In April 2017, I set out to hike 2,660 miles from Mexico to Canada along the Pacific Crest Trail. (Yes, that’s the trail from Cheryl Strayed’s Wild.)

But I didn’t do that. I failed.

Instead, I hiked through 700 miles of desert and briefly into the heavily snowed-in Sierra Nevada mountains. In Bishop, California, I found myself without a group to hike with and knew facing the snow and river crossings alone could be fatal. I left the trail to hike along the Oregon Coast, another 300 or so miles. I considered going back to the Pacific Crest, the snow having melted, but I no longer felt like part of that world. So I went home.

I set out on the hike in hopes that it would help me feel unstuck from my own life. My mother had died two years before, and I’d spent those years learning to cope without her. I quit drinking, I did yoga and meditation, I went to therapists. But mostly, I found the mountains, and in them an ability to get through tough moments. Losing my mother was a suffering I didn’t choose. Hiking for five months, I thought, was a kind of suffering I could, and maybe I would have a chance to face it with grace.

Hiking for nearly 1,000 miles and failing to achieve my ultimate goal taught me a lot. These were the biggest lessons I took away from the trail and into my life.

1. I need less than I thought.

For four months I was dirty, tired, and smelly. I carried everything I needed on my back, from a sleeping quilt to candy bars to a menstrual cup should my period come in the middle of the wilderness. There were also all the things I didn’t bring: I didn’t carry books. I didn’t have a wallet or a purse (just a Ziploc with my credit card and a little bit of cash). I didn’t have deodorant (no point), or a rotating selection of fitness leggings, or more than three pairs of underwear.

For the most part, I didn’t feel I was missing anything. Hot, fresh food, yes. Clean hands, sometimes. But mostly, I felt happy to be living in the dirt. Hiking among other people who had also chosen to given up their creature comforts made it feel normal. But it’s also true that I had what I needed: food, water, and shelter. A sense of purpose. And people to talk to—the dozens of other hikers I ran into who were also trying to conquer the trail one step at a time.

2. My body can handle more than I imagined.

To carry 25 pounds on your back while walking for 10 hours, gaining and losing 3,000 feet of elevation almost every day, was a physically and mentally exhausting challenge. What surprised me was how willing my body was to do it. Soreness that would have kept me lying on the couch back home became an expected and tolerable element of my mornings. On the trail, I just had to embrace it and continue on my trek.