It’s Wednesday evening, and my head is still buzzing from last weekend’s retreat. Funny thing is, I hadn’t thought about it all day. I’d actually spent the afternoon with Esme clearing out my office - I’m moving upstairs to a new space and sharing with someone else.

My current space is a three-person office, and the new one fits four. In theory, that means more room. But I’ve realised space always seems to fill itself - whether it’s an office or a house. Give me a small room and I’ll make it work; give me a big one and somehow I’ll clutter it with things I don’t even use. (Come on, I can't be the only one? Surely there’s a theory about this somewhere.)

But clearing out felt pretty good. There’s something freeing about letting go of what you don’t need and keeping things simple.

Anyway, just as I was about to leave, this thought hit me. Not the kind you can shrug off - more like, “Sarah… stop. Listen. Pay attention. This actually matters.”

And the thought itself?

I need to start asking for help.

Look, it  probably sounds obvious. But for me, it’s huge. I’ve always defaulted to doing things on my own - it feels safer that way. But the truth is, if I want to build something meaningful, something that lasts, I can’t do it solo. I need people around me. I need to let others in.

That realisation came from the retreat. On the second day, walking to lunch, someone said to me, “The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results.”

That was exactly what I’d been doing - pushing and pushing, hoping something would magically shift. And then she asked me this simple question - she even got goosebumps when she said it, so I knew there was something in it: “What if you tried something different?”

I didn’t have an answer at the time. But standing in that messy office surrounded by shredded paper, it clicked. This is the “different.” Asking for help. Opening the door.

And that’s when the mountain metaphor started running through my head.

At the retreat, someone described life as a series of mountains. You climb one, reach the top, and then you descend. After that comes a flat stretch of land - the “existential crisis zone” - until you stumble upon the next mountain to climb.

Sometimes you climb a mountain, reach the top, and the view isn’t what you hoped for. But I don’t think that makes it a waste. Every climb teaches you something. Maybe those smaller, less impressive mountains are just training grounds - getting you ready for the bigger ones ahead.

And after each mountain, there’s that flat land. That in-between space where you’re not climbing, not aiming for a peak - just walking. Feeling a bit lost, wondering where you’re going and why.

I’ve started climbing again - this time, a much bigger mountain. One with amazing views, but so high it’s going to take a while to reach the top. Along the way, I’ve kept getting lost, stuck in dense forests where I couldn’t see clearly. But now the trees seem to be thinning, the trail is opening up, and for the first time in a long while, I can actually see different paths ahead.

One path is the old way - steep, lonely, exhausting, and full of places to get stuck. The other? A gentler climb, where I’m not the only one on the trail. Where I cross paths with others, share the journey, and still arrive at the same breathtaking view at the top.

To be honest, if I stuck with the old path, I’d probably end up lost - or at best, take far longer than I need to. So this time, I’m choosing differently. I’m choosing the path where I don’t have to walk it alone.

What’s funny is, these insights haven’t come when I’ve been consciously thinking. They’ve arrived in the in-between moments - clearing out an office, mid-spin session, when my mind has quieted enough to see clearly.

So maybe the retreat didn’t hand me all the answers right there and then. But it planted seeds. And slowly, they’re beginning to grow. 🩷