For a long time, I believed meaning waited on the other side of the mountain. I returned again and again, climbing, failing, slipping back, convinced that persistence alone would grant me clarity.

At first, strangers encouraged me. Later, they merely watched. By then, their approval no longer mattered. What troubled me instead was a deeper question: Why must I reach the top? What was I trying to prove—and to whom?

My twenty-fifth attempt, got me to the summit. My body protested; heart racing, muscles burning, but my mind expected revelation. From above, the world appeared both vast and insignificant. I stood there thinking, This is it.

Yet nothing happened.

No awakening. No sudden wisdom. The silence was ordinary. I felt unchanged. I realized then that I had mistaken elevation for transformation. I had assumed the summit would deliver what only reflection could provide.

The mountain had not changed me. It had simply revealed a truth I was unwilling to face: meaning does not reside at the peak, nor does effort guarantee insight. Sometimes the climb teaches us only this—that the heights we chase are often just footstools, and the understanding we seek must be built elsewhere.