Five years into a sales career at a Fortune 50 company, I walked away without any guarantee that what followed would work out.
It was risky. Work had become my entire identity, and my routine and unhealthy coping patterns were feeding each other in a cycle that felt impossible to break. Leaving didn’t magically solve everything—in fact, it was very difficult—but it gave me enough distance to act on what I already knew: I needed real change. I entered recovery and eventually took a job in peer support.
Working in the field reinforced something I thought I already knew: self-care is fundamental to our well-being. The problem was, I didn’t actually know what self-care meant for me.
Rethinking Self-Care
At the time, my version of it was going to the gym every once in a while and rewarding myself with food afterward. I treated self-care like something extra—a treat I could squeeze in only after the more “important” work was finished. Going back to school helped me realize that my own habits wouldn’t be making it into a textbook as an example of self-care anytime soon.
I also learned that self-care isn’t always easy. Sometimes it’s uncomfortable, inconvenient, or the last thing we feel like doing. I have always believed that you get out of something what you put into it, but I had never applied that logic to my own mental health. Looking back, it’s no surprise that depression and unhealthy coping patterns were steady companions through much of college.
After leaving sales, I started rediscovering parts of myself that I hadn’t made room for since I was a kid. I traded the BMX bike, skateboard, and neighborhood pool for a road bike, running shoes, and an adult swim club.
These activities helped me find community, fresh air, and something even better: the fulfillment that comes from doing something really hard on purpose, over and over. Depression and anxiety didn’t disappear, but finishing a hard workout or sharing an experience with someone I cared about gave those feelings much less room to work with.
Then Came Washington
An old friend invited me to his wedding in Washington State. I flew out with my partner with fairly low expectations, mostly thinking, “This is a long way to go for a wedding,” followed by, “I wonder what people do for fun here?”
With nothing else planned, we headed east on I-90 in the pouring rain toward Snoqualmie Pass and the Cascade Mountains to tackle Granite Mountain. We had food and water, but very little understanding of what we had actually signed up for.
We started in the rain, which might explain why everything seemed to turn bright green and mossy about a mile in. Enormous trees towered over us, and unfamiliar foliage and mushrooms grew beside the trail like something out of a Jurassic Park movie. We stopped for pictures, and I thought, “Huh, maybe there is something special here.”
Eventually, we climbed above the tree line, though clouds still hid most of the view. Then we caught our first glimpse of the fire lookout at the summit—our destination, or our halfway point, depending on how you look at it.
My first thought? “Oh no!”
From where we stood, reaching it looked about as realistic as climbing the Empire State Building. We pushed on anyway, our spirits lifting with each meadow, stream, boulder field, and hungry marmot friend. Every turn brought a gasp of “How beautiful!” followed by a groan of “We only came this far?!”
And then, as we climbed above the clouds, the sun came out, revealing views unlike anything I had seen before. Mountains stretched across the horizon, a turquoise lake nestled below, and Mount Rainier rested humbly in the distance. I had no idea what I was looking at, and I didn’t care. It was the most spectacular view I had ever seen.
After about 250 photos, we faced the brutal decision of which direction to face while eating lunch. We ate our sandwiches and calculated how long it would take to get back down, since we’d already been at it for more than five hours. But before we started down, something in me shifted. I made two promises to myself: first, I would spend more time outside, wherever that might be; and second, I would come back to these mountains one day.
Mount Rainier viewed from Granite Mountain, Washington. Photo by Mitch Phelps
For months—or, more honestly, years—afterward, hiking and getting outside became the things I looked forward to most. When I wasn’t outside, I was planning my next trip, even if it meant dragging the tent to the nearest campground. Being in nature and learning to feel grateful for it brought me peace. It gave me more quality time with the people I loved, time alone, exercise, and endless challenges. It’s been years since that trip, and although I have since visited places that were arguably more spectacular, it’s been incredibly difficult to replicate what I felt that day.
I don’t believe one hike magically fixed my life, although I would argue it’s worth a shot. Lasting change takes repetition, even on days when we’d rather scroll social media. Still, that experience changed what I believed was possible—and the direction of my future. I realized I had already been preparing for that moment in my recovery, exercise, and newfound willingness to leave my comfort zone.
Now, when things get hard, that memory reminds me that a morning can begin in rain or sorrow and still end with me standing on top of a mountain, surrounded by calm skies. It’s possible that realization would have come to me in another place, but I am incredibly grateful it found me on a mountain in Washington.
Bringing It Home
I’ve been lucky enough to return twice since then—once for a beautiful winter ascent of Mount St. Helens and again to visit Mount Rainier and Olympic National Parks. But self-care can’t—and shouldn’t—depend on a plane ticket or a spectacular summit. Most of the change happens before we ever get there, in the preparation and the ordinary, everyday choices that make those moments possible.
Now, when I run down Chicago’s lakefront path, I don’t compare it to the Cascades. I appreciate it because it is completely different. Every time I run, bike, or swim near the lake, I invest in my physical and mental health. It is also an investment in my relationships and my ability to show up for my clients—and, hopefully, in making sure my next hike takes a little less than nine hours.
Self-care won’t look the same for everyone. That’s why I can’t tell you what to do or where to go. The answer usually requires some looking inward. It doesn’t have to be a mountain, a race, or even exercise. For some, it might mean resting, creating boundaries, finding community, discovering a new culture or reconnecting with your own, creating art, or being vulnerable enough to ask for help. What matters is whether it genuinely supports the life you want for yourself.
I used to think self-care was a reward I earned only after the real work was finished. Now I understand that self-care is the work. Life can be unfair, and it has a way of weighing us down at the worst possible times. Caring for ourselves doesn’t stop this. But when we intentionally invest in our bodies, minds, and relationships, we can create enough space to notice when the clouds part and the world opens up again.
A quick note before you head out: My Granite Mountain hike was an incredible experience, but I do not recommend hiking without fully understanding the route. If you are inspired to get outside, research the trail, check the weather and conditions, and bring appropriate gear, food, and water.
About the Author
Mitchell Phelps, MSW, CRSS, is a therapist at Calm Skies Therapy with experience in crisis response, recovery support, and behavioral-health leadership. He works with adults and older adolescents navigating anxiety, grief, substance-use concerns, emotional distress, major life transitions, and feeling stuck. His approach is warm, collaborative, and practical, emphasizing helping clients understand their patterns and build self-care practices that realistically fit into their lives. Outside of work, Mitchell enjoys running, biking, and swimming along Chicago’s lakefront, listening to indie music, and planning his next trip to the mountains.