A walk back home

We are sitting in a loose circle by the garden of Woods Hole Hostel, boots kicked off, socks drying, bodies folded with that particular fatigue that only comes after a long day of carrying 30 pounds up and down mountains. Dinner is still cooking somewhere behind us — something warm, something communal — and the air smells faintly of sweat, garlic and wet leaves.

Neville, granddaughter of the founder of Woods Hole Hostel, gathers us for the traditional circle before we eat.

She poses to us to go around the circle and share one word. One word to describe what the trail has given you. It moves around the circle easily at first.

Community.

Strength.

Perspective.

These are seasoned answers, spoken by people who have already learned how to carry their stories lightly. Thru-hikers, most of them — months deep, bodies hardened, identities reshaped by repetition and miles.

When it reaches me, the room gets quieter. Or maybe that’s just inside my chest.

I am three days and 53 miles into my first solo hike. Not my first miles on the Appalachian Trail, but the first I’ve walked alone, after years of disentangling myself from a life that had come undone.

A business hollowed out by Covid. A marriage that ended not in fire, but in the slow erosion of truth. A version of myself that had grown careful, contracted, unsure.

I hadn’t planned what I would say. I hate circle sharing and I certainly hadn’t planned to cry.

But when the word arrives, it lands fully formed, undeniable.

“Courage.”

My voice doesn’t break — but I do. Silent tears slide down my face as I say it, surprising me with their certainty. No drama. No explanation. Just the truth, spoken out loud in a room full of strangers who understand without asking.

Courage to step onto the trail alone.

Courage to trust my resilience, grit and vulnerability.

Courage to keep chasing a dream that I thought was dependent on someone else.

I wipe my cheeks, embarrassed for half a second, and then something steadier settles in. This is what the trail has always done — it strips away pretense and leaves only what’s real.

What I don’t say, what no one in that circle knows, is that 13 years earlier I had never even heard of the Appalachian Trail. I was just a tired mother hiking with her kids, trying to lose weight after my third baby and remember who she was before life got so loud.

Life after my third child felt like living inside a closing fist. I had just remarried — a man 10 years younger, a performer whose work kept him traveling or in rehearsal when he was home. There were long stretches when he didn’t walk through the door at night at all. I had three children under 10, a baby often strapped to my chest, and a business on Manhattan’s Upper East Side gaining public traction — morning shows, Dr. Oz, momentum that looked like success and felt like depletion. I could barely keep up.

I was 60 pounds heavier than I recognized as myself. Time alone came in stolen fragments, usually followed by the blunt question that landed like a sledgehammer: Where are you?

I was never where I was supposed to be—not as a mother, a wife, an employer, a doctor. I was trying harder and harder to hold everything together and only realized later that I was disappearing in the process.

One weekend, unwilling to spend another day sealed indoors, I wrangled the kids, leashed the dogs, strapped the baby to my chest and walked to the end of the road near our new house. There was a chain-link fence there — ordinary, unremarkable — with a small opening cut into it. On our side: pavement, noise, obligation. On the other: dirt, trees, a narrow path slipping quietly along the river.

I hesitated, then stepped through.

The kids followed. The dogs pulled forward. The air changed. We walked for a mile without watching the clock, turned around at someone’s backyard and headed home — but something fundamental had shifted. I didn’t know it yet, but I had just crossed out of one life and into the beginning of another.

Back home, hungry for more of whatever we had stumbled into, I googled “hiking near NYC” with the urgency of someone taking their first full breath. A book appeared immediately: The Best 50 Hikes Near New York City. I ordered it without hesitation. Every weekend after that, I loaded the kids and dogs into the mom-wagon and checked off another trail. One adventure after another. The weight fell off. The kids were entertained all day. My nervous system quieted. Nothing else could have done that.

I still hadn’t heard of the Appalachian Trail —not until one weekend at Bear Mountain, climbing with my husband and the baby strapped to my chest. At the top, the trail split at a crossroads, and there it was: a small white blaze marking a new path.

“That’s the Appalachian Trail,” my husband said casually. I laughed at the unfamiliar name — the rhythm of it, the syllables — and it lodged itself in my mind. Later, I learned it wasn’t just a path on a map; people hiked the whole thing, all the way from Georgia to Maine. My curiosity was awake.

On a rare weekend away from work and kids, I surprised my husband with a February birthday trip to Washington, Virginia. In the cabin, I studied a map of Shenandoah National Park and asked, “Hey, is there any hiking around here?”

Ten minutes later, we stood at a trailhead I didn’t yet understand. A white blaze. A sign: Shenandoah National Park. We hiked to Mary’s Rock, watching hawks ride thermals over valleys and ridgelines. Something about that place felt familiar — comfortable in a way I wanted more of.

Back at the cabin, I looked at the map again. A bold line cut through the park, and in tiny letters: Appalachian Trail. I hadn’t hiked more than five miles at a stretch, but I asked anyway, “Do you think we could hike the whole thing through Shenandoah?”

I looked it up: 108 miles.

“How long would that take?”

“Ten days,” he said.

“We have 10 days when the kids are with their dad. Your parents could watch the baby. Can we do it?”

He paused. “Have you ever backpacked before?”

“No. How hard can it be?” I asked, unaware that those five words would quietly echo with every sore foot, blistered heel and heavy pack over the next 14 years.

He smiled, then grounded me. “Let’s do an overnight first. See how you like it.”

Let the planning begin.

My first shakedown hike — my litmus test of whether this dream was even possible — ran 20 miles from Snickers Gap to Harpers Ferry, home of the Appalachian Trail Conservancy. I had brand-new gear, brand-new boots and a kind of excitement I’d never felt before. Did I mention I’d never slept in the woods or that I’d been afraid of the dark since childhood?

The first day was brutal. My husband later said the only other time he’d seen that look on my face was during an unmedicated childbirth. My feet blistered instantly. My right hip burned, then went numb. So much for fancy gear. Making it to camp without crawling felt like a triumph — one of the best things I’d ever done.

That night, something shifted. Wrapped in deep woods and deeper darkness, I felt no fear, only a profound sense of connection to nature, to something vast and steady. I’ve never been afraid of the dark since. The next morning, aching and exhausted, we climbed the final ridge. When the Shenandoah River came into view — the crossing that would take us off trail — I started to cry. We both did. It felt like coming home to a part of myself I hadn’t known was missing. A moment of perfect alignment. There was life before the Appalachian Trail and life after, and the crossing of the Shenandoah marked the divide.

Our first big section hike came at the end of that summer: all 108 miles of the Appalachian Trail through Shenandoah. We shook down our packs, I got new shoes, and we left the kids with their grandparents. All we had to do was put one foot in front of the other — 250,000 steps, to be precise.

My husband, Dave, was in his element: strong, capable, leading the way. I was in mine: merrily following, setting up the tent, cooking meals, while he started fires and hung the bear bag. I recognized this dynamic as our sweet spot. Despite the enormous challenge, we were highly attuned to each other’s needs. I felt safe and cared for in a way that had been missing in my life. On the trail, we could just be.

We gave each other trail names, a tradition among Appalachian Trail hikers. No one goes by their real name, instead taking on one that reflects something particular, quirky and true about them. The name reflects essence, not career, degrees or life role. I became Pigtails, for the way I wore my hair in two long braids sticking out of a bandana just like I did when I was a carefree child. He became Pirate King. Together, we were “Pigtails and the Pirate King,” one entity.

We fell into a state of flow. We reveled in rainstorms, mishaps and encounters with thru-hikers, trail angels and wildlife. Every summit felt like a secret the world had forgotten: tourists might walk 30 feet from their cars to see the same view, but we had climbed 2,000 feet carrying everything we needed to survive 10 days in the wild. When we finished the 108 miles, I didn’t want it to end. The adventure, the bonding, the pain and suffering — all of it had glory written all over it.

Our course was clear. We would hike the entire Appalachian Trail in sections, starting from Georgia, walking north like the thru-hikers. A rhythm emerged: hike, return home, resume our lives, and then spend nights planning the next trip, watching documentaries, reading trail books.

But life off the trail did not share the same uncomplicated dynamic. My husband was struggling at work, and although I didn’t know it at the time, he had been unfaithful and drinking heavily while on the road. This created unpredictable moods at home, and the effortless flow of the trail was nowhere to be found in our daily life.

Our hiking became a respite and a chance to repair what transpired between hikes. Rinse and repeat, each section carrying its own mythology. In Georgia, we crossed the Smokies over Christmas, the trail emptied of people, the world reduced to snow-dusted ridgelines stretching forever. One night we ran out of fuel and food, pitching our tent inside a shelter as a massive snowstorm closed in. We fell asleep hungry and cold and woke to a Narnia-like world — silent, white, impossibly beautiful.

There were thunderstorms on bald mountain summits where we realized, too late, that the safest move was to pack up and run downhill through sheets of rain to avoid lightning strikes. There were nights we pitched our tent on the summit of North Carolina balds and watched both sunrise and sunset without moving an inch. There was the unforgettable birthday of Dave’s we spent doing the Maryland Challenge — 41 miles in under 24 hours to raise money for a children’s charity — through a crystallized forest that sparkled by the light of a full moon.

From the outside, it all looked perfect. On the trail, it felt perfect. We were competent, aligned, capable. We faced hardship together and came out glowing on the other side. Those moments taught me something dangerous: that if you suffer hard enough together, love will stabilize itself.

But at home, things were quietly unraveling.

I lived in a constant state of vigilance, never knowing which version of my husband I would get. The man I trusted on the trail — the steady, present one — felt increasingly unavailable in daily life. I began contracting my world, managing variables, smoothing edges, trying to make life less demanding so he wouldn’t be overwhelmed. I believed that if I could just create the right conditions, we could return to the way we were in the woods.

The day I was supposed to pitch my book to publishers — after signing with an agent — everything shattered at home. That morning hit like a sharp riverbank, a line cutting my life, once again, into before and after. I couldn’t move, couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe. The pitch was a disaster. Around the same time, my son developed a rare neurological disorder, and the narrow margin I had been clinging to vanished completely. I lived in the thin, scared spaces between hikes, chasing each one like a lifeline, grasping at fragments of both of our identities on the trail — the selves we carried there. But like that first hike at the Shenandoah River, there was no going back. Every return to the city slammed louder, harsher. Our bond was fraying.

Something had to change.

So I made a decision rooted more in hope than truth. We would downsize. I would semi-retire so I could put more of my energy into our shared life at home. Leave the city. We would build a home in the country, close to the Appalachian Trail. If I could recreate the environment that was sacred for us, maybe the healing would follow. I Googled “Land for sale near the Appalachian Trail.”

We bought 37 acres one mile from the trail, where we would build our yurt home. When our therapist said, “You’ll have the same problems, just in the woods,” I heard it, but couldn’t accept it. Because what my soul kept insisting was simple and absolute: We didn’t have problems in the woods.

Our therapist was right, and it wasn’t long before the final unravelling began.

Our final hike together almost did what I hoped it would do. It was a last attempt to steady us, to step back into the rhythm that felt like home. And for a moment, it worked. We came back nearly healed. I was ready to release the pain, to forgive and choose trust again.

But that trust was fragile, and it couldn’t survive the weight of what I learned afterward. Once the truth surfaced, there was no way to unknow it. No way to return.

The thought of losing both my husband, whom I adored, and the trail was almost enough to make me stay with him despite it all. But I understood something with painful clarity — staying would mean abandoning my self-worth. I resigned myself to letting go of both the dreams I held most dear at once: the dream of hiking the trail end-to-end, and the dream of my marriage, Pigtails and Pirate King against the world.

At the same time, everything else unraveled. My business collapsed during Covid. The home we had built near the trail had to be sold. My father — my best friend — died suddenly one week before I was to reunite with him post-Covid.

I had climbed more than 150,000 feet of elevation over 1,500 miles in 13 years, but this was the steepest ascent I had ever faced.

The only dream I had any control over, I came to realize, was the trail.Yet the idea of hiking alone felt impossible. I had never spent a single day on trail by myself — never carried the weight alone, slept alone, made any decision alone. Still, I thought back to that first hike, the tears, the knowing. That memory was enough to make me try.

Telling Dave was hard. I carried guilt and tenderness in equal measure, afraid of hurting him, afraid of losing what we still shared. But I also knew I could no longer keep shrinking my life out of fear. With honesty and compassion, I told my now ex-husband I was going back to the trail — alone. He supported me, even while acknowledging how difficult it was. In its own way, the trail was still participating in our healing.

I planned a four-day hike: 70 miles. I was terrified. I told myself that if I got scared, I could turn around. I packed my bag, resupplied at REI, arranged for my friend Honeybun (trail name) to shuttle me from my car to the place where my last hike with Dave had ended. My grief was raw. I didn’t want to do this without him. Who would take care of me? Who would make sure I was safe?

Until I took my first step onto the trail. And just like that, the fear vanished.

I hiked 17 miles that first day — the longest first day I had ever done. That night I slept in a lightweight tent Dave had bought me for Christmas, knowing the old one was too heavy for me to carry alone.

I met a seven-year-old girl named Mountain Lion, thru-hiking with her parents. We bonded instantly. She was free and fearless, utterly present, letting the trail unfold beneath her feet one step at a time.

It was then I realized I was looking at my seven-year-old self. Pigtails wasn’t just a hairstyle. It was an essence. The part of me that was curious, brave and unafraid to take up space. Somewhere along the way, I had buried her to keep the peace. On that trail, she surfaced again.

The last day of my first solo hike was brutal: 17 cold miles, no rain gear, seven miles of climbing over football-sized rocks to a dirt road five miles from the nearest human. I wasn’t even sure my car would be there. When I finished, my body was beat up — but my spirit was free.

I have never felt that level of self-satisfaction before or since. Not in medical school. Not delivering 200 babies. Not building a successful business from nothing in New York City. Not publishing a book or appearing on television.

Those 70 miles didn’t break me. They led me home.

Since that first solo hike, I’ve logged enough miles to be nearly through Vermont. Hiking alone is fundamentally different than hiking as a team. You are more communal with other hikers, more willing to share intimate moments — and at the same time, more deeply solitary. I’ve loved both.

By the time I finish the trail, I will have spent more than a quarter of my life working toward this goal. It’s hard to articulate what happens when you surrender to the trail, when you stop trying to control it. Something like magic appears. There is a saying among AT hikers: the trail always provides.

That’s not to say it’s nonstop fun. The first day back after a hiatus is always merciless. My legs protest. My body resists. And yet, on recent hikes, I’ve walked my longest first days ever — 22 miles out of the gate. At 57, I can keep up with thru-hikers decades younger than me. It’s satisfying and reassuring — but it isn’t the point.

Since going solo, I’ve hosted thru-hikers in my home. I threw an eighth birthday party for Mountain Lion when her family passed through New York on their way to Maine. When hikers are asked what the trail gives them, most say community — and they’re right. They can now count as kindred spirits the thousands of people bonded by the shared, inexplicable drive to walk 2,132 unforgiving miles and call it glorious.

For me, there’s another word.

Courage.

With about 400 miles left — the White Mountains, the Hundred-Mile Wilderness, the Knife’s Edge to Katahdin — I understand now. The trail never asked me to be fearless. Only willing.

One word.

One step.

One woman — still becoming.