Breathing with the Mountain - Rebecca

Having met many hikers, I can confidently say that most of us turn to hiking as an escape, seeking peace to enhance our lives. It’s where we flourish, feeling most alive and happy. For me, exploring started as a child—it was just what we did because it was the most fun thing there was. Growing up in West Virginia was amazing, full of discovery and adventures in the mountains and creeks.

Soon, my fun adventures turned into journeys to escape the pain of losing my father. This was the first major event in my life that left me questioning the purpose of it all. At eleven, my father was murdered in our hometown. I hadn’t seen or spoken to him much since I was eight when my parents separated. This marked the beginning of me feeling most at home in the safety and serenity of Mother Nature.

The next significant turning point came with the tragic loss of my best friend. Her untimely death in a car crash shattered my world. Soon after, I faced another heart-wrenching blow: the loss of my baby at five months pregnant. These profound losses left an indelible mark on my heart. In the wake of this pain, a deep yearning for adventure and exploration blossomed within me. I found myself compelled to travel and discover everything the world had to offer, seeking answers to the questions that haunted me after those events and searching for peace amidst the chaos of grief.

During a hospital stay, it was discovered that I had cystic fibrosis. That was the reason I struggled with breathing and why I had lost my baby. The news of having a terminal illness—along with the likelihood that I might not survive another pregnancy—plunged me into severe depression for years. Though I traveled and enjoyed many things, cystic fibrosis loomed over me like a dark storm. But instead of trying to escape, I decided to dance in the rain. I went back to college to pursue a nursing degree, determined not to let this hold me back. In fact, it drove me to push harder.

When my lung function began to decline, it hindered my ability to explore as freely as I had when I was younger. But I found alternative ways to get out. I rode ATVs and four-wheel-drive trucks into the mountains. I took my boat to Summersville Lake in West Virginia, exploring areas only accessible by water. I rode my horse, as she gave me the freedom to run. There are so many beautiful places to explore in West Virginia, and where there’s a will, there’s a way. I traveled as much as I could afford. Being told you may not live long gives you a sense of urgency to experience as much as possible. It fueled a deep desire to live every moment with purpose and wonder.

I’ve faced many scares as a person living with cystic fibrosis. Exacerbations occur when we’re exposed to viruses and bacteria in the community. The most recent and serious flare occurred in December 2022. It was severe, and I became so ill that I had to be transported from a local hospital to Duke via ambulance. By the end of this exacerbation, doctors suggested I be evaluated for a lung transplant, as my lung function had dropped to 18%. The evaluation process started in the hospital, and I went home on IV antibiotics for a month.

When I got home, I was determined to live every moment with love, travel, kayaking, hiking—all the things I had always wanted to do but had put off for another day. Not this time, because time was truly running out. Within a week, after building a little strength, I was kayaking and hiking along the White Oak River and trails near my home. It was hard. I could only go short distances at first because I still had a PICC line in my arm and was short of breath. But every day, I pushed myself to do it again—to see another sunset, laugh, and spend time with the people I loved.

I grew so much during this time. Before this health event, I was sad and once again sought solace in nature after a divorce and heartbreak. I went to the one place where my heart and soul had always found peace and comfort—Mother Nature.

Each kayaking trip and hike made my body stronger. My medications were working; I was coughing less and breathing a little better. Gradually, I began traveling to more challenging hikes. Sometimes, it took me a long time to reach the end or summit, and a few times I even had to be carried piggyback to finish. But with every hike, I gained confidence and became stronger. Each step was a little more deliberate, expanding my lungs and allowing air to reach parts that had been closed off. I refused to let cystic fibrosis limit me anymore. I used to be afraid to go alone, always worried that if I made it out, I wouldn’t be able to make it back.

Something inside me just clicked. I realized that if I didn’t start trying something different, I would continue to decline, losing control of my own body. I made the decision that things would be different. There would be no holding back, no more fearing the unknown. I started with no expectations. I figured I’d go as far as I could and give it my best shot.

When I started my hike on the Paradise Trail at Mount Rainier, I felt overwhelmed. The air was crisp, and the smell of the alpine garden was intoxicating. My senses were heightened, but I was also overwhelmed with fear and anxiety. I worried I had bitten off more than I could chew. I couldn’t keep up with my hiking buddy, and it brought me to tears. I almost turned back several times. My lungs burned with pain, and with the thinner air, each breath was labored. I took a few deep breaths with my inhaler and let the moments pass.

Then, something shifted. I realized it wasn’t about how fast I could go or conquering the mountain. It was about working with my body—listening to it and finding a pace that didn’t feel like a battle. I leaned into the experience, allowing the mountain to teach me how to breathe deeply again. She showed me how to calm my anxiousness, how to let others go ahead while I stayed at a pace where I felt balanced. I learned to respect my body’s limits and not ignore them.

With every step, I began to relax. I inhaled the sweet scent of alpine flowers, and I marveled at the marmots, chipmunks, birds, waterfalls, and vibrant blooms. I forgot about the pain in my lungs and began to appreciate everything around me. And just like that, I made it to the highest point of the trail. The views were breathtaking. Overcome with emotion, tears streamed down my face. I had done something I never thought possible just a year and a half after being told I would need a lung transplant.

Over time, I’ve built up my endurance and lung function. I started small with manageable hikes, and bit by bit, my body has adapted. The more I hike, the clearer my lungs become. Thanks to Trikafta and hiking, I notice changes every few months. I can go longer without needing rest, my chest feels less tight, and I can take deeper breaths with better stamina. Some days, it still feels like my body is betraying me, but most days, hiking feels like a dialogue between me and the world around me—one where my breath and the trail meet in mutual understanding. On my better days, when the air is crisp and clean, I feel the difference. I can breathe deeply—not with shallow, labored breaths, but with full, expansive ones I had long forgotten how to take.

Though my lung function is still not ideal, it’s improved. Hiking has become a rhythm in my life—a way to slow the relentless advance of the disease and reclaim some autonomy over my body. The deeper I go into the woods, the more I feel alive. The mountains aren’t distant, cold giants anymore; they’re alive, just like me, bearing their own scars from weathering storms and time. As I hike now, I see all the beauty in what I once thought was impossible.

I see my lungs in a new light—fragile, yes, but capable of incredible things when treated with care and respect. They, too, are a part of something vast and unpredictable—something always worth fighting for.

By the time I reached the end of the trail at Mount Rainier, the sense of triumph felt almost secondary. The climb, the struggle, the steady rhythmic breathing—that’s what mattered. In those moments, I wasn’t just someone with cystic fibrosis trying to make it through a hike. I was someone who had learned to move through the world with quiet power, one breath at a time.

Hiking hasn’t just improved my lung function. It has reshaped how I think about my body, how I see my limitations, and how I deal with the challenges cystic fibrosis and life throw at me. Every time I return to the trail, I am reminded that the most important journey isn’t the one that takes me to the top, but the one that teaches me to keep going, no matter what. Hiking has not only improved my lung function; it has transformed my understanding of resilience and the beauty of persistence in the face of adversity. This is why I hike—with gratitude.