Hiking Helped Me Trust My Body Again After a Miscarriage

“I’m sorry, there’s no heartbeat.”

I am post-ultrasound and still naked from the waist down when the doctor delivers the news that the fetus inside me, my baby, isn't going to make it. An estimated one in four pregnancies ends in miscarriage, and an unknown proportion of those miscarriages are “missed”—a loss with no symptoms. Like me, those who have a missed miscarriage continue to experience all the signs of a healthy pregnancy, only to be blindsided at their next ultrasound appointment. The shock is a one-two punch. First, the abrupt obliteration of an envisioned future. Second, the sense of bodily betrayal. Not only had my body failed to fulfill its biological purpose, it had become a mortuary without even noticing.

It was the spring of 2021 and pregnant bellies bloomed around me like saccharine cherry blossoms. Everywhere I looked I saw babies and bumps—a constant reminder of what I should have but didn’t.

“What if we left Brooklyn and traveled around the country for a while?” I asked my husband. We had been unlucky, but we were privileged to have stable jobs that we could do remotely. A change would be good, I reasoned. We could visit the national parks we’ve always wanted to see and become serious hikers. Perhaps tackling the country’s toughest trails might even help me believe my body was still capable of physical feats, despite failing at fertility.

Four months later, on a clear morning at the end of July, we left New York City in an overstuffed Honda Civic with our corgi, Loaf, headed west with no clear itinerary in mind. That first week, we relished figuring out the route as we went along. We scoured Google Maps for interesting lunch stops—the perfect powdery beaches of Indiana Dunes National Park on the shore of Lake Michigan, the cool cascades of Falls Park on the Big Sioux River in South Dakota—and we slept at cheap, chain motels with loud, clunky A/C units and free breakfast buffets (waffles if we were lucky). 

Eventually, we unpacked at a lakeside cabin in Montana, where mountains serrated the horizon and animals paraded past the back porch. It was gorgeous, and a little unnerving. A born-and-bred big city person, I am more relaxed around throngs of anonymous humans than wildlife—in order to be more confident and competent in nature, I looked up what to do in the event of a bear encounter and researched the proper way to deploy bear spray.

But I quickly learned that seeing a grizzly in real life, as we did on our first day at Glacier National Park, is not something you can truly prepare for.

About an hour and a half into our hike along the Highline—an 11-mile trail famous for awe-striking views and a ledge that teeters above a vertigo-inducing drop—we emerged from a section of knotty flora into an open meadow. “Wait, do you see that,” my husband said, pulling me to a stop. About 100 feet away, tucked behind a grassy knoll, a young bear was gorging on huckleberries, its huge paws pulling branches of plump fruit close.

After cautious observation and a quick discussion with some fellow hikers, we decided it was safe to proceed—bear spray at the ready. Our group, now six-people strong, passed the preoccupied bear and continued along the trail unscathed. It was the first time on the trip I felt like a proper hiker. And it gave me a new appetite: for challenges that revealed a different side of myself—a side that was braver and comfortable in the outdoors.

This self-trust fueled me as we hiked our way through the West. In Yellowstone we sought out backcountry trails through golden fields; in Rocky Mountain National Park we ascended 12,000 feet to glittering glacial pools; in Arizona's Monument Valley we headed into the desert at daybreak, passing towering buttes awash in the tangerine glow of an already-scorching sun.

Bit by bit, something was shifting inside me, a change that I fully realized upon climbing the infamous Bright Angel Trail at The Grand Canyon, an ambitious hike defined by relentless switchbacks which descend from the Canyon Village down to the Colorado River. Bright Angel is an out-and-back trail, which means that after more than 4,000 feet of knee-creaking descent, you must turn around and begin the grueling climb back to the rim of the canyon. Even seasoned hikers have been known to get into trouble on Bright Angel, and the first mile of it is lined with Park Service signs warning “down is optional, back up is mandatory.”

The morning we set off the sky was unblemished. Determined to beat the midday heat we moved quickly, arriving at Indian Garden—a rest stop and campsite on the canyon floor—two hours later.

“Supposedly, climbing back up takes double the time it took to get down, so we’re looking at about four hours uphill to reach the top,” I told my husband between bites of a slightly soggy sandwich, which tasted gourmet the way all food does when you’ve been active outdoors. As we refilled our water supply and set off again, I was feeling quietly confident. With each trail conquered or summit reached, my body earned back a little more of my trust. So far, it hadn’t managed to successfully produce a baby, but it was resilient and adaptable. And I suspected it could also carry me to the top of this canyon pretty efficiently.

As the leader of our hiking duo, I set a blistering pace. Sweat dripped from our faces as we surged past other groups, including some hikers who had been departing Indian Garden just as we had arrived. Their substantial head start was no match for my mindset that day. Weeks of adjusting to the inclines and altitude of the West had strengthened more than my thigh muscles; I felt mentally sturdy, too.

As we finally reached the trailhead and joined our clammy hands together in a celebratory high five, I checked the time. We’d completed the ascent in just two hours, which was half the time we'd expected. I finally understood the appeal of running a marathon or scaling Everest—the distinct euphoria of completing a physical challenge that required all of your determination

Squinting to make out the distant outline of Indian Garden, I paused to take in the view. I could see how far I had come in every possible sense; I could suddenly see the experiences and confidence I had somehow gained since our loss. 

It was early October when we reached the California coast and made our way north on scenic Highway 1, headed for San Francisco. Tracy Chapman’s “Fast Car” played as I rolled down the windows, inhaling cool air fragranced by ancient redwoods. I’d learned to appreciate and respect my body in a deeper way on this trip. I had come to appreciate it in new ways, and during the two months we’d spent living nomadically it had even started to feel like home again. Unbeknown to me was that my home already had a new resident. As we passed through Big Sur, autumn light swirling through the Pacific mist, our next adventure was forming inside me.