There seemed to be some kind of cosmic coincidence last week as the “why” behind climbing popped up during various conversations with friends in different contexts. We all agreed that while the top of a climb may feel momentarily sublime, that moment is rarely reason enough to endure what it takes to get there.

When “ikigai” appeared in my inbox as a word-of-the-day that same week, I knew I’d better pay attention. Ikigai is a Japanese term that describes a motivating force, something that gives us meaning, a sense of purpose.

For some of us, climbing embodies this concept. So we asked ourselves, what are we doing up here anyway? Why do we push ourselves? And where does that motivation come from?

To answer these questions I considered how physical and psychological challenges became a regular, if necessary, part of my life. As a kid I was drawn toward anything that gave me an excuse to run. Whenever I didn’t exercise I’d get so wound up my dad worried I had a hyperactive disorder.

In middle school I finally found a regular energy outlet: Outdoor Fitness. “O.F.” was an alternative P.E. class of about 60 kids that pushed me further than I thought possible. “Miss Call,” our strict and feared leader, had us run or bike every school day. She led us on weekend hikes to mountain lakes where, rain or shine, a “quick dip” in the water was mandatory. She taught us how to build a fire and create shelter in the damp, cold woods of the northwest. To test our skills she had us pair up and fend for ourselves during a cold December night in the Cascade foothills.

Could we do it? And if so, how much would we suffer? Questions like these seemed to lurk behind every challenge presented to us. During the summer between 7th and 8th grade, when I was 12 years old, I was one of 10 students to join Miss Call on a 5-week, 1,700-mile bike trip around eastern Canada and the northeastern U.S. without vehicle support. We carried all our stuff (50-plus pounds) including camping and cooking gear on our bikes the entire way.

Miss Call not only taught us how to be uncomfortable, but how to lean into that discomfort and use it to our advantage. This changed everything for me; most importantly, my perspective. I learned that I could view any challenge in life with the same enthusiasm I had for these mostly-fun O.F. challenges.

Of course, not everyone appreciated learning in this way. Tears were common at O.F. and a few kids would drop out every semester.

Miss Call could be harsh, no doubt, but an undercurrent of love (that some didn’t seem to notice) ran beneath her militant exterior. Those years in O.F. did more to alter the trajectory of my life than any two years before or since.

From then on, the challenge I find in climbing has been my favorite means of self-discovery, relationship building and outdoor recreation. In a bouldering video released last August, local pro climber, Shawn Raboutou, is featured making the first ascent of Alphane (V17), one of the world’s hardest problems. In the opening scene he says, “What gets me super motivated is climbing at my limit. Knowing I can do it takes a little bit of the fun out of it for me.”

Scottish climber, Dave MacLeod says something similar, albeit more directly, “You have to feel like maybe you can’t do it. Otherwise, why are you bothering?”

At the heart of the answer to why we climb is the idea that uncertainty is critical to any challenge worth accepting. What I learned from Miss Call, and what has since manifested in climbing, is my ikigai. And with it comes a constant curiosity: “What can I learn about myself at the margins of my comfort zone? And what about that can I apply to the rest of life?”

I clearly still have more questions than answers. But what I do know is that facing significant challenges — climbing and otherwise — has taught me more about how to live than anything else.

Contact Chris Weidner at cweidner8@gmail.com Follow him on Instagram @christopherweidner and Twitter @cweidner8