Mission: Impossible – The Final Reckoning is in theaters now, and since I’ve been a lifelong fan of the franchise, I decided to check it out. I grew up watching the original TV show, and I remember seeing the first Tom Cruise installment back in 1996. Hard to believe it’s been almost thirty years.

What’s made this franchise so unique is that it actually got better with time. Every movie seemed to improve on the last — bigger stunts, tighter direction, more ambitious set pieces. Fallout was the peak.

Since then, the magic has faded slightly. Not that the most recent two are bad; they’re just… lesser, a reminder that even great franchises eventually run out of runway. Cruise says he’s done. Given how this one ended, I’ll believe it when I see it.

The Relentless Drive

But one thing about Cruise, love him or hate him, the man works. He gets a lot of flack, and yeah, the Scientology stuff is hard to ignore, but it’s undeniable that he has a passion for filmmaking that’s increasingly rare. In the last few Mission films, he even comes on screen before the movie starts to thank you for coming to the theater. It’s a small gesture, but it hits. That charisma? That’s real. And the passion behind it — that laser-focus on excellence — that’s what stuck with me.

Because for a while now, I’ve been thinking a lot about passion. About giving yourself fully to something. About what happens when the thing that once gave your life meaning disappears.

Losing the First Mountain

I’ve written before about my struggles with sobriety, grief after losing my mom, and the long, quiet ache of walking away from a career that once felt like a calling. Since then, I’ve felt lost. Like I’ve been wandering in the desert, unsure of what comes next.

Back then, I thought reaching the top of the mountain would be enough. That the view from the summit would sustain me forever. But anyone who’s ever hiked knows the truth: the summit is temporary. You can only stand at the peak for so long before you have to descend. And the descent may be easier, but eventually you find yourself in the valley again.

David Brooks wrote a book called The Second Mountain, and that metaphor resonates with me. The first mountain is about personal achievement — career, recognition, making your mark. I climbed that one in 2012, finally leaving engineering to become a teacher, something I believed I was born to do.

The Descent Into Darkness

But nobody talks about what comes next. The internet is full of voices telling you how to reach your goals, but almost silent on what to do after you’ve reached them or after they’ve been taken from you.

It’s probably because most of those voices belong to twenty-somethings with ring lights and business degrees who think quoting Atomic Habits gives them authority. Very few have sat in the dark, numbing the pain with alcohol. Very few know what it’s like to lose not just a job, but a calling. A piece of yourself.

I remember the day I knew it was over. I’d been transferred from a high school math position I loved to a chaotic middle school that chewed up teachers and spit them out. I made it to Christmas break by sheer force of will. But when I walked into my classroom that first day back in January, I knew. I told the principal I was sick and went home. And I never returned.

I sobbed in my car the entire way home, because I knew something had ended. I had built an identity around teaching, and just like that, it was gone.

That was January 2, 2020.

And then came COVID. And isolation. And more grief. And more drinking. And a sense that maybe the best parts of my life were behind me.

What Comes After Rock Bottom

So do I have a tidy success story to share now? A five-step plan to rebuild your life after devastation? Not really. What I have is this: I survived.

I put one foot in front of the other. I descended into the valley. I let the darkness speak. I let it convince me that my life was over. And for a while, I believed it. I drank too much. I pulled away. I grew bitter and angry and small.

But eventually — slowly — I didn’t.

I found new rituals. I started running. I started writing again. I got sober. I relearned what it felt like to care about something, even a little. In that dailiness, in the slow and sometimes brutal grind of just showing up, I started to feel purpose again.

The Valley Is Not the End

And that’s the unglamorous truth: You don’t need to scale the next mountain today. You just need to take the next step. Some days, that step will be tiny. Some days, it’ll feel like you’re walking backward. But keep walking.

The valleys are real. But so are the mountains. And if you’re willing to keep going — to move even when you don’t feel like it, to trust that something is waiting on the other side — you’ll get there.

That’s the real miracle. Not some sudden revelation. Not divine intervention. Just the faith to keep moving. To lace up your boots and keep climbing.

And if you’ve ever watched a Mission: Impossible movie, you already know this: Ethan Hunt’s real superpower isn’t that he can hold his breath for six minutes or hang from the side of a plane. It’s that he doesn’t quit. He stays in the fight longer than anyone else.

That’s the mission. Survive the valley. Take the next step. And when the time comes, start climbing again. Because the real way to move a mountain is to climb it. And the faith it take to move mountains comes from putting in the work.

So if you’re in the valley right now, confused, hurting, unsure if anything ahead is worth the effort. I hope you’ll hear this: you’re not broken, and you’re not done. The valley isn’t a dead end. It’s part of the path. Keep walking. Not because you know where it leads, but because something inside you refuses to give up. That quiet, stubborn part of you that still believes there’s another mountain out there — that’s your mission now. And it’s worth accepting.