At eight years old, thirty minutes felt like forever. Time seemed to stretch out like an endless highway anytime I waited for recess to start, for a slice of pizza, or during the drive to my cousin’s house.
Now, at twenty-three, thirty minutes feels like a quick pause between one activity and the next. Somewhere along the way, time sped up. Or perhaps, in all my adult planning, predicting, and preparing, I started to lose track of time as it compounded. I didn’t realize how far I had drifted from the present moment until I began climbing.
Climbing can force you to focus on the here and now. You can’t worry about next week’s deadline or endlessly scroll through your phone when your hands are gripping a slab of limestone and your feet are searching for a foothold. All you have is the next move, the next breath, and the next beat of your pounding heart. While you are unquestionably forced to live in the moment, it’s not always peaceful. Sometimes it’s fear; other times, it’s frustration. Your mind might even try to talk you out of it mid-climb:
“What am I doing here?”
“This was a terrible idea; I’m not ready.”
“I can’t make that reach; I’m going to slip.”
But that’s the thing: whether it’s fear, pain, or exhilaration, you are entirely in that moment.
On weekends, I explore new places in Texas, chasing the quiet headspace that climbing gives me. Whether it’s the pink granite outcrops of the Hill Country, the rugged limestone near Austin, or the well-known boulders out west, the rocks may change, but the feeling remains the same.Each crag brings its own challenge, but all of them return me to the same truth: nature has its own rhythm, and I’m just tuning in.
Nature doesn’t dwell in the past or the future. If you watch any wild animal for more than a few seconds, it’s clear they’re not making to-do lists. The natural world lives in the moment, and that’s enough. Out in the Texas wilderness, you can feel it too. You start to experience that slowing down, that shift away from thinking about what’s next or what’s gone. You remember that now is the only moment when anything truly happens.
I used to believe that being present meant feeling an overwhelming calm, like sitting cross-legged in a candlelit room, achieving a perfectly tranquil state. But being present isn’t always peaceful. Sometimes, it’s gritty, messy, and even uncomfortable. Sometimes it’s halfway up a route with pumped forearms and no clear plan. That’s what it feels like to truly be alive.
I’ve cried on routes, laughed mid-fall, talked to the wind, and sat quietly under the sun. That rawness is where the truth resides, in the present. There’s something universal about this feeling, even across a state as large and diverse as Texas. From the piney woods of East Texas to the striking plateaus in the west, we are fortunate to have a wild backyard in every direction. I think most of us, whether climbing, kayaking, trail running, or simply watching a sunset, are seeking the same thing: to reconnect with ourselves.
Maybe that’s why I keep returning to the wall, not just for the climb or the thrill, but for the presence. For the reminder that I’m alive, that I’m moving, and that I’m feeling.
At eight, thirty minutes felt like forever. Now, I see it as a gift: thirty whole minutes to be fully here, fully alive. Whether I’m hanging from a crimpy hold in the sun or sitting under a cedar tree, sipping and watching my friends climb, the present moments are the ones I remember. Because in the end, the moments we fully live matter the most.
