Finding freedom in the open-air life. 🌳
The pitfalls of goal-setting and external validation.
My goals had driven me to this point where, upon achieving them, I only saw another mountain I wanted to climb.
The river gurgled, shimmering at once silver and powder blue as it curved around the rocky riverbank and tickled overgrown shrubs hanging over the water. I sat for a few minutes and just listened. A deep sigh fell out of me — a natural release in a space that felt like it had been sitting there waiting for me.
Sinking back into my camp chair, I dug my toes into the pebbles of the riverbank, warmed by the late morning sun. I scanned the gear strewn all around me, finally drying after being dampened from rain, snow, and dewy mornings. Gazing over at Jane, I saw she was lying face down on the rocks, lost to a well-deserved nap. After several days of hard work filming for Wildflowers here in the Maligne River Valley, we had this small window to rest before rejoining the rest of our team at the next campsite.
I knew even then that this would be a slice of time I would cherish forever. It felt like I was in that thin place, touched by the Divine. I was releasing not just days but years of pressure, hard work, and the after-effects of the productivity culture. With stable weather and nowhere to be for a few hours, I knew I could settle in and let myself melt into the moment. So I did.
I have kept this feeling tucked away in me ever since. It’s something I can tap into when I want to feel peace and calm in my life. But it was during those few hours sitting on the remote riverbank that I also felt a shift in my relationship with Nature and my sense of purpose in the world.
I can’t say I had it all wrong, but I definitely missed the point: that time spent outdoors doesn’t need to be a big undertaking. There is value in a simple connection, like a phone call to a good friend. Somewhere along the journey of building a career as an outdoor writer — and living in a community full of elite athletes, mountaineers, and FOMO-filled enthusiasts — I had gotten the memo that I needed to prove myself as a hardcore mountain woman. While I certainly had my moments of appreciation and awe, I was often passing through outdoor spaces without noticing the small delights along the way (this is partially the inspiration behind my children’s book, The Wonders That I Find). I had overcomplicated both the role that Nature could play in our lives and what should be a simpler, reciprocal relationship.
Nature became the backdrop, not the story itself.
In Milestones, I’ve been tracking my journey of embracing time constraints for my paying subscribers. This past month I noted that when it comes to my goals, I often feel like I am taking two steps forward, one step back. After eleven months of imposing constraints on my working hours, I’ve had as many months feeling like I’m getting somewhere as I have felt like the goal has gone flying out the window.
I used to be a staunch believer in goal-setting. But more recently a podcast episode (I’ll link to it below) helped me realize why this is something I’ve largely dropped in my life. One of the hosts, Abby Wambach, commented on how when she envisioned her life without goals, she had “an instant body constriction of fear and aimlessness,” “that maybe I don’t trust myself without some sort of external thing.”
I could instantly relate to this feeling. You? My goals had driven me to this point where, upon achieving them, I only saw another mountain I wanted to climb — both literally and figuratively. Like my artistic career, moving from one project to the next, my time in the outdoors had often been destination-driven. Goals have their place, and I’ll continue to use them among many tools in my life. But, without a deeper, daily practice of finding joy and contentment, I’ll be left feeling like my value depends on a future accomplishment.
The same podcast goes on to talk about finding “delights” and this, too, clicked for me. You could say it’s a form of gratitude practice, but I think I like the active nature of it—that it’s not something I’m looking back on, it’s something I can notice as it’s happening.
With this newfound inspiration, several concepts have come together to give me a way forward. For a long time now, I’ve felt compelled to redefine my relationship with the outdoors and find simple delights in Nature—daily.
Robin Wall Kimmerer’s Braiding Sweetgrass, like much of the Indigenous wisdom I’ve studied the past few years, opened my eyes to Nature’s many gifts and lessons, and also the reciprocity this requires of us humans. It touched me deeply. But since I read that book, I recognize I’ve only scratched the surface of what this relationship could be.
Then, more recently, I was reminded of a beautiful book that has sat beside my computer for many months, The Open-Air Life by
.
McGurk’s book is about the Nordic art of friluftsliv (pronounced FREE-loofts-leeve). The word roughly translates to "open-air living" or "life in the outdoors." Essentially, it’s about enjoying the outdoors as a way of life. For someone who has previously treated the outdoors as an arena in which to perform, the idea of embracing the natural world as a lifestyle is both refreshing and enriching. I am attracted to the ritual of it.
The Nordic concept seems similar to many philosophical and practical aspects of Indigenous wisdom. It’s a subtle shift, but a powerful one. As McGurk describes, it’s a “culturally learned rhythm that revolves around being outside and experiencing oneness with both nature and the cultural landscape.” Frilufstliv, she says, “is a form of slow nature.” The mental and physical benefits of spending time in nature are already well-researched. But, frilufstliv encourages us to embrace the outdoors as a fundamental part of life.
It’s the very foundation rather than simply the door to the outside world.
When I reflect on that afternoon spent in the soothing warmth of the sunshine, wherein I simply sat and observed Nature as she showed up that day, I understand the value and importance of friluftsliv. Sure, I had hiked nearly four days to get to that spot, which may have made the rest session that much sweeter. I’ll cherish the memory of it. But the deep-seated feeling of contentment and interconnectedness that overcame me on that rock beach is something I can feel just by stepping into the forest behind my house.
It’s always there waiting for me. And for all the time I’ve spent in it, it’s time I take a deeper look.
It’s there I think I’ll meet myself, too.
“Paying attention is a form of reciprocity with the living world, receiving the gifts with open eyes and open heart.”
― Robin Wall Kimmerer, Braiding Sweetgrass: Indigenous Wisdom, Scientific Knowledge, and the Teachings of Plants
Meghan J. Ward is an outdoor, travel and adventure writer based in Banff, Canada, a Fellow of the Royal Canadian Geographical Society, and the author of Lights to Guide Me Home. Meghan has written several books and produced content for films, anthologies, blogs and some of North America’s top outdoor, fitness and adventure publications.
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What’s caught my attention lately… ✨
The first half of Debunking Goals: Changing the Way We Set Goals on We Can Do Hard Things had me stopping my workout on the elliptical to take notes in my phone. I am not sure why it clicked with me when it did, but it felt timely as I find myself at the end of one big goal, feeling a bit of “What comes next?” And I realized, “Wouldn’t it be nice if it didn’t matter?”
A few books on today’s topic: Braiding Sweetgrass, by Robin Wall Kimmerer; The Open-Air Life, by Linda Åkeson McGurk; Collisions of Earth and Sky by
, and the seminal work by Richard Louv, Last Child in the Woods: Saving Our Children From Nature-Deficit Disorder.
Check these out too… 🙌
Lights to Guide Me Home - my memoir (reviews welcome on Amazon and Goodreads)
The Wonders That I Find - my children’s book
My Email Newsletter - updates about my books, projects, and 1:1 coaching
I am an eight-generation Canadian and a descendent of British, Scottish and German settlers living, working, and recreating outdoors in Treaty 7 Territory — the homelands and gathering place for the Niitsitapi from the Blackfoot Confederacy, including the Siksika, Kainai, and Piikani First Nations; the Îyârhe Nakoda of the Chiniki, Bearspaw, and Goodstoney First Nations; the Tsuut’ina First Nation; the homeland of the Métis and Otipemisiwak Métis Government of the Métis Nation of Alberta, and many others. I am doing my utmost, both personally and professionally, to deepen my understanding of the history of Indigenous peoples and the impacts of colonialism — past and present.
I really enjoyed this post, Meghan, and deeply relate to it. I spent several years living (and hiking) in Jasper and Hinton, and later moved to North Vancouver, another place where folks are intense about their outdoorsy-ness. I remember one year I kept a diary of all the peaks I had bagged and hikes and backcountry trips I had completed, like it was a competition and I was going to win a medal at the end for everything I had done. In time I figured out that I actually just like being outside, whether I’m climbing a mountain or just taking a stroll around the block or having tea on a patio. It’s a bit of a relief to be able to embrace that, don’t you think?
Thank you for this inspirational note, Meghan. I think you’ve really captured the essence of friluftsliv and the impact it can have. Like you, I’ve always been goal driven, but more so in my professional life than in the outdoors. I think a lot of that has to do with being steeped in the culture of friluftsliv. While I still enjoy challenging myself physically outdoors, having nature as my “non-competitive zone” really helps me cope with other stressors in life.