The Wolves at Our Heels

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Imagine you're lost in the woods. Maybe your car broke down and you went looking for help. Maybe you were part of a tour and lost the group. Or perhaps you're the adventurous type, hiking alone. However you got there, the result is the same. You're alone, deep in the forest. Lost.

You make it through the first night. You find a bit of water, take shelter under a large tree, and resolve to find your way out at first light. By morning, you're walking in the direction you believe is right. But hours pass, and instead of emerging, you seem to be heading deeper into the forest—into the older parts, the parts few humans enter.

As evening approaches and your muscles ache, you begin looking for a place to rest. Just then, you sense something behind you. You turn quickly, but see nothing. A few moments later, the hairs on your neck rise. You spin around again, faster this time—and there it is.

A wolf. Standing silently on a ridge, watching you.

You pick up your pace.

Now, alert and on edge, you begin to notice more eyes in the shadows. A flick of a tail here. A twitch of an ear there. More wolves. They’re not attacking, not yet. They’re stalking you. Herding you. You realise, slowly, that you’re being funneled. But to where?

You break into a run. Your lungs burn, your legs ache, but ahead, you see a glimmer of hope: light. A clearing. The golden rays of the setting sun shine down through sparse trees. You race toward it.

You burst into the clearing, only to find that it ends in a cliff. A sheer drop, fifty feet down, into a cold and winding river. You turn around.

The wolves have arrived. They step slowly into the clearing. Some growl. Others lick their lips. All of them watch you with a quiet, intelligent hunger.

They know you have nowhere to go.

So, what do you do?

You’re not used to leaping off cliffs into rivers. But you’re certainly not used to fighting wolves either. Instinct takes over. You jump.

Most people wouldn’t hesitate in that moment. I wouldn’t either. The wolves are certain death. The river, while dangerous, offers at least a chance of survival.

Now here’s the point of all this.

In real life, the wolves are often behind us too. But unlike the story above, we don’t always see them. We don’t hear them creeping through the trees. We don’t notice the slow narrowing of our options. Instead, we carry on, unaware that something vital is closing in on us—until it’s too late.

This is one of the great human challenges: to leap before we see the wolves.

Because the wolves aren’t always literal, of course. They might take the form of a toxic job, a broken relationship, a slow erosion of your confidence or health. And when we fail to act—to leap—we risk a different kind of death. Not physical, but emotional or spiritual. The death of a marriage. The loss of your sense of self. A life lived in quiet resignation.

That’s why courage matters. Not for show. Not for bravado. But because life will ask you to jump long before the wolves are visible. And when that moment comes, you won’t have time for careful calculations.

You might think there’s nothing like that in your life right now. And maybe you’re right. But here’s a small test. If you're fortunate enough to have people who care about you, they’ve likely been pointing out your wolves for some time. Maybe they bring it up gently. Maybe they nag. Maybe you tune them out.

Pay attention.

Is there a pattern in what they’re saying? Is there more than one person raising the same concern? If so, it’s worth asking whether they see something you’ve been too close to notice.

They might be pointing out the cliffs behind you. They might be warning you about the wolves.

And if that’s the case, the leap you’re afraid of might just be the one thing that saves you.