Every year, I venture out on a backpacking trip that usually includes somewhere between 5 and 10 miles of hiking per day over the course of 2–3 days. On average, each trip—whether it’s 2, 3, or 4 days long—involves no less than 25 miles of total hiking distance. And it’s never just a stroll on flat ground. There’s usually at least 1,000 vertical feet of elevation gain and loss involved, often more.

Now, I know there are people who do a lot more than me. But this is my sweet spot. And of all the lessons that inevitably emerge from these trips (and there are always a few), my favorite is this: the body always has more to give.

The body is a vehicle. As my teacher, Master Choa Kok Sui, says, “I am not the body.” Entire books could be written on this subject, but in the context of hiking, here’s what I take away: the body is not who we are—but it is capable of far more than we often believe.

Now, maybe you’re working through an injury or limitation, and yes, that matters. But injuries heal. And just like with a car, it’s our job to maintain the vehicle that carries us through this life. Assuming your “engine” is mostly functional, what most often limits us isn’t the body—it’s the mind.

Usually, within the first hour of a 10-mile hike with 1,000 feet of vertical ascent, the mind starts chattering. Sometimes it even starts before I set foot on the trail. But at this stage in life, I’m ready. I look forward to the challenge.

Then it hits.

Sweat starts pouring. Breath gets short. Every muscle in my legs is firing, my shoulders ache from the weight of a 30-pound pack, and the elements—whether it’s heat, rain, or lightning—are making themselves known. (Sometimes the weather is perfect… but not often.)

This moment—fondly known among hikers as “the wall”—is when the mind pipes up:
“Uh, hey… what are we doing here?”

It happens a few times during each hike. And when you’ve just logged 13 miles, you’re hungry, tired, sore, and smelly—it’s easy to give in to the mental whining.

But here’s what I love about the wilderness—and part of why I go in the first place: there’s no room for excuses.
You can cry, moan, or suffer all you want. But if you stop? If you give up? If you resent where you are?

You might not make it.

In the backcountry, the options are simple:
Keep moving… or stay stuck.
One of those choices ends in camp. The other might end with you spending the night in the cold.

So you may as well enjoy the walk.

The body is strong. And when we truly adopt the mindset that we are not our body, the mind’s grip starts to loosen. Sometimes, I flip the script and use the mind in my favor—telling the body to keep moving, to just take the next step. I’ve even felt what I imagine long-distance runners describe as “runner’s high”—a moment when I’m simply watching my legs climb, strong and rhythmic, long after my brain tried to quit.

This is the part I love the most:

It’s all a metaphor for life.

Life is a mountain. Sometimes, it feels like we’re carrying a full pack uphill, dragged down by the weight of our stories, our circumstances, our fears. And sometimes, it’s like gliding through a lush, green meadow with wildflowers in bloom.

Either way—we keep going.

And nature always reminds us: if we pause, we can’t help but take in the beauty. Vast valleys. Jagged peaks. Crystal-clear alpine lakes. Purple, yellow, red, and orange wildflowers. Skies so wide they make you feel both small and infinite.

This same beauty exists on your everyday commute, too—if you’re willing to see it.
Even in traffic. Even in stress. Even in the climb.

As Master Choa teaches, “Where your attention goes, energy follows.”
When you align your mind, body, and energy toward resilience and appreciation, your prana flows more freely, revitalizing your system and strengthening your path forward.

So keep going.

And look for beauty.


​It’s all around you.

One of my favorite books as a kid was a really horrible book called Snappy Answers to Stupid Questions. After a quick Google search to confirm that I actually remembered the title correctly, I couldn’t help but chuckle at the fact that these books were created by Al Jaffee, a longtime cartoonist for Mad Magazine. They were essentially filled with sarcastic, biting, and sometimes outright mean responses to everyday questions.

As a kid, I found these books wildly entertaining. But let me tell you why they—and sarcasm in general—have actually been a character flaw I’ve had to work hard to overcome.

Sarcasm, by its very nature, assumes a few things. It assumes that I, as the giver of sarcasm, am right about whatever topic is on the table. It also assumes that everyone else should think the same way I do.

Now, I’ll admit—sarcasm can be clever. It can be funny. But when it becomes habitual or goes unchecked, it’s usually not as harmless as it seems.

For example, if you see someone walking toward you with a shovel and ask, “Do you need any help with that?” and their snappy answer is, “No, I’m just carrying this for my good health,” how are you supposed to respond?

It leaves you with a whole string of questions:
—Do they actually need help?
—Is this shovel somehow part of a new workout routine?
—Are they annoyed I asked?

The sarcastic response, while framed as a joke, is really a subtle form of mental aggression. It implies, “You should have known better,” and in the words of Al Jaffee, that you were “stupid” for even asking.

Replace the shovel with anything else and you get the same result. Sarcasm is often just passive-aggressive communication—actually quite unkind. It’s criticism disguised as humor, wrapped in a bow of superiority. It’s basically saying, “I’m smart, you’re not, and you’re foolish for even needing clarification.”

Can you think of anything more prideful, judgmental, or assumptive?

A better way to communicate is what the Buddha calls “right thought and right speech,” or what the Bible teaches as, “Speak only what uplifts and builds others up.”

One of my favorite books now, The Four Agreements, offers this simple wisdom: Be impeccable with your word.

When we use sarcasm to get what we want—or to make a point—it’s the opposite of being impeccable. It’s often laced with pride, defensiveness, negativity, and even insecurity.

And while sarcasm may seem like a fun and playful part of everyday banter, wouldn’t it be better if our speech was simply kind?

Wouldn’t it be easier if we didn’t have to decode people’s meaning or tone?
What if words could just mean what they mean, and we trusted each other enough to be direct and warm?

The good news is—we can live that way. And if someone else still leans on sarcasm, they may continue missing the connection they’re really looking for—while the rest of us are still trying to figure out where the next shovel-based cardio center is opening.

Emotional suffering refers to intense feelings of distress, anxiety, sadness, depression, or other negative emotions that we experience in response to life events or circumstances. We can suffer emotionally from something as profound as the death of a loved one—or something as seemingly small as our favorite sports team losing.

But here’s something important to understand: all emotions are energy forms, and they continue to exist only when we energize them.

One of the sacred teachings of the Buddha is that suffering is often rooted in “the unrealistic expectation that favorable conditions will not change.” You don’t have to be Buddhist to reflect on how that might apply to your own life.

As humans, we’re conditioned from a young age to seek stability and certainty. We want things to stay as they are. We want to know what’s coming. We build lives designed around control and consistency—despite the fact that the nature of life itself is the exact opposite.

As the Greek philosopher Heraclitus famously said:

“The only constant in life is change.”

And it’s true. When we adopt the mindset that everything is always changing, the surprises in life start to lose their edge. You already know they’re coming.

In case you didn’t know: not one single human being has ever managed to escape death. Every job, relationship, football season, garden, meal, and home will eventually deteriorate in one way or another.

Sometimes things last a lifetime.
Sometimes, they’re gone in a moment.

There are people who have had one marriage that lasted 20 years… and others who have had 20 marriages that lasted one year. It matters not. All things eventually come to an end.

Now, I don’t say this to be morbid or negative—just to be real. When we hold tightly to people, situations, or roles in an attempt to never lose them, we’re actually setting ourselves up for suffering.

When we build our identity around things that are guaranteed to fall apart, we lose ourselves when those things eventually do.

But when we accept that change is inevitable, we actually gain power. We become emotionally resilient.

A friend once said something to me during a difficult time that I’ll never forget. I was younger and didn’t yet understand this idea of embracing impermanence. She said:

“Well Jesse, change is going to happen anyway. I may as well embrace it.”

She taught me not just to accept change—but to seek it. To love it.

Fifteen years later, I’m grateful for that wisdom. It’s made me less fragile, more grounded, and more present. Life is a gift—all of it—without exception. Favorable conditions will change… but in my experience, they’re usually replaced with something even better.

That is—if we don’t resist what the universe has in store.