I leave in just over a week and can't believe it's coming up so soon! As part of my preparation, I decided to chop off my goldilocks for the first time since I was 9 years old. The last time I had my hair cut short was at a cancer survivor rally at our local fairgrounds that my mom and I happened to stumble upon. I remember her pure joy and pride to adorn her sash and walk with the other survivors knowing that she'd triumphed over her arch nemesis.

I was happy to run around with my best friend and eat candy, without a care in the world. Little did I know that about six months later, we would receive official news that my mom had another, more aggressive brain tumor that would this time conquer. I would lose her less than a year from that very day.

My mom always wore wigs, ever since radiation claimed her hair long before I was born. I used to run around as a toddler wearing them, singing and dancing in an attempt to be just like her. That day at the rally, there was a booth offering free hair cuts that would be donated to locks of love to make wigs. I was so excited to contribute my long hair to other people who'd lost theirs just like my mom.

When I got my hair cut at that rally, I didn't intend for it to be cut as short as it was, but it was necessary at the time. This was due to the fact that my hair tangles very easily and I would scream and fight my mom any time she'd try to brush it out. Over time, she began just giving it a quick once-over on top, leaving the bottom to become a mass of matted knots. It had gotten so bad that three women could not untangle it, despite their best efforts. The only logical solution was to just cut it all off and give me a bob job. They joked with me and said, "I bet you've never had so many people working on your hair at one time, you must feel like a celebrity." I sure did.

I was over the moon with my new hair cut. I constantly ran my fingers through the ends, trying to get used to the empty space that my long locks used to take up. I showed it off gleefully to my dad when he got home from a long day of truck driving. He was always quick to take pictures and videos of important moments in our lives, no matter how tired he might've been. I distinctly remember him rushing to get the camera, as I posed beside my mom and our shih tzu puppy Pepsi, who went on to live 17 long years. My dad beamed behind the camera and talked about his glowing girls, my mom in her survivor sash and me in my leopard face paint and new short hair.

For a long time, that picture lived on a section of wall in my room that I turned into a giant collage of all my friends, family, and important moments in my life. As an angsty teen years later, I remember taking the thumb tack out of the wall that held the picture, staring at my mom beaming with pride over beating cancer. I tore it up, angry at the world for its cruel irony. I'm not sure if there's another copy anywhere or if it's now lost to time, tucked away just in my memory.

Growing up in the church, I was always fascinated with the story of Samson and Delilah. I think part of me has always felt like I too held my strength in my hair and that if I cut it off, I would lose some of my power. For years now, I've worn my hair as a blanket, hiding my insecurities and keeping me whole. Finally, I am ready to let go. To let go of my hair, and with it - the concept that I have any control over the future and what it will bring. I am about to spend many days and nights in the wilderness, embracing my own wild soul.

I know that hiking the AT will in many ways be the hardest task I've ever taken on, next to coping with the loss of the woman who brought me life. This time, I get to choose my hard. This time, I won't let the matts form and tangle themselves on my neck or my perspective. This time, I will embrace the turbulent unknown.

The space beneath the ends of my hair still feels weird, but I am not Samson. I know my power is within me. It's not a tangible thing that can be stolen. Wearing my mom's wigs as a toddler didn't make me like her. I already was. She is part of me and always will be, and that is part of my strength and my journey. I cut off a piece of me, but I am still whole. Look out AT, here I come.