The Way Through: hills

When I ran cross country in high school, there was one section of the course I dreaded every single race.

We called it the Camelback Hills.

It was always hot.

The dirt was dry and dusty.

And those hills came right in the middle of the race—after the adrenaline of the start, but long before the relief of the finish.

There was no powering through that stretch.

And there was no sprinting yet, because the end was still far away.

The only way I ever made it through those hills was to slow my pace just enough to stay steady.

I kept my eyes down so I wouldn’t see how far the climb still went.

And I focused on taking the next right step, instead of trying to conquer the whole thing at once.

As I was running, I would often encourage the runners around me.

I would say things like,

“Keep going.”

“You’ve got this.”

“Stay with me.”

It wasn’t strategic.

It wasn’t spiritual.

It was simply what helped me stay.

And something interesting would happen every time.

As I encouraged others, my own heart felt lighter.

My breathing steadied.

The burning in my legs felt more bearable.

It was also, honestly, a helpful distraction from the pain.

My coaches didn’t love this habit.

They would say, “Emily, if you’re running slow enough to encourage others, you’re not running hard enough.”

But I don’t know.

I think I liked running slow enough to encourage others.

Looking back now, I see something I didn’t have language for then.

Long before I understood the principle that God often meets us as we give away what we need, I was already living it.

Encouraging others didn’t remove the hills.

It didn’t shorten the race.

It didn’t make it easy.

But it made the middle bearable.

And sometimes, that’s the gift—not escape, not speed—just the grace to stay.

Years later, in my coaching work, I’ve seen this same truth surface again and again.

As I’ve come alongside women walking their journeys of faith and life, I’m often reminded of a children’s story about going on a bear hunt.

In the story, a family sets out together—excited, confident, not afraid.

They’re going to catch a big one.

And then they encounter obstacles.

Tall grass.

Deep water.

Thick mud.

They can’t go over them.

They can’t go around them.

They have to go through them.

So often, I encourage women not to go around their emotions.

Not to climb over resistance.

Not to rush past discomfort in the name of clarity.

But to go through it.

To stay present in the middle.

To notice what God is doing there.

If we were sitting together right now, this is the question I would gently ask you:

What are you tempted to walk away from—not because it’s wrong, but because it’s quiet and the finish line feels too far away?

Because the desire to quit doesn’t usually mean you chose wrong.

More often, it means you’re tired.

Or you’re carrying it alone.

Or you’re doing something that actually matters.

The desire to quit is often a signal to slow down—not an instruction to leave.

If you’re encountering The Way Through for the first time, I want you to hear this clearly:

You’re not behind because the middle feels hard.

You’re not failing because you need to slow your pace.

And you’re not weak for wanting encouragement along the way.

Some seasons aren’t meant to be rushed or explained.

They’re meant to be walked—one step at a time.

And as we stay with them, as we go through instead of around,

we begin to discover something steady and true:

God is faithful in the middle.