Four years ago, one of my biggest dreams came true in Michigan during Spring Break: I went dogsledding.

On the trail, I could've cried for how purely amazing the experience was. Slowly, however, things began to go downhill, and when I metaphorically say downhill, I mean physically uphill. We came to another clearing, and my fear of messing up something became a reality as I saw the trail fork into two directions. Panic surged again as the dogs didn’t slow down but continued running onto the left fork. I was freaking out, but I had to trust the dogs. After all, they knew the trail better than I did.

Five minutes later, the trail started to rise as a mountain-like hill. The dogs started to slow down, and not even halfway up the hill, the dogs simultaneously stopped in their tracks. Oh no. THIS IS NOT GOOD. We’re not finished yet. We still have a LONG way to go. This damaged my new musher ego as I panicked again. I had no idea what was going on or what I had done wrong. Then, simultaneously, the dogs all turned their heads and stared me down. Uh, hello? I don’t know what I’m doing! You guys pulling the sled are supposed to. Why are you staring at me? What am I supposed to do?

I was furious. The guides had never said anything about a hill, and they never once told me what to do if the dogs stopped. I yelled “go,” but the dogs didn’t move and continued to stare at me. I repeated "go" five more times, but nothing changed. I finally decided to jump off the sled and push. If they weren’t going to pull me, I would have to push myself.

I ran and pushed in short bursts through the snow to hopefully inspire the dogs to do the same. They began to walk, which gave me some hope, but I was exhausted; it was the worst workout of my life. I kept on pushing and running for what seemed like twenty minutes until the trail began to level, and the dogs began to trot. I put my feet back on the rudders, yelled “Go!” loud and clear, and held my breath as the dogs began to run again. Yes, we were moving again. Everything was going to be fine.

When we got to the “finish line,” my dad snapped pictures of us coming in like celebrities. We were on the right trail the whole time. I was so excited to tell my dad everything that had happened, but I was most excited to tell him about the story of the hill. I didn’t realize it then, but my story wouldn’t have been so fun to tell if we hadn’t stopped at all.

It was the conflict that created our story. Isn’t the best part of a book or movie where the main character overcomes the obstacles they’ve faced? This idea also describes every day. If we did not face any challenges, would our lives be interesting? It might be nice to live without struggles, but where would ambition, determination, and accomplishments exist if there was no conflict to overcome? It's easy to watch problems stack up like homework, work, or broken things needing fixed. Whatever it is, the uphill battle is never easy. The weight of our sled can slow us down, and everything we have to do can stare at us right in the face, waiting for us to make a move. We can wait, but nothing is going to change. Sometimes, we just need to jump off the sled, push with everything we’ve got, and face the conflict headfirst. Know, however, that we never face things alone.Everyone struggles with their own conflicts too. My dad accidentally fell off his sled while I had thought that Megan and I were the only ones who had issues, but all of us did. No ride is perfect. Facing our conflicts is definitely a challenge, but overcoming the conflicts that we face gives us something to be proud of, and it surely gives us a story to tell. So keep your head up, keep pushing, and look for the story unfolding before your eyes.