If you’re reading this, strength doesn’t mean invulnerability.
Walking through the woods was the most serene I had felt in a long time.
Situated in northwest Washington, D.C., there’s a national park called Rock Creek Park. Unexpectedly for such a metropolitan area, the park is absolutely huge and spans more than a thousand acres. I was in D.C. for a month as part of an internship this past summer, so when I discovered Rock Creek was a five-minute walk from my apartment, I knew I had to go. I gathered up some basic gear, packed lunch, and set off on a 10-mile hike through the forest.
It took a moment to get into the groove, but once I did, I savored every moment. The trail started on a paved pathway populated by other people who walked, jogged, and biked towards the Smithsonian Zoo. But reaching the turn off and hitting the first dirt path, with the woods ahead and the city to my back, I knew I was exactly where I wanted to be.
I tell this story because I spent a lot of time after the hike trying to figure out why I had enjoyed it so much. I used to go backpacking all the time, but I hadn’t been on a proper hike in a few years – barring a trip to upstate New York with my dad and brother the summer before. It’s a challenge when you live in metro Atlanta without a car.
As I thought about it, I realized that I enjoyed it because I felt calm; I felt calm because for a few hours, I was able to completely ignore the world.
I’ve been involved in several organizations, have averaged sixteen credit hours per semester, currently work as a resident assistant, and am in the middle of conducting undergraduate research. In other words, I’m quite busy. It’s nothing new for me, seeing as how I overinvolved myself just as much in high school. Part of it has been a pride I’ve felt over being able to handle so much at once.
At the same time, I simply don’t know what to do with myself when I’m not busy – it’s hard to relax without feeling guilty. With the number of overachievers and high performers at Georgia Tech, I sincerely doubt that I’m the only one who’s experienced that.
Part of the challenge is that people have always viewed my overinvolvement and high achievement as proof that I’m doing great. Being involved has equated to being fine; getting good grades has equated to feeling good. At the same time, I’ve watched my friends deal with mental health issues, academic problems, family troubles, and financial concerns. So, who was I to complain?
Just like that, I started projecting strength: don’t be the crier, be the shoulder to cry on. Don’t ask for support, be the person to lean on. Don’t be vulnerable, leave that for others.
The reason it felt so calm to hike through the woods by myself was because it meant being truly, completely alone. There’s no need to worry about work or deadlines surrounded by forest and there’s no need to project anything when there’s no one else around. The trees don’t care about your strength, so why should you?
Having said that, don’t forget that life isn’t a short 10-miler. You can only go it alone for so long. But with the right people, the backpacking only gets better.
This is not going to be one of those “nature cures all mental illness” lessons. It doesn’t, and it would be asinine to say otherwise. What the woods taught me, however, is that it’s OK to not be strong all the time. I know that’s easier said than done, but it’s true.
You can talk to people; you can find your own shoulder to lean on. It’s not selfish of you, because everyone deserves that.
Strength only equals invulnerability when you’re trying to face the world on your own. True strength means finding others to support you. True strength means recognizing when you need help.
True strength means being vulnerable.
So, go find your woods, whatever that might be. Take some time to get a little lost; let yourself just take it all in. And when you’re ready, maybe you can find a buddy to bring along. The trees don’t care about your vulnerability, but other people will. All it takes is to invite them to the trail.
Happy hiking.
James C. (he/him), Georgia Tech ‘25