Preikestolen Stole My Heart (and almost my knees)

There is a quiet deceit in thinking you have already figured yourself out. Life has a way of correcting that, usually not gently, often in places far removed from anything familiar. It happened to me in Stavanger, where the only honest way to understand the place is to climb above it, to earn the view from Preikestolen and see what remains of you when the comfort is stripped away.

The trail wastes no time. It rises immediately, all stone and defiance, as if daring you to reconsider. You step into it with a kind of misplaced confidence, the same kind you carry into roles you are not ready for but cannot refuse. I remembered Manila in 2019, the sudden shift into a supervisory role at ATMC, the uneasy weight of responsibility settling in before I had time to understand it. The terrain was different, but the feeling was identical. You move forward not because you are prepared, but because standing still is not an option.

Four kilometers sounds polite on paper. On the ground, it stretches and distorts, turning into something far more personal. The cold air cuts through you, yet the exposed trail offers no shelter from the sun. Your legs begin to bargain, your lungs grow impatient, and doubt slips in quietly, like it belongs there. I was not even halfway when exhaustion set in. Still, I kept going, partly out of stubbornness, partly because turning back would have been harder to explain to myself than continuing.

It reminded me of late 2022, when I stepped into the communications team of IFATCA. At first, it felt like too much. Too many voices, too much expectation, too little certainty that I belonged. Even showing up required effort. But like the climb, the rhythm eventually revealed itself. Not all at once, but enough to keep me moving. The people around me, patient and steady, made space for me to find my footing.

Somewhere along the trail, the pain settled into something familiar. Not gone, just understood. You begin to crave progress, however small. The fjord appears in fragments, flashes of deep blue between rock and sky, just enough to remind you why you started. That is usually all it takes. A glimpse, a hint, a promise.

The same hunger followed me in my work. Once I found my pace, I leaned in further, joining more committees, taking on more responsibility, not out of obligation but out of a growing sense that I had found where I was meant to be. There is a certain addiction to purpose. It sharpens you. It keeps you awake.

Then comes the final ascent, and it is always worse than you imagined. Steeper, longer, more unforgiving. Doubt grows louder here. It tells you that you have done enough, that almost is acceptable, that stopping now would still count. I listened, briefly. Then I kept going. Not out of defiance, but out of quiet refusal to settle.

You learn, eventually, that doubt never really disappears. It just loses authority.

And then, without ceremony, you arrive.

At the top of Preikestolen, the world opens in a way that feels almost excessive. The fjords stretch endlessly, deep and impossibly blue, framed by cliffs that seem too deliberate to be accidental. It is beautiful in a way that resists description, and perhaps that is the point. Some things are not meant to be explained, only experienced.

The photographs will be impressive. They will show the edge, the height, the stillness. But they will never show the climb. They will not capture the hesitation, the fatigue, the small negotiations you make with yourself just to keep moving. They will not tell the story that matters.

Because the truth is this. The summit is only the evidence. The journey is the substance. And in that long, difficult climb, somewhere between doubt and persistence, you meet a version of yourself you did not know existed.