The Goal Was Never 10,000 Steps

The Goal Was Never 10,000 Steps

For years, we've been told that 10,000 steps is the goal. It's become the number many people chase. Watches track it. Apps celebrate it. People feel successful when they reach it and discouraged when they don't.

But lately, I've been questioning whether that number was ever really the goal.

This past weekend, I drove into the Blue Ridge Mountains with one destination in mind Mount Mitchell. The highest peak east of the Mississippi River. I left early, windows down, and from the moment I turned onto the Blue Ridge Parkway, the drive itself became part of the experience.

The temperature started around 64 degrees. Blue skies. Sunshine. Clouds sitting in the mountain valleys like an ocean. Rhododendrons blooming along the roadside in a rich raspberry pink that you almost can't believe is real. As the elevation climbed, the temperature dropped, and I found myself somewhere I didn't expect to be inside a quiet that felt deeply familiar.

The winding roads reminded me of Route 16 between Berlin and Errol, New Hampshire. Berlin was where I was born and raised. Errol became home after I married Jesse. I met him the night before his high school graduation. We became a couple that night and married the following year. Those mountain roads in New Hampshire carry a lifetime of memories, and somewhere on the Blue Ridge Parkway, I felt them again not with grief, but with gratitude. The road felt the same. That feeling of winding through mountains with no rush and nowhere else to be.

This was my first visit to Mount Mitchell. Christina and Corbin had been years before, before Hurricane Helene, but only made it to the summit area. I had a plan a full loop hike. And then the mountain reminded me that plans and reality aren't always the same thing.

Hiking above 6,000 feet is a completely different experience. The elevation changes everything in ways you don't fully understand until you're in it. I realized quickly that the full loop wasn't the right call not because I couldn't keep going, but because I was paying attention. I was listening to my body instead of overriding it. And honestly? That distinction matters more to me now than it ever has before.

For years, I probably would have pushed through. I would have focused on finishing the route, hitting the mileage, proving something to myself. This time was different. Instead of forcing the day to match the plan, I allowed the plan to match the day.

So I hiked Mount Craig and Mount Tom instead. The trails were unlike anything I had experienced rock steps, natural stair sections, high-elevation forest where the trees were unlike the ones I'm used to because the entire hike was already above 6,000 feet. It was a different world up there, and I let myself simply be in it.

And then something unexpected stopped me completely.

Walking through the forest, I caught a scent I hadn't experienced in years balsam fir. The moment it hit me, I wasn't on a mountain in North Carolina anymore. I was back in the White Mountains of New Hampshire. Back home. The fragrance was so immediate and so specific that it bypassed thought entirely and went straight to memory. To Jesse. To the life we built in those mountains. To the woman I was then and the woman I am now.

I stood there for a moment and just breathed it in.

That moment became the most meaningful part of the entire day. Not the summit. Not the mileage. Not the elevation marker recognizing Mount Mitchell as the highest point east of the Mississippi. The balsam fir. A scent that carried twenty-six years of love and a life that shaped everything I am.

After the hike, I found a picnic area tucked among the trees tables scattered naturally, each one feeling private and secluded, like sitting in a personal forest oasis. I sat quietly. Listened to birds. Watched butterflies drift through the mountain air. One of them was a stunning blue-and-black butterfly I'd seen pictured in one of the educational displays along the trail and couldn't believe I was now watching in person. I rested. I let myself simply be present without an agenda.

On the way out, I stopped at the observation tower walked the 300 yards uphill to reach it, climbed to the platform, used the directional markers to identify the mountain ranges stretching out in every direction. I set up my tripod without caring what anyone thought and took photos and videos I'll use later. And then I met a woman traveling by van, living on the road, moving at her own pace.

I told her, "You're living my dream."

She smiled like she knew exactly what I meant.

From Mount Mitchell, I continued to Craggy Gardens. The feeling was completely different softer, more intimate, more garden-like. Where Mount Mitchell felt expansive and powerful, Craggy Gardens felt immersive. Rhododendrons everywhere. Tree-covered pathways creating natural arbors. Sunlight filtering through the canopy. Rock ledges. Open grassy areas. Large clusters of blooms gathered across the landscape in a way that made you want to wander slowly and take in every turn.

Standing at the top, looking out over the ridges, I had one clear thought: I want to see this in every season.

The overlooks at Craggy Gardens gave me an image I won't forget a sea of mountains. Ridges stretching endlessly. Valley after valley, layer after layer, rolling forests disappearing into the distance. No matter how far I looked, the mountains continued.

Here is what settled in somewhere between the summit and the drive home.

I spent most of my life living in the White Mountains of New Hampshire and never hiked them the way I hike today. Not because I didn't love them. Not because I didn't appreciate them. I was simply living a different life. Building a business. Raising children. Being a wife. Meeting responsibilities. The mountains were always there, and I was always somewhere else in my head.

Today is a different season. The mountains haven't changed nearly as much as I have.

At 62 years old, I'm hiking mountains, traveling solo, meeting strangers who become conversations worth having, exploring trails I've never been on before, and creating memories I didn't know were still ahead of me. This day at Mount Mitchell was never about checking a hike off a list. It was about feeling alive. And the body that allowed me to do all of it to drive into the mountains, to adjust when the plan changed, to hike above 6,000 feet, to sit quietly in a forest and simply breathe that body has been taken care of. Intentionally. Consistently. One choice at a time.

The goal was never a number on a watch. It was never a mileage target. It was never proving something to anyone, including myself. The goal was being able to say yes to a day like this. The strength to spend a full day in the mountains. The confidence to travel alone. The capacity to adapt when conditions changed. The ability to recover well enough to keep moving. The freedom to follow a scent into a memory and let it land softly instead of knocking you down.

That's why the focus has shifted. Not chasing numbers. Building the foundation that makes the adventures possible. Strength. Mobility. Balance. Recovery. The ability to trust your body again.

The goal was never 10,000 steps. The goal was always the adventure.

The life that was waiting for me wasn't found at a summit. It wasn't found in a step count or a mileage goal. It was built one choice, one trail, one season at a time. And there are still so many adventures ahead.

If something here resonated with you, I'd love for you to explore what else is available. You can find resources, connect, and learn more at claudetteeames.com/access.

I'm Claudette Eames wellness advocate and certified mental wellness coach. Building a life that genuinely feels good to live, one choice at a time.

In support, Claudette 🌻

Rooted in healing. Grounded in purpose.