The Mountain That Wasn’t Mine

Every Tuesday, I share a short story from my life, a glimpse into the struggles, setbacks, and soul-shaping moments that made me who I am.

Some of these stories are raw, redemptive, and humorous. But all of them are views from the climb, moments I wish I had paused long enough to notice when I was too busy surviving.

Because life isn’t about reaching some perfect summit.
It’s about seeing the beauty, the brokenness, and the becoming… along the way.

This week’s story is called:

The Mountain That Wasn’t Mine

Once upon a time, there was a girl who believed that if she just kept climbing, everything would get better.

So she did.

She climbed out of a childhood no one should have to survive, one filled with silence where there should’ve been safety, hunger where there should’ve been help, and shadows where there should’ve been hugs.

She climbed through teenage years wrapped in shame and secrets.
Through young motherhood with grit in her bones and prayers on her breath.
Through betrayal, heartbreak, survival… and again, starting over.

But with every painful step, she carried something heavier than her past:
Rejection.

Her father had rejected her.
So had some of her siblings.
And her first love, the father of her son, left her with questions and a hollow ache.

So she climbed faster. Harder.
Trying to outrun the feeling that she wasn’t enough.

She believed the top would fix it.
That success, love, or recognition would finally fill the cracks.

But when she neared the summit, she looked around… and realized:
She’d been so focused on getting there,
she never paused to see where she was.
She never noticed the view, or the beauty of the climb.

And that’s when the hollowness crept in.

Until one day, she stopped.
Sat down.
And picked up a pen.

In the stillness, she began to write her story.
Not the polished version, the real one.
The scared, scrappy, stubborn little girl who kept going even when no one told her she could.

Through the words, she began to understand:

The climb didn’t just get her here,
It shaped her.

And the rejections that once defined her?
She laid them down, one by one.
Released them like stones at the edge of the path.

She didn’t need the mountaintop.
She needed a purpose.
And healing.
And truth.

Now, she helps others find the same.

Because when you stop long enough to see your journey,
to tell the story behind the scars,
you realize the summit was never the point.

Becoming was.

The View That Found Me

I thought the top would hold the prize,
a place where love and peace reside.
But all I found was thinner air,
and echoes of what wasn’t there.

I missed the wildflowers on the trail,
the way the light broke through the veil.
I never saw the grace beneath
each stumble, scar, and jagged grief.

I climbed with weight I didn’t name,
rejection’s voice, a quiet shame.
I chased approval, craved a nod,
when all along, I carried God.

It wasn’t heights that healed my soul,
but letting go of false control.
It was the pen, the pause, the page,
that turned my wounds into a stage.

Now purpose calls me down the slope,
to meet the ones who’ve lost their hope.
I walk beside them, hand in hand.
not pointing up… but helping stand.

So if you’re climbing just to win,
pause.
Look around.
Begin again.

The view you seek is not ahead.
It’s in the steps you’ve bravely tread.

Poem by PJ Hamilton