Because that’s what happens. My lungs constrict. My feet stick rooted to the spot and my legs become unbendable. It takes everything in me psychologically to talk myself into moving forward

I want to take a quick break in the Kilimanjaro reflection series to chime in with a post written now, 10 years later. This isn’t something I’ve written about before or even talked about extensively but it feels right that I do so here.

Unsurprisingly, the psychological impact of that fall down Kilimanjaro and the associated trauma has been pretty big. The fall itself is something of legend – I joke about it, I use it as an ice-breaker, hell it’s even listed on my dating profiles as a conversation starter (and so people know what they are potentially getting themselves involved with). It’s not something I’m ashamed of, it’s the perfect example of the kind of scrapes I have gotten myself into in my life and let’s face it – I’m here to tell the tale.

But it’s something that still affects me to this day. When I reflect on the fall, it’s a blur. I do still remember the absolute fear that shot through my body. I remember the adrenaline rush when I came to a halt and I realised that not only was I still alive but I could move all my limbs, I had no head injury or concussion and my back seemed to be in working order. The feeling of relief and gratitude that rushed over me is something I’ll never forget.

I’ve had a fear of heights since I was around 9 or 10 years old. Before this – nothing. I would drag my family on the most precarious of rollercoasters, I’d happily dangle from cable cars and I wouldn’t blink twice about being on a high walkway. Something changed in me – whether it was the realisation of mortality or something external triggering I’m not sure, but the fear came strong and it came fast. It’s something I imagine I’d always be suffering with – mountain fall or no mountain fall.

But I now get something of a physical reaction being near edges or drops. I like to hike – it’s something I enjoy and it’s something that where I live is famous for (SoCal) but going into a hike can be a hugely anxiety-inducing experience for me. I will sit and research if there are narrow parts of the hike that involve sheer drops or cliff edges. I don’t like hiking in big groups who I don’t know members of – it has to be a couple of close friends who I know will take their time with me through more precarious parts and won’t get mad if I freeze or start to have a panic attack.

Because that’s what happens. My lungs constrict. My feet stick rooted to the spot and my legs become unbendable. It takes everything in me psychologically to talk myself into moving forward – every utterance of reassurance that it won’t happen again, that I’m safe, that I am in control. It takes time. Sometimes I need to grip onto something solid or someone.

It can be frustrating and sad that something that happened to me in a blink of an eye 10 years ago still impacts me to this day. But I try to stay thankful that I am still here to try and hike, that I still have legs that I can try and push into action when they won’t cooperate and that I’m able to enjoy the beauty around me. And I still push myself hard – even if the circumstances and the situation has to be a little more ‘right’ for me nowadays.

Courage isn’t not being afraid. True courage is being scared and doing it anyway – an approach I truly live my life by.

CatDog xx