Stepping Back and Reconsidering

 Doubt, Direction, and the Question of Whether Any of This Matters

 

“I will carry the hope even when the hope is gone,

Though I’m weary and broke, someone’s gonna hear my song…”

Luke Wallace, Carry the Hope

 

There comes a point, somewhere deep into a long undertaking, when forward motion alone is no longer enough. The body may still be capable, the maps still marked, and the trail conditions are great - but the certainty that once animated each step begins to thin. What replaces it is a quieter, heavier question: why are we still doing this, and does it matter to anyone but us?

 

Over the past few months, that question has become increasingly impossible to ignore.

 

The Goal We Set Out With

 

When we began #Hike4Birds, our intention was simple, even if the route was not. We wanted to walk across Canada, slowly and honestly, and share what we encountered along the way - its landscapes, its communities, its birds, and its quieter wonders. We chose depth over breadth, lived experience over efficiency, curiosity over drama.

 

It was never meant to be profitable, optimized, or self-promotional. It was meant to be real. And yet, somewhere along the way, it became clear that what we were doing was being received very differently by people than we had ever imagined.

 

When Sharing Becomes a Burden

 

By early 2024, walking, photographing, and writing about the Trans Canada Trail had shifted from something we loved into something that now consumes nearly all of our attention. What had once felt like an act of care, sharing the nation, began to feel like an obligation.  The results of which no one seemed happy with.

 

Critique, suspicion, and outright vitriol has, over the past two years, become increasingly normalized online, particularly since the pandemic. At first, it was easy to dismiss. But when criticism becomes constant, impersonal, and detached from lived experience, it stops feeling abstract. It starts to feel personal, even when you know it shouldn’t.

 

The irony is hard to miss: we set out to encourage people into nature, yet the act of sharing that journey online has been slowly pulling us away from the very reasons we began.

 

Burnout and the Limits of Endurance

 

At the same time, the physical realities of the journey were catching up with us. Fourteen thousand kilometres over more than 550 days had taken two years longer than we planned. Financial pressure, family responsibilities, and the sheer scale of what still lay ahead - thousands of kilometres of highways, incomplete trail sections, and logistical uncertainty - were no longer abstract future concerns. They were immediate.

 

Burnout doesn’t arrive dramatically. It settles in quietly, as doubt layered upon fatigue, until even joy begins to feel like effort. And when burnout intersects with public scrutiny, the result is corrosive. It becomes difficult to believe that you can continue with clarity or generosity when you no longer trust how your words will be received.

 

Rumours, Proof, and the Digital Mirror

 

Perhaps the most destabilizing moment came when doubt about our direction turned outward. Questions began circulating - not about the land, the wildlife, our bird sightings, or the experience of walking Canada, but about us. About whether we were “really” hiking the trail. Whether our pace was plausible. Whether years of writing, photography, and shared experience constituted proof at all.

 

At one point, we were asked by a reporter, earnestly, whether we had simply been taking taxis across the country.

It was surreal, not because the claim was credible, but because it revealed something deeper about the digital world we now inhabit: evidence matters less than belief, and belief is increasingly shaped by rumour rather than reality. When people decide not to believe you, no amount of documentation will convince them otherwise.

 

This realization was both sobering and clarifying. We could not control how our journey was interpreted, nor could we convince everyone that it had happened as we had lived it. All we could control was whether we allowed those doubts to dictate our next steps.

 

Finding our Compass

 

So we are stepping back - not from the trail, but from the noise around what we have shared about it so far.

 

For now, that means pausing our need to explain, justify, or perform the journey as it unfolds. It means trusting our inner compass again, and remembering that meaningful action does not require recognition to be meaningful. A good life is not validated by likes, metrics or applause, but by alignment - by living in a way that remains coherent with your values, even when no one is watching.

 

The trail, we have learned, is not a place for ego. It is a place for balance. And when balance is lost, continuing becomes harder, not because the miles increase, but because the meaning erodes.

 

“You can write about it, or you can do it, but you can’t do both!”

Sonya Richmond

  

Does Any of This Matter?

 

The honest answer is that we don’t always know.  Certainly, we aren't sure at the moment.

 

What we do know is that walking across this country has changed us. It has sharpened our sense of what matters, stripped away what doesn’t, and taught us that inspiration cannot be forced - only offered without explanation. 

 

We still want to walk north, and we will. We still want to explore the Arctic, and we will. But more than that, we want to do so with peace, clarity, and a sense of purpose that comes from lived experience rather than amid digital distractions and constant criticism. 

 

If this journey matters, it will matter because it was lived with care.  Because it was lived deliberately.  And because we wanted the experience.  And for now, that is enough.

 

See you on the trail.