Climbing the Highest Mountains

The Dream You're Too Afraid to Chase

Happy Monday Morning

There's a dream sitting in your chest right now that you haven't told anyone about.

You know the one. The thing that lights you up when you let yourself think about it for more than thirty seconds. The vision that feels too big, too impossible, too ridiculous to say out loud. The calling that would require you to become someone you're not sure you can be.

You've felt it. That pull. That whisper. That knowing.

And you've done exactly what most people do with dreams that big: you've rationalized it away, explained it into submission, buried it under layers of practicality and fear disguised as wisdom.

"I'm being realistic," you tell yourself. "I have responsibilities," you remind yourself. "Maybe someday," you promise yourself.

But someday never comes. Because someday is just a polite way of saying never while keeping hope on life support.

Our pastor quoted Jamie Buckingham at church yesterday that resonated something fierce inside of me. The quote connects an understanding that there is something about extraordinary lives that terrifies comfortable people: "Attempt something so big, that unless God intervenes, it's bound to fail."

Read that again. Let it sit in your soul for a moment.

He's not talking about recklessness. He's talking about the kind of faith-fueled audacity that refuses to settle for a life that could be explained by talent, luck, or hard work alone. He's talking about dreams so vast that their very existence requires divine partnership. He's talking about the kind of mountains that can only be climbed when human courage meets heavenly intervention.

And most of us? We're camping in the foothills, convincing ourselves it's the summit.

I see it everywhere. Brilliant people playing small. Gifted men and women spending their lives on things that don't require them to stretch, to grow, to become. Souls designed for canyons settling for creeks. Hearts built for revolutions settling for routines.

We tell ourselves stories to justify the gap between who we are and who we sense we could become:

"I'm waiting for the right time." (There is no right time. There's only now and too late.)

"I need to figure it all out first." (You'll never figure it all out. That's what faith is for.)

"What if I fail?" (You've already failed by not trying.)

"I don't have what it takes." (Nobody does until they do.)

But here's the truth underneath all those stories: We're not afraid of failure. We're afraid of what success would require us to sacrifice.

Because climbing the highest mountains demands something from you that watching from the valley never will. It demands that you become someone new. It demands that you surrender the safety of the known for the uncertainty of the significant. It demands that you release your death grip on comfort and control and trust fall into purpose.

The version of you reading this right now? That person isn't equipped to climb the mountain you're being called to. And that's exactly the point.

The calling isn't designed to fit your current capacity. It's designed to expand it. The dream isn't meant to accommodate your present limitations. It's meant to shatter them. The mountain isn't there to validate who you are. It's there to forge who you're becoming.

But we've been conditioned to calculate risk rather than respond to calling. We've been trained to prioritize security over significance. We've been taught that average is acceptable, that safe is smart, that staying small is somehow noble.

It's not noble. It's tragic.

Somewhere, right now, there's a marriage that won't be healed because someone chose comfort over courage. There's a business that won't be built because someone chose certainty over calling. There's a ministry that won't be launched because someone chose safety over surrender. There's a book that won't be written, a movement that won't be started, a legacy that won't be lived—all because someone chose to remain the person they already are instead of becoming the person their purpose requires.

And the saddest part? In fifty years, none of the reasons we used to justify playing small will matter. The security we prioritized will be gone. The approval we protected will be forgotten. The comfort we chose will be dust.

But the impact we could have made? That would have echoed...through eternity, rippling its effects through the masses. An unmeasurable level of impact, so big, it goes beyond our own self.

Listen, I know what I'm asking. I know the cost of climbing mountains. I've stood at the base of my own impossible dreams, felt the weight of what would be required, calculated everything I'd have to give up, and turned around more times than I care to admit (and STILL finding my own resolve, EVERY SINGLE DAY.)

I've chosen safety. I've chosen average. I've chosen to make peace with potential rather than pursue it.

And every single time I made that choice, something inside me died. Not dramatically. Not suddenly. Just a slow dimming of the light, a gradual settling of the soul, a quiet resignation that maybe this mediocre life is all I was meant for.

Until I couldn't live with that lie anymore.

The turning point comes when we stopped asking "What if I fail?" and started asking "What if I succeed?" Because success will actually be the scarier option. Failure means we can keep being who we already are. Success means we'd have to become someone we've never been.

Failure lets me keep my excuses. Success demands I release them.

Failure keeps me in control. Success requires absolute surrender.

So here's what I want you to understand: The mountain you're avoiding isn't trying to break you. It's trying to make you. The dream you're suppressing isn't trying to destroy your life. It's trying to deliver you into the life you were always meant for.

But it will cost you everything you're clinging to. Every false identity. Every dulling vice. Every safety net. Every backup plan. Every version of yourself that's small enough to control.

"Attempt something so big, that unless God intervenes, it's bound to fail."

This isn't a suggestion. It's a road map for a life that matters.

Because when you finally surrender to becoming the person your purpose requires—when you stop demanding to see the entire path and take the first step into the fog—when you release your grip on guaranteed outcomes and reach for impossible dreams—something miraculous happens.

You discover that you were never meant to climb the mountain alone.

The moment you become willing to attempt something beyond your capacity is the moment you discover capacities you never knew existed. The moment you surrender your need for certainty is the moment you encounter the certainty of divine partnership. The moment you stop playing it safe is the moment you start playing for keeps.

I Challenge You!

I want you to do something that will feel terrifying and liberating in equal measure.

Get alone. Completely alone. No phone. No distractions. Just you and the truth you've been avoiding.

Ask yourself: "If I knew God would meet me in the impossible, what would I attempt? If I knew failure wasn't final, what mountain would I start climbing? If I knew my life could be a story worth telling, what would I stop tolerating and start pursuing?"

Write it down. All of it. The dream that feels too big. The calling that feels too wild. The vision that requires you to become someone you've never been.

Don't edit it. Don't make it "realistic." Don't water it down into something achievable.

Then ask the only question that matters: "Am I willing to become the person this dream requires? Am I willing to surrender everything comfortable for something meaningful? Am I willing to attempt something so big that unless God intervenes, it's bound to fail?"

Your answer to that question will determine whether you spend your life in the valley or on the mountain.

The summit is calling. It's been calling your whole life.

The only question is whether you're finally ready to answer.

Your Spiritual Blacksmith,

Myriac | The Undeniable Man™

P.S. - Two years ago, I stood at the base of my impossible mountain. I didn't have the resources. I didn't have the plan. I didn't have the proof any of it it would work. But I had the pull, and I finally stopped mistaking fear for wisdom. Today, I still look up at the GIANT of a mountain, so far to go... but I'm living a story I couldn't have authored on my own. Not because I was capable. But because I was willing. The mountain is still steep. But I have faith, the view from the top... Will be worth every sacrifice.