When Quitting Seems Easier
What the Baltic hills taught me about resilience—and why persistence still matters
The world seems off kilter.
Everywhere I turn there is discord, bickering, fear. Everyone I talk to is either struggling to fight their way through it or to hide. There is no middle ground.
In the summer of 2019, right before COVID changed the world forever, I took two trips.
The first was a bicycle tour of Estonia, Latvia, and Lithuania. I’ve been riding a bike since I was 10 years old, and for a big chunk of that time it was my primary way of getting around. My blue Schwinn was not just transportation. It was independence, freedom, and the start of many adventures. So the idea of biking my way across Europe held great promise.
I thought I was prepared.
And the universe laughed.
Day after day, I found myself battling wind that never seemed to stop, rain that soaked through every layer, and stretches of road that felt endless. Our young, athletic guide and my fellow travelers took it in stride, but I was worn down, frustrated, and tempted to toss my bike in the back of the support van and hide my head in shame.
But I didn’t.
What I did do was realize that I had a choice. I could quit. Or I could try.
I tried.
Day by day I found my rhythm. I got stronger. My confidence grew. By day ten I was pedaling along with the pack, marveling at the stories of resistance and resolution embedded in the towns and people we passed.
One day we came to the Hill of Crosses outside of the northern Lithuanian city of Šiauliai. Some say the crosses first appeared before 1850, erected in tribute to victims of revolts against the Russian regime in 1831 and 1863. Oppression by the Tsar meant families were forbidden to honor the dead with proper burials in cemeteries. Instead, they left unmarked crosses on unmarked hills.
According to National Geographic, “During the Soviet era, in April 1961, the entire site was bulldozed and burned down by the authorities. Even though the Hill of Crosses was destroyed four more times, each time locals risked political danger by defiantly rebuilding the site under the cover of darkness.”
I’m trying to remember that trip today as I feel the urge to give up or hide from the moment in history we are living. The Hill of Crosses reminds me that even in times of erasure, people rebuild. Even in times of exhaustion, we push forward one pedal stroke at a time.
Maybe the Hill of Crosses isn’t just a memory for me. Maybe it’s a reminder for all of us that persistence isn’t loud, or glamorous, but it is steady. And like those unmarked crosses on unmarked hills, it endures even when no one is watching.
P.S. The second trip that summer? I hiked the Salkantay Trail to Machu Picchu. But that’s another story for another time.