Because sometimes transformation is not tied up in a pretty bow!

I’m looking down on my body, watching myself trudge wearily on the ground below. I’m wrapped up in so many layers as it’s minus 10 degrees Celsius on a clear September night in 2010, but I feel warm here as I watch myself take one baby step after another, arm and arm with my guide Saidi. The glow from the headtorch shows just enough of the rocky terrain beneath.

Nothing makes sense. I’m deeply confused. How am I keeping going at this slow pace? And more importantly, how am I watching myself struggling to take a step on the ground below?

Then suddenly I feel the weight of my body, the cold piercing through my balaclava’d face, and the not-so-welcome sensation of my hands griping my walking poles. The heaviness of my boots contrasted with the weightlessness I had felt just a moment before.

My breath burning in my chest, I focus on putting one foot in front of the other and followed my guide as he counted 13 steps before stopping for 3 breaths.?

It was a beautiful full moonlit night. “Perfect conditions” they said when we were starting out, but I was colder than I’d ever felt before and wanted to rest. The joviality of the initial ascent out of camp had fallen away and only the quiet hum of a U2 song and Saidi’s counting remained.

I wanted to stop - for tea, for comfort, for warmth, anything for a reprieve...This was not the summit I had ordered!

Siadi would not give in to my ramblings and his response stung deeply “You stop, you sleep. You sleep, you die. You no die!”

The conversation had already been had about whether I could summit, but I was clear I had not trained for 6 months to go home when the going got tough! So we kept inching forward because deep down I was committed to my task on a level even I didn’t understand.

But this mountain was challenging me in an unexpected way. Breathing deeply while walking was a difficult combination, so for hours we continued in a rhythm of taking 13 steps, then stopping for 3 deep breaths and a sip of water, 13 steps, 3 breaths, rinse and repeat, as the darkest of African nights slowly slowly turned to dawn.?

I can still remember the sheer joy of seeing that deep red line on the horizon as the sun began to rise above clouds that stretched out like an infinite eiderdown duvet below.

The promise of the warmth of a new dawn came with a feeling that finally maybe it was going to be OK.?I had no idea what time it was or how long was left as U2’s “No Line on the Horizon” which had been circling in my head finally faded away.

Of the 17 of us who set out to climb Kilimanjaro as a fundraiser for Crumlin Childrens’ Hospital in Dublin (Ireland), only my friend Brenda and our guides Sam and Siadi were with me at that point. Our leader Ian had gone ahead with the others.

We gradually met the rest of the gang as they returned from their summit.?Their joy was a sharp contrast to my inner dialogue. ?Some were surprised I was still going, some offered much needed words of encouragement that Stella Point (5,756m) was “just around the corner” while others gave almonds, jelly sweets or lucozade capsules to give us energy for what remained.???

I reached the 5,895m summit at noon that day, having left camp at 11pm the night before.?A dark night of the soul had turned into a blistering hot morning as the sun soared, and the glacier at Uhuru Peak glistened like a slice of melting vanilla ice cream on a chocolate muffin in the midday sun.

The guides danced and sang. But after 13 hours of walking I had nothing left so I sat to catch my breath and read a letter from my sister which I had kept for this moment.

By this stage the guides were getting concerned at my level of exposure and they ensured we made a quick descent through a combination of running, walking, piggybacks, and finally a stretcher to our camp for the night. It took about six hours. This was certainly not the way I had envisioned how this would go, and by the time I got to camp I was physically and emotionally spent.

It seems an understatement to say that the me that returned to Dublin was not the me that left two weeks earlier. There was an impromptu party to celebrate my return, but the words of congratulations hurt my ears as I couldn't claim the achievement.

All my self-imposed limits were shattered, and in the years that followed my career soared, and I was doing so many things I never even thought possible. But I had met my vulnerabilities that night and acceptance seemed a long way off.

You see, I was attached to finishing strong. I had this Hillary-like image of what a summit looked like (ie woman holding flag, with one knee bent in some kind of victory pose); so being the one in need of assistance did not match my vision of strength and achievement. A tough lesson from Mother Africa that sometimes great transformation can be messy and unpredictable.

And in those early days I was angry. Angry at how I pushed myself, angry that I had left that warm place and returned to the cold that night, angry at my guides for all they did to help me, angry at our leader Ian for believing in me when I said I could do it!

I judged myself harshly for years. This new definition of myself as the woman who would smash through limitations was unfamiliar and I felt ill-equipped to BE her. Until I began to recognise what really happened, and the significance of that night.

There was not one single moment of clarity but rather a series of conversations with Ian which helped me to see that although it was messy, the achievement was still mine. In the years since, I would often privately return to that night as if to remind myself that “If I could survive that, I can do whatever lies ahead.” But even still something of it was not fully reconciled.

Until last week a friend and I returned to Tanzania to go on safari with my Rob Chekwaze who, back in 2010, had provided all our guides, tents and food on the mountain. ??

We had kept in touch over the years but had not met since Ian’s untimely death when he was struck by lightning on Kilimanjaro in January 2010 and Rob escorted his body home to Ireland.?

While travelling the dusty roads of Tarangire National Park we shared many many stories of Ian and the mountain, marvelling at our different experiences.?It was not until I had shared my story and heard Rob say “13 hours!! WOW. Such resilience. Such stamina!” that I could finally see it for myself.

The self-judgement dropped away; my story of struggle of that summit night 13 years ago finally felt complete, and I experienced a moment of deep surrender into what this mountain has symbolised for me.

Not only met my vulnerabilities that night, but my commitment and determination too; and I saw very clearly that personal transformation is not always tied up in a pretty bow. Sometimes it’s messy and takes grit and determination because it pushes us to the edges of what we think we can endure so that we can access some previously untapped strength.

And last Thursday as I flew past Kilimanjaro realising that I had walked higher than the plane was flying at that moment (see photo) I felt my heart soar as I fully took it in!

Today I’m reflecting on how often we keep ourselves and others stuck in a story to the point we become blind to the positive outcomes, the lessons, and the joy, and I remind myself that the why of this doesn’t matter.

What matters in this closure is that I met myself that night – my frailty, my self-imposed limits and my strength. I found a way to dig deep and keep going both that night and since then so that it can be integrated with compassion for my own journey. Because change isn’t always pretty. But change always matters because that’s when we grow the most. ?

I cannot close this story without a shout-out to the late Ian McKeever, to my guide that night Siadi Makacha, to Rob Chekwaze in Tanzania, the kili gang, and all those who help others on their mountains. Thank you for being the person who counts the steps on the darkest of nights.

May I continue to be that for others too.?