Me Too, Mountainside. Me Too.

The other day, I went out for a walk - well, a walk-jog combo. You know the kind. The kind where your body says “move” and your mind whispers “maybe you’ll feel better if you do.” I wasn’t sure if either of them was right, but I listened anyway.

I was winding my way down a familiar path when I came upon a rock slide.

At first, it looked like a mess. Crumbled stone, scattered dirt, and evidence of something once solid coming undone. I stood there a minute, catching my breath - and maybe catching something else, too. A thought. A memory. A reflection I wasn’t looking for.

Because standing there, looking at that mountain that had finally let go, I thought… same.

See, sometimes life gets heavy.

Like rain pooling quietly against the slope of your soul.

You try to hold it.

All of it.

Because that’s what we’re taught to do - especially those of us who’ve worn the labels: Strong. Reliable. Capable.

Like the mountain, we brace ourselves against the weight. We absorb every drop. We don’t flinch.

But water is relentless. And life? It can be, too.

Especially when you’re carrying mental illness like an invisible backpack made of boulders and silence.

And then one day, you reach your edge.

You split.

You let go.

And like that rockslide, everything comes tumbling out - loud, messy, unapologetic.

And maybe that’s what hit me the hardest: the mountain didn’t fail.

It released.

It held on until it couldn’t, and then it did the only thing left to do.

And maybe that’s not collapse.

Maybe it’s survival.

Maybe we’re allowed to crack under the pressure, just like the earth.

Maybe there’s no shame in the breaking point - only proof that we’ve carried too much for too long.

So yeah… me too, mountainside.

Me too.