Elephant Mountain
When you're stuck on a mountain and keep slipping backwards... something inside may be waiting to be seen.
Read… or listen. Sometimes your own voice is enough, while other times, hearing someone else helps you find a way up the mountain.
Does it ever feel like you keep climbing a mountain… and can't get to the other side?
There are many reasons this might be happening. I know you know in your Core Self when this is the case. But at other times, you may be too blended with a wounded child part to see the truth—beneath the pain.
I just want you to know that you're not alone. There are many of us out there who have a hard time accessing the truth—something we may not realize is already waiting for us to see.
I see a lot of people with this struggle. It’s something we learn through trauma—something that becomes easier to see when we’ve been there a while… and begin walking with it instead of against it.
I think about life as a learning experience—not a battle. But sometimes we need several opportunities to keep learning what we need to. When one of these moments arises, I think of it as a gift… the gift of the elephant—often hard to see, even when it’s right in front of us.
Here's an example. A man shares with me that his dog just died, and a few weeks before, his wife left him. Now his daughter has cancer, and his grandchildren won't talk to her—or anyone else. Oh yeah, he's having some chronic pain in his back, and his insurance company won't approve the procedure.
You get the picture—nothing seems to be going right—the mountain is getting even steeper—and he’s running out of air, losing hope the higher he tries to climb. He feels like he’s all alone… just hanging on.
What would you say to this person or do if you were them—to get to the other side?
In the moment, the first thing I say is, “Take a breath... Right now I think you’re climbing that mountain for a reason—and you've known that for a while. I'm right here if you slip too far… but I think you can handle it.”
Looking surprised but a little relieved, he says, “I think you're right. I need to keep slipping so I can finally learn how to get up on my own.”
He pauses… as if something inside him is catching up. “Maybe… that’s what that little one needed all along.”
Asking him to tell me more, he replies, “I've always thought that I can't do things on my own and someone needed to help me. I think I need to learn that I can help myself rather than living in fear of the next bad thing happening.”
I reply, “It’s good to hear that you know you have the answers inside—or that you know how to ask the right questions. And that it isn’t healthy to wait for others to save you—only to realize they won’t always be there. You are your own internal caregiver, who can catch yourself when you’re slipping—and help you find your way to the other side of the mountain.”
Seeing the man’s breath slowing down—taking in my light—as he begins to sense his own, I gently ask, “When did that fear begin to take hold? How far back does that go?”
He responds, “Hmm… good question. My mother got very sick when I was 8-years-old. She was scared to be alone as she was afraid of dying. I held her hand… and I felt her fear. I guess I learned to be afraid of living, too.”
I lean in and say to the man, “I'm so sorry you were in that position. Imagine bringing that kid in here between us… so you can talk to him. Let him know what you know now… that he didn’t know back then.”
Pausing a bit… and looking into my eyes, he continues, “Hey little one, I'm the man you grew up to be. I can do a lot of things now that I didn't think I could. I think about walking with the elephants in my therapist’s office… and the mountains don’t feel so big anymore. They remind me that you live in my heart now—and remind you, too… that you’re in good company.”
I notice my body swaying back and forth—in synchrony with the man in front of me. He looks up and says, “Thank you for walking with me and the elephants. Now I can face challenges in my life—and can take back my healing power. I even think I can teach others to do the same.”
As I write this, I think about getting older… and struggling to climb mountains in my own life. They just got a lot smaller as I let go of the fear of dying and think about why life is important—and that I need to keep living.
Looking at myself in the mirror, I can see that I’ve always had a hard time getting up and being in front of other people. My mom… and many others I’ve lost feel close now, as if they can hear my voice.
Now I don’t feel so afraid to be seen... and felt—in the light of invisibility.
I think I'll take my wife dancing tonight. Even if we're just sitting together on the couch, I’ll hold her hand and feel closer to her… not trying so hard to get to the top of the mountain.
I'm already there… and I'm not over the hill. Not yet.
And I really don’t care if you think I am. That’s about you… not me. I don’t live in that neck of the woods anymore—or need to hide up in a tree—or go down a rabbit hole.
I feel like I‘m walking easily on the other side of the mountain. Imagine that… you’re there too.
Can you see it now?
Yes… it’s always good to be walking together on Elephant Mountain.
Gratitude: With appreciation for those who have shared their light and sweetness with me over the years—and received mine.
Confidentiality note: This piece was inspired by someone close to heart, but is a composite of many people I know—inside and outside of therapy. Any resemblance to your own life or our shared experience is both coincidental and universal—reminding us that our stories echo one another in the fabric of human experience.
Comments or questions? You’re welcome to reach me at mcecilvt@aol.com. Feel free to share these words—and this blog—with anyone you hold close… or long to be held.
About me: Besides being a writer, Marc Cecil is a doctoral-level licensed psychologist, certified AEDP supervisor, approved EMDR consultant, and senior CSRT consultant. An experienced psychotherapist, supervisor, consultant, and teacher, Marc uses an integrated experiential model—grounded in our capacity for adaptive change—to help people heal from complex relational, developmental, and transgenerational trauma.
Dr. Cecil lives in Vermont near the shores of Lake Bomoseen, where his heartfelt stories and images of connection arise from the light of invisibility—bringing life to therapy and therapy to life. Some call it elephant work.