By Guest Contributor, Ru Emmons

Ru is a somatics practitioner and bodyworker in Pittsburgh, PA. You can learn more about their work at www.ruemmons.com. You might encounter them climbing ropes at ASCEND Point Breeze or at the New River Gorge!

*Please be aware that the following writing contains content related to disordered eating and exercise.

What is it to you, climbing? 
A way to feel strong
A way to feel calm 
A way to practice feeling fear 
A way to notice what you hear 
When no one is speaking but the voice between your ears. 

A long time ago, a friend took me to The Climbing Wall to toprope for her 9th or 10th birthday. That place was musty, small, and the plastic holds were ancient, but it was the first place I felt that kind of joy in my body. You know what I’m talking about: the awe when you realize you CAN move up a vertical surface; the fear and adrenaline dancing together in your chest; the way something can feel impossible, and yet, it IS possible; the way you can lose yourself in it.

Back then, the losing myself part was more present than I generally care to admit. Adrenaline and intense physical engagement were my drugs of choice. I was a small, quiet kid that no one tended to take note of at school; in the climbing world, though, I could be strong, creative, and capable. 

Equally important to feeling strong was the social world I found. I met YOU: extremely generous adult climbers (some of whom I have the pleasure of still knowing today), who took me under your wings before there were things like youth climbing camps (or even other kids who climbed). You took me climbing outdoors; you gave me lessons; you belayed me and taught me the power of trust, communication, and admitting when you don’t know something.You were my mentors.  

I was lucky to have you around me as I started to try to disappear. I didn’t know I was trying to disappear. I just wanted to stop feeling. I stopped eating, kept climbing and running. I didn’t know this was the first time I was coming out as trans. No one thought, then, to offer puberty blockers. I am so grateful now for the kind adults who saw what was happening to me, at least on some level, and talked to my parents. I am so grateful for the ones who were brave enough to talk to me about it. 

I wanted to stop feeling - I didn’t want to stop being. 

I started writing this essay thinking, “I’ll write about how climbing should be FUN!” And I believe this. But I also understand that for some of us, it is more than fun; it is survival. When I found you all - the beautiful, kind, caring climbing community, that has only gotten wider and more wonderful in the 20+ years since - it was the only place I felt safe. It was the only place I felt seen. I could be whatever weird agender little spider monkey I needed to be, and I could feel joy in my body - even because of my body. 

On the other hand, sometimes, NOT climbing is survival. 

I had to take a break from this intense, life-affirming thing in order to recover. I had to develop other parts of myself that were not tied to my physical capacity. I had to get myself right, from the inside out. It was painful, brutal, full of loss and confusion. It was a new type of challenge.  

Now, many years and versions of myself later, climbing and I have a less desperately codependent relationship. I overtrain less. I climb in the gym once or twice a week, and it’s almost always a social event, above all. 

“Climbing should be fun,” I tell myself, anytime it stops feeling that way. 

I try to remind others of this, too. I still love the parts of climbing that I can lose myself in; I love to try hard, and find my breath, and let that and my movement be the only things I can possibly hold in my brain. 

Maybe now it’s less about losing myself, and more about focus, presence. 

I make sure I listen to my body’s desires on a daily basis, and try to nourish him in as many ways as I can. I stretch, feed myself well, and I try my best not to get injured. I follow the joy in my body, and, as long as I can keep the voice between my ears kind and caring, that joy tends to lead me back to climbing, no matter how long I’ve been away. 

I have a big break from climbing, coming up. I’m getting top surgery in the winter, if everything goes as planned. It’s taken a long time to arrive here, but I know that this is the next life-affirming step for me. Once, it was terrifying to me for my body to change. Now, I think about being trans as a way to practice the ever-present truth that the only constant is change. 

I’ve been trying to listen to the voice whispering between my ears and what they were saying about this for a long time, and now that I am here, I think I know. They were saying: 

Your body can be a place that feels joy 
Your body can be your safe space 
Your body can be the home you carry with you.