The Trail That Whispered My Name
I didn’t book a ticket to the Italian Alps for the photos. I booked it because I was desperately, undeniably lost in my own life. A crossroads of career and heart had left me feeling like a ghost in my own skin. So, I did what any sensible, slightly terrified thirty-something would do: I bought a pair of hiking boots, a detailed map, and a one-way ticket to a place where the only decisions that mattered were which path to take and when to stop for pasta.
My base was a tiny, terracotta-roofed village in Val Gardena, nestled like a secret in the heart of the Dolomites. The air was sharp with the scent of pine and cold stone—a world away from the city smog I’d left behind.
The First Ascent: One Step at a Time
My first solo hike was to the Seceda Plateau. The cable car did most of the heavy lifting, but the final climb was mine alone. With each step, the world below shrunk. The chatter in my mind—the “what-ifs” and “should-haves”—began to be replaced by a more immediate, physical mantra: left foot, right foot, breathe.
And then, I crested the ridge.
The view of the Seceda spires, jagged and majestic against an impossibly blue sky, stole the breath from my lungs. It was a silence so vast it was loud. I sat on a rock, my legs dangling over a thousand-meter drop, and ate an apple. In that moment, there was no past, no future. There was only the sun on my face, the crunch of the fruit, and the staggering beauty of the earth. It was the first time in months I hadn’t felt anxious.
The Detour That Became the Destination
A few days later, armed with perhaps too much confidence, I decided to tackle a longer trail. I was so focused on the map that I missed a crucial turn. By the time I realized my error, I was on an unmarked path, the sun was beginning its descent, and a familiar panic started to rise in my chest.
But as I stopped to get my bearings, I noticed a small, weathered shrine carved into the rock, a simple cross adorned with fresh wildflowers. It felt like a sign—not a religious one, but a human one. A reminder that others had passed here, others had felt small, and others had found their way.
Instead of panicking, I laughed. This was it. This was the “getting lost” I had secretly come for. I trusted my instinct and the general direction, and an hour later, the path rejoined the main trail, spitting me out right in front of a rustic rifugio (mountain hut). The smell of polenta and wood smoke was the best thing I had ever smelled. I devoured a plate of hearty stew, surrounded by laughing Italian families and weary, happy hikers, and felt a sense of belonging I hadn’t felt in years.
The Summit Within
My final hike was the most challenging: the Tre Cime di Lavaredo loop. The wind howled, and the path was a brutal, beautiful moonscape. Reaching the viewpoint, facing the iconic three peaks, I didn’t feel triumphant. I felt quiet. The storm in my life hadn’t vanished, but I had built a stronger shelter. The mountains hadn’t given me answers, but they had quieted the noise enough for me to hear my own voice.
I went to the Dolomites to escape. I went to get lost. But the trails, in their ancient, unwavering wisdom, didn’t let me stay lost. They guided me, step by step, not just to a geographic destination, but back to the core of who I was: resilient, capable, and small in the very best way—a tiny, significant part of a vast, beautiful world.
