By Kelsey Geiger 
To all the mountains I’ve ever moved:
The ones that tried to break me. The ones that left me breathless. The ones I climbed in silence, with no one watching but God.
Thank you.
Thank you for teaching me that bravery doesn’t always look like battle cries and bold leaps. Sometimes, it looks like getting out of bed when your heart is heavy.
Sometimes, it’s taking one shaky step toward healing when it would be easier to shut down.
You showed me how strong I really am.
There were seasons I begged for you to disappear. I didn’t want the hard. I didn’t want the stretch. I didn’t want another lesson in resilience. I wanted rest. Peace. Normalcy.
But those mountains, those impossibly tall, heart-wrenchingly steep mountains, changed me.
They taught me that strength isn’t about never falling apart. It’s about what you do when you’ve crumbled.
They gave me scars that whisper stories of survival.
They made me softer. Kinder. More grounded in my purpose.
Because of them, I learned how to stand firm in who I am, even when everything around me is shifting. I found God in the quiet. I found grace in the waiting. I found light in the darkness.
And somehow, I have become someone I’m proud of.
So to every mountain I’ve ever moved—
To the brain tumor diagnosis.
To the surgeries.
To the quiet battles no one saw.
You didn’t defeat me.
You prepared me.
You gave me vision. A voice. A fire that can’t be put out.
I now know that the most meaningful growth happens in the climb. That the courage comes from doing it afraid. And the beauty isn’t just in the summit, it’s in every faithful, exhausting, and hopeful step that it took to get there.
So if you’re staring up at your own mountain right now, tired, scared, unsure—I hope you know this:
You don’t have to have it all figured out.
You just have to keep moving.
Because on the other side of this struggle, you won’t just find relief.
You’ll find the version of yourself you were always meant to become.
by Jessica Grillo 
by Hannah Angstadt-Gunning 
