I was 26 and, on paper, living the dream: a park ranger surrounded by the sweeping grandeur of Grand Teton, the kind of place where the air smells like pine and the mountains look painted against the sky. My days were spent guiding visitors through trails that felt sacred, journaling about the way snow rested on bison fur, and trading campfire stories with my fellow rangers. It was an existence Instagram-worthy enough to make my city-dwelling cousins wildly envious.

And yet, inside, I was quietly fighting a war I didn’t even realize I’d enlisted in.

You see, I had a monster living in my head. Not the kind that jumps out from under the bed—but something just as insidious: perfectionism. It whispered to me that I needed to always have it together, to be the strong, self-reliant cowboy who could handle the wilderness, the tourists, the cranky bears—whatever life threw at me—without breaking a sweat. Vulnerability? That wasn’t in my job description. Or at least, that’s what I told myself.

The Wild Expectations We Chase

Out here in Wyoming, self-reliance isn’t just a buzzword; it’s the code we live by. When winter storms trap you at home with roads closed for days, you don’t borrow sugar from the neighbors—you make cookies out of elk jerky instead (okay, not really, but you get the idea). My parents raised me to believe that strength meant keeping your struggles private, stuffing feelings down as efficiently as a grizzly preps for hibernation.

So, I became an expert at wearing the armor of capability. If something went wrong—an unexpected snowfall during a guided tour, a camping stove refusing to ignite, or even a shoulder injury from assisting a stranded hiker—I didn’t complain. I soldiered on.

But, in hindsight, this obsession with being “unshakeable” wrecked havoc on my relationships. Romantic or otherwise, I couldn’t let anyone in too deeply. Heaven forbid they see me sweat. Vulnerability felt as foreign as a cactus in a Wyoming meadow. My dating life, if you could even call it that, withered down to awkward first dates where I offered outdoor trivia instead of emotional insight. Charming, right?

Then came the panic attacks.

The Moment the Armor Cracked

It happened on a late-autumn afternoon during elk migration season. I was leading a small group along a ridge trail when I felt my chest tighten, like a vice clamped around my lungs. My vision went blurry, my thoughts scrambled. For a brief moment, I was convinced I was about to keel over in front of six tourists armed only with binoculars. Cool way to go, Jax. Real cool.

Spoiler alert: I didn’t die. But that attack—one of many I would experience over the coming months—shook me right to my core. I had to face the truth I’d been sprinting away from for years: I wasn’t fine. And if I didn’t do something about it, this quiet battle was going to tear me down one breathless moment at a time.

The Tools I Didn’t Know I Needed

Admitting I needed help felt like trying to scale the Grand Teton barefoot—impossible, painful, and deeply unsettling. But with nudges from a persistent coworker (shoutout to Maria, the patron saint of tough love), I started to unpack what was really happening. Here’s what helped me climb out of that dark valley:

  • I Talked to Someone Who Got It: I began seeing a therapist, a woman who had the uncanny ability to untangle emotional knots I’d stuffed under layers of bravado. She taught me that strength isn’t the opposite of vulnerability—it’s born from it. Admitting you’re not okay? That’s cowboy-level courage.

  • I Learned to Listen to My Body: Panic attacks taught me that I couldn’t just power through everything. I started meditating (yes, even gruff wildlife guys can meditate) and paying attention to how stress showed up in my body. The tight shoulders, racing heart, and shallow breathing were all red flags that I needed to set down the metaphorical pack I’d been carrying.

  • I Let People In: This was the hardest part. I started opening up to friends and, eventually, romantic partners. Instead of deflecting worries with jokes or pretending things were “no big deal,” I let my guard down. Guess what? Nobody ran for the hills. If anything, it brought us closer. Turns out, you can only stare at the stars so many times alone before realizing it’s better to share the view.

  • I Redefined Strength: Growing up, I viewed “strength” as being the person who never needed help. But here’s what I’ve learned: true strength is admitting when you’re struggling and reaching out for lifelines. It’s trading the myth of perfection for the messiness of real life.

Why This Struggle Mattered

Looking back, I realize just how much my perfectionism had been holding me hostage. By constantly trying to hide my inner battles, I’d been robbing myself of authentic connection—not just with others, but with myself. Who knew that the guy who’d spent his childhood sketching pronghorns on the prairie could be just as complex and wild as the landscape he lived in?

These days, I still feel the old patterns tug at me. When life gets noisy, and I’m tempted to double down on my “independent loner” mode, I remind myself of this: showing up as your messy, chaotic, imperfect self is the bravest thing you can do. The beauty of connection—like the beauty of nature itself—isn’t in its perfection. It’s in its raw honesty.

Wrapping It Up in a Bowline Knot

I share this story not to say, “Look at me, I conquered my demons,” but because I know how lonely it can feel to fight invisible battles. Whether yours stems from perfectionism, anxiety, or some other challenge, you’re not weakened by admitting it. You’re human. And every wilderness (even the one within) is navigable once you stop pretending it’s not there.

As for me? Well, I’m still learning. These mountains have a funny way of humbling you when you think you’ve got it all figured out. But now, when life starts to weigh heavy, I don’t white-knuckle my way through it. I reach out, I breathe, and I remind myself that my scars tell a story of survival, not defeat.

So here’s my challenge to you: next time you feel like retreating into your own version of a fortress, ask yourself this—what’s the worst that could happen if you let the walls down? You might just find that authenticity, like love, is worth the risk every time.