For the past ten years, I’ve been climbing a mountain. Not literally, but professionally, in a way that has required persistence, patience, and a willingness to keep going without any guarantee of arrival.
I’ve been working toward publishing a book with a traditional publisher for over a decade, refining my ideas, building my voice, and staying committed even when the path felt unclear. It has been a long, steady climb. And this year, I finally reached the summit.
I signed the contract in January. I turned in the first four chapters of my manuscript at the beginning of April. I am officially “in” in a way that I’ve been working toward for years. By any external measure, this is a moment that should feel meaningful, even celebratory, a point where I might pause and take in what it took to get here.
But that’s not what happened. Earlier this week I opened an email from my editor with detailed feedback that, while thoughtful and ultimately helpful, essentially meant rewriting everything I had submitted. The feedback was accurate and will absolutely make the book stronger, but in that moment, all I could see was the work ahead of me. The part of me that knows how to produce, perform, and execute immediately took over. I went from reaching the summit to planning the next climb without ever looking around.
It was as if the view from the top didn’t exist and I could have missed it entirely if not for the feedback I received from my agent. After I shared a brief summary of the edits, she wrote back to say that from her perspective, the manuscript was already strong, clear, and meaningful. She shared that reading the chapters brought up her own experience parenting a child with ADHD and how much she wished she had access to this kind of understanding back then.
She called my book a “Godsend.” I noticed in that moment how hard it was to let that land. Even as I read her words, I could feel my system wanting to move past them and return to the work that needed to be done. There was a part of me that didn’t know how to receive it. I had to slow myself down and intentionally stay with her words in order to actually feel their impact.
That moment told me something important about myself. Somewhere deep in my wiring is the belief that I am not allowed to stop and enjoy what I’ve accomplished. There is a part of me that believes safety comes from continuing to move, to produce, and to stay ahead of the next problem. When I look at it through an attachment lens, it makes perfect sense that my system would default to doing rather than receiving, even in a moment that deserves to be felt.
It was only then that I was able to see things differently. I could see how I had spent ten years climbing this mountain, and the moment I reached the top, I didn’t allow myself to enjoy the view. I didn’t pause to take in the landscape or acknowledge the effort it took to get there. I simply redirected my energy toward what was next, as if the only thing that mattered was continuing forward.
What I’m practicing now is something that feels both simple and surprisingly difficult. I’m practicing letting it land. I’m allowing myself to feel the reality that I did something hard, that I stayed with something for a long time, and that I created something that has the potential to help so many people in real and meaningful ways. I’m now giving myself permission to experience pride and joy in this moment.
And it’s not easy. When you’re used to striving, pausing can feel unfamiliar, even unsafe. There is a kind of vulnerability in allowing yourself to receive acknowledgment for what you’ve worked for because it requires you to stop bracing for what might go wrong next. It asks your system to shift from urgency into something closer to enoughness, which is a very different way of being.
I’m really beginning to understand why this matters. If we never allow ourselves to experience the summit, we will always feel like we have to keep climbing and we can never rest. No matter how much we accomplish, there will always be another summit and another reason to keep moving. Without intentional pauses to take in what we’ve already done, our nervous system never gets the message that we’ve actually arrived somewhere meaningful.
I know I’m not alone in this. I see this reflected in so many of my clients, especially women. If you pause and look at your own life, I imagine there are places where you’ve reached something significant. You may have navigated something difficult, stayed present in a hard moment, or done the quiet, invisible work of growing in ways that no one else can see. These are summits too.
But it’s very easy to miss them. It’s easy to move on to the next summit without acknowledging what you’ve already accomplished. It’s easy to minimize your progress or tell yourself it wasn’t enough to count. And over time, that pattern can leave you feeling like you’re always behind, even when you’ve actually come a long way.
So I want to offer you a gentle invitation. See if you can pause, even briefly, and look around at where you are right now. Notice what it took to get here, and allow yourself to feel some appreciation for that effort. You don’t have to stay there forever, but giving yourself even a moment to take in the view can begin to shift something important inside of you.
We’re not only here to climb. We’re also here to experience the pride and joy when we arrive at the summit. No matter where you are on the journey, I hope you can enjoy the view today.
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