The Backpack That Was Never Too Heavy

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It's been one year since I found myself spending a night in the Swiss Alps with no-where to stay.

It wasn't part of the plan. In fact, it wasn't even close.

I'd travelled to Switzerland to complete a four-day hut-to-hut hike around the Matterhorn. I'd trained for months and couldn't wait. The previous year, I'd completed the Tour du Mont Blanc, so this felt like the next adventure.

I arrived a couple of days early, just to soak up the mountains. If you've ever been there, you'll know what I mean.

The air feels different.

Life slows down.

You stop rushing.

You start noticing.

Those two days were wonderful. I wandered through the little village, sat with a coffee overlooking the mountains, watched people come and go and simply enjoyed being present. Looking back now, I realise something inside me was slowing down too.

I just didn't know it yet.

Then the morning of the hike arrived, I put my backpack on.

Instantly, I felt like I couldn't breathe.

Not literally.

But it was as though every ounce of energy had been drained from me. It felt like someone had quietly filled my backpack with bricks overnight.

The strange thing was, it wasn't heavy. I'd trained with far more weight than that. Physically, I knew I was capable.

The others in the group could see I was struggling and kindly offered to carry some of my things.

But it didn't help. Because the weight wasn't really in the backpack.

I kept telling myself, "You haven't come this far only to come this far."

I wanted to push through. I wanted to prove to myself that I could do it.

But forty-five minutes into the hike, I stopped.

Every part of me simply said..."No."

At the time, it felt like failure.

Looking back, I think it was one of the bravest decisions I've ever made.

But a slight problem, it was a Swiss bank holiday. The guest house I'd stayed in was full. Every hotel nearby was fully booked too.

The owner of the guest house was incredible. He shuffled rooms around and even offered me a mattress on the dining room floor. As the day went on, I could see how stressed he was becoming, just dealing with his full guest house, let alone trying to help me out.

So I smiled and told him I'd found somewhere to camp.

I hadn't.

I simply walked away with nowhere to go.

The previous day, I'd discovered a small church sitting quietly on a hill overlooking the village.

"I'll just sleep there," I thought. Or so I thought.

It was just before 10pm when I lay down on the stone floor. I had no sleeping bag, no bedding and no real plan. I pulled on every spare layer of clothing I had and used my rucksack as a pillow.

Then the church bells rang, I nearly jumped out of my skin! Not just on the hour. Every fifteen minutes. Being Switzerland, they were wonderfully punctual!

Sleep clearly wasn't going to happen, so I got up and walked.

I wandered the quiet roads, up little hills and back down again. Sometimes I'd sit for a while before setting off once more.

Somewhere during the night, I started recording little videos on my phone.

They weren't planned.

There was no audience in mind.

I just needed somewhere for my thoughts to go.

The first one was full of emotion. I was trying to make sense of what had happened. I'd travelled all that way, trained for months and walked away from something I'd been so excited about. I couldn't understand why I felt so overwhelmed.

As the hours passed, something quietly changed. The videos became less about trying to fix how I felt and more about simply noticing it.

I talked.

I laughed.

I reflected.

At one point, I opened a door beside the church and discovered what can only be described as the best public toilet I'd ever seen! It was spotless, warm, heated... and for a brief moment I genuinely considered moving in for the rest of the night.

Instead, I freshened up and carried on walking. By around five in the morning, after being awake all night, I was so tired I started having the odd little hallucination. Looking back now, it makes me smile.

I had no Wi-Fi.

No mobile data.

No music.

No distractions.

No one knew where I was.

Reading that back now, it probably sounds frightening. Oddly... It wasn't.

I've often wondered why I felt so safe that night. I still can't fully explain it.

There was just something about that place.

For the first time in a very long time, there was only one person I needed to think about.

Me.

Not someone else's problems.

Not someone else's emotions.

Not someone else's expectations.

Just one simple question; "Am I okay?"

Without realising it, those little videos had become conversations with the one person I'd unintentionally neglected for a very long time.

Myself.

I walked until around 7.30 the following morning before heading back to the guest house for breakfast.

At the time, I thought I was emotionally strong.

I knew I was mentally resilient.

I was physically fit.

But what I hadn't realised was how much emotional weight I'd been carrying for other people.

Quietly.

Without noticing.

Without ever asking whether it was mine to carry in the first place.

Looking back now, I don't think my body failed me that morning.

I think it finally spoke.

The mountains had slowed everything down just enough for me to hear it.

"I can't carry this anymore."

It wasn't the backpack.

It never was.

Over the following days, something quietly shifted inside me.

Not overnight.

Not dramatically.

But enough.

Enough to begin noticing where my energy was going.

Enough to understand that compassion doesn't mean carrying everyone else's burdens.

Enough to realise that boundaries aren't about shutting people out. They're about recognising what's yours... and what's never belonged to you.

It's taken me another year to truly understand what happened on that mountainside.

Since then, I've become much more aware of my emotional boundaries. I've learnt that I can care deeply without carrying everything. I can support people without becoming responsible for their emotions.

Perhaps that's what the mountains gave me.

Not a completed hike.

Something much more valuable.

A different way of living.

When I think back to that quiet little church in the Swiss Alps, I don't remember the cold floor, the sleepless night or even the hike I never finished.

I remember the beginning.

The beginning of putting down the weight that was never mine and slowly...

...finding my way back to myself.

When was the last time you checked what was in your emotional backpack?

✨ Awareness changes what’s possible, and it always starts with you.

Sue 💛