This morning I woke up early and hiked to the top of Sugarloaf Head. It’s not particularly long, but it’s pretty much straight up. Once I reached the top I sat on a rock overlooking the Atlantic.
I was alone up there — with nothing but the trees still drying from last night’s rain, and the water playing with the rocks a couple of hundred feet below.
A year ago I could never fathom that moment.
I never imagined it possible to walk up that hill without any real trouble at all, breathing in the world around me.
I lived in a bubble that consisted of fast food, TV, a computer — and little else. And my entire body was rigid with fear.
I used to take my phone to bed, just in case I needed to call an ambulance. I’d toss and turn, wondering if I should unlock the front door so that EMT’s could come collect me. These were legitimate thoughts that ran through my head. They came nightly, like bats, swooping down to carry me to the worst places imaginable.
And as I sat there this morning, staring out over the ocean — all that was running through my head was how astounding it felt to be on that hardened rock at that very moment.
I am here.
I am present.
I am alive.
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