The Torture of Anticipation: Why Waiting for a Hard Thing Feels Harder Than Doing It
There’s a peculiar kind of suffering in waiting for a challenge you’ve chosen to endure. It’s the mental equivalent of standing at the base of a mountain you’ve already agreed to climb, legs twitching with restless energy while your brain screams, Just get it over with already. This is the paradox Aaron McFarland embodies as he counts down to his Long Trail thru-hike—a journey he’s spent over a year psyching himself up (and stressing himself out) for. The trail itself will be brutal: 272 miles of rocks, mud, and vertical miles that’ll grind his body to dust. But the waiting? That’s the part gnawing at his sanity. And honestly? It’s fascinating.
The Impatience of the Committed
Let’s dissect this contradiction. Aaron admits he’s a patient guy—planting trees, sitting for hours in deer blinds, even embracing the slow grind of daily farm labor. Yet when it comes to his own self-imposed trial, he’s antsy enough to want to fast-forward time. Why? Because anticipation isn’t about patience; it’s about losing control. When you’ve already committed to pain, the delay becomes a limbo where your brain invents worst-case scenarios. Will I fail? Will I hate it? Did I overpack? The trail itself, for all its physical cruelty, offers a perverse comfort: at least then the story begins. The waiting room, though, is where doubt metastasizes.
The Obsession of Preparation
What strikes me most about Aaron’s prep is how meticulously he’s weaponized control. Buying gear he can’t yet use? Packing homemade dehydrated meals a month in advance? Training with a weighted pack on harder trails? This isn’t just preparation—it’s a ritual to quiet the anxiety of the unknown. I’ve done this. We’ve all done this. When fear whispers, “What if you’re not ready?”, we respond by buying another ultralight tent or rewatching 10-year-old YouTube tutorials on blister prevention. It’s a placebo effect: the more we organize our chaos, the more we convince ourselves we’ll survive.
The Myth of Physical Readiness
Here’s a truth many hikers won’t admit: fitness is the easy part. Yes, Aaron’s farm-work legs and 30-pound pack hikes are building endurance. But the body adapts. The mind? That’s the uninvited guest at the campfire. When he’s 10 days in, sleep-deprived and questioning every life choice, it won’t be his quads that beg him to quit—it’ll be the voice in his head asking, Why did you think this was a good idea? Physical training builds strength; mental training is a cage match with your own psyche. And the wait? That’s when the psyche sharpens its knives.
The Cultural Curse of Instant Gratification
Let’s zoom out. Aaron’s impatience isn’t just personal—it’s cultural. We live in an era where we expect same-day delivery, instant expertise via podcasts, and “overnight success” after a decade of hustle. So when a challenge demands not just effort but time, it feels almost offensive. The Long Trail’s genius lies in its refusal to bend to our timelines. It doesn’t care about his meal plans or his 2025 spreadsheet. It’ll take as long as it takes, and the wait? That’s the trail’s first lesson. If you can’t master your mind before Day One, the trail will master it for you.
Final Thoughts: The Gift of the Wait
I’ll leave you with this: The wait isn’t the enemy. It’s the prologue. Every anxious checklist, every rerouted bike commute, every late-night gear spreadsheet is part of the journey. When Aaron finally steps onto that trail in September, the waiting won’t feel like wasted time—it’ll be the tension that made the release possible. The real question isn’t whether the trail is harder than the wait. It’s whether he’ll realize, 200 miles in, that the wait was the first mountain all along.
