Insomnia, Grief, and Moksha Peak
Running on empty, climbing anyway.
My eyes, heavy with the weight of insomnia, crack open to the sound of Devin’s alarm and his excited whisper, “new peak today!”
I can barely respond. I hadn’t slept a wink. Insomnia has been a cruel mistress for years now. I’ve tried to part ways with her, two sleep medications, careful nighttime routines, but when she stays, she stays hard. The fallout is brutal. When I don’t sleep, it feels like moving through a haze with cement in my bones.
I mumble the truth to Devin, and he tells me to close my eyes and rest a little longer—we’ll leave late. I drift off into a half-sleep, only to be stirred again an hour later by the ever-epic Lord of the Rings theme song (my chosen alarm).
“I don’t think I can do this today,” I whisper to no one in particular.
I give myself ten more minutes. A pep talk. A moment of truth. Why am I doing this hike, really? Is a new summit worth it when I’m running on empty?
Still, we go. We’re headed for Moksha Peak, 6,224 feet of elevation gain in just four miles. That’s over 1,500 feet per mile, and it feels every bit of it. But as we climb, I reflect on other days I’ve felt this exact way: exhausted, depleted, and still kept going.
There was the time we climbed Pico de Orizaba, Mexico’s tallest mountain, on just a few hours of sleep over two nights. Or the Arctic to Indian backcountry ski, 20 miles of difficult terrain (for skinny skis) after a stint of sleepless nights. Or the Gunsight Traverse, 13 miles with 6,000 feet of gain, after yet another stretch of insomnia. Each of those days felt like torture… and yet, they remain some of the best days of my life.
This is one of those days.
We reach the trailhead at 9:30 a.m. The quiet of a nearby stream is interrupted by the sound of distant gunshots (Palmer things). I’m tired, but I feel a flicker of excitement as we set off on a flat ATV trail. I start jogging. Devin laughs and shouts, “No! No running today!” I laugh too, and slow down as the climb begins.
Moksha is relentless. After the first mile and a half, I’m dragging. My body is not on board with the plan. Devin encourages me, tells me I’ve done this before, and hands me some Cheez-Its. He knows I need a break before I do. These are the small moments that carry me.
We hike on. The last push is the hardest: a steep scree slope, loose rock (step one foot forward, slide half a step back), and rotten patches of snow. I choose the snow and hope for the best.
When we reach the summit, I expect to collapse. Instead, I surprise myself. I’m beaming. We shout a victorious “Whoop whoop!” into the fog (no views today), snap a few photos, and begin the descent.
Jogging back down, winding through the brush, I start thinking about a different version of myself. A different life.
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In my twenties, I lived in the cities in Minnesota. I felt like I was suffocating. I commuted two hours a day, worked in a high-performing job, and spent weekends trying to pretend everything was fine. It took a toll.
One morning, eating breakfast with my dad, I broke down crying in a restaurant. I’m not a cryer, so crying in public felt like a rock bottom moment for me. I told him I wasn’t happy in my life, that something needed to change. True to form, he cracked a joke and told me everything would be okay. I didn’t know it then, but that moment would become a turning point.
Not long after, I ended a three-year relationship, that just didn’t feel right. Then, a month after that, everything collapsed.
My dog Stevie, my best friend and constant companion, died in a sudden, traumatic accident during a chaotic trip to the Boundary Waters. In the rush of packing, I had placed her in the back seat of the car. As we started driving, I noticed it was unusually quiet and asked my sister in the back, “How’s Stevie doing?” She looked up and said, “Stevie? She’s not back here.” At some point while we were still loading the car, Stevie must have jumped out—and I hadn’t noticed. By the time we turned around, it was too late. A hit and run. A kind stranger had stayed with her and told me it was “quick,” I couldn’t hear anything she said after that.
That loss shattered me.
For someone that was already struggling, grief swallowed everything. And beneath it, a crushing guilt, I felt like her death was my fault. I couldn’t sleep. I lost weight. I stopped caring about the things that once brought me joy. I put on a brave face at work, but I was hanging by a literal thread.
One day, my sister said to me, “I know this is hard, but you can’t go on like this. You need to start doing something about your grief.” I was mad when she said that. How dare she tell me how to grieve. But in time, I realized she was right. And as silly as it sounds, Stevie wouldn’t want me to live like this.
I saw a therapist for the first time, and she was an absolute perfect fit for me. I signed up for yoga teacher training. I registered for a marathon. Slowly, these natural ways of healing helped. Yoga became my sanctuary, I went 2-3 times a day. Therapy helped me make sense of my pain. Running gave me purpose.
I was still raw. I still missed Stevie with every step. But I started coming back to myself.
And then I moved to Alaska.
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This place saved me. It’s the mountains that bring a quiet mind and soul-deep gratitude.
So when I ask myself, why am I doing this? The answer is bigger than a summit. I’m doing it because I can. Because I want to live while I’m still alive. Because I know too many people who say they’ll do it someday… and never do.
The mountains are my celebration. I spent too many years just surviving. But out here, climbing through exhaustion, scraping my trail runners across dirt and stone—I feel fully, gloriously alive.