This morning, I stepped into Balcony House knowing it had a reputation: not for the faint‑of‑heart, not for the out‑of‑shape, not for anyone who doubts their footing on a cliff. And yet, something in me said to go anyway.
The climb was slow, deliberate. At 7,000 feet, every step asked more of my lungs, and my knees reminded me of their age. The ladders rose above me, the toe holds cut into the cliff demanded trust, and the tunnel asked me to fold myself into the rock. I moved at my own pace, steady and intentional, and somewhere along the way the group around me became a small fan club — encouraging, patient, kind.
There were moments when I wasn’t sure I would make it. But rung by rung, breath by breath, I did.
Standing inside that ancient dwelling, tucked into the cliff face, I felt a quiet shift. It wasn’t just about completing the tour. It was about choosing to try something difficult, choosing to keep going even when it felt uncertain, choosing to witness something extraordinary that required effort to reach.
I’m grateful I went. I’m grateful I finished. And I’m grateful for the reminder that courage doesn’t always look bold or fearless — sometimes it looks like taking your time, honoring your limits, and moving forward anyway.