By Von C. Howard, Contributing Writer – The Westside Gazette
There’s something I wish I could have told my 21-year-old self:
“You’re not lost. You’re just climbing.”
At 21, I believed success was supposed to be instant, that purpose would arrive gift-wrapped at the top of some figurative ladder. Back then, the valley felt like failure, the delay felt like denial, and silence felt like abandonment.
But now, at 46, I know better.
I know that the valley wasn’t a detour. It was a design.
I know the climb wasn’t a curse. It was confirmation.
Because here’s the truth: if you’re in the valley, if you’re in the struggle, if you’re still in the middle of becoming — that means you’re still on the path. And if you’re still on the path, the mountaintop is still your destination.
21-year-old me: “Does it get better?”
46-year-old me: “Yes. But not just when you get there. It gets better when you realize the beauty of where you are right now — even in the valley.”
Let’s be honest: the climb isn’t easy, not in 2025, and especially not in this America.
We are living in pressure-packed days and unpredictable nights. And for Black folks, especially Black men, the climb often means navigating through systems that were never created with us in mind.
We’re expected to lead without faltering.
To carry without breaking.
To achieve without rest.
To smile through pain.
And still, we climb.
We climb with dreams in our chest and burdens on our shoulders.
We climb while raising families, building visions, honoring ancestors, and trying not to drown in the expectations of others.
We climb, not because it’s easy, but because we were born with purpose.
But here’s what time and wisdom have taught me:
The valley is not just a place of survival; it’s a place of sacred beauty.
It’s where you hear God most clearly.
It’s where your heart is stretched.
It’s where you learn to love yourself without the applause.
It’s where you see how far you’ve come — even before you see how far you’ll go.
The valley is the process before the promise.
Yes, the climb will test you.
You’ll walk through thunderous storms that try to silence your spirit.
You’ll endure scorching heat that makes quitting look like relief.
Fierce winds will try to make you question what you carry.
But then there will be moments of sunlight. Enough warmth, enough clarity, enough grace to keep going. And when you feel like giving up, you’ll look up and remember: this path was carved just for you.
Psalm 23:4 still speaks:
“Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for You are with me.”
And I still remember that picture that hung in my grandmother’s house — the one with the footprints in the sand. Back then, it was just a decorative frame. But now? Now I know in the valley, God didn’t leave me. He carried me.
He carried me through bad decisions, lonely nights, dry seasons, and false starts, all because He knew I wasn’t done yet.
And if there’s anything I know for sure at 46, it’s this:
If you don’t appreciate the valley, you’ll mishandle the mountaintop.
But if you embrace the climb, even the hard, humbling, uncertain parts, then even the climb becomes beautiful.
Because the beauty is in becoming.
The beauty is in who you’re building along the way.
The beauty is in knowing that the pain didn’t break you — it prepared you.
So, to my brothers:
I see you climbing with quiet courage.
I know the weight you carry.
I know what it feels like to lead and limp at the same time.
But hear me — if you’re climbing, you’re winning. Don’t stop.
To our sisters:
Thank you.
For being strength and sanctuary.
For reminding us of who we are when the valley tries to make us forget.
To the next generation, still in the process, still on the journey.
I need you to hear this…
The climb is beautiful. Even in the valley.
Because it means you haven’t settled.
Because it means you haven’t quit.
Because it means you believe there’s more and you’re right.
The mountaintop is calling but the view only matters because of what you climbed through to see it.
So, keep climbing.
With gratitude.
With humility.
With fire.
With faith.
Because when you reach the top and you will, you’ll look back at every storm, every tear, every valley…
And you’ll say:
“That climb was beautiful — because it led me here.”
Written for the climbers, the dreamers, the weary, and the faithful.
The mountain is yours.