Finding Perspective From the Mountaintop: Remembering What Truly Matters

By Juliana Mott Fabio, LCSW

This morning, before the sun rose, my husband and I laced up our shoes and headed out for a familiar hike in the mountains behind our home. We’ve had our share of stressors lately—the kind that take up too much mental space, pile on top of each other, and begin to feel larger than they truly are. I see this often in my work as a therapist: stress has a way of narrowing our vision, tightening our bodies, and shrinking our capacity to see the bigger picture. And yet, the body and the heart know that perspective can shift everything.

As we began climbing the trail, darkness still lingering in the canyon, the air felt crisp and quiet. My mind was still tangled with the worries from the week—work, family logistics, unexpected changes, all the usual human complications that can feel heavy in the moment. But with each step and each breath, something inside me began to loosen. Movement has a way of doing that; it reminds the nervous system that we are safe, capable, and connected to something larger than our thoughts.

Halfway up the mountain, the horizon started to glow. A soft band of gold stretched upward, slowly revealing the silhouettes of the ridgelines around us. With the light came spaciousness—the kind of natural release that happens not because the stressors disappear, but because your relationship to them shifts.

There is a rock at the summit of this trail, one my husband and I have stood on countless times. You reach it by circling around the back side of the mountain, and as you turn the final corner, the world opens up. The entire city rests below, the ocean spreading out just beyond it like a calm exhale. No matter how many times we’ve been there, the view always takes my breath away.

This morning, with the sun rising behind us and casting long shadows across the city below, it felt like borrowed time—like we were witnessing something secret and sacred. The city was still asleep, lights twinkling, the world not yet in motion. That stillness held a kind of possibility that is hard to find once the day fully begins.

Looking down, I felt something inside me settle. There is something humbling and comforting about seeing the world from above. All the worries that had felt so heavy an hour earlier suddenly appeared small, ordinary, and universal. From the mountaintop, it was clear: everyone down below has their own stressors, fears, hopes, and heartbreaks. We are all trying our best, all connected in ways we forget when we are pulled into the details of daily life.

The perspective reminded me of something I tell clients often: distance doesn’t invalidate your feelings—it simply gives them room to breathe. When we step back, physically or emotionally, we can see what matters and what doesn’t. We can remember that stressors pass, feelings shift, and nothing stays as overwhelming as it first seems.

I turned to my husband, the sunrise glowing across his face. He gave me a slow, warm smile—one of those quiet, knowing smiles that feels like its own kind of grounding. I leaned in and kissed him, grateful in a way that caught me off guard. Grateful for him. For my family. For our friends. For our city waking up below us. For the chance to see life from a higher vantage point.

Yes, our stressors are real. Yes, they require care and attention. But they are not everything. They are not permanent. And they shrink when held against the vastness of the world, the brevity of life, and the beauty available to us when we pause long enough to notice.

On top of that mountain, with the sun rising and the world hushed around us, I felt gratitude settle into my bones. A deep knowing that life is short, precious, and interconnected—that we are small in the best possible way.

And from that distance, clarity came:These stressors will pass. What remains is love, connection, and the quiet moments that remind us who we are.