Why I Climb Rocks

By Dr. Lynn Farrales

“I know that you are in a deep dark hole right now. But, when you’re ready to climb out, remember, there are people who love you and are waiting for you.” 

Even today, my eyes well up with tears when I recall these words. 

It was 2012, a few weeks after my daughter was stillborn. I was in my bed with the curtains drawn. One of my sisters —I am lucky to have 3—sat down next to me and whispered these words to me. I remember immediate relief after hearing them. I softened. The pressure in my chest released for a moment. Someone understood. I was in a deep dark place. I needed to be there. Not out on walks on a sunny spring day like the well-meaning urged me to do. 

Those words were a gift of agency and self-determination: only when I was ready, would I come out on my own accord. 

In the beginning, I climbed out/up in the only way I knew. I am shaking my head right now—albeit with a smile—as I write this thinking about how I coped being the first-born daughter of immigrants: excelling in school, getting a graduate degree and eventually becoming a doctor. So, after Scarlett died: I went straight into doing academic research in the area of stillbirth and grief. I even started a PhD. 

But, it was not enough. I had come to understand my grief in theory, but it still lived very much unprocessed in my body. How could it not? My daughter was stillborn. She died inside my body. 

Six years after Scarlett died, I found another way to climb out of it. 

Literally. By climbing. For real.

In 2018, I started rock climbing of all things! Ludicrous because I was (am still) scared of heights. I started indoor bouldering in February on a post-relationship-break-up whim and a Groupon. Within a couple of months, I moved quickly to indoor ropes. By June, I was taking a course outdoors in Squamish and rapelling off a cliff! 

Why did I take so quickly to climbing in the beginning? I grew up dancing and climbing was an extension of dance in many ways. 

What hooked me for the long run? It was the only way I came to trust my body again. The physical and mental strength I developed was unmatched by other activities. The noticing of when I would back away from trying a climb or a certain move. Then, coming to an understanding of  why : “I don’t trust my left hand to hold me.” Then, working on ways to trust my left hand. The self-compassion I practiced from repeated falls and injuries. Meeting the challenge of harder and harder climbs without the expectation to get to the top. Building a community of climbing pals with shared passion and joy, based on mutual respect and trust. 

Now eight years later, I’ve had other profound losses, break-ups, injuries, illnesses. Just this year alone, my mom and dog died. Climbing has persisted as a major outlet for grief, motivator for physical rehabilitation, a place for community and an immense source of joy.

I’m ever so grateful.

Climb on.

To connect with Lynn, please follow her Substack and IG @my.liminal.moments