The Florida Trail | An update from Ambassador Jocelyn

If you’re picturing the start of a 10,000 mile hiking year as some kind of cinematic, soft-launch moment, you’re wrong. 

Not a little wrong. Completely wrong.

Because the Florida Trail does not ease you in. It does not gently introduce you to your new life. It does not care about your goals, your timeline, or the narrative you thought you were stepping into. The Florida Trail throws you straight into the deep end, and sometimes that’s not even metaphorical.

Within the first stretch of this year, I found myself shin-deep in swamp water, shoes permanently soaked, walking through mud that actively tried to eat me alive. Every step felt like a negotiation. Progress slowed to a crawl, and there was no real way around it except to keep moving forward.

And this was before things even “got hard.”

People love to talk about Big Cypress like it’s either sacred or miserable. The truth is, it’s both. You don’t really hike through it. You survive it. You wade, you adapt, you question your life choices, and eventually you accept that the swamp is in charge now.

At one point I remember thinking, this is a terrible way to start a year this big.

And then immediately realizing, no… this is exactly how it should start.

Because the Florida Trail strips everything down.

There are no sweeping alpine views waiting to reward you. No summit moment where everything suddenly makes sense. Instead, it’s heat, water, snakes, pavement, levees, and long stretches where nothing changes except the number on your watch.

It asks a much simpler question:

Are you actually doing this, or do you just like the idea of it?

The early days felt like a slow grind into that answer.

Road walks that stretched forever. Levees with zero shade and maximum exposure. Wet gear that never quite dried. Feet that went from blistered to calloused to something… questionable. The kind of discomfort that doesn’t spike, it just lingers. Constant enough that you almost stop noticing it, which might be worse.

There’s a specific kind of exhaustion that comes from Florida. It’s not dramatic. It’s repetitive. It’s the kind that slowly peels away whatever version of yourself thought this was going to be a cute beginning.

And then, without any big moment or obvious turning point, something shifts.

Not all at once. Not in a cinematic way. It just… happens.

Twenty miles stops feeling like a full send. Then it becomes normal. Then thirty shows up. Then it happens again. Then you’re stacking mid-thirties. Then high thirties. Then suddenly you’re out there doing a 40+ mile day and it feels less like chaos and more like a Tuesday.

Your body adapts, whether you believe in it or not.

That might be the most important thing Florida gave me. Not inspiration. Not some grand, emotional clarity.

Proof.

Proof that I can keep moving through conditions that are weird, uncomfortable, and honestly kind of miserable. Proof that my body figures things out even when I’m convinced it won’t. Proof that this project exists outside of the idea of it.

Florida didn’t give me a highlight reel.

It gave me a baseline.

And in between all of that, there were these strange, perfect moments that somehow hit harder because of everything around them.

A church on the Seminole Reservation opened its doors to hikers, offering snacks, cold drinks, showers, a place to sit and exist as a human again for a few hours.

Trail magic in the middle of nowhere. Cold sodas. Oreos. The kind of kindness that feels borderline emotional when you’ve been out there long enough.

Random motel rooms that feel like luxury simply because there’s hot water and a microwave.

It’s not glamorous. It’s not what people imagine when they think of long-distance hiking.

But it’s real.

And honestly, I think it’s better this way.

By the time I moved out of Florida and into Alabama, something had shifted. Not externally. The terrain didn’t suddenly become easier. The road walks didn’t disappear. The resupplies were still chaotic.

But internally, things felt quieter.

More settled.

Like my body and brain had stopped fighting what this year actually is.

This is also where everything starts to click on the gear side.

When everything is wet, dirty, and constantly in motion, there’s no room for anything that doesn’t work. If something is even slightly annoying, you feel it immediately. If your system is complicated, you pay for it. Simplicity stops being a preference and starts being necessary.

Knowing where everything is without thinking. Being able to grab what you need quickly. Not having to fight your own pack at the end of a long day.

That’s the difference between feeling like you’re surviving out here and actually moving efficiently through it.

And in a year like this, efficiency matters.

Energy matters.

Because the Florida Trail isn’t the part of the story people are going to focus on.

It’s not the sexy part. It’s not the part with dramatic photos or obvious milestones. It doesn’t feel like a warm-up, and it’s not supposed to.

It’s the part where the idea becomes real.

The part where you stop imagining the year and start living inside it. Where your body begins to adapt, your systems begin to settle, and the miles start stacking in a way that actually feels sustainable.

It’s not glamorous.

But it’s necessary.

And if you can build a foundation here, in the swamp and the road walks and the long, repetitive miles, you can carry that forward into whatever comes next.

See you out there,  

Unhinged Hiker

Jocelyn is hiking 10,000 miles this year in aid of the CPTSD Foundation. They aim to get CPTSD recognised in the American DSM. If you want to support their aim, please sign the petition.