Climbing Down Saved My Life
We are often told the way out is the way up. They never warn you about the bruises though.
The invisible wounds you collect from leaning in too far, too long. We are groomed to ascend. And so, I climbed. I climbed through college, motherhood, and boardrooms where I was often the only, or the first, or both. I climbed in heels through the corporate system of perfectionism, through burnout masked as ambition. I climbed until the altitude was so thin I couldn’t breathe. And even then, I kept going. Because what else are we taught to do?
Until my body said no. Not gently, not subtly, but with force. The kind of pain you can’t ignore or rationalize. Not a sign from the universe but a scream. It was my body yanking the emergency brake on a machine I could no longer afford to be part of. And I realized I wasn’t just tired; I was done. That is when I started to descend. At first, it felt like failure. Like unraveling. Like the undoing of all that climbing had meant. My inbox silenced. My calendar cleared. My title stripped. I felt naked in a world where identity is so often attached to output. And still, some part of me exhaled. I began climbing down. Not falling. More like descending. And the descent is divine.
Each rung down brought something back to life in me. I started organizing my home, but really, I was organizing myself. Clearing out mental cobwebs as I tossed out broken gadgets and papers from old jobs. My body softened and the tension in shoulders dropped. My full breath returned. I am no longer preparing to perform. I am remembering how to be. I light candles on Monday. I play records on Wednesday. I am relearning my mornings. No rushing, no meetings, no performative “good energy.” Just me. And in that stillness, joy crept in. A quiet joy like making tea with intention. Like rearranging a mid-day room until it feels like peace. Joy not as a reward, but as a daily right.
There is so much talk about breaking glass ceilings. But nobody tells you how sharp those shards can be when they fall on you. They don’t tell you that the climb often costs you pieces of yourself you didn’t know you were giving up. That sometimes, you are climbing toward a version of success that was never yours to begin with. In a world that worships hustle, choosing rest is a revolution. Choosing to climb down is almost sacrilege. But I want to be whole. And wholeness, it turns out, is waiting for me at the bottom of the ladder, not the top.
What I am building now is not linear. It’s not impressive on a resume. But it’s mine. Breath by breath, I am constructing a life that does not require me to splinter myself to succeed. A life made of morning rituals, ancestral healing, writing, storytelling, and sacred pauses. So, no, I’m not climbing anymore. I am descending. With grace. With purpose. With reverence for every scar I gathered on the way up, and every truth I am reclaiming on the way down. And maybe this is the real lesson. Elevation can be an illusion. Sometimes the most powerful move you can make is not up, but in. Into your body. Into your knowing. Into a life that honors your limits as much as your light.
The climb gave me titles. The descent is giving me truth.
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