It was difficult for Mary to admit that most of her workout consisted of exercising poor judgment. She had always preferred life’s scenic routes—the detours, the impulsive decisions, the "why not?" moments that usually ended with her laughing over a glass of wine, declaring, "Well, that was an experience." But standing at the base of the so-called "beginner’s trail," her legs already trembling, she wondered if this was the time her luck had finally run out. The retreat’s brochure had promised "a journey of self-discovery." It hadn’t mentioned the vertical climb, the instructor who looked like he bench-pressed small cars for fun, or the fact that "pack light" actually meant "bring water, not a hardcover book and a family-sized bag of gummy bears." Mary adjusted her tote bag—now stuffed with regrets—and took a deep breath. Halfway up, she slipped. Her hands scraped against rock, her pride stung worse than her palms. She thought of the yoga class she’d walked out of because "downward dog felt like a personal attack," the time she’d tried jogging and ended up at a bakery instead, and the countless New Year’s resolutions that had fizzled out by January 3rd. But as she hauled herself up, something shifted. The air was crisper here, the silence deeper. For once, there were no shortcuts, no excuses—just the trail and the stubborn part of her that refused to turn back. At the peak, she looked down. The path she’d taken was gone, swallowed by the forest. The road behind them disappeared, as if it had never been there at all.