Ancient Knowledge from the Mountains

It was nearly 100 degrees in East Tennessee.

We were in Townsend, one of my favorite places in the world. My wife and I were there with our two boys, along with my brother and sister-in-law, and my nephew. A big family trip. Long overdue.

But there was one issue.

Just six weeks earlier, I’d undergone a total hip replacement.

When we first began planning the trip, my brother-in-law, who is a chiropractor and rehabilitation specialist, looked at me with genuine concern and said, “We don’t have to do this now. We can wait until next year.”

I appreciated his grace. But I also knew: life doesn’t always give you second chances. We went.

I had been given medical clearance: “No restrictions but listen to your body.” Still, the idea of hiking, climbing, and exploring in the summer heat felt wildly optimistic. Maybe even foolish. I wasn’t sure if my body was ready.

And yet, there we were.

We hiked mountain trails. We climbed down to waterfalls. We ventured into Tuckaleechee Caverns—cool, awe-inspiring chambers carved over tens of millions of years by underground rivers. They demand effort, even from healthy joints. I moved slowly. I ached constantly. I tripped more than once. But I kept going.

Standing in those ancient spaces, I couldn’t help but think: these mountains were shaped by pressure, by fracture, by the slow violence of water carving stone. Beauty through erosion. Strength through surrender. Maybe the earth knows something about healing that we’re still learning.

At the time, I was just trying to participate, to not miss out. But somewhere along the way, I realized I wasn’t just on a family trip.

I was walking through a metaphor.

Life doesn’t stop just because you’re trying to get better.

That’s one of the hardest truths to swallow. You finally decide to take care of yourself, to step into recovery, to shift your mindset—and yet the same life that wore you down keeps pressing on: with its beauty, its pain, its relentless motion.

So how do you heal when life doesn’t stop?

You go anyway.

Healing doesn’t wait for life to pause. And life doesn’t wait for you to feel ready. Go anyway.

I could’ve stayed behind. I could’ve sat poolside at the house where I’ve been convalescing—at the home of friends who, in so many ways, have become family—and told myself I’d catch the next trip. But I would’ve missed everything. I would’ve missed my kids laughing on the trail, my sister-in-law (who is normally so cool under pressure) freaking out about the black snakes in our path, the deep green canopy overhead, the taste of mineral-rich water pulled from the heart of the earth. I would’ve missed the beauty of the mountains in layers: green in the foreground, blue in the distance, gray and hazy at the far edge of sight.

And I would’ve missed the quiet joy of following behind my wife, watching the way she floats through the woods with ease and grace; grateful to be with her, and grateful just to be walking beside her.

That’s when I realized that healing and living are not opposites. They’re companions.

So I started shifting my attention.

Instead of focusing on how slow I was, I watched my boys walking ahead, getting along, for once. Instead of resenting the pain, I breathed in the cool earth of the caverns and imagined the eons that shaped them. Instead of judging my pace, I paid attention to the miracles around me: feet in motion, laughter in heat, family held together by shared experience.

It struck me that these mountains, older than any human wound, don’t rush. They endure. They rise and erode, quietly holding space for whatever passes through. That’s what the ancient mountains know: you can be broken and still stand. Still shelter. Still shine.

It’s not a quick answer. Not a secret method. Just a practice. A way of seeing.

Because whatever you focus on, your mind learns to find more of it. If you focus on what’s broken, life will echo that back to you. But if you look for beauty, for grace, and for small mercies, you’ll find that, too.

So whatever you’re healing from, whether it’s hip surgery or heartache, loss or fatigue, or something you can’t even name yet, know this: healing doesn’t have to happen in silence. It can happen in motion, in the noise, in the sweat and laughter of a summer day. It can happen in the slow, painful steps forward. It can happen as you live.

No, the mountains didn’t wait for me.

And neither did life.

But I didn’t wait either.

I walked. I climbed. I laughed. I hurt.

And I continue to hurt. And heal.