I still remember the exact moment I thought about quitting climbing.

It was a Tuesday evening, six months into my climbing journey. The gym was half-empty, and I was staring at a blue V3 in the corner. I had tried it fourteen times. Fourteen. My fingers were raw, my shoulders ached, and the climber next to me—someone who started the same month I did—walked up and sent it on her second try.

I sat on the mat, stared at my chalk-covered shoes, and asked myself the question every climber eventually asks: Maybe I’m just not built for this.

The Beginner’s High

When I first started climbing, everything felt easy. Not the moves themselves—those were hard—but the progress. Every session brought a new grade. V0, then V1, then V2. I was addicted. I went three times a week, watched YouTube tutorials, bought my own shoes after two months. I told everyone I knew: “You have to try climbing. It’s the best thing I’ve ever done.”

I thought I was on a straight line to V10. I was wrong.

The Wall

That V3 was the first time climbing pushed back. I tried everything—more strength, more attempts, more sessions. Instead of getting better, I started feeling worse. My elbows ached. My fingers felt stiff in the morning. But I ignored it. I thought pushing through pain was what strong climbers did.

Then came the pop.

I was reaching for a crimp on an overhang, pulling hard, when I felt a sudden sharp pain in my left ring finger. Not the burn of a good workout. Something deeper. Something wrong.

The doctor’s words were simple: “A2 pulley strain. Rest for four weeks. Maybe six.”

Four weeks. In climbing time, that’s an eternity. I watched my friends progress. I saw them flash V4s, then V5s, while I sat at home, icing my hand, wondering if I’d ever get back to where I was.

Learning to Climb Again

The hardest part of those six weeks wasn’t the physical pain. It was the silence. Without climbing, I had to sit with a thought I’d been avoiding: I don’t actually know how to climb. I just pull hard.

When I finally returned to the gym, I made a deal with myself. No more brute force. No more skipping warm-ups. I was going to learn this sport from the ground up.

I started watching. Really watching. I observed how experienced climbers positioned their hips, how they shifted weight before making a move, how their feet barely made a sound because they placed them so precisely. I asked better climbers to watch me and tell me what I was doing wrong. The answer was almost always the same: “You’re relying on your arms. Your feet are just along for the ride.”

So I started drilling footwork. Silent feet drills. Hovering my hand over holds for three seconds before grabbing them. Climbing V0s like they were V10s. It felt silly. But slowly, something shifted.

The First Breakthrough

Three months after my injury, I tried a V4 that had been on my “someday” list. It was a slab problem with terrible feet and a high, scary top-out. Old me would have muscled through it, gripped with fear. This time, I walked up, mapped the beta in my head, and climbed it with control I didn’t know I had.

When I matched the final hold, I didn’t scream or celebrate. I just sat there on top of the wall, breathing, and realized something: I hadn’t gotten stronger. I had gotten smarter.

That was the real breakthrough. Not the grade—the mindset.

The Middle Years

From V4 to V6 took another year. It wasn’t dramatic. There was no single moment of glory. It was a thousand small sessions. Consistent hangboarding twice a week. Core work that I used to skip. Learning to rest, not just climb until I collapsed.

I also learned something uncomfortable: not every session needs to be a PR. Some days, I just showed up, climbed easy stuff, and went home. I used to feel guilty about those days. Now I understood—they were the reason I could keep showing up at all.

During this time, I saw people come and go. The ones who started strong and burned out fast. The ones who chased grades and got injured. The ones who disappeared because climbing “got too hard.” I was still there. Not because I was talented. Because I kept showing up.

The V7

The V7 that finally went down wasn’t a beautiful, flowing masterpiece. It was an awkward, scrunchy problem in the back corner of the gym that no one seemed to like. Crimpy. Technical. Absolutely my style.

I worked on it for nine sessions. Nine. I fell on the last move three times. I questioned my beta. I questioned my ability. I stood beneath it one evening, tired from work, and almost walked away.

Instead, I chalked up, took a breath, and climbed it like I had nothing to prove. When I grabbed the final hold, I didn’t shout. I just laughed. Not because it was funny, but because I finally understood something that had taken me years to learn.

What I Learned

Here’s what I wish I could tell the version of myself who sat beneath that blue V3, ready to quit:

Grades don’t measure who you are. They measure what you’ve done. The real growth happens in the invisible work—the rest days, the recovery, the learning to listen to your body instead of fighting it. The person who climbs V7 isn’t stronger than the person climbing V3. They’ve just been climbing longer, falling more, and learning not to quit.

I’m not a naturally gifted climber. I don’t have a positive ape index. I wasn’t a gymnast or a rock climber as a kid. I’m just someone who kept showing up, even on the days I didn’t want to.

If you’re stuck on a grade right now, if your fingers hurt, if you’re wondering whether you’re “cut out for this”—just keep showing up. Not to prove anything. Not to hit a number. Just to see what happens.

You might surprise yourself.

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