02/03/2026
I have always liked the mountains, but only a couple of years ago this feeling grew into a deep and almost personal attachment. Since then, every time I look at the mountains, the world around me seems to change. And together with it, my inner world changes as well.
Someone might jokingly say that mountains are just folds of stone on the surface of the planet. But for me, these “folds” have a special, almost magnetic quality. There is something deeply captivating about them. In their vastness and stillness, I am reminded that there is something in life that is greater and more enduring than our everyday worries, inner conflicts, and personal struggles.
In the mountains, I feel a particularly strong sense of belonging to the world — as if I am not separate from what is happening around me, not standing outside of life, but quietly and naturally part of it. It is there that a deep, inner calm emerges — not a calm that needs to be created through effort, but one that arises on its own, when the noise fades away and what remains is presence, breath, and a simple awareness of being.
I am deeply moved by the beauty and the grandeur of this creation. In the mountains, I experience a genuine sense of awe, joy, and gratitude — for the opportunity to see, to walk, to feel, and to be. At the same time, the mountains become an honest inner test for me. They invite a quiet but powerful question: can I continue when I am tired, can I stay with myself when the urge to stop becomes strong, and can I support myself precisely in the moments when it feels hardest?
Reaching the summit is not only about physical endurance. For me, it is an inner dialogue. A dialogue about where my limits are, where my resources are, where I need to allow myself to pause — and where I can gently help myself take one more step forward, even when there is a sense inside that I am close to giving up.
Perhaps this is why the mountains resonate so deeply with my work as a psychotherapist. The journey toward oneself is rarely simple or straightforward. It carries its own fatigue, doubts, and moments when it feels as though going further might be impossible. Yet it also holds something profoundly important — the capacity to stay close to oneself, to offer inner support, and to keep moving forward, slowly and with care. One step at a time. Just like in the mountains.