In April 2016, I set out on a journey that would change the course of my life. A couple of years earlier, a conversation with a friend had introduced me to the Appalachian Trail, and now two of my best friends were dropping me off in the middle of nowhere in North Georgia. I took my first steps on a 5.25 million-step trek across 14 states, completely unaware of how much it would reshape me.

Right away, I was hit by the unexpected difficulty of the terrain—steeper and rougher than I had imagined—and the weight of my 27-pounds of gear didn’t help. But I was excited by every little thing: every view, every bird call, every new mile. When I reached Mountain Crossings, a store and hostel early on the trail, I was still struggling under that heavy load. It was there that I met my first Triple Crowner.

I had never heard of the Triple Crown before, but after pestering this poor, exhausted hiker with endless questions, he finally took pity on me and gave me my first-ever pack shakedown. I stuffed the hiker box to the brim and mailed a big USPS box home, shedding not just weight, but a bit of my fear as well. That’s when I first learned how true that adage was: the journey truly is easier when you’re not carrying your fears. Going light—on the trail and in life—means freedom. Sure, some things get harder, but you move faster and adapt quicker.

As the trail unfolded, I realized the world was so much bigger, more beautiful, and more wonderfully complex than I had ever dreamed. And from the moment I heard about the Triple Crown, I knew that’s what I wanted for my future — I never strayed from that goal. A little over 6 months later, finishing the Appalachian Trail wasn’t just something I could do; it was something I had done. It was the most accomplished I’d ever felt in my life, and I knew my adventures along America’s foot paths had only just begun.

In 2018, I set out southbound on the Pacific Crest Trail. The PCT brought a different kind of challenge, but one that still felt familiar—from the vast, flower-filled mountaintop meadows of the Northern Cascades to the frigid, exposed ridgelines of the Sierras. Putting one foot in front of the other was still the only way to get to where I wanted to go. The PCT SoBo was a constant whiplash: the quiet isolation of long stretches alone, broken by the warmth of unexpected trail magic and the incredible camaraderie with other hikers. By this time, my pack was lighter—almost too light—and my steps more confident. I completed the PCT in under four months.

In 2019, I tackled the Continental Divide Trail, again heading southbound. The CDT was the wildest, most rugged trail I’d ever experienced. Starting in Glacier National Park, my schedule was dictated by backcountry site availability, forcing a few big-mile days right out of the gate through some of the most challenging terrain I’d encountered. But that was just a soft introduction to what the CDT had in store. Despite the relentless challenges, five months later, I found myself standing at the southern terminus, completing a four-year goal that had been sparked in a tiny hostel in Georgia, half a country away.