Embracing suffering, avoiding burnout

“Mountaineering is the art of suffering. The sooner you decide you like it, the better you’ll be at it.”
-Voytek Kurtyka

To most, mountaineering and architecture seem worlds apart. One involves ice axes¹ and crampons², while the other features Revit files and red pens. But in a strange way, the mountains have become my best teacher and the savior of my sanity in the architecture profession. This isn’t because the mountains don’t test me; it’s because they do. 

Learning to embrace suffering isn’t just for the mountains. It’s essential in life and in the creative process of architecture.

What is suffering?

Suffering in the mountain context involves food poisoning at 15,000 feet, frozen eyelashes, bone-chillingly cold bivouacs³, and terrifying exposure.⁴ Architects know their own version all too well: endless iterations, design competitions that go nowhere, and being underestimated in rooms where you should have a voice.

Different gear. Same language. And somehow, we keep coming back for more because adversity shapes us.

There are no shortcuts to the top of a mountain or to good architecture. The forces that get you there are commitment, process, and the ability to endure and transform. 

Suffering vs. burnout

Every climber has the, “What on earth am I doing here?” moment. The doubt and the discomfort seep in, and you wonder if you belong. I have felt it both on alpine ridgelines and in the office at 2am.

But how do you distinguish suffering from burnout? Here’s the distinction: Suffering and burnout may look alike–featuring exhaustion, frustration, and doubt–but they are not the same.

• Suffering is temporary, purposeful, and sometimes chosen. It sharpens us.
• Burnout is chronic, draining, and imposed. It strips away meaning.

The goal isn’t to avoid hard things. It’s to learn which kinds of struggle build you and which break you. There’s an art to that, and both mountaineering and architecture require it. It’s in the climbs that start after midnight and the harsh critiques, the taped-up blisters and the battle-tested models.

Committing without burning out

Architecture is a profession that too often confuses burnout with commitment. We call it a “labor of love,” and we wear exhaustion like a summit flag. But that mindset is not only unsustainable; it’s dangerous.

In mountaineering, ignoring fatigue gets you stranded overnight, frostbitten, or worse. You learn to respect your limits, listen to your body, and turn back when needed–not because you’re weak but because you want to come back stronger. 

In architecture, we need the same wisdom. When we romanticize overwork, we lose people. We lose talent, creativity, diversity, and perspective. We burn out the very voices we need most, often the ones still fighting just to get on the climbing team.

The profession suffers when we define success as reaching summits at any cost. Avoiding burnout isn’t just about surviving. It’s about working smarter, climbing as a team, and creating space for everyone to breathe–because no one gets to the top alone.

Type 2 fun and redefining wellness

Burnout comes from a lack of meaning–not simply long hours. If everything feels like drudgery with no payoff, ownership, or joy, of course you’ll crash. But when struggle challenges and humbles you, it builds you. Climbers call this “type 2 fun,” referring to misery that turns into joy in hindsight.

The healthiest people I know, climbers and creatives alike, don’t avoid stress. They embrace it on their own terms and in ways that align with their values. That’s not burnout. That’s resilience.

Wellness in architecture doesn’t mean yoga at lunch or free snacks in the office (although as a dirtbag climber⁵, I won’t say no to free food). It means having something outside the profession that lights you up, challenges you in new ways, and allows you to return to your work feeling restored. It’s something that reminds you that your worth isn’t measured by design awards or billable hours.

For me, that’s mountaineering. For you, it might be music, volunteering, writing, teaching, or activism. The point is that we need more than architecture. If our entire identity is wrapped up in one thing, we have no perspective when it breaks us. A balanced identity leaves you room to be a human rather than just a productive designer.

The art of suffering

There’s a strange euphoria in surviving misery. Everything feels earned. Whether it’s watching sunrise from a summit or seeing your design realized in the real world, it’s a joy that only makes sense after the pain. 

Architects and mountaineers are wired to want hard problems. These challenges raise our resilience, which keeps us coming back for more. Once you’ve stood on a precarious slope, a tough client meeting doesn’t shake you. Every climb, every project, and every risk teaches us who we are. 

Suffering is temporary and transformative; it gives back more than it takes. Burnout takes until nothing is left. One builds resilience. The other destroys it. It’s crucial to recognize the difference.

Suffering becomes an art form on the path to building resilience. A practiced elegance in pain. A way of thinking that says: “This is hard. And that’s okay.” Whether you’re navigating a crevasse⁶ or a critique, true artistry lies in transforming the pain into purpose, so long as that pain is building you and not breaking you.

The sooner we choose to embrace suffering, the sooner we can grow. The sooner we stop just surviving, the sooner we can start doing something worthy in the mountains, in architecture, and in life.

Footnotes:

1. “Ice axes” are tools for climbing on ice or steep snow, also for self-arresting (stopping oneself) during a fall
2. “Crampons” are spiked devices attached to boots to provide traction on snow and ice.
3. A “bivouac” is a temporary, often minimalist overnight camp, usually without a tent, often in high alpine conditions.
4. “Exposure” is a situation on a climb where a fall would be long and dangerous, often deadly, and can bring a feeling of being very unprotected.
5. “Dirtbag climber” is a term of endearment in climbing culture referring to someone who devotes a lot of their life to climbing.
6. A “crevasse” is a deep crack or fracture in a glacier caused by movement of the ice.

Nicole Becker, AIA, NCARB, LEED AP BD+C is a mountaineer, a project architect at Jacobs in Portland, Ore., and the 2025–2026 communications director of the Young Architects Forum.