The Unknown Trail Ahead
Lately, the air feels heavy with uncertainty.
There’s a stillness that sits somewhere between frustration and hope — a pause none of us asked for, but one that’s here all the same. The path forward isn’t clear right now. And for educators across Alberta, that uncertainty hits deep.
It reminds me of those moments on the trail when the clouds roll in and the familiar landmarks disappear. The route that felt clear just moments ago becomes something unknown. Your instincts start to rise, your heart beats a little faster, and you find yourself pausing — not to give up, but to reorient, to breathe, to remember why you started walking in the first place.
This current moment feels a lot like that.
We’re all trying to find our footing in a time that’s confusing and emotional. We care deeply about our students — their learning, their growth, their futures — and when we’re not in our classrooms or out on the land with them, it can feel like we’re letting them down. That guilt is real.
But maybe this pause is also part of the lesson.
Outdoor education has a way of humbling us in times like these. We learn early on that nature doesn’t always follow our plans. The storm rolls in, the trail washes out, the weather shifts without warning — and we adapt. We find shelter, regroup, and take care of one another. We prepare for what’s next, even when we can’t see the path clearly ahead.
That’s what this moment feels like to me — a time to gather strength, to reflect, and to care for ourselves and each other. To remember that staying strong doesn’t mean pushing through at all costs; it means pacing ourselves for the long climb.
I keep reminding myself that this pause isn’t separate from our purpose — it is part of it. The work we’re doing, the conversations being had, the stand being taken — it’s all for the same reason we show up every day: for our students. For the future we believe in.
And in that way, maybe this unknown trail isn’t something to fear. Maybe it’s another lesson in resilience, in perspective, and in finding calm in the storm.
Because the fog always lifts eventually.
And when it does, we’ll find our direction again — stronger, clearer, and more connected than before.
For those educators out there:
When life forces you to pause, how do you find calm in the unknown?
What practices or spaces help you stay grounded when the “trail” ahead disappears?
How do you balance caring for others while also taking care of yourself during challenging times?
What lessons from nature or time outdoors remind you to be patient and trust the process?
