Some lessons you learn in a classroom. Others you learn on the edge of a cliff at sunrise with no shoelaces.

When I was in my twenties, a few friends and I made one of those decisions that sounds adventurous in the planning and slightly reckless in the execution. We were going to hike into the Olympic mountains, find a crystal clear lake near the summit, and camp for the night. Spontaneous, underprepared, and completely committed.

We grabbed backpacks, threw in some food, and set out in the late afternoon with the kind of confidence that comes from not fully understanding what you've signed up for. The trail was clear at first, wide enough to feel certain about. Then it got narrower. Then it started winding in ways that made the original path feel like a distant memory.

Some of our group were stronger hikers and pulled ahead. My friend stayed back with me. We kept moving, telling ourselves the lake was just a little further, the summit just around the next bend. And then the sun went down and we realized two things at once. Our friends had the only flashlight. And we had no cell phones to reach them.

We kept going as long as we could, moving slowly, hands outstretched, feeling the bushes on either side of the trail, testing the ground beneath each step before committing our weight to it. There was no seeing. There was only feel. At some point we stopped talking much. The mountain had our full attention.

We found a small clearing, laid our sleeping bags down on ground we couldn't fully see, and listened to the sounds of the night around us. There was rustling we couldn't identify. We told ourselves it was nothing and eventually fell asleep.

When the sun rose, I opened my eyes and went completely still.

We were on the edge of a cliff. A few feet in any direction and neither of us would have survived the night. Somehow, in complete darkness, by feel alone, we had found the only clearing big enough and safe enough to hold us.

The rustling we had heard all night was rats. They had eaten every inch of our leather shoelaces while we slept. One more thing we hadn't planned for.

We laced our shoes as best we could, packed up, and got back on the trail. Ten minutes later we reached the summit. The lake was exactly as promised, crystal clear and still, and our friends had a full campsite waiting with coffee already on.

Ten minutes. That was all that had stood between us and where we were trying to go.

We thought we were lost. We were never lost. We were in unmapped territory, moving by feel, and we stopped exactly where we needed to stop.

Most people navigating uncertainty right now are waiting for a flashlight before they take the next step. A clear signal. A definitive answer. A map that tells them exactly where the path goes.

The flashlight rarely arrives on schedule. And waiting for it keeps you standing still on a mountain in the dark.

What I've learned, in the Olympic mountains and in every career transition I've navigated since, is that forward motion in uncertainty doesn't require sight. It requires feel. The ability to stay in contact with the ground beneath you, to move slowly and deliberately, to trust that your hands know something your eyes can't confirm yet.

This is what separates the people who navigate disruption well from the ones who freeze. Not certainty. Not a better plan. The willingness to keep moving by feel, and the wisdom to stop when stopping is the right act.

In change leadership we talk constantly about vision and strategy and roadmaps. What we talk about far less is the capacity to navigate without them. To trust your instincts in the dark. To find solid ground not because you could see it but because you stayed in contact with it long enough to feel it under your feet.

That capability is not a soft skill. It is the skill. And it is entirely yours. No AI can feel the ground for you.

One Thing This Week

Before you take the next step this week, ask yourself one question: am I waiting for a flashlight, or do I already know enough to move?

You probably already know enough to move.

🩵 One Thing I'm Loving

I've been returning to my own Leadership Reflection Worksheet almost every day lately, which tells me something about the moment we're all in right now.

It's not a map. I want to be clear about that. It's a key. A set of questions I built for myself that unlocks the overwhelm when the noise from every direction gets too loud to think through. It helps me find what's actually true about where I am, what I actually know, and what the next deliberate sentence is, before I react to anything else.

I've been using it in conversations, in my own quiet mornings, and in moments where the uncertainty feels louder than my own instincts. Every time I come back to it, I find solid ground faster than I expected.

I'm making it available as a free download for Change Anchor readers this week. The link is in the P.S. If you're navigating a loud season right now, I think it will help.

Until next week, keep the pen in your hand.

Heather 

Anchored in Possibility™

P.S. The Leadership Reflection Worksheet is available as a free download this week for Change Anchor readers. CLICK FOR PDF . No sign in - just a key for when the noise gets loud.