Mountains, The Healer
Talking about mountains is hard—because there’s just too much to say. If I had to describe them in one word, it would be this: medicine. Mountains are the world’s best drug. And I say that with certainty—because they’re my drug. Every time I go to the mountains, they welcome me like a long-lost son. Standing at their edge feels like standing proudly next to a mother who raised you strongly. Lying down on the grass, it’s like resting in the safest place on Earth—held gently in a mother’s arms.
My first visit to the mountains was when I was 15. Back then, the mountains were just scenery—just a pretty background for a photo. But after I turned 21, everything changed. I realized they were much more than just a backdrop. They were everything.
Starting a middle-class life after 21 isn’t easy. So much pressure—from family, from jobs, from expectations. Around that time, I began losing friends, one by one. Time slipped away. Joy slipped away. All that remained was stress—about career, family, loneliness. By the time I was 28, I felt like I was already dead inside.
One especially bad day, I lost my shop—a small store I had built with three years of hard work. I hoped my family would support me, but they didn’t. They blamed me instead. I turned to my friends, but they were too busy with their own lives. I felt completely alone. I wanted to cry—but couldn’t. Maybe I had forgotten how.
I stood in the middle of the road, wanting to scream as loud as I could. But I couldn’t—not in front of all those people, all lost in their own busy worlds. That’s when I realized something: no one really cares unless they need you. I had been there for my friends—late nights, long drives, helping hands. But now? No one was there for me. Maybe they were selfish. Or maybe I was just a tissue to them—use and throw.
I walked away. I went to the beach, hoping it would calm me. Beaches are supposed to be peaceful, right? But there, I saw families laughing, couples holding hands, kids playing. I didn’t feel peace. I felt jealous. I didn’t belong there. I left.
Then, I turned to my one constant—my motorcycle.
I haven’t told you about him yet. He’s not just a bike. He’s my son, my friend, my partner—my everything. A 2013 Royal Enfield Standard 350, kick-start. His name is Adam. When I ride him, I feel like a king walking beside a tiger. I could talk about him for hours—but that’s a story for another day.
Back to that ride.
I didn’t know where I was going. I just rode. One district after another. I crossed the border of my state without even realizing. That’s when I stopped—because I found myself lost in a forest, staring up at a massive mountain. It looked beautiful from below. And something inside me whispered, Go.
I parked my bike. The path ahead was too narrow and rocky—meant only for walking. No more people. No more noise. Just me and the mountain.
So, I started to walk.
The wind greeted me first—cold and soft, brushing against my face like a gentle reminder that I was still alive. The trees swayed, their branches dancing as if they were welcoming me into their world. The narrow trail led deeper into the forest, surrounded by tall trees and scattered rocks. The earthy smell of moss and soil filled the air. Birds chirped from above, and the rustle of small animals in the underbrush created a symphony of nature. For the first time in a long while, everything felt... real.
As I moved ahead, I heard the faint sound of water—like a whisper. I followed it until I reached a small stream, trickling down from the rocks above. Crystal clear water. I dipped my hand in—it was ice cold. I splashed it on my face, and in that moment, I felt like I was washing away not just dirt, but days of sadness. I drank from it too. It tasted like the kind of purity you can’t find in bottled water—refreshing, alive.
I continued walking and noticed someone had carefully placed small stones into steps leading upward. Whoever had done that, I silently thanked them. Those little steps made a big difference. Climbing was hard. My legs were burning, my breath heavy, but something about the place pushed me to keep going.
Then I saw it.
A patch of open sky in the distance. Bright. Clear. It pulled me like a magnet. I ran—tired, out of breath, but I ran. It felt like I was escaping a cave, like I was being born again.
Finally, I reached the top.
And what I saw took my breath away.
I stood above the clouds. Snow blanketed the ground like a soft white sheet, and slowly, as the mist moved, it revealed a view so beautiful it felt unreal. Below, it was a green paradise—a natural carpet of trees, grass, and silence. The wind here was different—not wild, not sharp, but calm. Like a lullaby.
I took a deep breath. It felt like my lungs had been waiting for this moment for years.
I raised both my hands to the sky, spun around once, and laughed for no reason. Just... joy. Then I ran to the edge of the mountain.
From there, I saw endless ranges of mountains. Peaks after peaks—each one standing tall, proud, eternal. I looked down. I couldn’t see the bottom—just endless depth. For a brief moment, a dark thought crept in. What if I just jumped? What if I ended this meaningless, painful life here?
Maybe the wind heard me.
Because just then, a strong gust slapped my face, snapping me out of it. As if the mountain itself said, No, not here. Not today.
And I screamed.
I screamed as loud as I could—everything came pouring out. The pain, the loneliness, the fear, the failures, the betrayals, the anger, the tears I never cried. I let it all out into the wind. And the wind took it away.
After that, a strange calm settled in me. A stillness I hadn’t felt in years.
I lay down on the grass, cold and soft beneath me. It was better than any bed. I looked up at the sky—clear, wide, and shining. The clouds seemed to smile at me, changing shapes like a silent performance just for me. I smiled back.
Somehow, I fell asleep there.
Not because I was tired.
But because, for the first time in a long time—I was at peace.
I don’t know how long I slept. But when I woke up, the clouds were still above me—watching gently, like they had waited the whole time. The sun peeked from behind them, soft and golden. That simple sight made me smile.
I hadn’t slept like that in years. Not just deep sleep—but peaceful sleep. The kind that touches your soul.
I slowly stood up, took one last look at the sky, and started walking back. On my way down, I whispered a quiet thank you to the trees, the wind, the rocks, the birds… to everything. Then, with all my heart, I shouted:
“I love you!”
It echoed through the forest like a secret shared between old friends.
As I walked the same path I came from, it felt like the entire forest was waving goodbye. The wind brushed past me, playful. The leaves rustled gently, as if saying “Take care.” Even the birds sang something different—like a farewell song.
I knew I was going back to my tough life—the job pressure, the loneliness, the pain. But something inside me had changed. I felt like life had given me a second chance. A quiet push. A fresh breath.
When I reached my bike, it was slightly wet from the cold mountain mist. I smiled. I wiped it down with my hands, patted the seat like greeting an old friend.
“Let’s go home, Adam,” I whispered to my Royal Enfield.
I started the engine. The thump of the bike felt stronger this time, like it understood me better now.
As I rode down, I looked at the mountain one last time in my mirror. It stood there like a mother watching her child leave the house. Calm, proud, gentle.
I smiled and made a promise to myself:
“I’ll be back.”
And I did. Many times.
Whenever I felt lost, broken, confused… or even happy—I found my way back to the mountains. Not just this one. Different ones. New places. New paths. But every single time, it felt like my first time.
That’s the magic of mountains.
So, my brothers and sisters, if you’re ever feeling empty, lonely, tired—or even if you’re feeling great—go to the mountains.
Trust me, they heal more than you can ever imagine.
They don’t talk, but they listen.
They don’t promise, but they give.
They don’t judge, but they understand.
The mountains… they don’t save you.
They remind you how to save yourself.
