We Only Live Life Once
Up We Go
Nothing scares me more than standing still—not in body, but in spirit. The idea of living life inside an invisible square, a neatly drawn box that limits how far I can dream, how deep I can feel, or how far I can wander, terrifies me. Why do we always return to the same routines? Why do we stand in the same place and expect to feel alive? Today, I decided to take a step—no, a leap—toward something greater. I chose to climb the MacGillycuddy’s Reeks, the jagged spine of my hometown’s horizon, a place that has called to me since I was a child.
For years, I watched those peaks from the safety of the lowlands. They stood like ancient guardians, shrouded in cloud and mystery, whispering secrets only the wind could carry. I often wondered what my hometown might look like from their heights—how the streets and rooftops, the familiar people and places, would shrink into a patchwork of memory. But I never went. Not until now.
I made the decision with quiet certainty: no more waiting. I packed my gear and set off alone—a choice I wouldn’t recommend lightly. These mountains have claimed lives before. They are beautiful, yes, but also brutal. Weather turns in minutes. Paths disappear in fog. But I had something guiding me: trust. Trust in my instincts, in the rhythm of my own breath, in the quiet dialogue between my footsteps and the earth.
I brought my camera, too, using the climb as a chance to film for my upcoming video essay about dreams. That became my dream for the day—to chase the sky and capture what it meant to me. I wanted to document not just the view, but the feeling. The solitude. The sense of freedom that comes when you become part of the landscape instead of just observing it.
As I ascended, every footstep felt like a small rebellion against stagnation. The sun slipped through the clouds in golden shards, brushing my face with warmth, as if nature was gently acknowledging my presence. There were no words spoken—only birdsong, the crunch of gravel, the rustle of wind threading through grass. I wasn’t just climbing a mountain. I was returning to something ancient inside myself.
At the summit, time slowed. The view was vast and quiet. The world below looked like a painted memory. And for a moment, I understood what freedom truly feels like—not the loud, chaotic kind we often associate with escape, but something still and sacred. A freedom born of presence. Of breathing deeply. Of seeing the world not through screens or schedules, but through your own eyes, unfiltered and wide open.
The Reeks didn’t just show me my hometown from above. They reminded me that dreams don’t have to be distant. Sometimes, they’re just one brave step away.
This journey into the Reeks was more than just an adventure—it was a necessary pause from the constant noise of everyday life. Between the pressures of work, the responsibilities of family, and the background hum of modern existence, it’s easy to lose yourself in the shuffle. I hadn’t realised how heavy the weight had become until I was finally free of it. Out there, above the treeline and beneath an open sky, the chaos faded. There were no emails, no deadlines, no small talk—just the sound of my heartbeat syncing with the rhythm of the mountain. It was a reset I didn’t know I needed. A chance to breathe again without the weight of expectation pressing against my chest.
More importantly, this climb became a space for self-reflection. Without people around me, without the constant distractions of screens or voices, I was able to simply be. Alone on the mountainside, I had nothing to confront but my own thoughts—and that solitude felt sacred. I thought a lot about where I am in life, where I want to go, and what I might be leaving behind. And in that quiet, something unexpected happened: I began to feel connected again—not to a screen or a schedule, but to myself.
Part of that connection was deeply emotional. Earlier this year, I lost my grandfather—someone who meant the world to me. His passing left behind a quiet ache, a hollow space I hadn’t quite figured out how to fill. As I climbed higher and the clouds drifted closer, I found myself thinking of him often. Reaching the summit felt symbolic, like I was trying to get as close as I could to the sky, to the place where I imagine he might be. There was a strange comfort in that thin air—a feeling that maybe, in some way, he was there too. Watching. Smiling. Proud. And in that moment, I didn’t feel alone.
In a world that moves faster with each passing day, taking intentional breaks and reconnecting with nature isn’t just a luxury—it’s a necessity for the soul. We live in a culture that often glorifies busyness, where productivity is worn like a badge of honour and stillness is mistaken for laziness. But the human mind and body were never meant to operate at full speed, nonstop. Nature, in its quiet wisdom, reminds us of a slower, more intentional rhythm. It teaches us to listen, to observe, and to feel rather than simply react. Stepping into a forest, climbing a mountain, or walking along a shoreline allows us to temporarily break free from the digital world and return to something more elemental—more real. It’s a reset button, one that’s deeply rooted in our biology.
Spending time in nature has been proven to lower stress levels, reduce anxiety, and improve overall mental clarity. The sounds of wind brushing through trees, birds calling to each other, and water flowing in a stream—all these things work together to calm our nervous system. It's not just about escape—it's about healing. The Japanese have a practice called shinrin-yoku, or “forest bathing,” which involves immersing oneself in the forest atmosphere for health benefits. It’s a reminder that nature doesn’t demand anything from us. It simply welcomes us, exactly as we are. In that space, away from the pings of notifications and the pressure to perform, we begin to hear ourselves more clearly. Our thoughts are no longer crowded. We start to understand what we truly need.
Reuniting with nature also brings us back into relationship with the world around us. In the concrete routines of daily life, it’s easy to forget that we’re part of something much bigger. Watching the sun rise over a valley, or witnessing how the light filters through pine branches, reconnects us to a sense of awe. We are reminded of how small we are in the best possible way—how the world continues to turn, grow, and breathe with or without us. This humility is grounding. It brings a deep gratitude for the present moment and a reverence for life itself. It shows us that we don’t always have to be in control—sometimes, it’s okay to let go and just exist.
More than anything, nature gives us space. Space to think. Space to dream. Space to rediscover who we are beyond the roles we play. It invites creativity back into our lives and reminds us that beauty can be found in the simplest things—a shaft of sunlight, the curve of a petal, the rhythm of our own breath as we climb. Taking these kinds of breaks isn’t selfish—it’s vital. It helps us return to our lives more centred, more patient, and more attuned to the things that really matter. So, step outside. Feel the earth beneath your feet. Let the wind mess up your hair. There’s something sacred waiting for you out there—something wild, quiet, and deeply healing.
