but I stayed focused on the task in front of me: turn, stop, repeat. Each deliberate movement carried me closer to the bottom. When I reached the apron, my partner was there, grinning.

Gallatin National Forest Avalanche Center

“I knew you could do it. I’m so proud of you,” he said before skiing off into the powder below. I collapsed in the snow, smiling uncontrollably.

There were countless moments where I could have backed out—“Not today. Maybe next week.” But I knew the longer I waited, the harder it would become. Now, whenever I’m faced with a challenge, I think back to that day on the ridge. I can do hard things because I’ve done them before. And with every challenge I face, my growth bank grows stronger.