Readers who seek the opposite of sanitized outdoor culture, hikers who trek the land for recognition over recreation, and Poetry lovers who understand repetition as breath rather than structure.
The Vault:
Repetition as refusal, not decoration
“Fuck a trek” a grounding anchor line through the poem
Nature as identity recognition rather than scenery
Storm, river, forest, & animalimagery used as lived systems, rather than symbolism
Crows functioning as memory carriers across time
Mythic framing without leaving physical reality
Civilization positioned as backgroundnoise, not central focus
Indiana, Let’s GET IT!
Reclaimed the Trailhead of Creativity:
Here I choses to use a phrase poetically after I flipped it on it’s head. Thankfully the piece continued to refuse to settle back into anything polite.
Fuck a trek.
The line that became the title and the spine. I can’t lie. I love the drama in it, creating chaos in literature has been a favorite of mine for quite sometime.
You will find local foliage and woodland items many times in nature like you find the line Fuck a trek. Just like nature you’ll never experience the line the same.
This is an accumulated reflection of all my time spent on the trail.
Weather it’s ravines after ridges, cliffs above the gorge, caves or anything in between… it’s all relevant to the climb you’re in. Eventually this will stop feeling like something you force yourself to get finished and starts feeling like refreshing your soul.
Fuck a Trek-
An Original Poem by Axton Mitchell:
Fuck a trek. I require found bones, stream-smoothed stones, and a sky heavier with weather than any grief I’ve carried.
Fuck a trek. Root-bound. River-raised. Fully feral. Trail Troll.
Fuck a trek. I was raised between thunderstorms. Led by lightning flashes. Taught most I know beneath thunder’s loudest boom.
Fuck a trek.
Let me wander until I find trees yet to learn my name.
Fuck a trek.
Leave me where the mushrooms grow. Where the path forgets itself. Overgrown. Wild. Dirt-encrusted. Wind-tousled. Sun-speckled. Freckled.
Fuck a trek. Crows lead. Lost boy follows. Finding pieces he dropped years ago. Crows remember the shiny things he gifted.
Moss-covered mason jars. Creek-water soaked spell books. A cathedral needing no walls.
Fuck a trek. Let the city keep its lights. I have fireflies. Sunlight through a canopy. Campfire embers. Dusk.
Old forests. Unfinished tales.
Fog blankets draped over hollows. River hymns muffled by distance.
The muddy banks still call my name. Civilization waits. Patient.
As I always ensure.
Poet’s Note:
I didn’t write this from any one space. It came to me out of the years I’ve been moving through forests, rivers, ridgelines, and overgrown paths.
This week I did a few hikes in Illinois and Indiana; drafting this piece while my windshield wipers were just getting used to being back in Ohio.
Mason jars, spell books, and the other objects that show up in this poem aren’t decorations or abstract images. They’re tied to real moments I’ve had in wilderness spaces, things that were actually there with me, things I’ve used or carried or come back to in memory because they belong to that terrain as much as anything else does.
Crows, storms, stone, fire, light, the edges where town breaks into wild space, all of that exists together the way it actually does when I’m there
Present.
The way the poem moves isn’t linear because that’s not how the wilderness feels in my reflection. Like the title repeats I have passed through similar ground again. It does shift. Allowing me to notice different things each time even when the shape of the place looks familiar.
“Fuck a trek” is the pressure point in it. It interrupts the idea that this is supposed to be packaged into something neat or resolved or explained away. It keeps pulling it back into contact with what’s actually there instead of what it could be made to represent.
The beauty in art and literature is that everyone is allowed to have a perspective on them of their own. All these perspectives still remains true to their interpretation.
This is my perspective. I want to remind you that yours valid too.
If you’d like to share your perspective, I’m always excited what others see growing inside my creations.
Take a Hike:
This piece stays inside the same world it was built from. Forest edges, river ground, ridgelines, places where attention doesn’t sit still and nothing stays reduced to a single meaning.
What it leaves behind isn’t a lesson or a takeaway. It’s the same material it started with, just arranged into language instead of lived movement.
The rest is still out there.
TLDR:
Repetition-based poem built around “Fuck a trek” as an anchor line. Centers on forest, river, and storm imagery drawn from lived time outdoors.
Rejects structured outdoor culture in favor of direct, unmediated experience.Uses memory, nature, and mythic elements as a single continuous system.
Built as spoken rhythm, not linear narrative or resolution.
Individuals looking to set personal boundaries, prompt response & journal entry readers, people seeking deeper introspection, and poetry enthusiasts reclaiming peace.
ghoulish – Emie Wonders @ photo credits
The Vault:
My Lack of boundaries: a short history
My Routine: my daily journaling app that called me out
My Gain: Two new creations, A Goal, & A Plan
The Guideto Reclaiming Peace: Poeaxtry’s Healthy Boundary Guide
The Prompt:
Write your guide to setting healthy boundaries in relationships.
Open Your Eyes or Get Face-Palmed by Life:
Life has a way of repeating the same lessons until we have no choice but to let it finally click.
For a long time, most my life if I am being honest. I treated boundaries as optional, polite suggestions even. As if I could negotiate away when things got hectic or when someone else’s crisis felt larger than my own.
But the universe doesn’t deal in suggestions; it deals in consequences. When I refused to build walls, I was left to weather every storm that wasn’t mine to begin with.
This prompt came perfectly aligned with my own self-intervention response to my lack of boundaries. This is one result of what happens when you stop ignoring the signs and start listening to the quiet, persistent voice demanding you protect your own space.
I am pulling back the curtain on my own journey, from the data my daily journal captured to the raw vulnerability of the two poems I wrote this week, to show you what boundary setting looks like when it is no longer a choice but a requirement for survival. Work through boundaries with me while we achieve the goal of reclaiming peace.
Screenshot of insights from my journal app.
The Context of My History:
My inability to set boundaries wasn’t born in a vacuum. It was forged from my fear of abandonment through a learned trauma response in environments that demanded my silence. A lot of these spaces also took my labor at the expense of my own spirit.
I stayed in abusive relationships for years, clinging to many things like an attachment to children that weren’t mine, fearing what would happen to them if I left or even the fear of letting go or starting new.
I endured physical and mental abuse and the seemingly consistent heartbreak of cheating sometimes by myself in the villain shit as well. I didn’t know how to place myself above the toxicity.
A lot of my friendships were no different. I am sure that isn’t a surprise. I poured a decade of my life into a bond where I was consistently robbed and lied to, only fully cutting those ties last year.
I even found myself trying to maintain space for a person whose two most recent partners were actively spewing transphobic rhetoric or hurling threats at me publicly.
Then there is still the professional exhaustion, by means of my refusing to set boundaries with work. I am constantly picking up shifts until I have nothing left to give myself. I was working very hard at keeping the doors open for people who had no business being in my house.
I was bleeding out on the floor of my own living room just to make sure everyone else felt comfortable enough to keep walking around my chalk outline.
Screenshot of insights from my journal.
Journals Reveal Things Even to Their Authors:
I didn’t realize how loud my need for boundaries was until I looked at the cold, hard insights from my Storia: future self coach journal app. For a few weeks, my entries had been documenting a recurring conflict: the struggle to maintain personal boundaries amidst chaos. Showing the fatigue from a packed schedule, and the emotional toll of managing exchanges with others in distress.
The insights provided by my daily digital journal emphasized that I have a recurring challenge in managing stress. It pinpointed my lack of boundaries and even my nonexistent attempts to maintain personal boundaries.
The recap highlighted the contrasts between my appreciation for solitude in nature and the chaos of interpersonal conflicts suggested a need to find balance between social obligations and personal peace. The data made it clear that I was caught in a cycle of overextension.
Screenshot of my insights from my journal.
My weekly recap even issued me a few direct challenges for the coming week: 1.) Consider setting clearer boundaries to protect my peace, especially when dealing with demanding situations. 2.) Embrace the therapeutic effects of my outdoor activities more regularly to manage stress. 3.) Reflect on my interactions and consider if there are ways to communicate my needs more effectively to my friends and family. 4.) While I continue to lean on my supportive circle.
Seeing this laid out in an action plan felt less like a suggestion and more like a mirror. It was confirmation that I was navigating the world with resilience and curiosity, making life’s journey richer with every step, but I was also paying a price for it.
That realization didn’t just stay in the app. It bled into my writing. This week, the pressure to stop ignoring these truths became so acute that it found its way into two poems, two different perspectives on the exact same necessity: the desperate, beautiful, and non-negotiable act of finally saying no, I cannot, or even not exactly.
My action plan.
Your Place:
An original poem by: Axton N. O. Mitchell.
I can be the Villain in your tale Just know in mine you are not existing
A milestone along the way A challenge to overcome A bump in my road along the route I must travel
Do not overstate your place Be sure to not attempt to gain an inheritance You didn’t earn
I’ll always be the reality check Exhausted but existing To Knock You Down A
P E G Or Two
Screenshot from Google keep to show stylized spaces.
Eviction- Reclaiming Peace:
The first poem was about drawing a line in the sand with the people who thought they could walk all over me. I am happy to announce that the second side of this coin isn’t about them at all. It’s about the quiet, heavy work of forgiving myself for ever letting them get that close in the first place.
The first poem wasn’t just anger.
It is a declaration of eviction. For too long, I let people believe that they had a permanent lease on my life, that they could walk in, take what they wanted, and leave their trash behind, all while I sat there and watched it happen.
I was too polite to call them out.
This poem was the moment I stopped caring if they labeled me the “bad guy” for finally locking the door. If being the villain in their version of the story is the price I have to pay to get them out of my house, then I’ll take that role any day of the week.
This isn’t about being reactive. It’s about being done. It’s about acknowledging that for years, I allowed people to treat me like a resource they could exploit without ever putting in the work to actually earn my trust or my presence.
They felt entitled to my time, my support, and my silence, and I gave it to them until I had nothing left for myself. Writing this poem was me finally drawing the line: you don’t get to demand space you didn’t earn, and you don’t get to act like you’re entitled to an inheritance of my life that you never contributed to.
This is the boundary in practice. It’s the refusal to negotiate with people who think my kindness is a weakness they can leverage for their own gain.
When I say they aren’t existing in my story, I mean that the access they once had has been fully revoked or some of them really just weren’t as important in my story as they made me in theirs. They aren’t entitled to an explanation, they aren’t entitled to a debate, and they certainly aren’t entitled to a seat at my table anymore.
I am done being the “support system” for people who only show up to take or fake.
Reclaiming the Garden
If the first poem was the eviction notice, this second piece is the act of cleaning up the rubble they left behind.
In a world when the first poem was an eviction notice for the parasites, this second piece is about the people I actually choose to keep.
It is about the heavy, necessary work of forgiving myself for ever opening the door to the wrong people in the first place. It is for the years I was a martyr for causes that didn’t deserve my blood, holding onto ghosts because I was too terrified of the silence that comes with being alone.
Screenshot from Google keep to show stylized spaces. 1/3
I learned that my silence wasn’t kindness. It was self-abandonment.
This poem is the reclamation of my own narrative.
This is the realization that I do not have to be the villain in anyone else’s story to be the hero in my own. I don’t need to explain my boundaries, and I don’t need permission to exist in a space where I am safe.
I am done shrinking to fit into spaces that were never built for me to thrive in.
Crucially, this isn’t about running away from the people I love. It is about proving that I can be here for them and for me, at the same time.
I love the homies just as much, maybe even more now, because I am no longer disappearing into the void just to keep the peace
. I need the room to roam,
to breathe,
to exist as myself instead of just existing in the spaces I fix for other people.
Screenshot from Google keep to show stylized spaces. 2/3
“This Is”
An original poem by: Axton N. O. Mitchell
This is not pulling away…
Abandoning you, never.
I fear the same.
Never could I do it to another.
Nor, is it
growing apart.
Space tends to feel negative; though it doesn’t have to.
If it isn’t meant to.
It is me learning to breathe
loving my skin feeling the sunshine on my soul;
growth.
Still I love the homies the same, more
even.
No longer disappearing….
I need me to prove I can be here For me the same. Need The R O O M
To
roam not just existt
only in the spaces I fix for others.
This I need for me.
Screenshot from Google keep to show stylized spaces. 3/3
The Lens of Interpretation:
I know that what I put on the page looks different depending on who is reading it. Some people will look at these poems and see a hard wall. Others will see a door I finally decided to unlock. Both are accurate. As well as any others outside of those are accurate.
Art and literature are not meant to be locked away in one singular meaning, they are meant to be mirrors. You bring your own history to these words, so if you read them and see something different than what I intended, you are not wrong.
You are just reading them from your own life.
I welcome that.
I want you to find your own truth in this, even if it has nothing to do with mine.
For those of you curious about where the author or artist was standing when they created their piece, there you go. These poems are not just lines on a screen, they are the sound of me putting down a weight. If you find yourself reading these and feeling the same itch to reclaim your own space, take it. Interpret them, tear them apart, or hold them close. Just make sure that whatever you take away from them helps you breathe a little easier in your own skin.
Screenshot of my growth feed from my journal.
Guide to Building the Necessary Walls:
People love to talk about boundaries like they are soft or polite things, like they are something you negotiate over tea. Real boundaries are not.
Real boundaries are architecture. They are the load-bearing walls that keep your life from collapsing under the weight of other people’s demands. After everything I have been through, the abuse, the betrayals, the theft of my time, and the exhaustion of being a revolving door for people who did not respect me, this is what my guide looks like in practice.
Presence is a privilege, not a right.
I no longer offer my energy for free.
If someone cannot respect my existence, if they spew transphobic rhetoric or threaten me or around me, they lose the right to occupy my time.
I cannot keep the peace by sacrificing my safety. The door is locked.
Labor is not my identity. I spent years picking up work shifts until I was bleeding out on my own floor.
Now, I understand that my value is not measured by how much I can carry for a company or a friend.
If a request drains me past the point of replenishment, the answer is a full, complete sentence. No.
History does not grant immunity. Just because we have a decade of history does not mean you get a pass to lie to me or rob me today.
My loyalty is earned in the present tense.
I am done being the support system for people who only show up to take.
Protect the sanctuary. My journal made it clear that I am at my best when I am alone in nature. My boundaries are now designed to protect that time.
If I am not guarded about my solitude, I am not capable of being anything for anyone else.
Some of the people who mean the most to me.
Your Own Guide:
Building these walls was not a punishment for others. It was a rescue mission for myself. I am done being the backdrop in someone else’s movie. I am writing my own script now, and in this version, the boundaries are made of flint, chert, and knowledge.
If you take one thing away from all of this, let it be the permission to be difficult.
Let it be the knowledge that saying no is not an act of aggression, but an act of preservation. You do not owe anyone access to your peace, and you certainly do not owe them the version of yourself that kills you to sustain.
Walk out of the rooms that don’t fit, build the walls you need to survive, and start living in the space you’ve finally cleared for yourself. You are the only person who can decide what your house looks like, and it is time you started acting like you own the place.
Ghoulish 2.0 photo credits @ Emie Wonders.
TLDR:
Boundaries are not punishments. They are tools that protect your peace, energy, and wellbeing. Ignoring boundaries often leads to burnout, resentment, and emotional exhaustion.
My journaling data revealed a recurring pattern of overextending myself for work, friendships, and other people’s crises. The solution was not working harder. It was learning where my responsibility ends.
My poem “Your Place” explores removing access from people who feel entitled to your time, energy, or support. Then my poem “This Is” explores creating space for yourself without abandoning the people you love.
Saying no does not make you selfish. It allows you to remain present for the people and responsibilities that matter most. Long history, shared memories, or guilt are not reasons to tolerate disrespect, dishonesty, or harm.
Protecting your solitude is as important as protecting your schedule. Healthy boundaries help you support others without sacrificing yourself in the process.
Your peace is not owed to anyone. Access to your life is earned through respect, trust, and reciprocity. Build the walls you need. The people who belong in your life will learn how to use the door.
Hikers looking for a quick nature escape near Columbus, fossil enthusiasts, readers looking for stories of friends catching up on the trail, & anyone celebrating life’s milestones one step at a time.
Trail Notes:
Our trip: May 8, 2026 | trekked Homesite Trail, Meadows Trail, & Ridge Trail to make a loop approximately of 2.3 miles| 1 hour 4 minutes
Notable Finds & Highlights: Intact fossilized snail specimen| Observation deck, Blackhand sandstone ridge, catching up with a friend, & the final hike of an eleven-year celebratory three day multiple state trek.
History & Geology: the lost chestnut of Appalachia| Black hand Sandstone|
Chestnut Ridge
Licking County, Ohio
Chestnut Ridge – Our Lowkey Highlight Hike:
Some hikes are about chasing waterfalls, summits, or even logging miles.
Others are about slowing down long enough to appreciate where you’ve been and where you’re headed next. If you guessed that Chestnut Ridge was about slowing down and appreciating things you’d be correct.
Our visit to this Metro Park in Carrol, Ohio, on May 8th was the final hike in my series of adventures celebrating my recent milestone, on May 7th. This was my eleven years on testosterone replacement therapy, a step I decided to take toward my transition.
I had just explored Ohiopyle with a close friend, Maryland, and West Virginia in one day. Then the very next day which also was yesterday, I visited the Franklin Park Conservatory with my partner. All to take some time to celebrate marking a milestone that once felt impossibly far away.
What surprised me most was that this final hike happened at a park I had never even heard of despite living nearby. What began as a simple local walk turned into a morning of catching up with a friend, finding fossils beneath my hiking shoes, reflecting on recent adventures, and appreciating how much life can change in a few short years.
Scoot over I do not have mushroom.
A New Trail Close to Home:
One of my favorite things about hiking is discovering places that have been hiding in plain sight. Right around the corner from your existence yet existing outside of your point of view until you adjust where you’re looking.
Despite spending years exploring parks throughout Ohio and neighboring states, and despite living in central Ohio for more than four years myself, neither Kylie nor I had ever visited Chestnut Ridge Metro Park. In fact, neither of us had even heard much about it before deciding to give it a try.
We left to start this trek relatively early by our standards, Kylie liked a lager start. So we ended up pulling out around eleven in the morning. The park turned out to be surprisingly close to home, making it exactly the kind of destination I appreciate on busier days.
Not every adventure needs to be an all-day commitment. Sometimes it is enough to spend an hour or two in the woods, breathe fresh air, and return home feeling recharged. I do like to tend the mid week between shift quick trip when I feel like i cannot wait until my next few days off.
That convenience became even more meaningful because Luna could join us. Finding nearby places where I can quickly get into nature with my dog is always a massive win.
A very captivating experience.
Catching Up With Ky:
The miles passed quickly because most of the hike was spent talking. As we do tend to do.
Yet call us Yip & Yap.
A lot has happened recently for both of us.
We talked about my trip to Ohiopyle and how much I enjoyed catching up with my friend Tae after several years. I shared stories from Pennsylvania’s high point, the fire tower in Maryland, and the winding miles that eventually led us to Coopers Rock.
What’s wrong an I not a fungi?
Celebrating Queer Joy Differently:
We also talked about how differently I chose to celebrate this year. Than the last few which had been kicked off with fires, adult drinks, green tinted baked goods, and many friendly faces,
This milestone last year would have meant a gathering or at my house with all the things named above. It would have also ended with me cleaning the house I just cleaned this time with a headache and lapse in memory to pair it with.
I don’t say any of this with judgment either.
A lot of queer spaces have historically centered around bars, clubs, and nightlife. For many people those places offered one of the only opportunities to safely gather, find community, and be themselves. There is value in that and always will be.
A lot of queer spaces have historically centered around bars, clubs, and nightlife. For many people those places offered one of the only opportunities to safely gather, find community, and be themselves. There is value in that and always will be.
At the same time, I think it is important to advocate for queer joy that exists outside of those spaces too. While there is absolutely nothing wrong with enjoying a night out, there are also hikes, art, road trips, camping trips, museums, bookstores, conservatories, coffee shops, and countless other ways for our community to gather and celebrate.
Sometimes queer joy looks like a packed dance floor.
Sometimes it looks like two friends and a dog wandering through the woods on a Friday morning.
I feel it is important to advocate for the community to experience some things outside of bars and parties.
For a long time my celebrations looked similar. They were loud, crowded, and often fueled by things that made the night easier to remember in the moment and harder to remember the next morning.
Somewhere along the way though, my priorities shifted.
I found myself wanting experiences I could carry home with me instead.
Trails I could remember years later.
Road trips with friends.
Quiet conversations in the woods.
Sunrises, overlooks, fossils, photographs, and stories.
The older I get, the more I realize I do not need to be disconnected from myself to celebrate being myself.
This year and however many more I have in the future, I want to focus more on different things. I may still have a drink here and there but these moments are much more worth it to me.
The bond I build with those I collect the experiences with. You have limited time with those closest to you. In the shapes of trails, road trips, conversations, scenery, and memories. I wanted to spend time with people I care about while doing things that genuinely make us all happy.
Is Luna not a Fungal?
Conversation Moves as We do:
Somewhere along the conversation we ended up talking about her moving. We lived 3 doors down for the last three years.
It’s funny because when we all moved to this street a few years ago, I used to joke with Kylie that I wanted her house. Whenever the topic came up, I would tell her she should move out so I could move in.
Then life did what life sometimes does.
We hiked this trail Kylie finally planning to move out, of my house into a bigger home for her and her boo. While we thought at this time we wouldn’t be a few weeks after this my and my partner and I moved ended up moving into Kylie’s old house. (This is why this hiking journal is just over a month late!)
Standing on a trail with the person I had spent years joking with about moving out felt like one of those strange full-circle moments even before I talked Kelso into snatching up my dream house. Moments like these remind you how unpredictable and funny life can be.
My Lunatic, Luna.
The Final Hike of Celebration:
Eleven years on testosterone is not a small thing. Not if you’re asking me or many other transgender people at least.
There were years when simply reaching this point felt uncertain or even impossible.
There were obstacles, challenges, and moments where the future felt uncertain to predict or even like something that would be a waste of time planning for.
Yet here I am. Sure as shit.
I made it.
Let me just start by saying that eleven years changes a lot about the way you think about transition.
The novelty wore off a long time ago.
Most days I am not thinking about testosterone at all. For years after finally recognizing myself in the mirror, I became less obsessive about every shot, every change, and every milestone because transition stopped being something I was chasing and simply became my life.
That does not mean it stopped mattering.
In a lot of ways, it means it worked.
That is exactly why milestones like this matter. Even without medically transitioning or consistency, these moments are proof, for a lot of people just like me.
Way back when.
I am not celebrating an injection.
Not am I celebrating a prescription bottle sitting in a cabinet somewhere next to a needle and syringe. I am celebrating every year that came after finally choosing myself. I am celebrating surviving long enough to become the person I knew I was. I am celebrating the time the world has actually seen me as the man I am.
Celebrating the life that exists on the other side of all the fear, uncertainty, and waiting.
Most of all, I am celebrating the years I once wasn’t sure I would ever get. There were versions of me that could not imagine what a year would look like let alone eleven years. This hike was a reminder that sometimes the future arrives anyway, one day at a time, until suddenly you are standing in it.
This milestone deserves celebration as did every year before and every year to come. Again if y’all are asking me that is.
For me, celebration no longer looks like a single day. It no longer looks like blacking out around a fire either. It resembles a collection of experiences. This year it was hiking through Ohiopyle, sharing adventures with friends, exploring the conservatory with my partner, and spending time outdoors doing things that make me feel connected to myself.
This hike may have been the shortest adventure in the series, but it still was just as important to me. It felt like the perfect ending.
There was no rush.
No pressure.
Just good company, a beautiful trail, and enough space to reflect on how far life has carried me.
We love a trail sign.
Chestnut Ridge Fossils Beneath Feet:
One of the most exciting moments of the day happened completely by accident. As usual for me at least… it is also funny to mention I have been called “Ax-ident” more than once, for good reason.
Kylie, Luna, and I are just yapping and walking all whimsical and shit when…
I happened to glance down at exactly the right moment. This is how I spotted a fossil resting directly on the trail.
The specimen appeared to be an ancient snail, and unlike many fossils that are fragmented or partially preserved, this one still retained its full spiral shell structure. It was larger than many of the two quarters and immediately caught my attention. Blessed I am in moments like these.
Look at this dude.
Give Thanks:
Thank the Goddess.
For me at least when it comes to finding fossils, crystals, heart shaped rocks, hag stones, and other minerals always feels a little bit like winning a treasure hunt.
Think about it a lot of people probably have walked that same section of trail before me. Many more people walk it afterward. Yet for a brief moment, I happened to be the person looking in the right place at the right time.
When you also consider that Chestnut Ridge sits atop ancient geological formations dating back roughly 300 million years, it felt fitting to carry home at least a small reminder of the deep history hidden beneath the forest floor. I usually collect one small memory for my altar from each trail I hike. They all hold an important part of making me into who I am and will be, so they all deserve to be honored in my sacred place.
Another nice find from the day!
Observation Deck:
The observation deck was easily one of the most memorable features of Chestnut Ridge Metro Park.
And not even because of the view itself. Crazy right?
Ironically, the trees were dense enough that we could not see the distant skyline that visitors sometimes report spotting on especially clear days.
I was mostly impressed by the design. Ouch, I think this may means I’m getting, dare I say it? Old. At the end of the day I was totally admiring a deck, on a hike.
The structure felt intentional. It blended into the surrounding landscape instead of dominating it. The seating area was also spacious, comfortable, and much larger than I expected.
Too often observation platforms feel like something dropped into the environment. This one felt like it belonged there.
It created a quiet place to pause, sit, and appreciate the ridge itself rather than simply looking beyond it.
Some things are personal.
Ghosts of the Forest:
The park’s name preserves a story most visitors will never see. Sadly most will never even look for it. Those readers and wanderers who enjoy history, geology, lore, and the stories that tie it all to the land we trek will enjoy the path to enlightenment though.
Before chestnut blight swept through eastern forests during the early twentieth century, American chestnut trees covered ridges like these throughout Appalachia and beyond. Some historical accounts even describe entire hillsides appearing dusted with snow when the trees bloomed.
Today those forests are gone leaving behind their skeletal remains as the only proof of their existence.
Therefore, this ridge carries their name, serving as a reminder of a landscape that once looked very different from the one hikers experience today.
I think knowing the history of a place allows you to respect and experience the land more genuinely. While also working to add another layer to the hike. The woods become more than scenery. When you allow them to become part of a much longer story in this case it’s a tale of ecological change, resilience, and loss.
Little things sometimes make the biggest impacts.
Homesites, Sandstone, & the Ridge’s Past
Chestnut Ridge stands on Blackhand sandstone like much of central Ohio. This is a geological formation that has shaped both the natural and human history of the area for centuries.
The Homesite Trail hints at that history through remnants left behind by earlier residents who built their lives on the ridge long before it became a park. You can still find traces of their lives scattered throughout the landscape.
The same sandstone beneath hikers’ feet today also played a role in the region’s canal era. The stone quarried from this area helped build sections of the Ohio canal system, linking the ridge to communities far beyond the park itself.
Of course even older stories exist here as well. Indigenous peoples lived throughout this region long before European settlement, leaving cultural and archaeological footprints that remain important all across Ohio’s history and landscape even still today.
All of my favorite trails offer more than just out door exercise. Chestnut Ridge does this in the layers it allows the visitors who seek them to find. Whether you find geology, history, memory, inspiration or introspection, they all live here.
I love the way it’s almost impossible to show the height difference when looking down on something in the layers of the woods.
Not Just Another Metro Park:
Chestnut Ridge was not the most rugged hike of my celebration series. It was not the longest, steepest, or most dramatic.
What it offered instead was perspective.
It reminded me that meaningful experiences do not always require long drives or ambitious itineraries. Sometimes they exist just down the road, waiting to be discovered.
Between conversations with a friend, a fossil hidden in plain sight, a thoughtfully designed overlook, and reflections on eleven years of growth, the trail delivered exactly what I needed that morning.
The hike may have marked the end of my anniversary adventures, but it also reinforced something I have learned repeatedly over the years.
The best celebrations are often built from experiences rather than events. They live in stories, shared miles, unexpected discoveries, and the people who walk beside us along the way.
Spores? Anyone?
TLDR:
Chestnut Ridge Metro Park a first for both Kylie and I despite living nearby for years.
We combined the Homesite, Meadows, and Ridge Trails into an approximately 2.3-mile loop taking us about 1 hour and 4 minutes to complete.
This trip was sunny and made for a great quick escape into nature. We spent most of the trek catching up.
This was the final adventure in my eleven-year testosterone anniversary celebration. I chose experiences and time with loved ones over a traditional party.
I cannot believe I was lucky enough to find a large fossilized snail. The observation deck design blended naturally into the landscape and offered a peaceful place to rest.
Knowing the park’s geology, homestead history, and chestnut tree legacy add depth to the experience.
This hike reminded me that meaningful adventures do not always require long drives. Sometimes the best trails are the ones waiting close to home.
Nature enthusiasts seeking low-effort recovery days, creative writing and lived-experience readers, lovers of botanical and artistic storytelling, individuals interested in the history of community green spaces, seekers of whimsical and interactive public art.
The Vault:
The Butterfly Encounter: The main enclosure offers a rare, immersive experience where tropical butterflies may land on you, providing a deeply personal & spiritual connection to the space.
Interactive Installations: Keep an eye out for the musical, misting archways throughout the outdoor grounds. These are fun, whimsical, & make the space feel alive.
The Bird’s Nest Overlook: Make the trek up to the bird nest structure; seeing the giant-sized eggs is a fantastic detail that feels straight out of a storybook.
Artistic Transparency: Do not miss the glass-blowing demonstrations; the artists are incredibly knowledgeable & provide a behind-the-scenes look at how their work is crafted.
The Dimple Rocks: Throughout the Children’s Garden, keep an eye out for the collection of dimple rocks. These are decent sized, sculptural stones integrated into the landscape, each featuring distinct, circular basins or “dimples” naturally eroded into the surface.
Navigate with Patience: Even with a map, the conservatory’s layout can be winding. Embrace getting lost; it is the best way to discover the smaller, hidden indoor waterfalls & quiet botanical corners.
Franklin County Conservatory
Columbus, Ohio
Cliche but, Compromise is Key:
Hiking has to be my absolute favorite way to exist; I feel like that goes without saying, but I’ll say it anyway. Did you know if I could I’d live on trail? I would not even humor it with a second thought. However, that being said compromise should still be included in an intimate partnership or platonic friendship.
This often means finding those shared moments where you can explore and connect in ways that work for everyone.
On May 7th 2026, my eleven years on testosterone anniversary, Kelsey and I decided that we’d switch it up a little bit, so we leaned into something on theme for us but still different. We fired up the Honda and set course to the Franklin Park Conservatory and Botanical Gardens in Columbus.
It was a day for low effort but high meaning, a deliberate choice to trade the physical grind we usually find on trail for a sensory experience that felt like stepping into another world entirely.
Finding Magic in the Butterfly Habitat:
The thing I think we were both looking forward to the most was the butterfly exhibit. My mother always told me , while I was growing up that when our loved ones pass away, they come back to visit us as butterflies.
That is not just a passing thought for me. It is a belief that has shaped how I view the natural world my entire life. You notice upon reading hiking journals, I’ve written, especially in the springtime, me and butterflies are pretty close knit.
Before we stepped into the main flight area, we walked through the emerging space before you go through the checkpoint doors.
Here we were actually able to see the process in real time and it was fascinating.
Behind glass walls were cocoons hanging in rows, some still sealed tight, others showing signs of life, and a few hung empty and open, signaling that the creature inside had already left.
Behind this glass viewing area the escaped and still escaping butterflies are able to be viewed too. It puts the cycle of life into a perspective that you just cannot get from a textbook, the wilderness or inside a documentary.
When we finally walked into that enclosure it felt less like a tourist activity or curated experience to learn about nature and more like a pilgrimage.
Then came the moment that felt like it was written for me from the goddess or maybe even my mother. There was a group of school children on a field trip, and the staff were explaining to them how rare it is to have a butterfly actually land on you.
They were setting expectations, telling the kids that they should not count on it happening. I listened in, as we were the group directly behind them, Kelsey and I exchanged knowing looks. Finally we walked into the enclosure; Within two minutes maybe even less, four tropical butterflies landed on me.
Some call it luck. 🍀
The Vibe:
The vibe here leads to a quiet, surreal, and intimate experience. I am not looking for a scientific explanation of why it happened, but in that space, surrounded by color and humidity, it felt like a left over trace of my mom’s energy.
It reinforced everything my mom ever told me about our connection to the spiritual and natural worlds. It was a moment of pure, unadulterated wonder that I would not trade for anything.
The Indoor Biomes & Our Botanical Game:
The conservatory is not just one room; it is a series of distinct, meticulously maintained biomes and an outdoor area as well.
Each one serves a different purpose and offers a different feeling. We wandered through the desert area, and I was completely floored by the size of the plants.
Agave:
The agave plant specifically was massive. It was towering, sturdy, and clearly had been growing for a long time.
I learned a bit about their blooming process, which is quite the event, or so I am told. This was a reminder of how much goes on in the plant world that we have not the slightest idea about while we are rushing through our daily lives.
Bonsai Trees:
Kelsey and I are also guilty enjoyers of bonsai trees; the collection here is truly expansive. Though I will admit I knew nothing about these trees before meeting Kelsey.
The idea of a tree’s lifespan being so large it will typically live long enough to be passed down as a family heirlooms.
Kelsey and I turned it into a game; more honestly stated Kelsey turned it into “Hey Axton guess the ages of this tree now for each one we saw here. I was of course not even anywhere close with most of my estimated ages.
I would try to guess the appropriate age of each tree before we fully reached it and then check the age plaque of each.I was terrible at it, never even got close.
I honestly thought it was a fun way to engage with different trees instead of just walking past. They are not furniture, after all.
I’m the Map – Come on Everybody Let’s GO:
I had a map on my phone and a physical guide in my back pocket we kept referring to. We still managed to get lost.
It was not a frustrating experience though, aligning closer to the lost where you end up exploring the areas near you. Every thing experienced that you did not know existed a small interactive gift.
Sometimes, letting go of the need to be efficient and just wandering is exactly what the soul needs.
Whimsy & Art in the Outdoor Gardens:
Moving into the outdoor space felt like a shift from the internal quiet to a vibrant, public celebration of color. There is this incredible rainbow archway that reflects colors across the sidewalk. When you walk through it, you feel like you are walking through a prism. I have always been a fan of whimsical, colorful installations, and this was a highlight of the visit.
The outdoor area is also filled with hidden details if you look for them. They had hidden painted rocks scattered throughout the grounds. I believe there were eight total, and we managed to find four of them. It felt like a low-stakes scavenger hunt that made us pay closer attention to the textures of the garden, the base of the trees, and the edges of the walkways.
We also saw various wooden sculptures and funny, offbeat statues. I love that kind of art. It does not take itself too seriously. We even climbed up into the bird overlook structure. It was set up so well, and seeing the giant, oversized bird eggs in the nest was one of those details that just made me smile. It felt like walking into a storybook.
Interactive Elements & Human Craft:
One thing I absolutely did not expect was the interactive art. Throughout the outdoor path, there are multiple archways that do more than just frame the view. They make sounds, they include carvings of owls, foxes, or gourds, and some even have misters that spray you as you walk under them. There was one that featured a spider on a web that was so well done. These are the kinds of interactive pieces that bridge the gap between art and environment.
We also stumbled upon a live glass-blowing demonstration. You could watch the artisan work, ask questions, and hear them walk a group of people through the process. The person blowing the glass was clearly a master of their craft—creative, knowledgeable, and more than happy to let us step into their creative space for a while. Seeing something so fragile being made from raw heat and sand was the perfect capstone to the day.
The Atmosphere of Inclusion:
A big thing I noticed here is the demographic of the space. There was a high concentration of queer people, both in the staff and the visitors. It reached a point where the visitors who weren’t queer actually seemed like the minority.
I am not sure if that is just typical for this specific area or if it was a happy coincidence for our visit, but it made the space feel incredibly safe and authentic. There is a different energy when you are in a place where people can just exist without having to perform or hide.
It felt like a genuine community space.
I paid around fifty dollars for our two tickets, and honestly, I would have paid more. It is a rare thing to find an educational, natural space that is this well-tended and open to all ages. I find myself feeling much better about putting my money into experiences like this, where I can see it being used to maintain the gardens and support the staff, rather than spending it on disposable consumer goods.
A Brief History – From Fairgrounds to Botanical Sanctuary:
The land that the Franklin Park Conservatory sits on has a deep, layered history that predates the glasshouse we see today. Long before it was known for its exotic plant collections, the site was part of the expansive Franklin Park area.
In the late nineteenth century, this land served as a fairgrounds.Perhaps most significantly for the local history of Columbus, it served as a vital community space for African Americans.
During an era when segregation was the norm and many public spaces were closed off or restricted, this area offered a place for leisure, gathering, and connection. It was a space where people could organize and enjoy their time in a way that was often denied to them elsewhere.
The John F. Wolfe Palm House, which stands as the signature structure today, was constructed in 1895. It was a classic Victorian glasshouse, designed with the aesthetic of the City Beautiful movement in mind. It was meant to be a place of beauty, architecture, and horticultural study.
The site truly evolved on a global stage during AmeriFlora ’92. This was an international horticulture event that brought massive investment and attention to the grounds. This event acted as the catalyst for the modern expansion, turning what was once a local greenhouse into the sophisticated series of biomes we enjoy today.
It has traveled a long road from its days as a segregated fairground to becoming a modern sanctuary that prioritizes public art, climate education, and historical preservation. It is a living, breathing testament to how a space can grow and shift while still maintaining its roots as a community focal point.
Heading Back Home
Leaving the Franklin Park Conservatory, I felt that rare, grounded satisfaction that usually only comes after miles of heavy trekking. It reminded me that you don’t always need to climb a mountain to find a profound connection to the natural world; sometimes, you just need to walk through a glass door and be open to what finds you.
Whether it was the literal brush of butterfly wings, the shared laughter over our terrible bonsai-guessing game, or the quiet appreciation of a space that honors both history and inclusion, the day felt like a perfect, living gift. It was a beautiful reminder that wonder is everywhere, sometimes, you just have to slow down, wander off the map, and let yourself be found by it.
TLDR:
The Franklin Park Conservatory proved that meaningful nature experiences do not always require miles on a trail.
The butterfly habitat was the highlight of the visit. Within minutes of entering, multiple butterflies landed on me despite staff explaining how uncommon that is.
The conservatory contains multiple indoor biomes, including desert gardens, tropical spaces, and an impressive bonsai collection.
The conservatory felt welcoming, inclusive, and community-focused. It was one of the most comfortable public spaces I have visited.
The site’s history stretches from nineteenth-century fairgrounds to a modern botanical destination rooted in education, preservation, and public access.
For around fifty dollars for two tickets, the experience delivered far more value than many traditional entertainment options.
Transgender man & non-binary individual individuals interested in starting hormone replacement therapy, readers who enjoy non- fiction creative writing, lgbtq+ advocates, & individuals who are on the fence when it comes to the understanding transgender people’s lived experience.
Way back when.
The Vault:
Returning to hormone replacement therapy after several years off HRT or inconsistent use & discovering just how much the body remembers, even when the mind forgets.
The unexpected realities of restarting testosterone, including intense itching, increased hunger, muscle changes, heightened sensitivity, & shifting body odor.
A firsthand look at the emotional side of hormone therapy, from mood swings & frustration to reconnecting with a familiar version of oneself.
The difference between remembering major transition milestones & experiencing the day-to-day physical changes all over again.
Honest reflections on the awkward, uncomfortable, & often humorous moments that come with hormone replacement therapy.
A personal account intended to serve as both a resource for others navigating testosterone therapy & a piece of creative nonfiction rooted in lived experience.
Wish in One Hand:
And I’ll save you the rest of the cliche, it basically just means don’t wish for something just make it happen. My mom used to use this euphemism all the time.
I am restarting hormone therapy after what I can’t believe has been a few years of me being on and off hormones. I must say this experience feels similar to meeting an old, albeit somewhat chaotic (if only at first) friend.
You know the vibe and the history, but you definitely forgot somethings that would predict how intense the reunion would be, and this big feelings reaction is why I wish I would have remembered at least one of these things about being on testosterone.
I wrote this journal entry in the experience and realization directly after it hit. This all aligned with my fifth consistent needle stick back on hormone replacement therapy. I chose to write this journal publicly for anyone else as a resource incase they to end up living in the experience, as well as those readers who just like creative writing that exists inside lived truth.
Let’s figure out where that itch is, where my hunger grows, and where my emotional stability went out the window, for a moment or two.
Somethings never change.
The Itch Never Quits:
I genuinely forgot about the itchiness. It’s not just a fleeing annoyance; it is an all-encompassing, deep-down itch. Sometimes when I’m sweating on a hike and shirtless it feels like a bug on my skin or while doing yard work it resembles grass stuck to the sweat on my back; the only difference is the itch doesn’t seem to be beat by anything.
No matter how much I scratch, the feeling stays. It’s that early-stage transition rite of passage where your skin chemistry decides to wage a localized war against itself. It’s persistent, it’s annoying, and it makes you want to crawl out of your own skin, if only just to get one moment of relief.
You spend half your time trying to figure out if it’s dry skin, a reaction, or just the sheer speed at which your body is rearranging the furniture. Every time I think I’ve got it managed, it comes back with a vengeance in the middle of the night or day. Pro tip: keep the moisturizer handy, because honestly, my sanity currently depends on it.
The Bottomless Pit of Hunger:
I remembered being hungry, but I forgot the urgency of it. This is not your average”I could eat a snack” hungry; it is closer to “I need to consume every caloric entity in this house within the next five minutes” hungry.
It almost feels primal. I am always craving meat and carbs anymore, at least it seems that way.
I wonder like my metabolism woke up from a long nap and realized it had a massive project to complete by tomorrow morning. It feels as if it’s been asleep since around the time I stopped being more consistent with my shot.
My fridge is now a revolving door, and I am officially a danger to any kitchen pantry I encounter. I’ll sit down to a full meal, finish it, and find myself staring into the freezer ten minutes later wondering where the rest of the sustenance is.
It’s not just about wanting food; it’s a constant, background hum of needing fuel that makes me feel like I’m running a marathon while sitting on the couch.
The Muscle Awakening:
One morning, I just… had muscles again. It’s wild. You go through years of feeling like you’re carrying a light, unresponsive frame, and then suddenly, there’s definition where there used to be nothing but soft edges or bone. Muscles I didn’t even remember were dormant decided to clock back in for work.
It’s like waking up in a body that’s been upgraded while I wasn’t looking, and honestly? It’s pretty cool, even if the “growing pains” of sudden muscle density are a real thing. There’s a tightness in my shoulders and a new weight to my movements that feels foreign but right.
I’m catching glimpses of myself in the mirror and having to do a double-take at the silhouette staring back once again. I missed the me on vitamin T.
The Mood Whiplash:
This is the one I really wasn’t prepared to face again; I feel like I may have even overlooked their existence. I wish I would have remembered at least them being a problem at all, but at least now I can be prepared to deal with them moving forward.
The mood swings hit with a level of intensity that made me want to apologize to everyone in my vicinity. It’s was a bit messy. It honestly felt too much like every emotion was happening all at once in my brain forming a chaotic emotional landscape.
One minute I felt fine, and the next, the smallest thing had me feeling like a vibrating box of frustration and inexplicable sensitivity.
I caught myself thinking about how many of the people in my life now didn’t even know me eleven years ago; they have no context for this version of me. I wish I could have handed them a manual, or at least a warning label, so they’d have a small warning at least.
It’s a strange, lonely feeling, having to re-learn how to navigate my own emotions all over again. I’m just hoping everyone else can keep up and spare a little grace.
The Sensitivity Shift:
Let’s be real: bottom growth is a major milestone, but it also comes with a learning curve that is decidedly uncomfortable. When your body starts changing in such a sensitive area, the simple act of just wearing underwear becomes a tactical operation.
The friction is real, the sensitivity is off the charts. Yikes seems to be the only appropriate way to describe the experience of walking around while your body is actively reconfiguring itself.
It’s an awkward, persistent form of “hello” from my own biology. I never realize how much I took for granted the lack of friction in my daily life until every single movement reminded me that things are growing, shifting, and changing.
I’m learning to adapt again, but man, these first few weeks are a serious exercise in trial and error regarding fabric choices and sitting positions.
Scent the Bonus Forgotten Change:
I also definitely forget how much my body odor changed. It’s a complete one-hundred- eighty degree shift. I mean a completely different profile that caught me off guard within the first week of being back on hormone replacement therapy.
I remembered it a moment too late; it is a distinct change, and it’s a massive signifier of what’s happening internally. I never thought I’d be happy to say I was stinky. Here we are though.
The deodorant struggle? That’s an elite-level battle. A free years back I had to ditch the brand I used to use because, apparently the new Old Spice formula is my enemy. I’ve ended up with painful chemical burns in the armpit area because my body decided they were suddenly a threat.
It’s incredibly frustrating to deal with, but it’s just another one of those weird, things that happen.
Did You Wish in One Hand:
The truth is, none of these changes are actually new to me. The sensitivity, muscle growth, or stink have all happened before. What surprised me wasn’t that they returned. The surprise was hidden in how thoroughly I had forgotten them.
I think that’s what happens when enough time passes.
We remember the big milestones, the life-changing moments, and the broad strokes of an experience, but we forget the day-to-day realities that came with getting there. We remember the destination and somehow lose track of the road that led us there.
Restarting hormone replacement therapy has felt a lot like being reunited with an old version of myself. Not because I’m becoming someone new, but because I’m reconnecting with someone I already know. The process is uncomfortable, inconvenient, and occasionally ridiculous, thought I still would do it again and again.
Underneath all of these temporary frustrations is something I didn’t expect to feel quite this strongly again: recognition.
Every strange symptom, every awkward adjustment, every forgotten side effect is also evidence that things are moving forward. My body is doing exactly what it is supposed to be doing, even when it chooses the most chaotic methods possible to communicate that fact.
For anyone else finding themselves on this ride, whether after a break or for the very first time, consider this your affirmation and know you’re not imagining it.
Welcome to the club.
For now, I’ll keep taking my shot, keep relearning these lessons, and keep making notes when my memory inevitably fails me again. After all, if there is one thing this second spin around the hormone rollercoaster has taught me, it’s that the ride is a lot easier when you remember where the sharp turns are.
Screenshot
TLDR:
Restarting testosterone felt a lot like reconnecting with an old friend I forgot was this chaotic.
The itching, hunger, muscle growth, mood swings, sensitivity, and body odor changes all came back faster and harder than I remembered.
Most of these changes aren’t new. I had simply forgotten what the early weeks actually felt like.
This second round of hormone therapy has been a reminder that the small day-to-day realities of transition are often easier to forget than the major milestones.
Despite the discomfort, every change is a sign that things are moving forward and that my body is responding exactly as expected.
Hikers trekking through grief while embracing movement, readers who resonate with parent loss & nature-based poetry, individuals who carry memory physically through walking or landscape experience, & those drawn to emotional writing where meaning is experienced through motion rather than explanation.
The origin point of the ghost I walk with. Even in a childhood photograph, there is that same flicker of presence that I see whenever I hit the trail. We carry the people we lose; I am just making sure her memory finds a place to stay
The Vault:
Early morning hiking as a lived emotional state where grief & perception overlap in transitional light.
Mother loss expressed through ongoing motion, memory, & embodied experience rather than resolution.
Landscape acting as emotional structure where terrain holds & reflects internal states.
Ghost presence as relational memory carried through movement & environmental contact.
Writing shaped through repetition of hiking & lived experience, later formed into structured reflection.
Grief understood as continuity that shifts form but does not disappear.
Early Trek With Grief:
This original poem by Axton Mitchell explores grief authentically as something that does not settle into stillness. This poem shows how grief continues through movement. Early morning hiking becomes the setting where emotional experience and the physical environment overlap.
Here perception is not fully awake or asleep, and meaning forms through sensation rather than analysis.
At the center of “Sunshine and Moonbeams” you will find the brutal loss of my mother, held as both emotional reality and metaphor, but you may discover other things depending on the way you perceive them.
The way we were, in the middle of a trip that never really ends. I look at this and see a history that is messy, complicated, and entirely mine. Holding space for the ghost of the railroad and the memory of the light.
I want to explain that I don’t treat grief as a closed event; this trek continues as presence carried through memory, landscape, and bodily experience. Trails become environments where internal life and external terrain reflect each other without needing resolution.
This is not about healing as an endpoint rarely does a grief like this grace you with an end from it. It is about the continuity of grief year after the parent loss. I aim at showing what it means for me to remain in motion while carrying something that does not disappear.
To understand this, you must step onto the trail with me; let the words below be the landscape where this grief and this presence finally finds a way to exist.
Sunshine & Moonbeams:
Early mornings half-awake sunshine half-way asleep moonbeams a body learning the shape of distance.
Trails that erase noise replace it with something harder to name…
Not becoming someone new… just staying in motion
She is the bedrock under the climb the pulse in the stone
a rhythm iron and deep-buried lime where I walk on my own
This mountain is one you learn to live with never fully scaled Sitting on your spine
lineage locked in the root and the vine I do not reach Nor do I pray I track the mountain until the end of my days
Early mornings half-awake sunlight half-way asleep moonbeam
a body living with the shape of loss I now hold dear
Treks contain conversation only with your ghost maintaining our bond through the terrain.
No longer making it or looking to something new… steady me your ghost and our memory.
Flickering light on the edge of the glass where the shadows grow long yet time doesn’t seem to pass.
A taste of the wind off ripples in tall grass like a half-remembered song it’s a warmth in the way we follow along hitting me squarely in bone marrow.
a ghost a glow places the mind has forgotten we know
drifts like the smoke embers grow thin soft static under memories.
I will cherish forever
the times dear mother
MOTION AS CONTINUITY:
Motion here is not progress; how could it be?
This piece lives in the persistence seen by those trekking the trail through grief and loss. Hiking is what acts as my way to maintain contact with experiences that cannot be resolved into a final emotional state.
The act of moving through the terrain is what keeps my grief from becoming something able to swallow me whole; my grief however does not reduce its intensity.
Early mornings matter to me since they seem to remove the sharp edges of my perception. I get to exist in a world is less defined, even if it is briefly.
This is one thing that allows my emotion and memory to overlap more freely with physical sensation. It is in that overlap that I do not see my grief as a problem to solve.
I cherish it as something ongoing.
Movement becomes the only stable structure. Not because it heals; it continues much like my grief.
The trail doesn’t resolve anything. You just keep moving, and eventually, the rhythm of the walk becomes the only language that makes sense
LANDSCAPE AS MEMORY STRUCTURE:
The landscape here is by far more than just a symbolic decoration. Here it is more aligned with an active structure that holds emotional continuity. The mountain is experienced as something that persists alongside the body, not something separate from it.
Stone, wind, elevation, and distance operate as recurring anchors for memory. From my perspective in this poem, they do not represent grief; they hold it through repeated contact and lived experience. Though your experience can be different and remain.
The terrain becomes a consistent reference point for internal states that otherwise shift without stability.
I do not want you to think something false is rooted in truth; sadly landscape doesn’t fix grief. We need to ask our self can anything truly fix it, or do we just live through it?
All the landscape does is give it a tangible place to live. Nothing in the landscape resolves emotion, it reflects its persistence. I give my grief the same home where we used to build the memories I’d live with after her loss.
What is carried internally is mirrored externally, but I do not aim to simplify it.
Visibility is low, but the path is still there. Sometimes you have to climb into the clouds just to feel the weight of what you’re carrying.
EMOTIONAL REALITY & METAPHOR OVERLAP:
This work exists in both emotional reality and metaphor at the same time. It does not separate grief from landscape, memory from motion, or internal experience from physical environment. These elements remain continuously overlapping.
That overlap is not confusion. It is closer to the structure of how they work together in my mind though. Showing how my grief is actually experienced when it cannot resolve cleanly over time. Though the meaning definitely shifts depending on your state, but presence does not disappear.
The mother figure exists in multiple registers at once: emotional presence, memory, and metaphor embedded in landscape perception. All readers are valid simultaneously without needing to collapse into a single interpretation.
My work in this poem remains unresolved because the experience it describes remains unresolved.
2023, Hocking Hills. Sometimes the weight is easier to carry when you aren’t walking the trail alone. Proof that even in the middle of a long, unresolved trek, there is still room for light.
Writing, Lived Experience, & Creation Context:
My writing here comes from lived experience in the repetition of hiking, long exposure to nature, and movement. Many of these experiences shaped this piece, but the text itself was created in stillness and reflection, including time spent writing in my garage overnight.
Stillness is what settles some words to build my work. Sitting here late, thinking back on our hikes, it’s just what I lived and what I’m still trying to understand for the resource and reading of others.
This is not documentation in real time. It is memory shaped through repetition and reflection after experience.
It’s not about the size of the catch. It’s about the trill of holding the pole and the simple, quiet victory of being out here.
Grief & Parent Loss in Nature:
Grief connected to parent loss is not treated as a single moment or event with closure. It exists as an ongoing condition that changes depending on environment, memory, energy, and physical presence in the world.
In nature, especially during movement, grief becomes less structured and more fluid. It does not disappear, but it changes how it is carried. This appears as different things:
A weight at times through energy, and other times it was closer to something that existed in waves moving like the sea.
Hiking does not resolve this, but it does help me move through it. It creates conditions where grief can continue without interruption. The landscape does not remove loss or heal it. It provides continuity for its presence.
This is why nature and grief become linked for me typically. Not because nature explains loss, but it allows loss to remain in motion without forcing conclusion.
It’s not about the size of the catch. It’s about the stillness of holding the pole and the simple, quiet victory of being out here
Take a Hike:
This work does not exist to move toward resolution; grief from parent-loss is not something that gets resolved. It returns repeatedly to motion, memory, and landscape as interconnected conditions of experience.
An early morning spur of the moment hike becomes the space where emotional reality and metaphor overlap without separation.
Mother loss remains present not as absence, but as ongoing influence within perception. The landscape remains present not as setting, but as structure that holds continuity.
Nothing in this work is completed or closed. It remains in motion, as the experience it describes remains in motion.
Found by Lake Superior. A piece of purple UV slag, shaped like a heart by the water and time. A piece found on a trip to scatter my moms ashes.
TLDR:
Hiking gives me experiences. The quiet afterward leads me to understanding.
Each trail stays with me for a unique reason. The most memorable hikes for me usually are emotionally reflective as well.
Reflection is part of the process; these introspective and emotional trail memories making new memories.
Writing helps guarantee your voice will be here still otherwise left to fade with my physical body. It turns scattered memories into something lasting.
The trail does not always end at the trailhead. Sometimes the most important part happens later when there is finally time to think.
Small, bright, and persistent. Even in the dense green, they manage to find their own space to bloom.
grief hikers, long-distance walkers who process emotion through terrain, nature poetry enthusiasts, artistic deep-dive lovers, & those who can sometimes feel their emotions physically.
The Vault:
Writing through a life’s movements, wherever flow meets me.
A poem built in real time through movement, talk-to-text dictation, & repeated revision.
Why the word “Always” became the poem’s anchor point & emotional center of gravity.
Exploring grief through physical motion, endurance, & terrain rather than direct description.
A deep dive into spacing, breath, repetition, & visual structure as poetic devices.
Open reflections on loss, interpretation, hiking, & the relationship between weight & momentum.
This came out of movement, exhaustion, and transition. Probably just not the same kind you would be expecting me to say, after you dive into this poem in motion.
As I do load after load, boxed up, bagged up stuff, and some things just carried directly to their new home. That’s where the poem actually started forming, not trekking the wild, not sitting by idle, in motion.
The first line showed up as I was lifting a particular heavy box of course that’s what always happens.
Everything else grew out of that while I was still moving things to my Honda, still going back and forth between spaces; I made sure to leave room to dictate my draft.
I added in three screenshots to show the spacing across the entire poem. Created in google keep added to show the spacing word press doesn’t allow for exactly. 1/3
Always
Somewhere between river mist and ridge lines time stops behaving per the status quo.
The horizon dissolves into the fog… any schedule went willingly with it.
Always;
The pulse in the climb the only clock.
Tick- Tock.
quieter; even… tick-tock.
I walk on; Always….
Still noticing the still here. Always…
Still anchored in the motion; Always.. Still…
gravity of the path pulling at the slack near my lungs
Always. A complex geometry of endurance;
The Earth ignores my presence But steadily holds me upright.
Always
Two heavy things in motion; both needing to stay upright.
my weight meets its mass; colliding.
a l w a y s …
Poet’s Note:
A look into the authors creative flow state starting at the initial spark. Work through the building and editing of this poem with me; find out where the repetitive always came from and when I added it here.
Then discover my final additions to this piece; perspective is in the readers hands once a piece leaves the creators notebook. I will always respect perspectives from readers as long as they are aligned with the piece.
I added in three screenshots to show the spacing across the entire poem. Created in google keep added to show the spacing word press doesn’t allow for exactly. 2/3
The initial spark:
This started pretty soon after I got home from my shift, in the middle of a day that also started with something big. We got the keys to the new house while I was already headed to work, so it felt like change stacked on top of change before I even had time to process even one thing at all.
When I got home, I went straight into moving everything from my creative garage into the larger garage at our new house about three doors down the road. This is the space where I sometimes come to write, tinker, create, do spiritual things, smoke, think, or even just exist. Shifting it physically already put me in a different headspace.
This is where the first line hit.
“Somewhere between river mist and ridge lines, time stops behaving. The horizon dissolves into the fog.”
It didn’t come as a concept, per se. It came as piece I was already working inside while moving.
I added in three screenshots to show the spacing across the entire poem. Created in google keep added to show the spacing word press doesn’t allow for exactly. 3/3
Building & Editing Always:
At first it was just that line sitting there.
No structure, no spacing, nothing formal. No real plan on where to take it exactly, I knew it was going somewhere though. So it became something I kept repeating while I kept moving.
Obviously more lines were stacked onto it as I worked. I multitasked by talk-to-text dictation of the additions, while lifting and packing things. Adjusting them in a more fine tuned manner whenever I took a small break.
I came back again and again to adjust this over roughly forty minutes. I never claimed to provide a clean writing moment; I do not know what that would even look like. Mine was fragmented the same way the emotions hidden inside the piece tend to come to me.
The spacing came later, when I read it back out loud and realized the pauses needed to be visible, not just felt. The gaps became part of the actual breath of the poem.
Do you know how some men pose in photos with the large fish they caught. Is it the same cringe level if the fish is so small you can barely find it in the picture?
Always:
At one point the poem didn’t include the word always, at all. It was just the original line, motion, and an unknown pressure. At this point it didn’t feel anchored.
Always became the anchor point. Not just as part of the sentence flow, but as something placed into it, something interrupting it, time and time again.
That’s why it’s spaced the way it is. It’s not meant to move forward, it’s meant to pull everything back to a single state of continuity while also acting as a visual breath, or space for pause.
The final Touches:
The line “two heavy things in motion” came almost last. That’s when the whole thing shifted from just observation into something being shared.
The final line about weight meeting mass in a collision was the last addition. That’s where everything stops feeling like an argument or opposing force.
Iconic, even if the other individual isn’t.
Poet’s Perspective:
This isn’t just about a physical day of trekking in the wild or the occasional battle between the trail and your being.
From my perspective it’s what it feels like when the internal weight and movement through hiking happen at the same time and stop feeling separate.
The feelings I experience and hike through like grief aren not directly called out in this piece. Though it is just as present as if I had.
You can find it in the physical strain, when time shows up different like you don’t know it’s typical, when everything feels like opposition yet nothing is actually opposing you, and in the repetition and reminders always brings.
How long will I grieve the loss of my mother?
Always.
It may even feel like a fight in the moment; I’m actually describing two things moving in the same direction under different kinds of weight.
The body and the world aren’t against each other. They’re just both moving; they collide from time to time. Though the Earth has to care for each of us momentarily, it is whose gravity keeps us upright.
Art & Open Interpretation:
I don’t need or expect anyone to read this the way I described in my own perspective of it. That is unrealistic and honestly unfair to the art itself.
If it connects to hiking and exhaustion, movement with another, transitions of life, or something else entirely, good. Art isn’t meant to have one set meaning everyone is forced to grasp. It is all up to the interpretation of the person currently experiencing it. My perspective, yours, and all others aligned with the art are equally valid and accurate.
I care more way more about what readers come to see in it than forcing anyone into only my perspective on the poem.
With that being said, I am always very interested in hearing what stuck out to readers or what my poems told in the silence between the lines. Please feel free to tell me yours in the comments, I look forward to any and all insights added.
Back when the two of us were much younger pups.
After Motion Ends:
This piece came from movement, not just reflection; built while life was still happening, not just waiting for it to settle.
In some ways, that feels more fitting than I had intended. Do you think life settles often?
Of the experiences that shape us, do many arrive with the courtesy of a quiet room? What about the unlimited time for us to process them?
Grief doesn’t; neither does change. Moving forward doesn’t seem to either.
The words themselves never changed, but I realized they were carrying more than the physical motion that inspired them ever could. They were carrying momentum without moving forward, memory, exhaustion, and the strange way grief can remain present even when life keeps moving around it.
Sometimes grief is found in what is unspoken, repetition, weight, breath in empty space, and in the quiet realizations that certain things are still with us no matter how far the hike was.
Always.
Once a poem leaves the page of its creator, it begins a second life inside the experiences of whoever encounters it. Thank you for spending a few moments inside this one. I greatly appreciate it.
Do you think you will look at your next hike differently? What it becomes for you is yours to share or yours to keep holding onto.
TLDR:
A poem written while moving evolved into a reflection on grief, endurance, and motion. Exploring how emotional weight and physical movement can become inseparable.
The repeated word “Always” acts as both anchor and breath throughout the poem. Its placement reinforces themes of continuity, memory, and persistence.
The commentary breaks down the poem’s creation, structure, symbolism, and personal meaning. Readers are invited to bring their own interpretations to the work.
Threads of Similar Composition:
iOS users me in Daily Gratitude Journal Writing – Hold each other accountable via Storia: Future Self Coach
Those transitioning from performative milestones to intentional, individuals seeking physically grounded experiences, readers who are deconstructing childhood trauma, adult-children who celebrate the life of their parent after loss, and readers looking for emotional journal entries.
The Vault:
Let’s Celebrate: My 11 years on T anniversary & Taelor’s birthday
The Deconstruction: Stripping the “church youth group” narrative away from Ohiopyle to find the raw history underneath.
The Pivots: Changing trek plans as usual & Confronting the reality that memory is a liar, my 12-year-old brain remembered guardrails; where are they?
The Ghost in the Gorge: Why this trip wasn’t a pilgrimage to the past, but an attempt to map the landscape where my mother’s presence still lingers.
Circa 2012 with my mom in my childhood kitchen smiling wider than I remember being able to.
Do You Want to Know What Brought us Here:
My Original Plan was a high-altitude sweep through West Virginia, but the mountains had other ideas. What would have been a day soaked in rain got redirected before we even started.
Which led us to drive into Ohiopyle while it transformed into something much heavier: an intentional, Cali-sober confrontation with the landmarks of my own history.
This post breaks down the pivot that led Taelor and me to swap West Virginia’s summits for two high points more northern and for gorge views. We totally celebrated my buddy’s birthday after an emotional few weeks for her, correctly.
Tae tried to tell me she had only been hiking once (also with me) but 5 years ago. She however forgot our Hocking Hills trip.
While marking off my eleven years on testosterone without the performative, memory-erasing rituals of my past. While examining why returning to a place I once visited with my mother, stripped of the “church youth group” narrative, was the only way to finally see the landscape for what it actually is.
If you’re tired of curated, sanitized travel writing, you’re in the right place. We’re moving past the “max view” vanity projects and getting into the real work of mapping memory; here is why this hike was the ceremony that mattered.
Tae tried to tell me she had only been hiking once (also with me) but 5 years ago. She however forgot our Hocking Hills trip and this is another photo to prove it.
The Short Work Week:
I set my work week to finish on Tuesday on purpose. I cleared the calendar so I wouldn’t have to rush back in, which gave me the space to actually breathe before the chaos of the road. I finished my shift, got home, and started the final pack-up.
The goal was to clear the mental noise and get some solid, uninterrupted sleep before meeting Taelor to head out. After that nap, the weight of the work-week was gone, and the only thing left was the road.
The Pivot – Beyond Original Plans:
Almost every hiking trip I plan follows a repeating cycle. There’s the Original Plan typically written in ink, ambitious, and maybe a bit “max-view” checklist feeling.
Then there’s the Actual Plan, which usually arrives with the rain or the realization that I actually want a little more time to spend on the original.
The Original Plan was supposed to be a high-altitude sweep through West Virginia. It would include Seneca, Spruce, and the Sods of course, a checklist of summits and max-view points. The mountains had other ideas.
The weather shifted, the radar started looking like a death sentence for any view, and I realized I wasn’t interested in fighting the sky just to stand on a wet, grey rock. I didn’t want to finally drag myself up Seneca Rocks just to stare at a curtain of fog. Also I’d rather not risk sliding off a slick, rain-soaked rock face for a vanity project.
2021 Tae, Skye, & Axton on the way to Tae’s first hike.
So, we pivoted, cut the noise, packed the car, and steered toward Ohiopyle. It had been sitting on my list for years, a ghostly note in my brain, and it happened to fall into place perfectly with our starting point.
It became the destination because it was the only one that allowed me to stop running from the actual weather of my own life.
It just so happened to be exactly what we both needed without me having noticed until much later in the trip.
So you want to see the difference between what I mapped and what happened?
The Original Plan:
Geography: A high-altitude sweep of West Virginia, targeting summit views, rock formations, & wilderness.
Objective: Summit-driven, elevation-heavy, & focused on ‘max-view’ checkpoints to celebrate my 11 years on T & Taelor’s birthday.
Expectations: A checklist-based success; a clean, high-visibility celebration that felt like a standard, recordable adventure.
Locations: Seneca Rocks (Sunrise), Germany Valley Overlook, Spruce Knob, Pyramid Cave, Dolly Sods (Bear Rocks), Blackwater Falls / Lindy Point, Douglas Falls , & Coopers Rock State Forrest
The Actual Plan:
Geography: A redirected, multi-state pivot to Ohiopyle, focusing on the gorge, the natural water slide, waterfalls & the bonus WV additional stop.
Objective: An intentional, cali-sober confrontation with history. We didn’t summit the ‘big’ peaks because we were busy doing the internal work of navigating grief and growth.
Reality: We spent the time in the mud & the gorge, dealing with the emotional weight of my mother’s ghost & the reality of two people trying to move forward after a string of brutal weeks.
Locations: Maryland Savage Mountain, Highpoint Pennsylvania, Ferncliff Trail, Meadow Run Natural Slide, Cucumber Falls, & Underlook Trail at Cooper’s Rock
Circa 2019 Coopers Rock Overlook Luna & Ax,
The Ghost of Youth Group:
Let’s be clear: I don’t believe in “white” Jesus. The “church youth group” trip to Ohiopyle was nothing more than an experience to grow from. Acting as a low-resolution frame for a photograph I didn’t fully understand when I was twelve. My mom, friends, and other family members were there. That is the only piece of that memory that holds any gravity.
I have spent decades carrying a curated version of Ohiopyle in my head. The sanitized, supervised, and safe version. I had convinced myself it was a playground. Upon my return as a 34-year-old, I saw the river as it is… brutal, indifferent, and carving through the sandstone with a slow, geologic rage that has zero regard for human history.
This wasn’t a spiritual retreat; I wasn’t there seeking to find some transcendent truth about God. I was there to touch the raw stone and see if the landscape felt the same.
The river didn’t care that my mom didn’t come this time. Nor did it mind that I’m older now. The realization wasn’t comforting; it was devastatingly, beautifully honest. I needed to see that the water was still moving exactly the same way it did before the timeline split, confirming that the world kept spinning even when my own stopped.
Memory = Liar
I used to think that returning to this place would be like stepping back into a time machine. I thought I’d feel the comfort of the youth group or the safety of being looked after…
Memory is a pathological liar; My brain had airbrushed the danger out of the gorge. It had installed guardrails in my head that don’t exist on the actual river. Seeing that reality, the way the water actually chews through the rock, didn’t just ground me in the present; it allowed me to forgive the 12-year-old version of me for needing the safety I thought was there.
I don’t need the safety anymore. I need the truth of the stone.
I needed to see that the river is indifferent to my nostalgia so I could finally start moving forward without feeling like I was betraying the version of me that came before.
Circa 2019 Coopers Rock Overlook Luna & Ax,
The Anniversary of Self:
My Eleven years on testosterone; Taelor’s birthday. For most of my adult life, these kinds of days were synonymous with destruction. You know the bonfire nights that drain your bank account and the performative act of hosting everyone else’s fun. Meanwhile I am lost fully dissolved into a haze of alcohol. I spent years paying to be a ghost at my own parties. Working toward ensuring I’d be too blacked-out to actually enjoy them.
Did I mention I’m not a drinking man typically?
I cut the cord. No alcohol, no performance, no “passing out early.” The celebration was the trek, the mud, and the absolute, crushing fatigue in my legs as we navigated the many trails. I wanted to spend my celebratory moments doing the very thing I love, immerse myself in nature.
It’s about being present for the first time in over a decade for my wins.
I’m marking 11 years on testosterone by reclaiming the space my body occupies in the woods, stripping away the artificiality of the party-hosting version of me, and finding out what the version of me that actually remembers feels like.
Any number of years on hormones, I feel, is a quiet milestone.
There is no ticker tape; no party, just 4,000 days of slow, permanent change. When I think back to who I was when I started, that kid feels like a ghost I’m still trying to shake.
Pairing this with Taelor’s birthday wasn’t an accident. We are both in seasons of reconstruction. She is rebuilding her footing, and I am solidifying a version of myself that would have been unrecognizable to the 12-year-old me standing in Ohiopyle with my mom.
That’s the real ceremony.
It’s not about a win; it’s about the fact that I’m still standing here, in the cold, with a few good friends who today happens to be Taelor.
They all understand why we’d rather hike 10 miles than sit at a bar for the time it takes to hike one. The silence in the woods is the only environment where I can actually hear what 11 years of change sounds like all while remaining with the energy left behind by my mom.
Circa 2019 Coopers Rock Overlook Luna & Ax,
We Hike & I love it:
We didn’t hike to escape reality. We hiked to finally look the ghost of the past in the eye. Yet here I’m the one setting the pace.
The Original Plan might have failed, but the Actual Plan the one that allowed me to experience the memory of my mother and the reality of my eleven year celebration was the only one that worked.
I’m done with the parties that leave you empty. I’m doing the hikes that leave you full of emotions, fatigued, but entirely, painfully, undeniably awake.
TLDR:
I replaced the tradition of alcohol-fueled, memory-erasing celebrations with a high-intensity, multi-state hike to celebrate 11 years on testosterone and my bestie’s birthday.
We pivoted from a high-altitude West Virginia plan to an Ohiopyle-centered route; I needed to reconcile the 12-year-old me who went there with my mother against the 34-year-old me who sees the land as it actually is: raw, indifferent, and honest.
The trip was the ceremony; The hike was the point.
Trans & non-binary individuals struggling with “imposter syndrome” regarding their identity, others who feel pressured by societal expectations of transition, readers seeking a compassionate definition of what it means to be trans, anyone navigating the gap between internal identity & external perception, & on the fence readers and those naysayers who are open to honest conversations.
The Vault:
The Checklist Myth: The false belief that transition requires a specific, universal set of medical or legal achievements to be “valid.”
The Internal Pact: Recognizing that being transgender is fundamentally an internal realization, not an external performance.
Identity vs. Tools: Viewing hormones, surgeries, & legal markers as supportive tools for alignment, rather than requirements for existence.
The Fluidity of Becoming: Acknowledging that transition looks different for every individual, trans masculine, feminine, or non-binary, & that there is no singular “right way” to inhabit your body.
Oh to be twenty-two.
Achievement Unlocked:
There is a pervasive, exhausting lie that being transgender is a series of medical appointments, paperwork, and surgeries. People often treat it like a video game, where the player (also known as the one transitioning in this instance) you have to unlock enough “achievements” to finally be considered valid.
The truth is simpler, and much more profound: being transgender is the act of listening to yourself.
Transitioning isn’t a quest to prove your validity to others; it’s the quiet, daily commitment to inhabit the body and the life that actually fits who you are.
It’s the acknowledgment to one’s self that you are not cisgender by any means, as well as the fact that you may wish to transition in some form.
Transitioning could look like self expression, social related things, medical procedures, and more. This is not a checklist to hit and more of a self discovery journey.
Mapping the Umbrella – You Fit, If You Want To:
The term “transgender” often gets treated like a rigid box with specific entry requirements, but in reality, it is more like an expansive, encompassing umbrella. Beneath this canopy, there is room for binary trans men & women, non-binary folks, gender-queer peeps, gender-fluid individuals, intersex babes, and so many others who exist outside the strict cisgender heterosexual binary of “man” or “woman”.
BORING!
Remember:
However, one of the most important things to remember is that this umbrella is not a cage.
The Power of Self-Definition:
Just because someone exists outside the traditional gender binary, identifies as non-binary, or gender non-conforming, does not automatically mean they have to claim the “transgender” label.
Chill out and enjoy the journey little ones, half the fun is getting there.
Individual Sovereignty:
If you are non-binary or gender non-conforming, whether you feel like you are also “trans” is a decision that rests entirely with you.
For some, “trans” is an essential part of their identity because it describes their transition away from their assigned gender.
For others, the label may not feel like it fits their experience, and that is just as valid.
The Right to Choose:
Being under the umbrella is a choice of community and shared experience, not a medical or social mandate. You are the only person who gets to decide which words best describe your soul, and you don’t owe anyone an explanation for why you do or don’t identify with a specific label.
At the end of the day, the umbrella exists to support us, not to categorize us against our will. Whether you identify with the trans label, the non-binary label, both, or neither, your existence is the only proof you need of your validity.
The Digital Mirage & Performing Identity:
We live in an age where transition is often performed for the algorithm. There is a new, invisible checklist curated by social media: the “right” aesthetic, the perfect timeline of photos, and the pressure to document every step of a “glow-up.”
This creates a digital standard that is arguably more exhausting than the old medical ones. If your journey doesn’t look like a polished, high-definition transformation, it is easy to feel like you aren’t “trans enough.”
But your validity is not content. Your life is not a highlight reel. You are allowed to exist without documenting it, without performing it, and without meeting the aesthetic standards of the internet.
Authenticity is not a static state of being; it is a practice. It is a living, breathing thing that evolves. If your understanding of yourself shifts or refines over time, that isn’t a failure or a sign of “regret;” it is the natural, healthy process of getting to know the most honest version of yourself.
Some men have layers of nylon as skin too.
Redefining the Core – Who You Are, Not What You Do:
There is a pervasive, exhausting lie that being transgender is a series of medical appointments, paperwork, and surgeries. As if a checklist exists where you fill in a certain amount of predetermined boxes and become transgender enough. News Flash: being transgender is the act of listening to yourself when you discover you aren’t exactly cisgender.
Transitioning isn’t a quest to prove your validity to others; it’s the quiet, daily commitment to inhabit the body and the life that actually fits who you are.
Identity is the Truth; Action is the Tool
For a long time, I thought I had to be “loud” to be a man. I needed the beard, the labels, the surgical scars. You know my whole picked by part catalog of physical markers to convince the world, and myself, that I was real.
Back in 2016, I was chasing the image of manhood. Today, in 2026, I don’t look for him anymore. I know him. I see him every day, and I don’t need to perform him for anyone, except maybe sometimes myself.
The core of being trans is simply the admission that the self you know inside does not match the body or the expectations placed upon you at birth.
Everything else? That’s just the toolbox.
You might use hormone therapy, you might use surgery, or you might use a change in your name and how you walk through the world.
The tools are there to help you feel at home, they aren’t a requirement for your existence.
Pussy liquor make ya sicker. Pussy liquor do it quicker. – Rob Zombie
Every Roadmap is Different:
We are all individual, our transitions are individual.
Some of us prioritize medical intervention; it is the way we quiet the noise in our heads.
Or,
Maybe it is the way we thought would help us feel better in our skin prison.
Some of us find peace through social transitions; when we change our names, our pronouns, gender markers, or how we may express ourselves (though this doesn’t have to align with any gender norm).
For many in the non-binary community, the journey challenges the binary “wrong body” narrative entirely, focusing instead on fluidity and authentic expression that doesn’t follow a straight line or anyone’s damn map.
No person is “more” or “less” trans based on their medical history or social transitions. You are not a project to be completed; You are a person who is simply choosing to align their external reality with their internal truths.
Axton Mitchell age 5 pre school
Timeout:
When did I apply to be a self help guru, seriously?
I am just aiming to share my experiences. In hopes that others like me, others who have predisposed ideas of people like me, and everyone in between can come together eventually.
There will be no change, no education, no conversation leading to common ground even, if we do not express ourselves.
This is my attempt at making something better if not for the current people living then the people who are yet to come. we are not scary, trans people that is. I love to help others, hike & explore the beauty of natural America, collect stones, create art, and read.
Tell me if you feel differently what is the big difference in the way you see us vs everyone else?
The Barriers That Silence Our Truth:
We often talk about transition as a path, but we rarely acknowledge the walls that stand in the way of those who are undeniably trans, yet unable to move forward. Being transgender is not a choice, but for many, the act of showing the world who you are is a calculation weighed against survival.
Political precarity and the looming threat of losing rights can make the prospect of coming out feel like an invitation for danger, forcing many to keep their identity hidden as a form of protection.
Financial instability often prevents individuals from accessing the medical or legal tools they need, leaving them stuck in a body that doesn’t match their internal truth.
The exhaustion of navigating complex health systems or hostile legal environments can act as a profound deterrent, leading people to pause or stay in the closet simply to preserve their peace of mind.
Many also remain in the shadows because they fear that if they begin their transition, they will lose the safety of their current life, their relationships, or their place in their community.
These reasons do not make you less trans, and they do not invalidate your identity. You are still transgender the moment you know who you are, even if you are forced to remain quiet about it while you navigate these impossible external realities.
The Exhaustion Tax:
Beyond the physical or political barriers, we must talk about the “exhaustion tax.” Living in the closet or delaying your transition isn’t just about safety; it is an incredible, constant expenditure of mental bandwidth.
The energy required to monitor your speech, suppress your mannerisms, and constantly deflect or deflect curiosity from others is immense. When you are forced to keep your identity hidden, you are effectively paying a survival tax on your own cognitive resources. Recognizing that this “hidden labor” is a real, taxing part of your experience is the first step toward reclaiming that energy for your own peace.
This is the life.
The Personal Pact:
Reclaiming your autonomy is about defying the gatekeepers.
When you realize that you don’t owe the world a specific roadmap, the pressure to conform starts to fade. You stop living for the “what-ifs” and the political precarity of the moment, and you start living for the consistency of your own life.
I spent a long time stuck in the corner of my own “timeout,” waiting for permission to be who I am. I’m done with that. I am choosing to exist, and I am choosing to do it in the body I have earned, regardless of what the headlines say.
Destination Nowhere:
Transitioning is not a destination you reach to earn your humanity; it is the ongoing, deeply personal process of becoming.
Whether you are walking a path of medical transition, social evolution, or the quiet reclamation of your identity outside of any labels, you are the author of your own truth.
You don’t need a checklist to be who you are, and you certainly don’t need anyone’s permission to inhabit the body you’ve earned. Trust your internal compass, embrace your own pace, and remember that your existence is not a negotiation; it is a fact.
Boom! Mic drop!
TLDR:
Being transgender is an internal realization that your true self doesn’t align with your assigned gender, not a checklist of medical or surgical achievements.
You hold total sovereignty over your transition roadmap, including which labels from the transgender umbrella you choose to claim or ignore.
Your journey is a personal pact to inhabit your own body on your own terms. You do not owe the world a specific definition or path to prove your validity.
Join the Conversation
I’d love to hear how this lands with you.
What is one part of your identity that you’ve reclaimed that had nothing to do with a medical procedure?
How has your definition of “transition” changed since you first started your journey?
What does it mean to you to truly “inhabit” your own body?
Transgender & non-binary individuals navigating political anxiety, LGBTQ+ individuals grappling with the psychological isolation of queer anticipatory grief, advocates & allies seeking a deeper understanding of the internal pressures behind the headlines, skeptics & fence-sitters willing to engage with a honest & human perspective on medical autonomy, & readers of emotional journal entries.
The Vault:
Anticipatory Grief: Understanding the unique, complex mourning process of experiencing the loss of one’s future or rights before they are actually taken away.
QueerAnticipatory Surrender: Acknowledging the psychological trap of dismantling one’s own life as a preemptive defense against political threats.
The Power of Consistency: Re-framing hormone therapy not just as a medical necessity, but as a deliberate, defiant act of daily existence.
Reframing Rebellion: The realization that my “timeout” rebellion was actually self-sabotage rather than a strategic protest against the system.
The Mirror Moment: Understanding the vital importance of having a trusted voice to challenge our internal narratives when we are too close to the fire to see the patterns.
Identity Beyond Fear: The shift from chasing the image of manhood in 2016 to truly inhabiting & owning that identity in 2026.
Modern Reality- Queer Anticipatory Grief:
We are living through a period where the future feels like something being held hostage. For many of us, the weight of the current political climate has shifted from a background hum into a constant, suffocating pressure.
It is easy to look at the rights we have fought for and the lives we have built and decide, in a moment of pure, panicked self-preservation, that it is safer to dismantle them ourselves before anyone else can. I fell into that trap. I spent months performing a silent, voluntary medical de-transition. After i somehow convinced myself that giving up my autonomy on my own terms, meant that I was somehow beating the system.
This was a lie I told myself to cope with the reality of queer anticipatory grief. Followed by the story of how I let fear steal my consistency, the mirror moment that finally snapped me out of it, and why I am officially done sitting in the corner of my own self-imposed timeout.
Just live your life dawg.
The False Security of the Early Years:
In May of 2015, I began the medical transition through hormone replacement therapy. I had been in Las Vegas, living just shy of a full four weeks when I enter the office that would change my life forever. After all this was the whole reason I packed up and headed to live my life out west, at the ripe age of twenty-three.
This step would be the first one on a long path that would align my physical reality with the man I had always been. At that time, transition felt like watching the sunrise over a calm lake after a peaceful night at camp, or a breath of fresh air after choking down the words of your truth for two decades plus.
It was a period of frantic, beautiful change: a dismantling of the wrong pieces and a careful reconstruction of the right ones. Between 2015 and 2017, I navigated legal name and gender marker changes, followed by a double mastectomy in 2017, as well as this first step.
Twelve hours post op double mastectomy was a movie.
The Loud & Proud Trope:
I was and am loud about me, I always will be. My handles on digital platforms have ranged from things like AxtonFtMitch, daddyaxe, the_ax-ident, that_tranny_ax , and many others. These acted as a testament to a man who refused to hide, who could joke, and exist visibly as an example for others who were like him.
Back in the beginning of my medical journey, the political climate was a background hum.
It was there, sure, but it didn’t feel like an encroaching ceiling, or like the entire world we lived in was lit ablaze. I was operating under the assumption that the world, for all its flaws, would allow me the space to exist.
Young, naive, and still placing way too much faith in our government.
I was blinded by the excitement of becoming, and in that blindness, I failed to prepare for a world that might suddenly decide to stop letting me be.
Twenty-one days post op, and finally the last drain who I named Flo, could go.
2025 – The Shift from “What If” to “When”:
By 2025, the climate had curdled. The fear wasn’t hypothetical; it was tangible, systemic, and deeply malicious. Unlike the first political cycle I navigated, this one felt like it was aiming directly at the blueprint of my life.
There is a psychological trap that I think many of us are falling into: the trap of “anticipatory surrender.” I found myself looking at the rights I had fought for and concluding that they were already effectively revoked.
I gave weight to fear mongers on TikTok telling have the truths built on very stretched thin beds of lies. Even when I continued to tell myself, I’ll have to check this first, the feelings of suffocation still came with or without my fact check or consent.
I told myself, “They are going to take this from me, so I’ll take it from myself first.” I wanted to stay in control, even if that control meant self-destruction. I began hoarding vials and skipping doses, performing a quiet, personal medical de-transition on my own terms before a faceless authority could demand it of me.
February 2017 just shy of 2 years in T and my Double Mastectomy.
The Rebellious Ego – Staying in “Timeout”:
I’ve used to be the kid who, when placed in timeout, would refuse to leave the corner long after my time was up. I had to be the one to decide when the punishment ended. When I stopped my hormones, I told myself I was “sticking it to the man,” just as I had done way back then.
I was wrong. I wasn’t protesting; I was punishing myself. My friends and loved ones tried to pull me back, tried to point out the logic, but I was too buried in my own narrative of “death before de-transition” to hear them, not even seeing I wasn’t holding up my end of the death before detransition narrative.
I had confused surrender with strategy. I was so terrified of the potential loss that I began to orchestrate the loss myself, losing the consistency, the balance, and the joy I had fought years to secure.
March 2016 at 10 months on T, just me my drag & my selfie stick.
The Mirror Held Up – A Moment of Clarity:
The wall finally broke during a conversation with a trusted friend, who carries respect for me as I do them. I was venting about the physical consequences of my inconsistency: the return of “shark week” and the internal chaos that comes with hormone fluctuations.
I wanted sympathy; instead, I got a mirror. If I am being vulnerable and honest to myself and you I needed the mirror way more.
She asked me, “Why are you not taking your testosterone?” I gave her the same played out excuse I had been providing everyone over the last couple months longer than a year. “Are you giving it to him before he even proves he’s going to take it from you?”
That question stripped away every justification I had constructed. She reframed my “rebellion” as exactly what it was: a voluntary de-transition.
The realization was visceral. I had been waiting for the storm to take my roof off, so I decided to rip it off myself to save the trouble.
The magical serum that showed me the man.
Reclamation – The Man I See Today:
I refuse to move my care into a system that I don’t trust, which is why I held onto and will continue to maintain an out-of-state, Pennsylvania provider rather than defaulting to local Ohio state options. Within two weeks of that conversation, I was back on track. Today marks my fourth consecutive week of doing my shots on Monday’s.
There is a fundamental difference between who I was in 2016 and who I am today. In 2016, I was a man looking into the mirror, hoping to see the person I knew I could be. I was chasing the beard, the image, the external markers of manhood.
Today, I don’t look for him anymore. I know him. I see him multiple times a day. I hear him speak.
Transition is no longer about the “what-ifs” or the political precarity of the moment. It is an act of defiance through consistency.
I am choosing to exist, and I am choosing to do it in the body I have earned, regardless of what the politicians in DC or the statehouse think. I am done sitting in the corner of my own “timeout.”
I am back. I am consistent. I am finally back on my own terms.
The last time in my life my body wouldn’t be changed by testosterone.
The Path Forward:
Reclaiming my medical autonomy was never just about a prescription or a weekly shot. It was about reclaiming the agency that fear tried to annex.
By holding onto my provider in Pennsylvania, I kept my care tethered to a system I trust, ensuring that my transition remains a private, personal pact rather than a political concession.
I have stopped looking for the man I was chasing in 2016 and have finally settled into the skin of the man I am right now. My goal moving forward is simple: to live with the same unapologetic visibility that defined my early years, but with a new, sturdier foundation. I am no longer interested in the “what-ifs” or the hypothetical threats of tomorrow. I am interested in the consistency of my Mondays, the reality of my growth, and the quiet, defiant act of existing in the world exactly as I am.
The storm may be outside, but I am no longer dismantling my own house to survive it. I am staying, I am steady, and I am finally, truly, back.
Happy eleven years buddy.
TLDR:
Political fear convinced me I was already losing my identity, so I started acting like the loss was real. I skipped testosterone doses, and called it staying in control.
What felt like preparation was actually anticipatory surrender, and I was dismantling my own stability. I started calling it rebellion, but it was really self-sabotage.
A trusted friend challenged my logic, and it took one question to brake my entire narrative. I got back on a consistent schedule, and my chaos started settling down.
Fear had been making my decisions, I took that power back, and the future will always be uncertain. I need to remember it is my commitment to myself that is not.
Throwback way back.
Join in the Convo:
What does your “Monday” look like? I’d love to hear about the small, consistent acts that help you reclaim your space and autonomy.
Or,
If you’ve ever found yourself caught in the trap of anticipatory surrender, how did you find your way back to your own steady ground?
Let’s talk in the comments below.
More Related Pieces:
Storia: Future Self Coach – Let’s Help Each other Stay in Goals or let’s connect on HeyFamm – it’s for lgbt people & aligning businesses.
