Pilates: come for the plank, stay for the existential reckoning.
I didn’t expect a conversation about death to come mid-plank, but there I was—sweating, shaking, and trying to look dignified while holding a spine stretch—when my Pilates instructor casually dropped Mount Everest into the chat.
Not the metaphor. The actual mountain.
She mentioned how climbers—seasoned and green alike—often pass the frozen bodies of those who came before them. Still there. Still dressed for the summit. Some with names. Others known only by the color of their coats or the year they stopped moving.
They’re not hidden. In fact, they’ve become landmarks.
Now, I don’t know what you’re working through when you’re on your fourth round of footwork at the reformer, but I had to pause and sit with that. Because it’s one thing to know you’re chasing a dream. It’s another to climb past the very ones who died chasing the same one.
They say some of those who perished insisted on pushing forward—despite fatigue, oxygen deprivation, warnings from others. Maybe they believed, with every fiber left in their body, that the view from the top would be worth the risk. Maybe they’d already decided: this mountain, this dream, this peak… this was their hill to die on.
And I wonder—
What did they feel in that final stretch?
Pride? Regret? Peace?
Were they thinking of the summit—or someone they left behind?
And then, of course, I wonder about the ones still climbing.
What do they think when they pass these silent sentinels of ambition?
Do they feel reverence? Fear? Motivation?
Or are they too focused, too oxygen-starved, to take it all in?
Maybe it’s a question for all of us.
What dreams are we willing to chase at great cost?
What beliefs would we stake everything on—body, breath, legacy?
And how do we decide which hills are worth dying on…
and which ones are simply steep?
Lately, I’ve realized—I don’t need to go to Everest.
There are plenty of challenges to face right here.
In my home. My work. My town. My inbox.
It can feel like there’s a brushfire in every direction.
A conflict to weigh in on.
A silence that needs breaking.
A system that needs shifting.
A loved one who needs more than what I can offer.
And every day, I’m faced with the same unglamorous decision:
Which hill is worth the climb today?
Which fire do I step into—knowing full well I’ll get singed?
Because to do nothing… isn’t an option.
Complacency’s never sat well with me.
But trying to do everything?
That’s its own kind of surrender. It burns you from the inside out.
What I’ve come to believe—and I’m still learning this—is that the goal isn’t to douse every flame alone.
Maybe it’s to pick one fire—the one nearest, the one dearest—and tend to it with intention.
Put a little water there. A little sweat. Maybe even a little love.
And if each of us did that—if we chose our hills and our fires with care,
not just for ourselves, but for the good of the whole—
then maybe, just maybe, the collective impact would be something fierce and beautiful.
Something that didn’t burn everything down…
but instead lit a path forward.
So I guess the question isn’t just what’s your hill to die on?
It’s—
What fire will you walk toward today?
And who might be waiting there, hoping they don’t have to face it alone?
Strange thing is, I keep thinking about those climbers.
The ones still moving upward—step by breathless step—past the quiet reminders of what came before.
I wonder if they ever stop long enough to ask: Was it worth it?
Not in judgment—but in reverence.
Maybe some of those who never made it had no regrets.
Maybe they believed, with everything they had, that their climb meant something.
That the view—whether reached or not—was sacred enough to try for.
And maybe that’s the point.
Not every hill is meant for dying.
But some? Some are meant for trying—with everything you’ve got.
Even if you’re not the one who reaches the top.
Even if the only thing you leave behind is a marker for someone else to pause, take a breath, and decide what comes next.
And maybe that’s not a bad legacy after all.
So here’s to the hills that call to you—
the ones that stir something deep, the ones you can’t ignore.
May you climb with purpose.
May you rest when needed.
And may you never forget—there’s more than one way to reach the top.
Sometimes just showing up, heart open and steady, is its own kind of summit.
Pick your fire. Choose your hill.
Bring a bucket of water and your best hiking boots.
And carry on, friend.
We’re all climbing something.
And we’ve all got fires worth tending.