Big Sky

Don’t close your eyes. You’ll miss the mountains. You’ll miss the misty hue of clouds that envelop the peaks in a strange, yet comforting hug. You’ll miss the seasons change the higher you climb. You’ll miss the way the altitude sends signals to your brain reminding you that you are alive, and no matter how low you feel. The higher you climb, you’re up. You’re alive. You’re here. There’s oxygen flowing to your brain and suddenly all of the challenges found at the bottom seem trivial. They seem like a distant memory. They are cyclical. They will pass. All things go, even the most terrifying and lowest of moods.

The mountains of Montana stand like ancient guardians, silently watching us, their jagged silhouettes carved against a canvas of impossible blue. They’ve witnessed centuries of storms pass through their valleys and over their peaks, yet remain unmoved and unchanged. They know something about persistence that we may forget. They whisper it in the rustling pines when you step onto the trail at dawn, frost still clinging to blades of grass beneath your boots.

With each footfall on the winding path, with each breath that burns sweetly in your lungs, the weight becomes less. Not just the weight in your chest that’s been pressing down for months, but something deeper — something that’s been there so long you’d forgotten what it felt like to stand straight. The Montana sky stretches so wide above you that it seems to pull you upward, gravity loosening its grip with every switchback conquered.

Don’t close your eyes. Something beautiful is coming. Keep climbing, my girl. There’s clarity and achievement and wonder at the top. There’s a reason to live at the top. Maybe it’s found in the sigh of the wind. Maybe it’s found in between two distant peaks where you see a bird flying. Maybe it’s found in a pair of deep and longing eyes, checking in to make sure you’re ok.

I’m ok. I’ll be ok. … I am getting ok.

Around a bend in the trail, an alpine meadow bursts into view — a riot of wildflowers that shouldn’t exist at this elevation but somehow thrive: purple lupine dancing in the breeze, buttery balsamroot turning their faces to the sun, the delicate white stars of glacier lilies pushing through patches of snow. Life, insistent and resilient, finding a way through the harshest conditions. You recognize yourself in them — how something so seemingly fragile can possess such quiet strength.

The pine-scented air fills your lungs as you ascend above the treeline. Your muscles burn with honest fatigue, a soreness that reminds you of your physical form when for too long you’ve felt like nothing but a collection of broken thoughts. A golden eagle soars overhead, riding thermals with effortless grace, its wingspan a dark calligraphy against the endless sky. You wonder what the world looks like from up there, how small your problems might appear from such heights.

Don’t close your eyes. You’ll miss the mountains. There is beauty here. There is meaning here. There are long lost friends who you’ve never met, but suddenly giving them hugs makes everything fall into place and restarts your heart in ways you never imagined. There is purpose behind the smiles. There is genuine love that feels so fucking good to feel after such a long time in the dark. Crawling out of the lowest depths of yourself, and climbing the rocks… there is light. My god, there is light. Keep going. And please don’t look down. Don’t look back; you’re not going that way. Forwards is the direction you are going. There is magic there.

At the summit, the world opens up before you — a panorama of ridges and valleys stretching to the horizon, painted in shades of amber and emerald and slate blue. Mountain ranges unfold like waves frozen in time, each peak a testament to forces beyond human comprehension. The wind carries whispers of all who have stood here before, seeking what you seek. Their spirits linger in the cool air, encouraging, understanding without words the journey that brought you here.

You’ve done it. You made it. You’re here.

You watch the sun cast long shadows across the valleys below, bathing everything in golden light. The clouds drift slowly overhead, their undersides painted pink and orange as day prepares to surrender to dusk. You’ve traveled higher than your thoughts could follow; they couldn’t keep up with you on this climb. For the first time in months, your mind is quiet — filled with nothing but the whistling wind and the distant cry of a marmot.

A crystalline alpine lake below mirrors the sky so perfectly it seems you’re suspended between two heavens. The evening star appears, a single point of light brighter than all others. The darkness that’s been your companion for so long doesn’t seem so frightening from up here; it’s just another natural cycle, necessary for the stars to show their brilliance.

The tears that come aren’t the heavy, hopeless kind you’ve grown accustomed to. They’re cleansing, flowing freely down wind-chapped cheeks, carrying away something you no longer need to hold. The mountains have seen countless tears before yours. They absorb them without judgment, turning sorrow into strength the way they turn snow into rushing streams come spring.

Don’t close your eyes. Not yet, my girl. We are still meant for beautiful things. The mountain twilight paints the world in shades of possibility — indigo and violet and deepest navy. Stars appear one by one, then suddenly by the thousands, a universe of light showing itself only after darkness falls. How could you have forgotten that this is how it works? That light always follows dark, that the wheel always turns, that winter always yields to spring?

The journey down will come tomorrow. You’ll carry the mountain with you — its steadfastness, its patience, its indifference to the temporary. Its gift is perspective, the knowledge that what feels like the end is merely a bend in the trail. You came to Montana broken, but the mountains don’t see broken things — only unfinished journeys, only beings in the process of becoming.

Thank you for what you gave me, Montana. For reminding me that the most breathtaking views come after the hardest climbs. For showing me that my roots can be as strong as ancient pines, that my spirit can soar like the eagle, that my heart — my battered, resilient heart — can beat in rhythm with something greater than myself. The mountains stand sentinel to my promise: to keep my eyes open, to keep climbing, to remember that even in the darkest valley, the peaks still catch the light.

And they will be waiting, steadfast, when I need them again.

Until we meet again, my friends.

Micaela “Miki” Byrne is an artist, writer, and life coach/creativity strategist with a BA in Theatre/Operative Vocal Performance and a minor in English Literature from Loyola University New Orleans. Passionate about storytelling in all its forms, she explores themes of self-discovery, resilience, and transformation. After choosing sobriety in 2023, Miki embarked on a journey of deep healing and personal growth, uncovering new creative depths along the way. She is currently working toward publishing her first book and sharing her insights through writing, music, and coaching.