Legendary climber Reinhold Messner lost his toes on Nanga Parbat in 1970.
Not all of them – just enough. Enough that technical rock climbing, the discipline he’d mastered, became impossible. His brother Günther died on that mountain. Messner barely made it down alive, frostbitten and broken.
Most people would have called it quits. Hung up the boots. Found a “real job.”
Messner did the opposite.
Unable to rock climb, he pivoted to alpine climbing – big mountains, high altitude, pure suffering. And then he did something nobody thought possible: He climbed all fourteen 8,000-meter peaks on Earth. Without supplemental oxygen. The first person ever to do it.
No oxygen tanks. No shortcuts. Just lungs, legs, and an unbreakable will.
In Werner Herzog’s 1984 documentary The Dark Glow of the Mountains, Messner stands across from the legendary director and drops this bomb:
“I don’t have a normal profession. I never learned one thing that I could say I master. I’ve done a lot of things. I can make a living doing many things. That’s all I need. I can finance my expeditions by selling mountain climbing byproducts. I don’t need anything else. I’m very glad today that I don’t have a profession. I think having one means the end of any kind of creative activity.”
Read that last line again.
”I think having one means the end of any kind of creative activity.”
This is heresy in a world that worships specialization. We’re told from childhood: Pick a lane. Get good at one thing. Build a career. Climb the ladder. Retire with a pension and a plaque.
But Messner understood something most of us miss: A profession is a cage disguised as security.
It’s not that professions are inherently bad. They’re not. They provide structure, income, identity. But they also calcify. They narrow your vision. They turn you into a specialist in one thing and an amateur at everything else. And worst of all, they make you risk-averse. You stop experimenting. You stop exploring. You stop creating.
Because you have too much to lose.
Messner didn’t have that problem. He cobbled together a living from lectures, books, photographs, films – “mountain climbing byproducts,” as he called them. He wasn’t a professional climber in the traditional sense. He was a creator who climbed. And that freedom – that refusal to be boxed in – allowed him to do what no one else could.
Now, let’s be brutally honest here: Not everyone can afford to live like Messner.
If you’re drowning in debt, supporting a family, or living paycheck to paycheck, the luxury of rejecting a profession isn’t really on the table. Messner’s philosophy requires a baseline of freedom, financial, social, or circumstantial, that not everyone has.
But if you do have that privilege, even a sliver of it, you’re wasting it if you don’t use it.
You don’t need to be the best in the world at one thing. You need to be good enough at several things that, when combined, create something unique. Something only you can do. That’s where the magic happens. That’s where creativity lives.