the truth is, sometimes, a tiny tremor still lives deep in the muscle memory of my hand, barely perceptible, a ghost of the absolute terror that once lived there. it isn't gone, not entirely, but it’s not panic anymore, it’s like a distant rumble on a clear day, a reminder of how far the weather has shifted within me, how the ground holds surer now after the long thaw, revealing the deep, firm bedrock that was always beneath the shifting surface. that feeling of the lichen on the granite today, cool and slightly rough under my palm as i took a slow pull from the thermos, that earned warmth spreading through my chest, not the familiar ache but a warmth that felt like a passage cleared, a breath finally settling where it belongs within me. it’s a different kind of seeing, the mountain isn't different, but my awareness of it, the way it grounds everything, it's changed, it's a belonging, a deep knowing that what was buried deep, that strength, it's always been there.