Climbing Is Not Your Therapy

I often tell people that “climbing saved my life.” I found this sport at a pivotal moment: a time marred by depression, heartbreak, and crisis centers. Despite all of that, I felt drawn to my university’s climbing wall and the crazy people using it. In the climbing gym, I not only could escape my sadness but find community in the process. And as a Black man who struggled to fit in, the sport played a critical role in healing me and shaping my identity today.

So why then, would I say “climbing is not your therapy”?

Climbing can indeed be therapeutic. Some mental health professionals recommend climbing to help their clients connect with their bodies. Others even use climbing as physical therapy, to recover from traumatic injuries. But when I say that climbing isn’t therapy, I’m talking about a pattern I’ve noticed in our community after 12 years as a routesetter, instructor, coach, and avid outdoor climber. That pattern is confusing inner work with outer conquest.

Many climbers treat this sport as escapism: a means of avoiding internal issues. That might not seem like a big deal, but I believe this pattern connects to some of the larger problems in the climbing community with accountability, boundaries, and power dynamics. There are numerous examples pointing to these issues, from blind trust enabling sexual abuse, to climbers who disrespect Native sovereignty for selfish gain. There have also been enough incidents of sexual abuse in our sport to merit the establishment of an entire organization this year to address the issue. And any fellow Red River Gorge climbers will know the pain of hearing “Roadside is closed, again” several times in their climbing career.

I believe that using climbing as one’s sole mental health outlet is not as helpful as it seems. Climbing has a ton to offer; it challenges both body and mind in ways few other sports can. But it is not a substitute for inner healing, self-awareness, and a willingness to face life’s hard moments. Yes, it can help. But climbing alone cannot solve life’s problems. True personal growth—facing your own biases, regrets, and limitations—cannot be done on the wall alone.

But Devin, what about … ?

Before I finish making this argument, I’ll address some “whataboutisms.” I prefer to do that first, plus I love a good disclaimer. Perhaps you came to this article with rage on the brain thinking:

• “Well, climbing is my therapy. Climbing saved my life.”
• “Don’t gatekeep therapy. Not everyone has access to a therapist.”
• “It’s not that deep. Some people just really like climbing.”
• “You’re projecting one bad experience / person onto the whole community.”
• “Why are you turning something joyful into something negative?”

Let’s talk about each of these points sincerely, because I do think they matter.

“Well, climbing is my therapy. Climbing saved my life.”

As someone who’s said this before, I understand the truth behind it. Climbing can provide community, structure, and relief from crisis. But there is a difference between triage and healing. This sport can help someone stabilize, but they still need to actively process the things that traumatized them. Climbing makes this easier, but it can’t do that work for you.

“Not everyone has access to a therapist.”

This is also painfully true. Therapy is expensive, hard to find, and even harder to match up with a good fit. It’s also still stigmatized in our culture. But I’m not saying that every climber must go to therapy or they’re morally wrong; I’m saying we need to stop pretending climbing is something that it’s not—and therapy, it is not. There is no substitute for professional help.

“It’s not that deep. Some people just really like climbing.”

If climbing is just a sport to you, then yes—this is true. But for some of us, it is that deep, myself included. Climbing is deeply transformative for some, and irreverent play for others. But if you claim that climbing is your therapy, you cannot also claim it is meaningless fun.

“One bad apple / experience shouldn’t spoil the whole community.”

I’m not talking about one or even multiple instances; I’m talking about patterns. From rampant egos to mismanaged climbing gyms, and even the halo effect we grant pro climbers, there are multiple negative patterns that repeat themselves in our community, as I described above. What common thread connects these patterns? A desire to avoid accountability. That’s the essence of what saying “climbing is my therapy” often means.

“Why are you turning something joyful into something negative?”

I’m not saying you shouldn’t or can’t enjoy climbing. I want everyone to enjoy this sport. What I don’t want, though, is for people to use that joy to numb themselves. If your joy is threatened by accountability, then you should ask yourself why that is.

I don’t take the point I’m trying to make lightly. I’m approaching this topic with respect to how much climbing matters for many of us, myself included. I’m not saying this sport isn’t powerful or transformative. But I am saying that it’s misleading a lot of us—and that this has been going on for longer than you might think.

The Dirtbag Archetype: Where it all began

A core piece of the “accountability” problem we face in our sport goes back to what draws many people to climbing in the first place: the idea of escaping the “real” world. Many of the Yosemite Golden Age climbers occupied a counterculture role in 1960s America: a time embroiled with war, racism, and civil rights struggles.

Once that non-conformist ideal gained traction, it transformed into a brand: the rugged individualist, or “dirtbag.” Warren Harding, Fred Beckey, Jim Bridwell—the list goes on of climbers who sought to stick it to “the man.”

For many, the climbing community is a place where one can operate outside conventional norms. But, as you can imagine, a dirtbag (or aspiring one) ignoring “conventional norms” can equate to many things—some of which are societal expectations, and some of which might be rules one simply doesn’t like.

Unfortunately, as we’ve seen over time, this idolization of the iconoclast also can attract people who lack control in other aspects of their life, seeking to exert that “control” in this sport and its community. While some forms of this are relatively harmless, such as a singular focus on a project, this desire for control can become something far worse, especially if it goes unchecked.

Doing the “hard thing”

Climbing is one of the few sports that deeply cares about narrative, even when enjoyed casually. There is a sort of “hero’s journey” arc we all experience: first lead, first whip, first piece of gear plugged. These all represent landmarks of growth. But growing as a climber is different from growing as a person—and how often do we confuse the two?

We often consider what we do in the vertical realm as “the hard thing” because, for most people, climbing seems reckless and horrifying. Even I’m willing to admit there’s a sense of pride in that. I love watching my non-climber friends’ faces screw up when I tell them about my first free solo, or my first 40-foot whipper, or climbing the Dryer Hose at midnight.

That said … if doing these things is like second nature for me, are they really that hard?

The arena in which many climbers exhibit bravery is the one in which they are comfortable: the rock. Rightfully, we see that we’re different from most people, in that we love adventure sports with extra “adventure” on top. We love the rush, seek the challenge, and defy gravity.

But uncommon is not the same thing as exemplary. If you’re not scared to take a fall on gear, but social situations bring you intense anxiety, you are not “braver” than the average person; you’re just better at facing different kinds of risk. Mind you, this sort of misplaced thinking is not unique to climbers, though we do seem uniquely predisposed to it.

Doing “hard things” can become a convenient loophole to avoid inner work. “If I suffer enough, push myself enough, endure enough, then maybe I don’t have to look anywhere else.” Sends become proof of character; danger becomes moral credit. In this frame of mind, accountability becomes a personal attack: something being done to you, rather than a responsibility you take.

I would argue that to really embrace the climber’s spirit, you should always be seeking the things that really scare you. Climbing hard routes, taking physical risks, exploring the “unknown”—these can all be powerful things… but they’re not the only ways to be brave.

Those adrenaline rushes feelings we get on the wall are also found in everyday life. Climbing is brave, but admitting you made a mistake is also brave. Opening yourself up to others is brave. Owning your internal struggles is brave.

What a therapist has to say 

As I wrote this article, I spoke about it regularly with my own therapist. She agreed that climbing continues to provide me with a lot of necessary structure.

With that in mind, I asked her, “What things should climbers do if they don’t have access to therapy?” Ever the pragmatist, she gave me a list of small actions to start one’s healing journey:

• A regular schedule (both climbing and in general)
• Climbing with other people
• Daily time outside, e.g., walks
• Regular journaling, even small amounts
• Setting goals (and sharing them with friends)

What I found interesting about this list was that much of it is baked into the nature of being a climber. We make friends with fellow climbers. Get outside. Train for hard projects. Catalogue our wins. And we schedule our lives around getting our fix in the gym, crag days with friends, and our next climbing trip. It’s easy to see how climbing can provide a lot of the support most of us need in our daily lives.

But support is just the beginning. We have to be willing to look deeper, to chart the unknown mountain that even the greatest alpinists can’t scale: our own inner world. It’s a terrifying idea. Which is why when people push back against me saying “climbing is not your therapy,” I wonder if what they’re really saying is: “If climbing isn’t my therapy, then I still need therapy, which means I’ll have to face things I’ve avoided for years… and that’s scarier than any climb.”

If you’ve been using climbing as therapy, consider getting some actual therapy—and keep climbing. Chances are, your climbing partner will probably appreciate it, and so will you.

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