As I’ve been hiking the Florida Trail with a broken foot, I’ve been thinking a lot about protection. At first I needed to protect my foot in an orthopedic boot and use crutches. After about 400 miles of wearing the orthopedic boot, it seemed any benefit I it was giving was no longer worth the weight of lugging it on my foot, especially when it was soaking wet from swamp walking. I graduated to a very stiff hiking boot reinforced with carbon fiber insoles but still used the crutches. That lasted for a few more hundred miles until my SI joint started to complain. Using crutches to protect my foot was no longer worth the trade-off to to my right hip, so I graduated from crutches to my hiking poles. But still, I protected that foot by limping. As much as I wanted to walk a normal heel-to-toe gait, my brain wouldn’t allow it because it still felt pain. So I continued to use a somewhat altered gait until mile 911, when I can now happily say I was able to walk a fairly pain-free 10 miles with a normal heel-to-toe gait.

This got me thinking about all the ways nature protects. Trees have bark to protect from the elements and many plants have prickers to protect from being eaten. Many creatures use venom, claws, stingers, coloration, speed and more to protect while others like the turtle and armadillo will often stay put and retreat into their hard, external coverings rather than put up a fight. My experiences have led me to believe that most creatures, including the rattlesnakes that struck out at me on the Arizonia Trail and the Continental Divide Trail, are not out to harm me and seldom if ever attack without cause.

There was one time last summer when I was hiking the Pacific Northwest Trail when I was charged by a grizzly bear who then followed me a full half mile down the trail. While that was a frightening experience, it’s not the norm. I don’t know what perceived threat that bear saw in me causing it to charge me. And I seldom know what past experiences cause someone to act from a protected, defensive place, seeming prickly or on the attack. I’ve gotten better at not getting triggered by this and understand it’s about them and not really about me. Rather than responding with my own guard up or with judgement, I try to respond with compassion.

The post traumatic stress and dissociation I grew up with were ways I protected myself from childhood abuse. But just as I had to shed the crutches and orthopedic boot when it became more painful to hold onto the protections then to let go of them, I had to shed the dissociative walls I built and pull together those split parts of myself in order to make meaningful connections with other people. This required a willingness to feel pain and walk through what felt like my own personal fire.

Pain and fire are often viewed as negative things, but in the right place and the right time they can be helpful. A prescribed burn in the wilderness can look devastating, but in the end it will create a healthier ecosystem. Pain in my foot was not pleasant but it reminded me to be careful. And emotional pain pushed me to look deep within so I could release past abuse and live from a more centered place.

I believe that sometimes it’s important to stick my neck out beyond my protective comfort zone in order to save something more important than myself. In today’s world, I would feel less stressed if I stuck my head in the sand and stopped paying attention to what is going on. Yet I’m realizing that like it or not, I need to pay attention now more than ever, even if it’s uncomfortable to do so. I don’t want to stand silently by while our environment is irreparably destroyed. I may not yet know the best place to put my energy to help create the change I want to see, but I believe if I keep putting one foot in front of the other and move with kindness and integrity towards the direction I want to go, I will get the clarity I need to act. And even if I, as one person, can’t do much, my contribution of doing something might be enough to push the world to a tipping point in which more positive change can happen.

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