Between the Cracks

I don’t always show up polished. I don’t always show up early. I don’t always show up paid.

But I still show up.

To the climbing trip I said yes to last year, even when I couldn’t afford the ticket until the week before. To the van rental in Australia I couldn’t cover the deposit for so I persuaded them to only charge me one day. To the ferry terminal I reached with just enough cash in my account that morning to buy a one way. To the hotel with no money for a prepayment…so I booked something else, or nothing at all, and figured it out when I got there.

That’s the part of me that still burns: Passion. And delusion. But mostly passion.

Climbing drags me toward the version of me that still believes in effort. The one that will hangdog, cramp, overgrip, and scream on the redpoint go. The one that maps a route not by the topo, but by the chaos it takes to get there.

I’m learning to embrace the chaos. To stop resisting it like it’s something shameful. To let it be my method.

Because this world? This system? It’s all apps we can’t delete layers of automated loops dressed up as logic. And most people treat them as truth.

But I see the flaws. The glitches. The loopholes. And I navigate them the only way I know how: charmingly, rawly, sometimes manically real.

I’m not trying to break the system. I’m just refusing to pretend it’s sacred.

Just like the rock that’s never supposed to break off but sometimes does. Or the stainless steel bolt that held longer than the fancy titanium glue in.

I trust what I test. Not what I’m told.

Climbing has taught me that. Living has tested it.

And I’ll keep showing up. Late. Broke. Scratched up. But present.

Because the passion? Still burns. Even in the dark. Even when the anchor’s rusted. Even when the topo lies.