One quiet afternoon, I did something unexpected—I set up my camping tent right in the middle of my living room. The green and orange fabric looked almost out of place against the polished floor, the television on the wall, and the stuffed toys nearby. But once I crawled inside, zipped it shut, and lay down with a blanket, I felt something I hadn’t felt in a long time: the kind of safety I knew as a child.

It brought back memories of the forts I used to build with pillows and blankets. Back then, the world outside didn’t matter; inside my little fortress, I was secure. Lying there as an adult, I realized I was doing the same thing—retreating to a small, safe space because life outside sometimes feels too big.

Psychologists actually have a word for this—regression. Anna Freud once described it as a way the mind slips back into earlier stages of life when we’re stressed or overwhelmed. For a long time, I thought of that as weakness. But the longer I stayed in my little tent, the more I understood it differently.

The pediatrician and psychoanalyst Donald Winnicott wrote about “transitional spaces”—those places or objects, like toys or imaginative play, that help us process reality and find comfort. As I lay there, I realized this tent was my transitional space. It wasn’t just about hiding; it was about creating a cocoon where I could breathe again.

And as I reflected more, I remembered reading Patricia Cramer’s work, where she explained that regression doesn’t always have to be destructive. In fact, when it isn’t excessive, it can be a healthy coping mechanism—a pause button that helps us restore balance before moving forward again. That was exactly how it felt. I wasn’t escaping life forever. I was simply giving myself permission to rest.

I smiled in the dim light of the tent. Maybe survival doesn’t always look like conquering mountains or pushing through exhaustion. Sometimes, it looks like curling up in a small space, listening to the quiet, and remembering what it felt like to be safe.

So now, I don’t see regression as weakness. I see it as a gentle return to the things that once gave me comfort. And maybe that’s what we all need sometimes—a reminder that even as adults, we still deserve moments of softness, play, and peace.

Life has always felt like a mountain before me—steep, unyielding, and endless. From childhood, I learned early that each step upward demanded more than strength; it demanded sacrifice. I never dreamt of palaces or golden crowns. Extravagance was never my compass. Instead, I longed only for the dignity of survival, the quiet victory of making it through another day.

Yet, the climb was never gentle. Hunger was a constant companion, doubt lingered like a shadow, and loneliness pressed down heavier than any pack I carried on my back. My journey through school, through work, through life itself, often felt like walking barefoot on jagged stones—painful, slow, and uncertain. And there was a time, a dark time, when the mountain’s weight nearly crushed me. I almost surrendered—not just to exhaustion, but to the silence of an end. I stood at the edge of giving up my very life, ready to let the climb consume me.

But something—perhaps a whisper from within, perhaps the stubborn ember of hope—pulled me back. I tightened my grip, steadied my breath, and rose again. Bruised, yes. Scarred, yes. But still alive.

Now, as I stand on this cliff, watching the sea stretch infinitely before me, I see my journey reflected in its vastness. I may not be rich, not in the way the world measures wealth, but I am rich in endurance, in lessons carved by hardship, in the strength I wrestled from despair. My climb has been solitary, my path narrow and steep. Perhaps if someone had walked beside me, the trail would have been lighter, the air easier to breathe. But life chose to make me climb alone, and I have learned to accept that solitude as both a burden and a gift.

I have reached this point—not the peak, perhaps, but a height I once thought impossible. The mountain behind me is proof that I did not surrender, that I carried myself through storms and shadows. And now, as I gaze ahead, I choose not to look back with bitterness. I choose acceptance. The climb is not over, but I will move forward, step after step, carrying only courage and the quiet knowing that I survived when I almost gave up everything.

This is my story. This is my mountain. And though I am climbing alone, I am still climbing.

The forest floor is soft beneath my feet, a carpet of fallen pine needles that hushes the noise of the world. My small tent leans gently against the wind, a humble shelter, yet it feels sturdier than the concrete walls I once called home. A chair, a table, a few supplies, and a ginger cat curled by my side—that is all I need.

At forty, I have found comfort in solitude. Some would call it loneliness, but I have learned to see it differently. Solitude is not an absence; it is a presence—the presence of peace, of stillness, of listening to my own breath and the rhythm of my own heart.

I came to the woods not just to camp, but to heal. For years, I carried the weight of other people’s expectations, the noise of shallow friendships, and the silent battles of my own mind. Anxiety once gnawed at me like a restless creature; depression whispered that I was not enough. But here, beneath the trees, I find a different truth: the earth does not ask me to be more than I am. It simply lets me be.

The forest teaches me the language of mental health in the gentlest ways. The rustle of leaves reminds me that even when things fall apart, life continues. The steady flow of the river mirrors the importance of letting go, of not holding on too tightly to pain. And the cat at my feet, calm and unbothered, shows me that rest is not laziness—it is survival.

In my younger years, I surrounded myself with many people, mistaking numbers for worth. But mental health has taught me otherwise. Having a few real friends—those who listen, those who understand, those who accept my silences—is worth more than a crowd of voices that echo only when it is convenient. It is better to sit in quiet sincerity with one true soul than to laugh loudly with a hundred who do not see you.

Living alone at forty is not a tragedy. It is a gift. It allows me to slow down, to breathe, to listen to the small, healing things of life. My tent is not just a shelter—it is my cocoon, where I am slowly becoming lighter. My chair, planted on the soil, reminds me to stay grounded. And every sip of coffee I take by the river feels like medicine for a weary heart.

The world outside will always be noisy, but here in solitude, I find the kind of silence that restores me. And perhaps that is the greatest lesson of all: to choose not the life that others expect of me, but the life that keeps me whole.