The Mountains that Humbled Me

#1: Uncertainty

The first mountain I remember was one of uncertainty. It stood there, casting its long shadow over my life, filling me with questions I couldn’t answer. What am I meant to do? Who am I meant to be? It wasn’t just fear; it was the weight of not knowing, of standing at the base of something vast and uncharted. I wanted to move, to climb, to conquer it, but I was paralyzed by its size. And yet, as days turned into weeks and weeks into months, I began to realize that the mountain wasn’t going to move for me. I would have to move toward it, step by shaky step. The climb was slow, grueling, and marked by missteps, but I learned something with each one. The mountain didn’t shrink—it never does—but I grew. And with that growth came the understanding that sometimes, the only way forward is through.

#2: Grief

There were times in my life when prayer was my lifeline. Losing my sister and brother in my twenties was an experience that shook me to my core. It felt like the ground beneath me had disappeared, and I didn’t know how to move forward. The grief was so heavy that there were days I didn’t think I could carry it. - Khadijah Maulion Masorong, My Journey

Then came the mountain of grief. This one wasn’t silent or still. It roared. It shook me. It tore through my carefully constructed plans, dismantling the life I thought I knew. Grief is a mountain like no other. It doesn’t let you choose the path or the pace. It demands everything from you—your strength, your tears, your hope. I remember feeling like I was clawing my way up, only to slide back down into the dark, cold valley below. Grief doesn’t ask for permission; it simply arrives, uninvited and unrelenting. It lingers in the quiet moments, in the spaces you thought were safe. But somewhere along the way, I realized that grief isn’t a mountain you conquer. It’s one you learn to live with. Its presence never fades entirely, but it stops feeling like an enemy. Instead, it becomes a part of the landscape, shaping who you are and how you see the world. It taught me that pain and beauty often exist side by side, and that to climb this mountain, you have to let yourself feel both.

#3: Failure

There was also the mountain of failure. It wasn’t just one failure—it was a series of them, piling up like stones until they formed a peak I never wanted to face. I had built my identity around being capable, around succeeding, around proving to myself and others that I could handle whatever life threw my way. But failure strips you of all that. It leaves you bare, exposed, and questioning everything you thought you knew about yourself. I remember sitting at the base of that mountain, staring up at it with a heavy heart, feeling like I had nothing left to give. But failure, I’ve learned, is a teacher. It doesn’t let you stay comfortable, and it forces you to look at yourself with raw honesty. Climbing that mountain meant letting go of the need to be perfect. It meant forgiving myself for falling short and finding the courage to try again. And when I reached the top, I realized it wasn’t the view that mattered—it was the climb itself. Every stumble, every scraped knee, every moment of doubt—it all became part of the journey, and in some strange way, part of the reward.

4: Self-Doubt

The mountain of self-doubt is one I continue to climb, even now. It’s the kind of mountain that doesn’t have a clear summit, the kind that tricks you into thinking you’re further behind than you actually are. It whispers lies into your ears—“You’re not good enough,” “You’ll never make it,” “Why even try?”—and it takes every ounce of strength to keep moving forward. Self-doubt is a shadow that follows you, a weight that clings to your shoulders. But I’ve learned that the only way to climb this mountain is to challenge those whispers with truth. To remind myself of the steps I’ve already taken, the peaks I’ve already conquered. Self-doubt may never disappear entirely, but with each step I take, its voice grows quieter. And with each step, I grow louder.

5: Love

But the mountain that humbled me the most was the one I didn’t even know I was climbing: the mountain of love. Love is the kind of mountain that looks easy from a distance. You think it’s just a matter of reaching out, of giving and receiving. But when you’re in the thick of it, you realize how steep and rugged the terrain can be. Love demands vulnerability, sacrifice, and patience. It tests you in ways you never imagined, forcing you to confront your fears and flaws. There were moments when I wanted to turn back, to retreat to the safety of solitude, because the climb felt too hard. But love isn’t about reaching the top. It’s about the journey, the effort, the willingness to keep going even when the path is unclear. It humbled me by showing me how much I had to learn—not just about others, but about myself.

Love taught me that being strong doesn’t mean being invulnerable. It means opening yourself up to the possibility of being hurt, of being seen in all your imperfections, and trusting that someone will still choose you. It means letting go of the need to control every outcome and embracing the messy, beautiful unpredictability of it all. Love showed me that the greatest strength isn’t in standing alone, but in leaning on someone else when the climb becomes too steep. And for all the challenges it brought, for all the times it left me breathless and uncertain, it also gave me some of the most profound moments of joy and connection I have ever known.

Each of these mountains changed me. They stripped away my pride, my certainty, and my need for control, leaving me with something far more valuable: perspective. They reminded me that life isn’t about avoiding challenges, but about facing them with courage and grace. They taught me that strength isn’t the absence of struggle—it’s the ability to keep climbing, even when the summit feels impossibly far away.

When I look back now, I don’t see the mountains as obstacles anymore. I see them as part of the landscape of life. They humbled me, yes, but they also shaped me, carving out a deeper, truer version of myself. They reminded me that life isn’t about reaching the top of one grand peak, but about the countless smaller climbs along the way. Each step, each stumble, each moment of doubt—it all matters. It all adds up to something greater than the sum of its parts.

And so, I continue to climb. Not because I have to, but because I want to. Because the mountains, in all their grandeur and challenge, have become a part of who I am. They have taught me to embrace the journey, to find meaning in the struggle, and to keep moving forward, one step at a time.

For in life’s endless peaks and valleys, wisdom is found not only in the climb but also in the summit, where the view reveals how far you’ve come and how much more there is to learn.