Kilimanjaro

I write to you after my summit of Earth’s tallest free-standing mountain. Back in my featherbed, briefly fogged by a Benadryl hangover from sedating myself each night to find comfort on the freezing floor of Africa. For a moment I worried my stillness had stolen my spark — I had even lost the urge to send my most beloved emoji, the smirking face.

The malaise has since lifted and the spirit is alive. A meditation on fun: one cannot lose what one simply is.

I’m sure you have questions, as did I. Chief among them: is the journey the destination, or is the destination the journey?

It started on my birthday. I asked myself what fun ways I could make the year a hallmark one. Kilimanjaro immediately came to mind. I had never met anyone who’d done it, which felt lucky. No one around me to tell me if it would be easy or difficult. My research was one YouTube video and the best agency I could find — Altezza. A chosen ignorance leading to such bliss.

As the date got closer, other people’s voices grew louder. Questions on my training regimen, comments on how difficult it was, endearing theories about why I was really going — to prove I could do hard things, naturally. I just smiled. My intention was never that. It was simply to keep proving I can do what I decide is easy. Difficulty is assigned and I had already assigned ease for myself.

Preparation was mostly aesthetic. I sourced the right outfits, knowing they would shape how I showed up each morning. Physically, I did a couple of hot-yoga classes and a few laps down the West Side Highway with a rucksack. I already believe I’m a healthy person, so that felt like enough.

I landed in Africa at 10 p.m. on Sunday. By Monday morning our group of twelve turned our phones to airplane mode and lived by the sun and the moon. Not knowing what was happening anywhere else was one of the best parts. I felt so present the entire time — one foot in front of the other, completely at ease, having no inputs besides the sounds of nature and our laughter. My group was lovely: generous, curious, quick to help without keeping score. A living expression of humankind. Everyone else’s training told a different story — Ironmans, ten-mile mornings. One tiny flicker through my awareness of am I fucked before I remembered that was their experience, not mine.

The cold required more of a conscious ease. Layers upon layers, warmers in places the infographics politely discourage, beanie stacked on beanie, and the quiet little instruction I gave myself each freezing morning while packing: at ease, A. I drank water like it was oxygen itself — it was fun. A camelback is like the adult version of a nipple-top Gatorade. If you’re shy about going to the bathroom in front of others, well, good luck, Charlie. You can request a private toilet and shower carried up, which I would recommend. A Wet One can only do so much against the daily dust. It was a reminder that I am an adventure seeker, not a camping person.

Kili is a mental sport. But as always, the body follows once the mind has already decided on the outcome. Physically it is manageable at a steady pace, even as you watch people get airlifted out the higher you climb. The only day I woke up sore was the day after summit.

The day we climbed to the peak was the most intense. We reached base camp by late lunch Friday, received the brief, and were ordered to nap at four. As a non-napper I mostly lay on the floor counting the seconds. Then a huge breakfast in the dark, bags packed, headlamps on, war cries called to the full moon above. We walked into the cold five layers on each of our bodies.

Step after step of looking anywhere but up, I fell into a loop and kept repeating it as if I was hexing myself:

I am relaxed.
My oxygen is at 100.
They should have seen what I did back in ’nam.

Any time a physical sensation tried to turn into a telenovela, I returned to the only voice I was willing to entertain — the one already at the top, holding a little Korean heart, laughing, completely unsurprised. My heart rate stayed low and my oxygen never dropped below ninety throughout the whole trip. Princess-warrior mode had been on long before I saw the mountain. All that was required was to keep moving with a smile.

Bringing me back to the question I pondered, flipping it like a coin: is the journey the destination, or is the destination the journey? Of course it landed on heads, because everything is decided in the mind first. The decision is the destination.

I never pictured the summit — I didn’t need to. I was already being the woman who had arrived: relaxed, present, healthy, amused. Across seven days, I was the same person at different altitudes. Reaching the top felt no different from the night we began. The ending had already been decided. The middle was simply playing out in front of me.

To the outside eye, the only stretch that looked to be more of a struggle was summit night. Somewhere around 4:30 a.m., the fireflies appeared. There were no fireflies. Just a little oxygen deprivation, and water frozen solid, turning my backpack into rather inconvenient bricks of ice. The perfect time to ask for help. The version of me who had already summited was not too proud to phone a friend when she needed it. We arrived as the sun broke the horizon around 6:30 a.m. My guide said we were extremely lucky with the weather. I reminded him, with a wink, that my name means the favored one. Thank you, mom and dad. Really begging the question — do the names we give our children set their life experience in motion?

Not everyone makes the summit, but that means nothing about who you say you are. Meaning is ours to give — whether you finish or you don’t. The courage lives in you, not at almost 20,000 feet. The mountain is just one of infinite places you can let it express through you.

I thought I might cry but I didn’t. I had already teared up in private throughout the week — deep, quiet gratitude for my life, the people in it, and myself. By the time I reached the top, nothing inside needed to change. It felt like the best experience of my life… which is also how the moments before and after it felt.

Would I do it again? In a heartbeat. I kept picturing the people I love standing beside me at the top, but I wasn’t doing it for their reaction. Still, the dream bachelorette trip has unlocked itself. Arc’teryx, I’d love if you could start R&D on the perfect ivory shade of mountainwear for that adventure. You know paper white is not my preferred color.

I came down more still than I left. The men on the mountain worked with this open-hearted ease that stayed with me — I came home wanting to make more room for people who don’t have the access I do. On the drive to the airport, a beer billboard read LITE YOUR IMAGINATION. I took it as a small, perfect present from the universe — one I intend to keep imagining well with, for myself and everyone lucky enough to be standing near me when I do.

I want a life that keeps moving past norms, done entirely in my own way — with joy, a feather boa, and sunglasses that cover half my face. And of course, laughing my way up the next summit.

If you ever go, ask for Polite Mboma, Hilltone Shayo, Mohamed Dulazi, Godffrey Kipokola, and Musa Nzira. They made the whole journey safe, light, and genuinely fun. I’m already plotting my return.

Where to next? South America is whispering my name. I can already feel the healthy trouble brewing.

And Dearest — do save your worries for someone who may actually need them.