The Moments That Reset Us

There’s something extraordinary about stripping life back to its simplest form.

Over the weekend, I completed The Lap — 47 miles around Lake Windermere.18 hours, 7 minutes and 47 seconds of walking, climbing, thinking, hurting, adapting, laughing, resetting… and discovering.

What started as a family challenge became something much deeper for me.

At the beginning, we all agreed we wouldn’t walk together. No pressure. No waiting. No feeling held back. Everyone could move at their own pace and have their own experience of the day.

And what an experience it was.

The landscape was breath-taking. The challenge itself was brutal. Hill after hill after hill. Moments where my legs felt empty. Moments where I genuinely questioned whether there was anything left in the tank.

Before the walk, I’d carefully prepared. I’d downloaded podcasts, playlists, music, interviews — all the things I usually rely on. In my normal day-to-day life, I need noise around me. If I’m writing, working, processing or focusing, there’s normally music on in the background. Silence has often felt uncomfortable for me.

So somewhere after the second stop, I decided to put my headphones in and listen to something. Within minutes, I knew I didn’t want to. I couldn’t hear the birds. I couldn’t hear the wind. I couldn’t hear my footsteps, the crunch of branches beneath me, or the sounds of the world around me.

So I took the headphones out, switched my phone off, put everything away, and just walked.

And honestly? It was beautiful.

There were moments where I walked alongside other people, chatting and sharing stories. But there were also long stretches where I was completely alone in the wilderness. Just me, my thoughts, and whatever the mountain wanted to throw at me next.

The strange thing was… the silence didn’t scare me.

Normally, silence can feel almost debilitating to me. But up there, surrounded by nothing but open space and nature, it felt calming. Serene. Safe.

And in that silence, I found clarity.

Not shocking, dramatic clarity. More like quiet confirmation.

About what matters to me. About who matters to me. About where I’m going next.

One of the biggest things I realised is this:

We adapt to the situation we are in and we give ourselves what we need in that moment.

For years, I thought I needed noise in order to function. But the walk reminded me that what we need changes depending on where we are emotionally, mentally, physically and spiritually.

And the more we understand ourselves, the better we become at recognising what we need — without guilt.

That understanding hasn’t appeared overnight for me. It’s come through years of self-discovery, coaching, reflection, understanding my ADHD, learning how my brain works, recognising my patterns, and slowly building a life that genuinely supports me rather than fights against me.

One moment from the walk really stays with me.

I was climbing an absolutely ridiculous slope — a 30% gradient that honestly felt vertical. Suddenly my calf cramped completely solid. I collapsed onto the side of the path and couldn’t move. People around me were lovely. They stopped to help, asked if I was okay, offered support. But internally, panic started creeping in.

What if this doesn’t ease? How do I get up this hill? How do I get down it again? Have I ruined the rest of the challenge?

The old version of me would probably have tried to force through it. Push harder. Ignore it. Beat myself up for stopping. But this time was different. I let it run its course. I sat still. I stopped fighting myself. I forgave myself for needing to stop.

And then I reset.

I remember saying to myself, “Maryan, you may need to walk the rest of this. You may need to slow down. You may need to take extra care now. But you will still finish.” That moment felt far bigger than a cramp on a mountain. It felt like a metaphor for life.

So many of us are constantly trying to force ourselves through exhaustion, burnout, overwhelm or emotional pain because we think slowing down means failure. But sometimes the strongest thing we can do is pause, reassess, and adapt.

Not quit. Adapt.

And that’s exactly what I did.

Later on, as I came down the mountain on my own, and darkness was setting in, I started singing to myself. Completely making songs up as I went along. At the end of every made-up verse, I kept singing, “Am I going mad?” and honestly, maybe I was. But it was the most beautiful kind of madness. The kind that happens when you put yourself into situations that are uncomfortable, unfamiliar and transformative. The kind that reminds you that you’re alive. And I think that’s the biggest thing I’m taking away from this experience:

I trust myself now.

Not because life is easy. Not because I have everything figured out. But because I know I can adapt. I know I have tools. I know I can reset. I know I can listen to myself more compassionately than I used to. And so much of that has come through coaching — both receiving it and giving it. Sometimes after coaching sessions with clients, I catch myself thinking, “I should probably take my own advice.” But what I’ve realised is that through helping others understand themselves, I’ve also been learning how to understand myself better too.

That’s the real power of coaching.

Not “fixing” someone. Not turning them into somebody else. But helping them recognise the strengths, awareness and resilience they already carry within them. Especially for those of us with ADHD, self-understanding changes everything. You don’t need a diagnosis to know you’re struggling. You don’t need permission to seek support. You don’t need to stay stuck waiting for life to magically become easier.

Sometimes we all feel like we’re standing halfway up a mountain, exhausted, unsure whether we can keep climbing or terrified we’re about to slide all the way back down.

But you don’t have to navigate that alone. And maybe the real lesson from the mountain is this:

The moments that reset us are rarely the loudest ones. Sometimes they arrive quietly — in the silence, in the stillness, in the pause after the panic.

And when we allow ourselves to truly listen, those moments can change everything.