Survival Isn't the Same as Living: 37 Days Alone in the Wilderness

I spent 37 days alone in the wilderness of British Columbia, and even though it was filmed for the national television show "Alone," those moments of survival were about me; no one was there to impress.

I went into the wilderness thinking this survival challenge meant proving to myself how much I could accomplish or endure. I came out realizing survival isn't the same as living.

In nearly every role I had played in life, there was an expectation attached to it, an idea of who someone else thought I should be. But out there, the only expectation was that I did not give up.

As the mother of two children, I carried the expectation that I would be the mother I never had. I would build a business, provide everything they needed, keep the wheels on, and somehow raise good humans in the middle of it all.

In the wilderness there was hunger, cold, rain, grizzly bears, and an enormous amount of silence. I had gone there prepared to prove I could survive. What I did not expect was to discover how exhausting it had been spending so much of my life proving that same thing everywhere else.

I was also the owner of a hobby farm, a provider, and a woman working in a male-dominated industry where the expectation was always to rise to the top, even while people were standing on your head the entire way there. Sometimes they took credit for your work. Sometimes they questioned whether you belonged. Sometimes they actively tried to make sure you did not succeed.

Every role came with a version of who I was supposed to be.

Was I strong enough? Successful enough? Present enough? Loving enough? Tough enough? Determined enough? Understanding enough? Somewhere inside all of those expectations, life had flown by. My kids grew up. Years disappeared.

And I eventually realized that the survival challenge of 37 days alone was not the hardest place to stay present. Ordinary life was far more complicated.

At home, a thousand things demanded my attention at once. In the wilderness, time wasn't set by appointments, calendars, or due dates. It was measured by daylight, weather, hunger, the movement of animals and the amount of wood beside the fire.

Out there, I was reminded that almost everything I had been racing against was something we created. Clocks. Schedules. Deadlines. Expectations. The constant pressure to be somewhere, become something, or accomplish more.

The wilderness did not care about any of that. It did not care about my title, my bank account, my resume, or whether anyone thought I was doing enough. It only asked me to pay attention.

And that may have been one of the greatest lessons survival ever gave me.

Because the remarkable thing is that you do not need to spend 37 days alone in the wilderness to experience it. Your story does not need grizzly bears.

It may need a ten-minute walk into the woods. It may need a fishing rod you have not picked up in years. Maybe it needs a morning in a tree stand, a paddle across quiet water, a fire you built yourself, or simply sitting beside a river long enough to hear your own thoughts again.

Maybe you grew up outside and life slowly pulled you away from it. Maybe you have never considered yourself an outdoorswoman at all. It does not matter.

The outdoors does not require a resume.

You do not have to know how to hunt or fish. You do not need expensive gear. You do not have to be fearless, experienced, or certain of yourself. You simply have to go.

Thirty-seven days in the wilderness taught me that I could survive with very little.

Looking back on the years since returning has taught me something.

I do not want to spend my life simply surviving it. I want to notice it.

I want to feel the cold streams on my feet and hear the first bird before daylight. Watch a child become completely consumed by the discovery of something as simple as a rock. Sit beside fires with women who arrived as strangers and leave feeling connected. I want to be present enough to recognize my own life while I am still living it.

The outdoors never asked me to be someone I wasn’t. In fact, it gave me all the room I needed to discover who I was.

It never asked for an explanation. It never tried to redirect me toward someone else’s agenda. It simply gave me enough silence to remember myself. And you do not need 37 days in the wilderness to find that silence. Maybe you just need to go outside.

Editor's note: Rose is the author of this essay and the founder of This Is My Quest.

Follow Rose on social media @realroseanna and learn more about This Is My Quest to see where her mission—and her next adventure—takes her.