This Is The Weirdest Depression I have Ever Experienced: Life After the AT

I cannot begin to count the amount of times I’ve sat down and tried to write something post-trail. About the victory lap, about the devastation down south, about what going “home” has been like. Each time I start with the feelings bundled up in my chest, waiting for release, and none of the words come to my fingertips. Writer’s block? Kind of, perhaps, but I’ve been struggling a lot more with how to explain cohesively than to make words come out at all.

So let’s stop trying and see where this goes.

I spend every day feeling like I’m not doing enough. Not moving enough, leaving the house enough, talking to my friends enough, working enough, making enough money, worth talking to enough. I know I’m not eating enough — at least in comparison to how well I ate on trail. I have no motivation other than counting down the days until I get to Ketchup in New Mexico (less than 30, now). I feel like a neglectful friend, a needy partner, an unavailable partner, a burdensome child, and an uninhabitable host to myself.

I think of all the ways my body hurts, far more than it ever did on trail. I think of how that will effect future hikes, adventures, endeavors. I wonder if I’ll have to stop hiking in the next 5-10 years because of it, even though I’ve only just started. I consider just going until I can’t anymore, letting that be my life as it’s what makes me happiest. I consider how much it costs to go to the doctor and maintain my health.

I consider going for a walk in Central Park daily. I think of how nice it would be to move around, spend hours walking all the paths I can. Then I remember how many people are in the park, how loud it is, how I can’t just sing my way through the day if I want to. I stay inside. I turn on my Xbox and slip into a game that makes me feel like I’m still on an adventure. I talk to my mom, or my dad, or both. I try and find something to make money doing before I leave, which gets harder and harder as the days close in.

I think of how lucky I am to have Ketchup and how terrified I am of starting over from scratch with barely any money. I think of 501 and worry about if he’s resting enough mentally, if he has enough resources when I’m too depressed to respond. I think of how I miss the Pink Pony Club, how I should have made time for Underhill while he was in town, how I should be trying to connect with Cheeto while I’m still in NYC, how I should be leaning on my trail fam in the city but just can’t leave the house some days.

Occasionally, I do leave the house and I go hang out with two of my favorite people while they’re on shift at my old job. I always plan on leaving after a couple hours, and then I’m there til close hanging with them or catching up with neighborhood and childhood friends. It’s the most I hear my voice. I don’t hear it as often anymore while I’m home.

I hear my voice internally constantly. Intrusive thoughts getting more intense than they’ve ever been, stress over my seeming inability to do anything rising ever higher, feeling like too much and not enough constantly ringing in my ears. I miss the sound of singing. I miss the way it feels to sleep on dirt. I miss the shared experience of thru-hiking and seeing friends along the way. I miss the journey now that I’m past the destination. I missed it while we were on it. I miss feeling like myself, no masks.

But that all sounds pretty par for the depression course. Why is it weird?

Because, until today, none of it has gotten me down.

I seep into these miniature thought spirals, berating myself or picking at my insecurities. I circle the drain of self-loathing and, just as I’m about to go down, I have a moment of clarity:

Hey, you’re only being so mean to yourself because you have barely moved in, like, weeks dude. You just spent seven (7) months walking across the country, feeling virtually none of the pressures you face here, in circumstances that you thrived in. All this (gesturing to the hairballs of anxiety and sadness cluttering the space)? This is because you did something amazing for yourself. You did something really awesome and really hard and you loved living like that. You loved walking and singing and sleeping all snuggled up in your bag. Now that you’re home, of course you feel like crap.

For one, you’re back in “this space isn’t mine” land. This is the bed you slept on when you left your ex husband, and then again when your life fell apart. These are people you no longer have much in common with. The comfort you found in what used to be your home no longer exists *because you found better for yourself*. And that better is coming, just weeks away. The interim sucks, I know it. It’s hard to sit around and wait for your life to begin, again. It’s all of the anticipation of preparing for the AT with all of the knowledge that what is here is no longer for you.

You got this, kid. You’re using the tools you gained this year. It sucks, and it hurts, but I’m proud of you. I’m proud of me. I’m proud of all that I’ve done this year, and I can handle it in the meantime even though it’s hard.

I’ve never been able to cope well, to have the voice in my head treat me with kindness without forcing it to. In one of my first blog posts here, I talk about finally finding the once voice shielding me from the bad voices. After the AT, I’m finding that once voice has turned into a chorus of self-acceptance and self-love.

Today, that’s a bit harder than it has been.

I knew New Year’s Eve was coming, and I wanted to make a plan for myself. I didn’t want to go out, I’m not looking to party tonight or struggle with triggers or get dressed up in a what now feels more like a costume than a look I would have painstakingly curated for the evening. I also didn’t want to stay home with my parents, doing the same thing I’ve been doing since I returned from the victory lap.

It didn’t take long to hear the woods calling and decide I must go.

I reached out to some peeps (and instagram) and invited any friends who wanted to join along. I had decided to do 46 miles in upstate NY, finally cleaning up some of the miles I skipped over the summer to make it to Mama K on time. NOBO from Manitou to Pawling, since I could take the Metro-North train both ways and not have to rely on friends who can drive to make it to the trailhead. I ordered a new pot and stove (I’d given mine to Cheeto for his Long Trail attempt), started looking at what resupply I needed to pick up/order, and kept up with the forecast for the holiday. The weather was almost perfect — high of around 50, showers after 7pm, scattered the next day. A great window of opportunity, as it drops down to 20 high/15 low almost immediately after the few days I’d planned on hiking.

This became the thing I most looked forward to all month. Christmas was lovely, but I needed to get the fudge OUT of here. To be at peace for a few days before I dive into moving prep.

And then I got the text asking if I was free to work a shift on New Year’s.

I sat on it for a bit, I needed to think before immediately accepting or denying. I knew I needed the money, but I also knew that I needed this escape to relieve some of the stress and feelings of overwhelm. I went to see my dad in Washington Square Park to talk to him about it, to maybe make a clearer decision. By the time I got on the train to head back home, I had texted back saying I’m available and took the shift.

And, though it’s very hard, I’m letting that chorus remind me that I made a responsible choice. I need these hours and tips. The woods will be there, and they may be cold but not colder than I’ve experienced with the gear I have. Ketchup also reminded me that I’ll be walking distance from a trailhead when I get out there. It isn’t upstate NY, it isn’t my forrest, but it is something.

As I write this, I realize that this backpacking trip I planned was part of my way of saying goodbye to New York. To the place that’s been my home for almost my entire life. This is the way I get to say “goodbye” for me, rather than for my friends and family. So I guess it’s a good idea to prioritize that.

It isn’t all depressing, though.

While not doing much since returning has done a number on my mental health, I have absolutely revelled in not having to push myself physically every day. Vitamin I no longer has a chokehold on my pain management, naps are frequent, and I’ve more than caught up on all of the sleeping in I can (my sleep schedule is non-existent).

All trail, all I wanted to do when I got back is vegetate and play Baldur’s Gate 3 — and I’ve been actualizing this fantasy very well. Achilles and I talk every day and occasionally FaceTime, where we talk about all the characters in Baldur’s Gate we’re romancing and the quests we like. We’re planning on maybe doing the El Camino in a couple of years, if I can resist the temptation to join a bunch of tramily on the PCT. I need to get better at FaceTiming Ketchup and 501, but I keep in touch with them nearly every day.

Ketchup sends me updates on what the living situation is gonna be like when I get to New Mexico. I’m excited for the off-grid lifestyle, and more excited to be around my friend in person. Excited to be closer to Achilles for a while, too.

In the meantime, my cats are lovely — the one who’s always salty at me has been letting me hold her and pet her and love her more than she ever has. It’s awesome. I also live in a sea of blanket layers, which is also awesome. I have, with the exception of one time, exclusively work hiking clothes when I go out.

I saw a friend this past weekend who noted something between topics as we chatted at a diner near my house:

“You seem more settled.”

And I feel it, too. I listen more in conversations, I feel less impulsive and erratic in my speech and actions. For the first time, I know what I want from my life and am taking steps to make it happen I take the lessons of the trail with me in every second of every moment of every day, as the things I learned out there on the 2-feet long 2200 mile road of reflection truly and genuinely changed my life — changed me — and I apply them generously.

I so desperately miss the woods, the culture of trail life, waking up next to my friends every day. I miss how easy it was to poop in a cathole. I loathe going out on weekend nights because I am no longer built to wait in line to pee. I miss the way Achilles’s face looked as he was still asleep when the sunrise began to illuminate the tent. I miss Ketchup emerging from his cacoon, or his making three ramens for one meal. I miss 501 disappearing just to reappear in front of us miles later. I miss singing Chappel with Starlight and Keggy and Cheeto. I miss town days, and hostel bunks, and the way a hot shower felt after a week in the backcountry. I miss group hitches, and blue blazes, and impromptu lake swims. I miss the vulnerability of people, how real everyone was and how open they were in a way we so rarely get to be with strangers. I miss trail magic and trail angels and soda caches. I miss being behind the times.

This past year changed me in so many ways, and long before I set foot on the Appalachian Trail. Even in the throes of Post Trail Depression, I see everyone I know from the caged world posting about how 2024 was a dumpster fire for them and don’t feel like I can relate. This year started with me deciding to make a change for myself in order to survive, and I’m pretty sure I surpassed my expectations. This year gifted me with a future and a purpose, with the willpower to accomplish more than I set out to, and with the type of community I have always longed for. So even when it gets dark and lonely, I now know the light is always present if you simply remember to turn on your headlamp.