Some of us were created to climb mountains.

Never have I found the words to explain it, but I’ve always felt it deep inside—a relentless pull toward something higher. Something more. It’s not a desire for glory, or fame, or even a view from the top.

It’s always been something much simpler… and harder to put into words. It’s the climb itself that calls to me.

One day many years ago, I saw a mountain in the distance, always in the distance, looming over the valley where I was born. They call it Emberpeak, though I’ve never known anyone who’s actually reached its summit. I’ve heard people speak of it—the ones who sit far below, shaded by the trees, content to gaze upon it.

They speak of it as if something to be admired from afar, something there to remind you of how small you are, how limited your reach.

But I’ve never been like them. I never could be.

One morning, with nothing but the fire in my heart, I set out. I didn’t ask for leave. I didn’t ask permission. I didn’t wait for a sign. The mountain was there, and I was here. That was enough.

The first stretch was easy enough. The rocks were smooth, and they gave way to my hands and feet with ease. I felt strong. My muscles surged with a renewed sense of purpose. With each step, I left the world below me. The valley became a distant blur. I reveled in the solitude. The air was thin, and the sun beat down on me. But I welcomed it. I enjoyed the heat. This was where I was meant to be.

But the mountain wasn’t kind for long. As I climbed higher, the wind grew fierce, the rocks sharper. The air got colder, thinner, until it felt as if every breath was a battle all its own. My legs started to shake, my hands were worn raw, and my body ached in ways I had never known.

I stumbled. I slipped. I lost my footing. And each time, I found myself sprawled against the unforgiving rock, dusting myself off and standing up again. There were moments, moments when I wanted to give in, to just lie there and allow the mountain to prevail. But the fire within me refused to allow it. It wasn’t about victory. It was simply about the climb.

As the hours dragged on, I came to a narrow ledge, and I paused, breathless. Below, I could see a crowd of people huddled beneath the shade of a massive tree. Their laughter reached me on the wind, the careless sounds of people who had no desire to fight the mountain.

They were content there, in the cool, welcoming shadows, beneath the protection of the trees’ sprawling branches.

I reflected for a moment. I could go down. I could join them. I could sit in the shade, take a rest from this madness. The climb was hard—More than that. It was brutal.

Why was I doing this?

Even as I thought this, I felt a deep understanding that made the very question irrelevant.

I wasn’t made for rest. I wasn’t made for comfort.

One of the travelers, an old man with a face lined with age and experience, looked up at me. His voice carried on the wind, sharp and curious.

“Why do you continue to climb?” he called. “What is there at the top that is worth all a man’s suffering? You could come down, rest here with us. The shade is enough. The mountain is too much.”

I paused, wiping the sweat from my brow. His words hung in the air, heavy with reason. Why did I continue? What was I hoping for?

But the answer came easily, almost without thought.

“Some of us weren’t meant to sit in the shade,” I whispered, and I could see the confusion in his eyes.

I didn’t wait for a reply. I didn’t require one. My legs were already moving again, the pain in my joints forgotten, the doubts quieted.

The mountain was there, and I was here. And for all the weight of the world pressing down, for all the struggle and the sacrifice, I knew I couldn’t stop. Not yet. Not ever.

I climbed, slipping and scraping my hands, pushing through the exhaustion. There were hours when I barely remembered what it felt like to breathe without effort, to exist without pain. But there was no going back. And in the distance, I could see it—the summit, just a little higher, just out of reach, but not for long.

The climb is everything. It’s all there is.

And when I reached the top, when I finally stood there, breathless and beaten, looking down at the vast wasteland below, I realized something. The view didn’t matter. The summit didn’t matter. What mattered was that I fought, and I climbed. I had risen, again and again, and I had refused to settle for the shade.

The winds howled around me, biting and cold, but I felt a heat coursing through my veins. Inside my heart. I had found my purpose. I had found the strength to rise again. And that, that was my reward.

So when the others ask me why I keep climbing, when they wonder why I don’t just sit, just like them, in the shade—I have only one answer:

“Some of us weren’t meant to sit in the shade.”

I was forged in the fire.