I stood cautiously at the edge of the precipice, visually inspecting angry red streaks crisscrossing my forearms and gently assessing the throbbing swelling on my right thigh. Maybe I’ve made a mistake, I mused.

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I’d made a deal with myself to take one day every 4-6 weeks to escape the hubbub and check into the woods as an attempt at avoiding repeated burnout. Raccoon Mountain was my chosen forest retreat on this overcast Sabbath morning, and I was eager to get to the trail to sort out some thoughts. One of the things I like most about the woods is how well the trees listen, without giving any sort of advice or criticism – trees are great friends. I shouldered a day pack laden with snacks and water and set off on my walk around the lake. 

A couple of miles into my trek, I heard rapid footsteps behind me. I stepped aside to allow the trail runner to pass me. 30 seconds later, another trail runner warranted passage. Ten more trips into the trailside brush had me feeling impatient. My inquiries of the next runner revealed the unfortunate timing of my “solitary” hike coinciding with a trail run of 80+ participants on this 11-mile circuit. I had a lot more passersby to yield to. 

Having escaped to the woods to deal with some big feelings, I was already emotionally perturbed. Interruptions to my emotional-processing reverie every 30 seconds was not conducive to wrestling with my thoughts, so I was getting cranky. I ate a snack – crankiness persisted. This signaled significant emotional distress which called for drastic action. I stepped into the thornbushes (again) to scan the map for an alternative route free of trail racers, as I was already 4 miles into an 11-mile mountaintop loop. I noted a trail paralleling my current path, just a ¼ mile trip through the woods. No problem! I headed toward the terrain map’s suggestion of a less precipitous descent to the riverside trail.

Author’s note: Terrain maps utilize concentric lines to indicate elevation changes, with lines drawn in close proximity showing a more severe elevation change. Jessica knew this. What Jessica did not realize was that the gaps between terrain lines on Wisconsin maps show markedly less elevation change than the gaps on Tennessee maps. This would prove important.

I dove into the bushes, picking carefully around saplings and tangles of thorny brush. The undergrowth thickened, and my progress slowed as I disentangled myself from thorns grabbing at my shirt, pants, and exposed flesh. I came to a sharp drop-off, but was able to find a small chute off to the right where I could manage a slip-and-slide to the bottom of the cliff. The muddy earth laid bare by other creatures sliding over the leaves belied the slick surface, so I carefully kept a hand on tree limbs and trunks as I descended. This tactic facilitated an abrupt meet-cute between my right thigh and an exposed tree root as my feet slipped out from beneath me, my grip keeping me from sliding off the side of the slope. 

I uprighted and regathered myself, wiping mud from/across my pants as I stepped forward into the next segment of my trailblazing. The brush grew thicker, but I had a plan: deer manage this brush daily, so I’d just follow their path. 

Author’s note: Once again, Jessica’s Wisconsin experience was less than optimal in her Tennessee adventure. Deer in the south are questionably of the pygmy variety. Jessica bent, then crouched, then crawled below the trellis of thorn-bearing branches, with remarkable lack of success. Crawling directly through a pile of deer scat finalized the decision to abandon this plan.

Bruised and bleeding, I continued to wrestle my way through the brush, carefully picking my way down the hillside. I spotted an opening in the brush ahead and tacked and zig-zagged my way toward it, coming to terms with the realization that I’d never manage a prison break or any other barbed-wire extrication. I came to the clearing…and looked straight down. The Maybe I’ve made a mistake muse turned my attention back to the map. In 15 minutes of harrowing slip-sliding and thorn-battling, I’d made it about 0.1 mile. With a sigh, I turned uphill to crawl back through the gauntlet and return to just where I’d started.

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The week prior, I’d already run 3 miles in 30 minutes (a rapid pace for me) and paced carpet circles in the living room to work out some overwhelming monster feelings. Months before, I had submitted my application on a hope and a prayer, throwing my hat into the ring without much hope in the outcome…but then they chose me. This wasn’t in the plan. I came to Tennessee packed for a 3-month contract, “just to try it out”. I renewed my contract for another 3 months, then applied for the full-time position “just to see”. All of these “just tos” were adding up to too much – too much change, too much challenge, too much reward; too much uncertainty.

Was I diving into the bushes to avoid those thoughts stampeding behind me? Or turning to face and challenge them? Or, perhaps, a third option: finding a quiet space to watch them run by, acknowledging them and encouraging them to move through? 

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I sit on a rock overlooking the river valley, enjoying a snack (I’m not sure “snack” and “enjoy” have ever existed independently of one another in my experience) and hearing footsteps of the final racers fading away. The woods are finally quiet. My mind joins the trees as they whisper gently, peacefully. I breathe out – when was the last time I did that? – and my shoulders drop from my ears. Be present, the birds seem to twitter. Enjoy this moment. 

And in this moment, I am grappling with what it means to see my name emblazoned on a plaque with “Assistant Professor” printed just beneath. To have my name added to the directory of full-time faculty, shouldering the responsibility and joy of disseminating knowledge to inquiring minds. To contemplate what it means to pack up my belongings in the north, uprooting myself to relocate to where the vowels grow long and the kudzu grows high. The feelings are still bigger than I know how to process, but I’m content to let them run by as I watch… and breathe.