TW: The following blog post contains personal experiences and reflections on overcoming body dysmorphia through a hiking journey. It delves into the challenges faced, the process of self-discovery, and the transformation of self-perception. If you or someone you know might find this topic distressing, please consider your emotional well-being before reading further. Remember that seeking support from friends, family, or mental health professionals is always an option. Your well-being is important.
Life has a funny way of testing us—throwing curveballs that break us open just enough to let a little light in. That’s exactly what my Half Dome hike turned out to be.
I signed up for what I thought would be a physical challenge and ended up on an emotional expedition I hadn’t planned for. Somewhere along those miles of trail and granite, something in me shifted.
For the first time in years—maybe since I was a kid—I started to fall in love with myself again. And not in a surface-level, affirmations-in-the-mirror kind of way. In a quiet, soul-deep way. Yosemite became the backdrop for something bigger than a hike.
It became a place of reckoning.
Body dysmorphia is a beast. It distorts how you see yourself, warps your self-worth, and convinces you you’re never enough.
I’d carried that weight for years—through toxic dieting cycles, overtraining, orthorexia. Snowboarding helped. It gave me joy, adrenaline, and a taste of self-love.
But the voice in my head? The one that critiqued every inch of me? It was still there, whispering in the background.
I decided to hike Half Dome after doing Angel’s Landing.That adrenaline, that edge—it made me feel alive. So I entered the permit lottery.
When I got one, it gave me something to work toward. Because when I didn’t have a goal, I’d spiral into obsessive habits. I’d chase miles and personal records in unhealthy ways.
But Half Dome gave me structure. A reason. A finish line.
Looking at pictures of that massive slab of granite was both exhilarating and terrifying. I’d never done anything like it. But deep down, I knew I needed to.
The trail started early—way before sunrise.
My legs ached, and my breath felt shallow. But as the sun rose and the valley opened up around me, I started to feel small in the best way.
My insecurities didn’t stand a chance against the scale of that landscape. Nature has a way of doing that—reminding you that your worries, your warped self-image, your obsession with how you’re perceived—it’s all so tiny in the grand scheme.
Standing under that endless sky, I realized I didn’t care how I looked.
I was just grateful to be there, doing something hard, something beautiful.
The climb pushed me to my limit. Especially those cables.
My anxiety was loud on the ascent, but louder still was the moment I got back down. That rush of pride. Not because I looked a certain way, but because my body had done something amazing.
I wasn’t thinking about my stomach or thighs—I was thinking about how strong I was.
How my legs had carried me farther than they ever had before.
I looked at my arms and felt thankful they had the power to haul me up that rock.
That was new for me. A real, earned gratitude for my body.
Coming down Half Dome felt like coming down into a new version of myself.
A softer one. A more forgiving one.
I didn’t just walk away with sore feet—I walked away with a mental shift. The same trail that had seemed so intimidating on the way up now looked like proof of what I could do.
Every step back was a reminder that I’d made it through something, that I’d moved forward.
The rest of that road trip felt like an extension of that moment. Three weeks of barely looking in a mirror, of letting the wilderness remind me how small I was and how big life could be.
There will always be days when the old thoughts creep in—I know that. But when they do, I can remember Half Dome. I can remember that girl who climbed something huge and proved herself wrong.
This hike changed more than my physical limits. It changed the way I see my body. It helped me reclaim the worth I’d lost.
I still struggle. But now I have this story—this proof—that I am capable of hard things. And every time I hike, I leave a little bit of the self-doubt behind. That’s what keeps me coming back.
Nature doesn’t fix everything. But it can hold space for healing. It can be the place where you breathe a little easier, where you remember what really matters. If you’re struggling, look for that space.
Find your version of Half Dome. And let it remind you who you are.
