Our landscape is made of mountains and valleys. The mountains are our stressors, our insecurities, our core beliefs. The valleys are where we feel at peace, where everything feels right.
This landscape is never still. It shifts constantly beneath us and around us. Little events can have dramatic consequences.
Our mountains are our stressors. Our insecurities. Our core beliefs.
Some mountains are situational. A deadline at work. An argument with our partner. A bill we can't afford. They raise our height in the landscape and cause stress and anxiety.
Often the mountains that feel the worst are the ones linked to our insecurities. Our core beliefs. "I'm not good enough." "I'm too much." "I am unworthy." "I am unlovable."
Our valleys are where we feel at peace. Where everything feels right.
Some valleys are simple. The relief of finishing a hard day. The warmth of our bed on a cold morning. A song that makes us feel understood.
Some are deeper. The safety of being truly known by someone. The meaning we find in work that matters. The stillness of watching the sea.
We can feel the pull of our valleys. They're the experiences our whole system is oriented towards. The places where survival feels not just possible, but worthwhile.
Our landscape is never still. It shifts constantly beneath us and around us.
Little events can have dramatic consequences. An unexpected bill arrives, and suddenly we're halfway up a mountain that wasn't there before. A friend cancels plans, and a small hill of rejection rises under our feet.
These fluctuations aren't random—they're responses to the world around us. Other people's moods. Circumstances we can't control. The butterfly effect of someone else's bad day rippling into ours.
When we're at lower altitudes, we can see further. We can plan.
This is when we have the spare energy to look ahead. To map out the paths for next week. Next month. Next year. We can see which routes lead to valleys, and which ones climb towards danger. We can weigh up risks and rewards with a clear head.
But planning requires energy. And energy is limited.
When we're stressed—when we're high up on our mountains—the fog rolls in. The paths ahead become invisible. Even if someone points them out, they stay theoretical. Not things we could actually do. We can't think about next week. We can barely think about the next five minutes.
Some people live their whole lives on higher ground.
Everyone's landscape is unique. For some, it's mostly gentle hills. They have their challenges, but as long as they've got their walking boots, they'll be fine. They rarely hit their energy limit.
For others, the landscape is a series of interlocking mountain ranges. Their own Himalayas. A lifetime of experiences that raised the ground beneath them. They live at high altitude permanently.
When our baseline is high, everything is harder. We don't have the spare energy to plan ahead. Small triggers can push us right up to our limit. A shirt we can't find. A tone of voice. Something that would barely register for someone else can feel catastrophic for us.
But living at high altitude requires hypervigilance. We have to watch for threats constantly. Because each fluctuation could send us up to our energy limit. But hypervigilance itself costs energy. The very thing keeping us safe is also keeping us high up.
Simon has just met someone. He is living in that new relationship feeling. He feels blissful. His world feels new and full of fresh opportunities.
Last week he found it hard to get out of bed. But now everything has a purpose. His whole landscape has shifted. He's rolling down to a new valley he's never been to before. And suddenly everything looks different. Much brighter. He feels like a whole new person.
And it continues. Day after day. He feels the rush of energy as he keeps rolling down the slopes. Gaining momentum. He can't stop. Even if he wanted to. And there's no way he wants to.
Simon's old problems don't seem important anymore. His work day is as dull as ever. But it's ok. His mind is just fantasising about tonight. For him, having someone reliably there changes everything. Someone to trust, to validate his experiences, and to share his life with. It gives him a whole new sense of safety and security.
This safety has lowered his baseline energy, reducing his height in his landscape.
Julia's dad died 6 months ago. And it still feels awful. On top of that, she hates her job. Two huge mountains have risen beneath her feet, holding her up at her energy limit.
Every day feels endless. Like there really is no end in sight. Julia doesn't know how to even begin to feel better. She's just surviving. Trying to get through the next five minutes.
She's managed to carve herself a little pocket. In bed at 10am. Where she can just about breathe. Barely. But it still feels like relief. She's hiding in there. Just for a moment.
But all around her, in every direction, the landscape rises up. She's trying her best not to look. To keep the mountains out of her mind. All the paths go up beyond her energy limit. And every task feels beyond her capabilities.
Making a coffee is too much. Replying to a message is too much. Getting out of bed is too much. She's completely overwhelmed all the time. It's uncomfortable to think about all these tasks. To even glance at their paths. She just wants to stay in her pocket and forget the world exists. It's the only way to temporarily quieten the mountains.
And if she can't even make a coffee, how can she plan her way down? She feels absolutely trapped. She can't face thinking about anything at all. And she literally cannot see the paths out—even if other people point them out. They stay purely theoretical. Not things Julia could actually do.
Julia's circumstances are hard. But they are especially triggering for her, she has a core belief that she is not capable of taking care of herself. Her dad was her safety net, he was always there to pick her up. Whenever she thinks about the struggles and challenges of life, she doesn't know how she is going to get through them. She is just not good at this kind of stuff. The thoughts are overwhelming.
Helen has to make a presentation for her course. The path is obvious. Just start working. But every time Helen tries to think about it, it feels too much. She gets stressed out immediately. Actually opening the laptop and starting on it? To her, that's impossible.
She knows the consequences. But she just can't make herself do it. She knows it's procrastination. But what can she do? Helen always leaves it to the last minute. But somehow it just seems to work.
The days creep by. And lo and behold, suddenly, the day before it's due, Helen feels the focus coming. Just like she knew it would. A new mountain is rising quickly beneath her feet. And she starts to feel the inevitable stress of not finishing on time. And suddenly the consequences feel very real. She will fail her course if she doesn't start right now. Right at this very moment. So luckily she does.
That mountain Helen felt about starting is now eclipsed by a bigger, much more imposing mountain. This one represents failing her course. It's taking her up high, right up to her energy limit. But it doesn't feel like panic. No, it feels like focus. It's shutting down all her other thoughts. She's entering fight or flight. All just to create a presentation.
The initial mountain was never about the task itself. It represented something deeper. Helen's belief that she isn't good enough. That even if she really tries her hardest, she won't do well enough. That that old feeling of inadequacy will be triggered anyway. And worse than that, if she really does try her hardest and fail, then she will know once and for all. The mountain was accurate. At least if she rushes, that's the explanation for the lower mark.
The procrastination isn't laziness. It's protection. A way of never having to face the mountain underneath.
When you're at your energy limit, you cannot see the paths out—even if other people point them out.