LOST OXYGEN. COULDN’T MAKE THE CLIMB. 🫁

A note to the ones still breathing at altitude.

A note to the ones still breathing at altitude.

“Some people just can’t go the distance with you. They lose oxygen. They can’t make the climb.”— Michelle Obama, The Light We Carry

Every time I’ve reached a new summit—
I’ve lost someone.
A teammate.
A friend.
A partner.
Someone I loved, believed in, and wanted to bring with me.

They said they wanted to climb.
They said they were ready for more—more money, more freedom, more growth.
And at first, I believed them.

I dropped ropes.
I adjusted my pace.
I built paths I didn’t have myself.
I extended invitations with my whole heart.

But then—
The air got thin.
The silence got loud.
The work started to cost them.
The work started to strip their ego and demand consistency.
The stories they haven’t healed started screaming for attention.

And they couldn’t stay with it.

They didn’t say,
“Climbing is hard.”
They said,
“She changed.”
“She thinks she’s better than us.” 👀
“She has a secret route and special climbing shoes she’s not telling us about.”

And for a long time…
I thought it was me. 💔
Too intense. Too ambitious. Too fast. Too disciplined.
I carried guilt like it was part of the gear.

But then—
I saw the pattern.
Every summit came with shedding.
Not because I was wrong.
But because some people just can’t breathe at this altitude.

They lost oxygen.
And they couldn’t make the climb. 🫁

Each rope I dropped was sacred.
Tied with intention.
Extended with love.
Given in good faith.
And still… they slipped.

I’ve climbed through heartbreak.
Through betrayal.
Through projections so sharp they nearly cut me off the mountain.
Through people I loved—deeply—who turned away when the climb demanded more than talk.

And every time it happens,
I feel it in my chest—
a little grief-shaped bruise behind my ribs.
It hurts.
God, it hurts. 💔

I’ve watched people unravel.
I’ve heard the silence after the “I’m in” that turned into “Where’d they go?”
I’ve stood in rooms where my name was on their tongue, but never in the truth of their story.
And still—I’ve kept climbing.

Freight Train, Face Rain.
That’s a nickname I’ve been given.
Because I don’t stop — and I feel it all.
Both truths live here, side by side.
Real estate hurts my feelings at least once a day.
And I still cry about it at least once a week.
Still.

It’s wild how accurate that nickname has become —
the one who charges forward and the one who feels every ounce of it.
The climb doesn’t harden me —
it just makes me more honest about what it costs.

I’ve hiked through the fog—for days, for months, for years—with no visibility, no feedback, no cheering section.

Just trust in the climb and a belief that the path would rise to meet me. 🕊️

If you're really climbing—you need to know this:

You will lose people.
Personally. Professionally. Quietly. Violently.
You will carry grief with you.
You will build grit inside it.
And you will have to release the guilt that tries to tell you it’s your fault they couldn’t climb.

Pro tip: If you want to keep climbing without burning out or breaking down, take inventory of the people in your life. This rule of thirds is straight from Tai Lopez—and if you ignore it, the mountain will teach you the hard way.

Split the people in your life evenly:

🧗‍♀️ 1/3 you’re dropping ropes for.
You’re helping them climb — mentoring, coaching, pouring into them. This is service. It’s sacred. But it can’t be your whole circle. Too much of this, and you’ll feel drained, unseen, and unsupported.

🧗‍♀️ 1/3 you’re on the climb with.
These are your peers. The ones in the same season, building at the same pace. You trade war stories, celebrate wins, troubleshoot setbacks. This is where camaraderie, accountability, and growth live.

🧗‍♀️ 1/3 you’re receiving ropes from.
These are the rarest — the people ahead of you who are willing to pull you forward.
Mentors, expanders, guides. You don’t need many, and you do need them. Without this group, the climb gets heavy. You’ll feel like you have to invent the whole path — and that’s a fast track to burnout.

Too many people spend years stuck at one elevation because they’re only dropping ropes and never receiving them.
Balance is the key to sustainability.
And sustainability is the key to reaching your summit.

Some of you will make the first climb to $10M in one year.
Some, it’ll take ten.

“Never give up on a dream just because of the time it will take to accomplish it. The time will pass anyway.”
— Earl Nightingale ⏳✨

And while you climb, remember this:
People who are truly climbing understand what it takes.
They won’t judge your pace.
They’ll support it.
And they’ll drop ropes when they’re able.

You can’t go back for everyone.
You can’t shrink to stay palatable.
You can’t carry people who refuse to breathe for themselves.

You’re not cold.
You’re not selfish.
You’re just still climbing.
And that makes you rare.

That’s why I built Basecamp.
Not for tourists.
Not for talkers.
For true climbers.

So when it gets hard—and it will—remember this:
You don’t have to be perfect.
You just have to keep breathing.
You just have to keep climbing.

And I’ll see you at the top. ⛰️
— Marissa

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