A shared story of resilience and reflection from the Women’s Power EBC Team, in support of mental health, neurodiversity, and remembrance.
At first glance, it was a trek to Everest Base Camp, a group of women walking through extreme terrain, pushing physical and emotional limits. But over 13 days, this journey became something far deeper: a powerful expression of resilience, purpose, and humanity. It was a reminder that strength is born from connection, care, and the steady rhythm of one step at a time.
Each of us carried our own reasons for being there: grief, burnout, trauma, healing, hope. Some of us walked for mental health awareness, some for women who never had the chance, and others to rediscover who we are outside of what the world expects of us. Together, we shared the belief that strength comes in many forms: courage, vulnerability, and connection.
And as we walked, each step carried more than our own stories. We walked for others too, for causes that remind us what connection, service, and compassion truly mean.
Gina, Faye, Thea, and I were proud to walk in support of Woody’s Lodge, which provides space, time, and care for veterans and their families, and the Poppy Appeal, honouring those who have served with courage and compassion.
We also walked for ACCT UK, the Cadet Force charity that provides grants and funding to help young people take part in life-changing experiences such as climbing Kilimanjaro or skiing across the Alps. Their work opens doors that shape confidence, leadership, and self-belief for a lifetime.
We were equally proud to represent SSAFA, the oldest military charity supporting service personnel, veterans, and their families through every stage of life, ensuring that those who serve are never left behind. As well as AGC Association, which helps serving and retired members of the Corps through personal development, team cohesion, and welfare support during difficult times.
This journey was first inspired by Gina, who dedicated 5,200 miles to honour her brother Spencer after he lost his life to cancer five years ago. Every mile she walked was an act of love, a tribute to his strength, and a reminder of what endurance really looks like. Her story became the heart of this expedition, a thread of meaning that held us all together when the path grew steep.
We also walked for Michelle, and for the incredible work she has built through the Bay Tree Cookery Academy, a place that empowers people through food, wellbeing, and connection. The care, resilience, and community she fosters reflect the same spirit that carried us through the mountains.
And then there was Carly, whose determination and advocacy brought another layer of purpose to our trek. Recently appointed as an Ambassador for The Poppy Factory, she continues to raise awareness for charities such as Climb to Recovery, helping veterans find strength, support, and belonging, ensuring that no one has to face their toughest battles alone.
We were also honoured to walk for The Block Armed Forces Foundation, a grassroots organisation in Everton that provides temporary accommodation and vital support to homeless veterans. Their mission goes beyond shelter; they create safety, community, and a pathway toward a brighter future for those rebuilding their lives.
This journey was also supported by extraordinary organisations that reflect the same values of empathy and well-being that guided our steps.
Clove Dental India made it possible for our team to carry their flag to Base Camp, not simply as a sponsor but as a partner in care. Their mission goes far beyond dentistry. It is about dignity, confidence, and restoring well-being, one smile at a time.
The Emotions Lab, founded by two sisters and recognised by the Royal Society of Medicine, helps parents of neurodivergent children build emotional resilience and self-trust through life’s most intense challenges. Their work reminds us that healing starts with understanding and that every emotion, however big, deserves compassion.
A special thank you to Total Technical Services Ltd, whose generous sponsorship helped us gear up for the cold ahead. As experts in refrigeration and air conditioning, they know more than most about how to manage extreme temperatures. Thanks to their support, we were able to invest in the right jackets and equipment for the conditions on Everest. Their support was not just financial; it was symbolic of what partnership really means: expertise, care, and the confidence to help others thrive, even in the toughest environments.
Together, these partners walked with us in spirit, purpose, and belief, reminding us that healing, courage, and belonging often begin in the same place, with care.
Last but not least, a HUGE thank you to the entire team who captured moments from this unforgettable journey through their photos and videos. Each image tells a story of laughter, challenge, and connection. A special mention goes to Thea (our personal photographer and videographer), who went above and beyond throughout the trek. Every evening, no matter how long or cold the day had been, she uploaded photos and videos so we could share our experience in real time. Her commitment, creativity, and energy brought our story to life and allowed those back home to follow the adventure as it unfolded.
Finally, this expedition was made possible through the support and coordination of Rural Heritage Nepal, whose local expertise, organisation, and kindness ensured every part of the journey ran smoothly. Their commitment to preserving the spirit and heritage of the region added something truly special to our experience.
Arrival in Kathmandu
After a year of planning, training, and preparation, it finally became real. From countless hours on the stair master to long walks through the rolling hills of the Chilterns and the wide paths of Windsor Great Park, every step had led to this moment. Training had carried me across countries too, through the Alps, the forests of Slovakia, and my beautiful Italy, from Castellana to Monasterolo, each place teaching me patience, focus, and calm in its own way.
Meeting the rest of the team in Kathmandu felt grounding. We all arrived with different stories but the same purpose. This was no longer about training sessions or packing lists. This was the real thing.
These amazing ladies had already spent a day exploring and showed me around the lively streets filled with prayer flags, spice markets, and smiling faces.
The next two days would be a gentle introduction to the culture and rhythm of Nepal before our trek began.
Monkey Business in Kathmandu
The next morning, after a pistachio croissant and a fresh lemon ginger tea, we visited the famous Swayambhunath Stupa, better known as the Monkey Temple. Monkeys darted across the steps, stole bottles of water, and leapt between statues with wild, joyful energy. They were chaotic and unpredictable, yet somehow completely at ease in their world.
As we watched them, we all agreed that their behaviour could almost be seen as an analogy for the human mind, especially for those of us who experience neurodiversity. One moment, total focus and curiosity; the next, a burst of movement, a new distraction, another impulse. It made all of us laugh, but it also made sense. Life often feels like that: messy, fast, and full of energy that refuses to be contained.
What struck me most was how the monkeys, despite all the noise and chaos, always came back to each other. They groomed, rested, and belonged. It was a great reminder that we don’t need to hide our imperfections; we just need to find the people who see beauty in them.
After visiting local shops and spinning the prayer wheels for luck, we returned to the hotel to rest. That evening, we shared dinner, stories, and laughter; already starting to feel like a small tribe, finding comfort in each other’s company.
A Walk Between Life, Death, and Humanity
The following day, we visited Pashupatinath Temple, one of Nepal’s most sacred Hindu sites. As soon as we stepped through the gates, the smell of smoke and burning wood filled the air. It clung to our clothes, our hair, our skin. We instinctively pulled our scarves over our faces to soften the sharpness of it. The heat from the cremation pyres rose against the river breeze, thick with incense and ash.
Along the banks of the Bagmati River, families gathered around their loved ones, chanting prayers as bodies were wrapped in cloth, blessed, and laid upon the pyres. The crackle of the fire mixed with the sound of crying and the soft murmur of temple bells. It was confronting and deeply human, a ritual where death was not hidden or sanitised but held with reverence and dignity.
Standing there, I felt an ache in my chest. Watching the smoke rise, I thought of my own birth mother; the woman I’ve never met, whose fate remains uncertain. Has she really died? Was she ever found? Could she have lived a life like this, close to the river, her story ending in a place just like this one? For a moment, I couldn’t shake the thought that, had my story taken a different turn, it could have been me here, or someone I love: being released into this same river.
That feeling sat at the base of my throat, heavy and unmoving. The experience left me raw but also grateful for life, for chance, for the unknown woman whose absence had shaped so much of who I am.
That evening, as I packed my duffel bag and laid out my gear for the trek ahead, I couldn’t stop thinking about what I had witnessed. The smoke, the prayers, the release, the thin line that separates life from death, and the humility it calls us to. Tomorrow, we would leave the city behind, but I knew a part of me would carry that moment always.
Day 1 – Kathmandu to Phakding
Altitude: approx. 2,610 m | Distance: 10–11 km
We woke before dawn, the city still silent under the soft haze of Kathmandu’s morning light. After a quick breakfast and last checks of our gear, we headed to the airport. Our excitement was mixed with nerves; today we would board the small twin-engine plane to Lukla, the gateway to the Himalayas.
The plane could hold about a dozen people. Inside, there was no separation between passengers and cockpit, so we could see straight ahead as the mountains rose in the distance. The flight took just twenty-five minutes, but every moment felt surreal: clouds drifting below us, peaks piercing the horizon, and the faint hum of the engines against the wind.
As we descended toward Lukla, the runway came into view: a short strip angled sharply upward at twelve degrees to help planes stop on landing. I held my breath, then exhaled as the wheels touched down and cheers filled the cabin. We were incredibly lucky, as ours was the last flight before weather conditions worsened, and all others were cancelled for the day!
After a warm cup of tea at a nearby lodge, we met our porters: humble, strong, and smiling men who would carry our heavy bags with the same ease we carried our excitement. The trek began gently, following the Dudh Koshi River through pine forests and suspension bridges draped in prayer flags. The air was crisp, filled with the scent of earth and woodsmoke.
By afternoon, the clouds lifted and we caught our first glimpse of the snow-capped Himalayas. It took my breath away. Every step brought a new view, each more beautiful than the last.
After three hours of walking, we arrived in Phakding, a small village nestled in the valley. To our surprise, the teahouse was comfortable: two single beds, a duvet, and even a pillow. Faye and I became roommates and quickly found an easy rhythm together. We laughed, unpacked, and rested before dinner with the group.
That evening, we shared our first meal on the trail, warm dal bhat and ginger tea, and talked about what brought each of us here. There was a sense of unity, even among strangers. We were all leaving something behind, all searching for something ahead.
As the night settled and the sounds of the river filled the silence, I felt deeply grateful for safety, for the team, and for the road that lay before us.
Day 2 – Phakding to Namche
Altitude: approx. 3,440 m | Distance: 8–9 km
Morning came early; the valley was still wrapped in mist. We started with porridge and fresh mint tea, then set out along the river. The first few kilometres were gentle, a rhythm of steps, breath, and laughter. The path twisted through forests of rhododendron and pine, with prayer flags strung across every bridge, fluttering like whispered prayers in the wind.
As the day went on, the terrain grew steeper and the air thinner. We crossed the famous Hillary Bridge, its steel cables swaying high above the Dudh Koshi, colourful flags snapping in the gusts. Below, the river thundered through the gorge, a reminder of both power and fragility.
Conversation faded to silence. Each of us found our own rhythm, slow, deliberate, steady. Altitude changes everything. It makes even simple steps feel monumental. One of us began to struggle with heart palpitations; we stopped often, giving us time to recover, reminding one another that this was not a race.
When we finally reached Namche Bazaar, perched like an amphitheatre on the mountainside, exhaustion gave way to awe. Colourful lodges dotted the slopes, and the smell of yak butter drifted from nearby kitchens. Our rooms had two single beds and a small bathroom: simple comforts that felt luxurious after the long climb!
That evening, as we sipped hot tea and shared stories, it dawned on us that the journey was not just about endurance. It was about empathy. We were learning to slow down, to wait, to lift one another when strength faltered. True progress was no longer measured in kilometres, but in compassion.
Day 3 – Acclimatisation in Namche
Altitude: approx. 3,880 m
After two days of steady climbing, it was time to let our bodies adjust to the altitude. The morning air was cold and clear, the kind that burns your lungs slightly but feels cleansing at the same time. Today was a rest day on paper, but in reality, it was anything but. The plan was to hike higher for several hours, then return to Namche for the night, following the principle of “climb high, sleep low.”
I woke with a headache that refused to fade. The Diamox tablets we were taking to prevent altitude sickness had strange side effects: pins and needles in our fingers, thirst, and loss of appetite. For me, it was the last one that hit hardest. The thought of food made me nauseous, even though I knew how much we needed the calories.
We set out for Sagarmatha Next, an environmental hub that focuses on recycling and sustainable tourism, before continuing upward toward Shyangboche. The trail zigzagged steeply above the village, past small stupas and stone walls, the ground glistening with frost. About halfway up, a wave of dizziness hit me. My heart raced, my vision blurred, and I had to sit down quickly before I fainted.
I was given a salt tablet, and within minutes I felt life flow back into me, a rush of strength through my veins. It was humbling. The mountain was already teaching me that strength here was not about power. It was about listening to your body and trusting its limits.
When we reached the top, the view was breathtaking: endless ridges, snow peaks, and the wide valley below. The altitude made everything sharper, from colours to sounds to emotions. We stood quietly, each of us taking it in. It was not about conquering height; it was about learning to breathe differently and finding peace in effort.
Before heading back down, we stopped at the Tenzing Norgay Museum, a small but powerful tribute to one of Nepal’s greatest heroes. Hearing his story again, right there in the heart of the Himalayas, brought everything into perspective. Tenzing Norgay, who, along with Sir Edmund Hillary, became the first to reach the summit of Everest in 1953, represented not just courage but humility and community. His legacy was visible everywhere, in the faces of the Sherpas who guide trekkers today, in the gentle strength of the people rebuilding their lives after last year’s floods, and in the children walking to school along steep, rocky paths.
Inside the museum, we saw photographs and artefacts that told the story of his climb and his life’s work after it: building education, opportunity, and pride in Sherpa culture. The guide spoke about the destruction caused by the glacial flood in 2024, which had damaged schools and homes in nearby villages, including places connected to Tenzing’s legacy. It was moving to see how deeply that loss was felt, and how determined the community was to rebuild. Resilience, here, was not just a word. It was a way of life.
On the way back down, we stopped to visit the site of the Thame glacial lake flood. On 16 August 2024, two small glacial lakes high above Thame had burst, sending a wall of debris and water down the Thame Khola, a tributary of the Dudh Koshi. The flood destroyed homes, a school, and a clinic, displacing more than a hundred people. When we arrived, the valley was deceptively calm. It looked almost untouched, the riverbed now smooth with gravel and stone.
Standing there, it was hard to imagine the destruction that had swept through just weeks before. But nature has a way of erasing its own scars quickly, a reminder of both its beauty and its power. I found myself thinking about fragility again, about how easily someone’s world can change in an instant.
As the clouds gathered and rain began to fall, we made our way back to Namche, soaked and shivering but alive with thought. That evening, over bowls of lentil soup, we talked about what we had seen: the flood, the mountains, the unpredictability of it all, and how even in loss, there was resilience.
By the time I crawled into bed that night, the headache had returned, dull but persistent. Yet inside, there was calmness. I had made it through the first real test of altitude and found something deeper than fatigue: gratitude for breath itself.
Day 4 – Namche to Tengboche
Altitude: approx. 3,860 m | Distance: 9 km
We left Namche early, our breath turning to mist in the cold morning air. The first hour was gentle, following a contour path that curved around the mountain. The sun rose slowly over the peaks, lighting the prayer flags that stretched between rocks and trees. Below us, the river shimmered silver in the valley.
For the first time, we could see Ama Dablam, one of the most beautiful mountains in the Himalayas. Its sharp ridges and sweeping lines looked almost unreal, like something carved by hand. Every few minutes, one of us would stop to take another photo, trying to capture what words never could.
The descent to the river was steep and dusty, and the climb that followed was even steeper. Each step upward felt like pushing through water. For some of us, our breathing grew shallow, and our legs began to burn. This was the hardest climb so far. Conversation disappeared, and all that existed was the rhythm of breath and step.
When we finally reached Tengboche, the sound of chanting filled the air. The monastery stood on a wide plateau surrounded by mountains, a place of stillness after hours of strain. Monks in deep red robes moved quietly between prayer halls, their calm presence grounding everything around them.
For a lot of us, this place carried a special sense of meaning. Something in its stillness, its strength, seemed to reach beyond words. We stood together in silence, taking it all in, aware that each of us was connecting with the journey in our own way. Our reasons for being here were different, yet somehow intertwined.
Inside the monastery, the scent of butter lamps and incense filled the air. The rhythmic chants of the monks echoed against the walls, vibrating through the floor. Sitting there, I felt both small and infinite, a part of something far beyond myself.
That evening, clouds rolled in and the temperature dropped sharply. We gathered in the teahouse dining room, wrapped in sleeping bag liners, sipping tea by the stove. Conversation was softer now, shaped by fatigue and silent reflection. The mountains were teaching us humility, one climb at a time.
As I lay in bed that night, listening to the wind outside, I felt both fragile and alive. The higher we went, the thinner the air became, but so did the space between thought and truth. There was something purifying about it, as if the mountain was stripping away everything that did not matter.
Day 5 – Tengboche to Dingboche: Through the Storm
Altitude: approx. 4,410 m | Distance: 15 km | Elevation gain: approx. 765 m
We woke before dawn in Tengboche to rain hammering the roof. It was not the gentle kind that eases with time; it was relentless. Over breakfast, we watched it pour, hoping it would stop. Our Sherpa delayed our start by an hour, but the weather only grew angrier, as if the mountain was reminding us who was in charge.
When we finally set out toward Dingboche, the heavens opened. The rain came down with fury, drenching us within minutes. The trail turned to rivers beneath our boots, and water poured down the slopes. We had started the day with a mission in mind, but nature had its own plan.
It made me think about mental health: how unpredictable it can be, how quickly the landscape of our emotions can shift. One moment, we are steady and strong, and the next, we are fighting to stay upright. The weather became a mirror of that inner world, a reminder that even when everything feels out of control, the only thing to do is keep moving, step by step.
By lunchtime, we were soaked through from head to toe, the cold settling deep into our bones. It reminded me of the Arctic. People often imagine that at minus forty degrees the cold is clean and dry, but in truth, it is just as damp, just as relentless. Out there, our clothes never truly dried, and every breath felt heavy with ice. The same feeling returned now: the weight of water, the sting of wind, the ache of cold that seeps into every layer.
When we reached our lunch stop, we stumbled into a small teahouse where a single stove stood in the middle of the room. It took forever to catch fire, the flames hesitant, the heat slow to spread. We huddled around it, shaking, silent, waiting for life to return to our fingers. The steam from our clothes rose like ghosts. Then came the noodle soup: simple, hot, and perfect. It tasted like the finest meal in the world, not because of flavour, but because it gave us life again.
The decision was made not to stop again until we reached Dingboche. There would be no more breaks. The Sherpas looked at the sky and knew we had to move. So, we did. No matter what it took, we would get there.
The rain turned to sleet, then to snow, and finally to a full whiteout. The mountain transformed around us, and the world narrowed to the few steps ahead. The snow came heavy and fast, the wind fierce enough to steal our breath. We walked in single file, each of us following the faint footprints of the person in front.
Every layer was soaked. Our jackets clung to our skin, our gloves were stiff with ice, and our boots squelched with each step. The trail blurred into the storm, and all that remained was the rhythm of walking: one step, another, then another. This was no longer about reaching Base Camp. It was about endurance. It was about the strength that comes when you are stripped of comfort and control.
When we finally reached Dingboche, we stumbled inside the teahouse, soaked and shivering. The fire was already surrounded by other trekkers drying their boots and jackets. There was barely space to stand, yet somehow, we squeezed in, grateful for any warmth we could find.
We hung our socks by the stove, spread our gloves on the floor, and huddled together, steam rising from every layer of clothing. The air smelled of wet wool, smoke, and relief.
Back home, the storm had already made the headlines. The BBC and other news outlets reported that hundreds of trekkers were trapped on the mountain by sudden blizzards. Helicopters circled, rescuers used oxen and horses on the Tibetan side to help groups reach safety, and friends and family sent messages, desperate for updates. Matteo’s phone lit up with calls and texts from people trying to reach us. But we had no Wi-Fi, no signal, no way to reply.
Later, we learned just how far the storm had reached. Across the region, trekkers on both the Nepalese and Tibetan sides were caught in blizzards unlike anything locals had seen in years. Some had to clear snow from their tents every few minutes to stop them from collapsing. Roads were washed away by floods, and rescuers guided hundreds to safety through waist-deep snow. It was called an “exceptional storm,” one that even experienced hikers said they had never seen before. Hearing that afterwards made the whole experience sink in: how close the line is between safety and survival, and how fragile our sense of control really is.
It was strange to imagine the worry unfolding thousands of miles away, while here we simply carried on, step by step, through the storm. The mountain was in control now. It decided what mattered and what did not.
That night, we ate dinner in near silence. Everyone was drained. No one needed to say much: we had all felt the same thing. The exhaustion, the fear, the humility. Yet beneath it all, there was pride. We had made it through the storm.
Outside, snow continued to fall, soft and steady, covering everything in white. I fell asleep listening to the wind against the window, unsure of what tomorrow would bring, but certain that whatever it was, we would face it together.
Day 6 – Acclimatisation in Dingboche
Altitude: approx. 4,410 m
We woke to silence. The kind that feels sacred after chaos. The storm had passed, leaving behind a landscape transformed. Everything outside was coated in white, as if the mountain had been washed clean overnight. The jagged rocks, the narrow paths, the rooftops: all softened beneath a smooth layer of snow.
The air was still thin, but it felt gentler now, almost forgiving. I opened the door and watched the light change over the valley. The snow sparkled under the early sun, and for the first time in days, I could hear my own breath without the roar of the wind.
Inside, the stove was still glowing from the night before. We gathered slowly, layering up again, our movements heavy but unhurried. The exhaustion from the day before lingered in our bones. Our bodies were craving rest, yet our minds were restless: caught between relief and disbelief.
Breakfast felt like a celebration of small things: hot porridge, steaming mugs of tea, the warmth of shared silence. There was laughter again, soft but real. It felt as though the storm had stripped us bare, and what remained was something simpler, closer to gratitude.
The plan for the day was acclimatisation: no long trek, no rush, just a gentle climb to let our bodies adjust to the altitude. We set out mid-morning, following a narrow trail that wound upward from the village. Each step crunched through snow that glistened like crushed glass. The air was crisp, clean, and filled with light.
From the ridge above Dingboche, the view opened to a panorama of peaks: Ama Dablam stood in perfect stillness, its sharp edges rising against an impossibly blue sky. After days of walking through mist and shadow, the clarity was breathtaking. It felt as though the mountain was offering us an apology, a small moment of grace after its test.
We stood there for a while, just breathing it all in. There was no need to speak. The beauty said everything.
Back in the village, life had slowed to a gentle rhythm. Trekkers sat outside teahouses drying their clothes, boots lined up in the sun. Sherpas mended ropes and packs, their movements calm and deliberate. The world felt steady again.
In the afternoon, we found a small café that miraculously had power, though no Wi-Fi. We ordered brownies and mugs of hot chocolate that tasted sweeter than anything we had known in days. The warmth and comfort felt almost unreal after the previous day’s struggle. Around us, others sat in silence or scribbled in journals, each person wrapped in their own thoughts.
Once our phones and power banks were full again, we slipped plastic bags over our boots and stepped back into the snow. The simple act of walking through that frozen village felt peaceful, almost meditative. The sound of our steps on the snow replaced the noise of the storm.
Later that evening, we unpacked the crampons we would need for the days ahead. Holding the metal in my hands, I felt both anticipation and humility. We had made it through the storm, but the mountain was far from finished with us.
That night, as the sky filled again with stars, I thought about how quickly everything can shift: from fear to calm, from chaos to stillness. Sometimes the greatest test is not the storm itself, but how we find our footing once it has passed.
Day 7 – Dingboche to Lobuche
Altitude: approx. 4,910 m | Distance: 11.5 km | Elevation gain: ~715 m
We left Dingboche early, stepping out into thin, brittle air. The village was still waking, smoke rising slowly from chimneys, prayer flags fluttering weakly in the cold morning wind. The path ahead wound upward through a wide, open valley, silent and solemn, as if the mountain itself had fallen into deep reflection.
Conversation faded early that day. Each breath felt heavier, each step more deliberate. The laughter that had filled earlier mornings was replaced by the sound of boots on gravel and the steady rhythm of poles striking the ground. The altitude had begun to take its toll: headaches, dry throats, dizzy moments that came and went without warning. Even the smallest incline demanded focus.
As we moved higher, the valley narrowed, the air thinned, and silence settled like a blanket. It was a different kind of stillness: not empty, but reverent. Every few minutes, we stopped to look back, watching the peaks shift in light and shadow. Behind us, Ama Dablam stood like a guardian, impossibly beautiful, its ridges glowing in the morning sun.
Halfway along the trail, the path began to steepen toward the Thukla Pass, a hard, slow climb that tested every ounce of breath and patience we had left. At the top, the wind hit us sharply, cutting through every layer. And then, as we reached the crest, the landscape opened into something unforgettable.
A field of memorial stones stretched across the ridge; each one built for a climber who had lost their life on Everest. The stones were covered with names, dates, and faded prayer flags fluttering softly in the wind. No one spoke. We stood there in silence, surrounded by mountains that had taken so much, yet still demanded respect. It was impossible not to feel small, not in a defeated way, but in a deeply human way.
It was there that we came across one name many of us recognised: Rob Hall, the New Zealand mountaineer who led expeditions with such care and commitment that his name became part of Everest’s story forever. He had lost his life in 1996 while helping a climber in trouble near the summit, refusing to leave him behind despite the brutal storm that swept the mountain that day. His last words, radioed down to Base Camp and to his wife waiting at home, have become a symbol of courage and compassion: a reminder that leadership is not only about strength, but sacrifice.
I remember thinking how fragile we are, how easily we forget our limits until nature reminds us. The memorials weren’t just for those who had fallen; they were a reminder for those of us still climbing that courage isn’t only found in reaching the top, but in knowing when to pause, to listen, to honour what is greater than ourselves.
After a while, we began the slow walk down from the pass. The air felt thinner still, the landscape barren, stripped of almost all colour except for the pale browns of stone and the soft blue of distant ice. It was as if the world had been reduced to its essentials: rock, sky, breath, heartbeat.
By late afternoon, Lobuche appeared in the distance, a scattering of lodges against a wall of snow and stone. When we arrived, the temperature had already dropped sharply. The tea house was crowded with trekkers, all moving slowly, quietly, saving what energy they had.
That evening, sitting around the stove, we said little. There was an understanding now, a respect for what lay ahead. Tomorrow, we will reach Everest Base Camp, the destination that has drawn us all here. But as I looked around the room, I realised it wasn’t really about the summit anymore. It was about the stillness, the shared struggle, the beauty in simplicity, and the growing awareness of how much we depended on one another.
Day 8 – Lobuche to Gorakshep to Everest Base Camp and back
Altitude: 4,910 m to 5,364 m | Distance: approximately 12 to 13 km round trip
We woke before dawn in Lobuche. The air was so thin that every movement felt deliberate, every breath slightly too short. The room was freezing, our water bottles iced over, our clothes stiff from the cold night. Today was the day, the final push to Everest Base Camp.
The morning light crept slowly over the mountains, pale and still. The sky was clear, the kind of blue that only exists above the clouds. We set off after a quick breakfast, the trail leading us through a barren, lunar landscape of rock and ice. There was no greenery anymore, only the sound of our boots on frozen ground and the crunch of gravel underfoot.
The walk to Gorakshep felt endless. The terrain was uneven, weaving along the edges of the Khumbu Glacier, and the altitude made every incline feel like climbing a wall. Conversation was rare now. Each of us was locked in our own rhythm, slow steps, deep breaths, one foot, then the other. The world had narrowed to movement and breath.
When we reached Gorakshep, we paused briefly to drop our duffels and grab a quick brunch. The wind had picked up, carrying fine dust and snow crystals that sparkled in the sun. From there, the path to Base Camp stretched ahead, a rugged line across the glacier, marked by small cairns and fading prayer flags.
It took hours to cover those last few kilometres. The trail rose and fell, winding through uneven rock and ice. Every few minutes, we stopped to steady our breath and look around. The immense wall of Nuptse towered to our right, and the Khumbu Icefall shimmered in the distance like frozen waves.
When the yellow tents of Base Camp finally appeared in the distance, a quiet ripple of energy passed through the group. Each of us had imagined this moment for so long, but standing there, surrounded by peaks that touched the sky, it felt different: raw, humbling, and beautiful.
We stood together at the famous rock marking Everest Base Camp. Tears mixed with laughter. Hugs turned into silence. We had made it. The wind carried the sound of prayer flags, and for a moment, everything felt suspended, all the pain, exhaustion, and uncertainty replaced by something softer, almost peaceful.
I thought back to the Arctic, where survival had been the goal. There, I had discovered what I was capable of, how far I could push myself when everything was stripped away. But here, standing beneath Everest, I realised this journey had given me something different. I no longer needed to prove anything to myself. The climb had not changed me; it had revealed who I already was.
It was no longer about summits. It was about direction, about what I would do with this strength now that I had reclaimed it. The lesson was not in the hardship but in the clarity it brought. Resilience without purpose is just endurance. True strength begins when you channel it, when you use it to lift others, to listen, to care, to make meaning from the struggle.
As we began the long walk back to Gorakshep, the sun dipped behind the peaks, painting the snow in gold and rose. I turned one last time toward Everest. It no longer felt like something to conquer, but something to carry, a constant, steady reminder that the hardest climbs often lead us back to ourselves.
That evening, the tea house at Gorakshep was filled with humble pride. We ate slowly, wrapped in thick jackets, our cheeks still pink from the cold. No one needed to say much. We all knew what the other was feeling. Gratitude. Humility. A deep sense of awe.
Later, in our small shared room, Faye and I talked for a while, our voices quiet with exhaustion and disbelief. Normally, we would have laughed about the day, swapped stories, or complained about the cold. But that night, words felt small. We were beyond tired, beyond proud, and deeply grateful. We had made it.
Outside, the wind pressed softly against the window. For the first time in days, I did not think about altitude, distance, or how far there was still to go. I simply breathed deeply and smiled.
We had made it to Base Camp.
Day 9 – Gorakshep to Pheriche
Altitude: 5,164 m to 4,240 m | Distance: approximately 12 km
We left Gorakshep early. The excitement of reaching Base Camp the day before still lingered in the air, but now the focus had shifted. It was time to begin the long journey back. The air was sharp, dry, and brittle, the kind that makes every breath catch in your chest. Our bodies felt heavy, as though all the effort of the past days had finally caught up with us. Outside, the world was frozen in soft light. Snow still covered the ground from the storm days before, glittering under the pale morning sun.
Around 3 am, I heard the sound of boots and whispers in the corridor. Other trekkers were getting ready to climb Kala Patthar for sunrise. None of us moved. Our group stayed wrapped in our sleeping bags, too drained to take on another climb. From our window, we could still see the early light touching the peaks, turning them from grey to gold. It felt peaceful, almost sacred.
After breakfast, we packed up our gear and prepared to leave. The air was thin, and even simple tasks felt slow. We set off early, the trail already alive with the sound of crunching ice and the faint chatter of distant voices. Ahead lay the long descent, the return to thicker air, warmer valleys, and the slow unravelling of everything the mountain had taught us.
The storm days earlier had caused flooding and landslides, washing out parts of the trail. We soon realised the descent would be slower and harder than expected. Each path needed care, and each crossing took time. The mountain was still testing us, even on the way down.
The walk back toward Lobuche was steady and peaceful. The glacier cracked faintly in the distance, releasing thin streams of meltwater that glistened in the morning light. The terrain that had felt endless on the way up now unfolded more easily, but the toll on our bodies was clear. The steps down from the ridges were high and uneven, and I was deeply grateful for my trekking poles. They were more than a tool; they were balance, rhythm, and support. Without them, each step would have been twice as hard on my hips and knees.
We stopped briefly at Thukla, near the memorial stones we had passed two days before. In daylight and calm weather, the place felt different, gentler somehow, though the meaning was unchanged. We stood for a while among the chortens and prayer flags, each of us lost in thought, before continuing.
The descent toward Pheriche felt like returning to another world. The valley widened, and patches of dry grass appeared through the snow. The air smelled faintly of earth again, and small streams trickled beside the trail. It was the scent and sound of life returning.
When we reached Pheriche, the first thing I noticed was the smoke rising from the teahouse chimneys and the soft hum of the village. Dogs barked in the distance, children’s laughter carried faintly on the wind, and for the first time in days, I felt warmth returning to my fingers.
That evening, we gathered around the stove. The room was filled with tired laughter and the soft rustle of jackets drying by the fire. Someone pulled out a tube of Pringles, and we passed it around slowly, each of us smiling at how something so ordinary could feel so special.
Later that night, I stepped outside for a moment. The sky was crystal clear, and the valley shimmered under the moonlight. Behind us, Everest stood hidden by distance, yet I could still feel its magnetic pull. The journey down felt different now. It was no longer about reaching a goal, but about carrying everything the mountain had taught us.
Day 10 – Pheriche to Phortse
Altitude: Pheriche 4,240 m → Phortse 3,810 m | Distance: approx. 12 km
Morning arrived with pale sunlight spilling through the thin curtains. The air felt thicker now, almost generous, and we could breathe again without that tight pull in our chests. After days at a higher altitude, even this small difference felt like a gift. But if we thought descending would be easy, the mountain quickly reminded us otherwise.
The path down from Pheriche was steep and uneven, with layers of melting snow turning to slick mud beneath our boots. Each step demanded as much focus as the climb up. Knees burned, hips ached, and every descent felt endless. The trail wound sharply through hills and valleys, crossing frozen streams and narrow ridges where one wrong step could send you sliding.
It wasn’t just the altitude that tested us now; it was gravity. Every muscle had to adapt to a new rhythm. What had once been about pushing upward was now about control and balance, about moving carefully and deliberately.
Our trekking poles became our lifelines. They steadied us on the steep drops and gave rhythm to our steps. I found myself silently thanking whoever invented them. They weren’t just tools; they were extensions of our will to keep going, to move with intention rather than rush toward the end.
The scenery shifted as we descended. Snow began to fade into patches of green, the air filled once again with the scent of pine and woodsmoke. Prayer flags fluttered above small stone walls, and the sound of bells from distant yaks echoed through the valley. The mountain was softening, and so were we.
By midday, the sun was bright, the sky clear and open. We stopped to rest at a ridge overlooking the valley we had climbed through days before. It looked both familiar and impossibly far away. From up there, we could trace our route: the bridges, the frozen paths, the villages that had marked our journey. Seeing it all laid out below made it easier to grasp just how far we had come.
When we finally reached Phortse, the village seemed to glow in the afternoon light. Stone houses with blue roofs dotted the hillside, surrounded by fields dusted with snow. It was peaceful and welcoming, a place that seemed to exist outside of time.
That evening, we sat in the teahouse around the stove, our legs sore but our spirits light. Laughter filled the room again, genuine and free. The weight of the climb, both physical and emotional, was beginning to lift.
I realised that coming down wasn’t just a return to lower ground. It was a different kind of challenge, one that demanded patience and humility. The ascent had tested our strength; the descent tested our steadiness. Both, in their own way, revealed something about resilience: that it isn’t only about how high you can climb, but how gently and mindfully you can come back down.
Day 11 – Phortse to Khumjung
Altitude: Phortse 3,810 m → Khumjung 3,790 m | Distance: approx. 8 km
Morning light spilled over Phortse like a soft embrace. The air felt warmer, the snow had begun to melt, and for the first time in days, we set out without layers upon layers of clothing. Spirits were high. The worst was behind us, and yet we knew that the mountain was not done testing our patience.
The trail from Phortse to Khumjung was beautiful but demanding. It wound up and down through hills and ridges, with steep sections that forced us to stop and catch our breath. The terrain was uneven, a mix of rocky paths and narrow ledges that kept us alert. The views, however, were magnificent. Everest appeared occasionally in the distance, a silent reminder of what we had achieved and of how small we are beside such vastness.
Crossing the Mong La ridge, we paused to look around. The valley opened up beneath us, dotted with small villages, prayer flags, and grazing yaks. The sounds of the mountain returned: the gentle hum of wind, the faint bells in the distance, and the rhythmic click of our trekking poles on the stones. It felt peaceful, almost meditative.
As the hours passed, conversation drifted easily between laughter and gentle reflection. We began to talk about what awaited us at home: family, work, unfinished projects, and small comforts we had missed. There was a lightness in our voices, mixed with a soft sadness. What had once felt like a challenge to be conquered had become a shared experience that none of us wanted to rush through.
We reached Khumjung in the early afternoon, a village tucked into the hillside and surrounded by terraced fields. It was larger and greener than the ones higher up, with more colour, more life, and an unmistakable sense of warmth. Children played in the open spaces, monks passed by with peaceful smiles, and the rhythm of daily life felt calm and unhurried.
Our teahouse overlooked the valley, and from the windows we could see the last glimmers of snow on the peaks above. It felt surreal to think that only a few days earlier, we had been battling a storm near five thousand metres, and now we were back among the sounds of laughter and barking dogs.
That evening, we sat together sharing stories and memories from the past two weeks. We laughed at the small mishaps, the soggy gloves, the endless layers, and the jokes that had kept us sane when the cold bit deep. Beneath the laughter, though, was something quieter: the knowledge that this journey had changed us all in ways we were only beginning to understand.
The mountain had taught us that strength is not always loud or visible. Sometimes it lives in the steady endurance of one step after another, in the shared look between teammates, or in the simple act of showing up each morning ready to try again.
As the lights dimmed and the stars appeared above the ridge, I realised that the climb had given us more than memories. It had given us perspective. What once felt like survival had become something gentler: gratitude.
Day 12 – Khumjung to Phakding
Altitude: Khumjung 3,790 m → Phakding 2,610 m | Distance: approx. 13–14 km
We woke to the sound of bells and birdsong, the first true sign that we were leaving the higher altitude behind. The cold was softer now, the kind that brushed your cheeks rather than cut through your bones. Outside the teahouse, sunlight reached across the valley, warming the roofs and terraces. It felt like a silent blessing, a signal that we were finally on our way home.
The trail from Khumjung back toward Phakding was long and winding, filled with steep descents that reminded us the journey was far from over. People often assume that going down is easy, but it takes its own kind of endurance. Each step required focus and balance. The uneven stone paths were still slick from the melting snow, and more than once our poles saved us from a hard fall. Knees and hips began to ache, and the burn in our legs returned, just in a different way.
Despite the fatigue, laughter never left us. By this point, our lips had taken the worst of the mountain: cracked, swollen, and painfully dry. None of us had blisters on our feet, but our faces told another story. One morning, one of the girls woke up looking as though she had just walked out of a comedy sketch. She was instantly nicknamed “Bubba,” after the character from Forrest Gump, and the name stayed for the rest of the trek. It became one of those shared jokes that lifted even the hardest moments. It reminded us that humour could live even in discomfort, and that connection was often what kept us moving forward.
As the path descended, we began to notice the rhythm of life returning around us. Porters passed us silently, carrying astonishing loads: gas bottles, food, drinks, supplies wrapped in cloth and tied with rope. Some carried over sixty kilograms on their backs or foreheads, moving with humble strength through terrain that challenged us even when empty-handed. Horses and donkeys trotted by with barrels and crates, their bells marking the rhythm of survival in these mountains.
Watching them filled me with gratitude. We were lucky to walk with only our daypacks, while others (humans and animals) carried everything that kept life running above the clouds. It was humbling, a reminder that privilege often looks like comfort unnoticed.
The more we descended, the more I felt connected to the land and the people who call it home. Children waved from doorways, some barefoot, some asking for sweets or food. Women bent over rivers washing clothes, their hands red from the cold water. Men repaired wooden bridges or stacked stones by hand, their eyes calm, focused, and kind. All of it spoke to me of resilience born not from choice, but from necessity: a strength that ran deeper than endurance.
For me, Nepal was more than a landscape. It was humanity in its rawest form. Every glance, every greeting, every shared smile reminded me of what truly matters: connection, humility, and the grace of ordinary life.
By late afternoon, we reached Phakding, the same village where our trek had truly begun. The sound of the river was louder now, rushing beside us as if welcoming us back. The teahouse felt almost luxurious: running water, warm tea, and laughter echoing through the dining room.
That evening, we sat together remembering it all: the storms, the fatigue, the swollen lips, the aching knees, and the enduring strength that had carried us through. I thought about how easy it is to keep looking toward the next peak or the next challenge, but sometimes the real transformation happens in moments like this: when the journey slows, when the world becomes smaller, and when gratitude takes its place beside you.
Day 13 – Phakding to Lukla
Altitude: Phakding 2,610 m → Lukla 2,860 m | Distance: approx. 8–9 km
Our final morning on the trail began before sunrise. The familiar sound of duffel bags being zipped and boots tightening filled the air. This was it, the last climb, the final stretch of a journey that had tested, humbled, and transformed us in ways none of us could have imagined.
We stepped out into the cool morning mist, our breath visible in the air. The trail from Phakding to Lukla was shorter than most days, yet it was far from easy. It rose and dipped like a final test from the mountain, as if asking whether we had truly learned what it meant to endure.
Each step upward carried the weight of the previous two weeks: the laughter, the tears, the blisters that never came, the cracked lips that did. The stone steps seemed endless. Every time we thought we had reached the final rise, another appeared ahead. It was almost poetic, a reminder that even endings require effort.
Around us, the familiar rhythm of life continued. Porters passed swiftly, still carrying impossible loads. Horses and donkeys moved steadily uphill, their bells echoing through the valley. Children waved from doorways, and women looked up from their morning chores to smile as we passed. Scenes that had once felt foreign now felt like home.
As we approached the last steep climb into Lukla, the group grew silent. It was not exhaustion this time, but reflection. We had started this journey as individuals, each with our own reasons for being there for healing, for courage, for rediscovery, but somewhere along the path, our stories had woven together.
When we finally reached the town gate, we stopped and turned to look back. Behind us lay miles of mountain trail, countless steps carved into memory. Ahead of us, the sounds of Lukla: laughter, chatter, and the faint hum of airplanes marked the return to a world that now felt entirely different.
Inside the teahouse, there was celebration and relief. We shared tea, hugged the guides and porters who had carried us in more ways than one, and laughed about the moments that had nearly broken us. The room was filled with gratitude, but also a lingering sadness. The mountain had given us everything we didn’t know we needed: patience, humility, courage, and now it was time to let it go.
That evening, I stepped outside for one last look at the peaks in the distance. The air was still, the sky clear. I thought about what this journey had truly meant. The Arctic had once taught me survival. Everest had taught me something deeper: direction. It was no longer about proving strength, but understanding how to use it.
Strength without purpose can feel empty. But strength channelled toward care, meaning, and connection becomes something else entirely. It becomes influential. It becomes legacy.
As night settled over Lukla, I felt a deep certainty. This journey was never about reaching a destination. It was about remembering who we are when everything else is stripped away and realising that what we find there is enough.
The road back to Kathmandu
After completing the trek, we woke early for what we thought would be a short flight back to Kathmandu. But Nepal had other plans. The weather and flight schedules had changed, so instead of flying directly to the capital, we were to take a small plane to Ramechhap, a tiny rural airport surrounded by misty hills and scattered houses, and then travel the rest of the way by road.
The flight itself was short and calm, the mountains glowing beneath us in the morning light. From above, it was almost impossible to believe that only a few days earlier, we had been deep within their frozen silence. When we landed, the air was warmer and thicker, filled with the scent of earth and dust. Ramechhap Airport was unlike any I had ever seen: small, humble, and full of character.
What came next was something we will never forget: a seven-hour bus journey on roads that could barely be called roads. The recent bad weather had torn sections apart, leaving stretches of rock, gravel, and river crossings that felt more like adventure trails than highways. At times, the bus tilted to one side, bouncing so hard that Carly, who had bravely tried to sleep, nearly launched out of her seat. Laughter filled the air as we held on tightly, bouncing our way through valleys and villages.
It was chaos, but it was also incredible. Every turn revealed something new: terraced rice fields glistening in the sunlight, families working in their gardens, children waving as we passed. The landscape shifted from mountains to forests to the edge of the Kathmandu valley, where dust rose like fog around us.
As exhausting as it was, that long journey offered a new glimpse of Nepal. Away from the tourist trails, we saw how people truly lived: the strength, the simplicity, the smiles despite hardship. There was a beauty in that resilience, a certain dignity in the way life continued despite broken bridges and rough roads.
When we finally arrived in Kathmandu, tired but laughing, it felt like the circle had closed. The city’s noise, colour, and warmth were overwhelming at first, yet comforting. After so many days in the mountains, it was strange to see traffic lights, shops, and busy streets again.
After the vast stillness of the mountains, Kathmandu felt both familiar and new. The rhythm of the city was alive again, a mixture of colour, sound, and life unfolding at every corner. Yet there was still something important I had planned before the trek, something that held deep personal meaning for me: a visit to a local children’s home.
A home of hope – Visiting PA Nepal
The morning after our return to Kathmandu, I woke early for something I had been looking forward to since before leaving home. At eight o’clock, I met Sony, a kind and generous woman who had helped organise my visit to a local children’s home run by Prisoners’ Assistance Nepal (PA Nepal). She came to the hotel, and together we walked through the quiet morning streets, talking as we went. I could already feel a sense of anticipation building inside me.
Before leaving the UK, I had packed toys, colouring pencils, and small gifts for the children, knowing that I wanted to do something meaningful while in Nepal. Thea, one of my teammates, had thoughtfully brought stacks of colouring books and pens for the same purpose. I carried them all with me that morning, excited to finally deliver them in person.
When we arrived, the children were just waking up and getting ready for school. Their faces lit up with curiosity and joy as we unpacked the toys. Some ran forward to choose a soft toy and hugged it immediately, holding it close as if it had always been theirs. Others opened the colouring books, smiling as they flipped through the pages. Their laughter filled the courtyard, cutting through the morning chill with warmth and light.
The home is part of PA Nepal, founded by the extraordinary Indira Ranamagar, a woman whose life’s work has transformed the future for hundreds of children across the country. Meeting her was an honour. She moved with calm confidence, her eyes full of love and strength. Watching her among the children was like witnessing a mother with her family, gentle, present, and endlessly giving.
Indira grew up in a small village in eastern Nepal, where opportunities were scarce. She learned to read by watching her brother trace letters in the dirt, determined to carve her own path despite poverty and social expectations. Years later, while working alongside a human rights activist, she encountered a young child sleeping outside a prison after her mother had been arrested. That moment changed her life. She saw the forgotten children, those living behind bars or abandoned because of their parents’ imprisonment, and vowed to give them safety, education, and dignity.
In 2000, she founded Prisoners Assistance Nepal, beginning with one small home and a simple belief that every child deserves a chance. Today, PA Nepal has grown into a network of homes, schools, and day-care centres across the country. It receives no government funding, relying entirely on donations and the dedication of Indira, her daughter, and the community around them.
Some of the children she cares for were found on rubbish dumps. Others have parents serving prison sentences. Many have known nothing beyond the walls of this home, yet they laugh, play, and dream freely. Watching them that morning, drawing, talking, and sharing smiles, I felt a deep sense of admiration for what Indira had created. Her determination and compassion have built not just a shelter but a true home.
For me, visiting PA Nepal was deeply personal. I spent the first two years of my life in an orphanage before being adopted, and though my time there was brief, I understand what it means to be cared for, to feel safe and seen. Stepping into that home in Kathmandu brought that understanding full circle. Watching Indira nurture these children reminded me of how transformative love can be when it is freely given.
She deserves every ounce of recognition and every grant available to continue her work. What she has built is a living example of humanity at its best, a reminder that the most powerful form of leadership is rooted in care.
Sometimes life opens doors when you least expect it. I came to Nepal to trek to Everest Base Camp, yet somehow this visit became one of the most meaningful moments of the entire journey. It reminded me that connection can appear in the most unexpected places and that purpose often finds us when we are not looking for it.
To learn more about Indira’s work or to support Prisoners Assistance Nepal, visit www.panepal.org.
Nepal had given us far more than we expected, not only a physical challenge, but a lesson in humanity, humility, and joy. As I sat at the airport waiting to board our flight home, I felt full of emotion and gratitude. We had come for adventure, but what we found was connection.
The real summit
Lessons in humanity, humility, and connection from the mountains of Nepal
As I sat at the airport waiting to leave, I found myself looking back over the last two weeks, the miles walked, the laughter shared, the cold that bit through every layer, and the silence that followed every sunrise. Nepal had stripped away all that was unnecessary. It had shown me what really matters.
In the mountains, strength takes on a new meaning. It is not about endurance or perfection, but about humility, patience, and the willingness to keep moving when every part of you wants to stop. It is about the silent nod from a fellow trekker, the shared thermos of tea on a cold morning, or the gentle hand of a guide helping you steady your breath at high altitude.
But beyond the mountains, what I loved the most was the people: the porters who carried impossible weights with humble grace, the children who smiled through dust and hunger, the families who waved as we passed, eyes bright with warmth. In their simplicity, I saw resilience. In their kindness, I saw strength. And in their humanity, I saw myself reflected.
And then, there was our sherpa…
He was the kind of leader who never seemed to lose patience, calm, or purpose. He would say in his calm, steady voice, “Left side, safe side. Right side, suicide.” Over and over, every single day. He never snapped, never rolled his eyes, never lost focus. He watched us carefully, checking that we were drinking water, walking steadily, and staying safe on the path.
When someone was struggling, he noticed before they said a word. He’d lift their backpack, hand them water, massage a sore head, or warm their frozen fingers. If someone was too weak to eat, he’d bring food to their bed. When exhaustion made us irritable or silent, he accepted it. And when we apologised later, he simply smiled.
He never shouted, never sought attention. But somehow, he led every one of us.
At the time, I didn’t realise how much he was teaching me: not through words, but through who he was. The Sherpa couldn’t control the mountain, or the weather, or our moods. But he could control himself. And that was his power.
His calm created safety. His patience built trust. His presence kept us together.
Now, I often think of him when I talk about leadership. Because most of us do not have a Sherpa at work. We move through noisy, demanding environments where everyone is busy climbing their own mountain, and sometimes we forget to look out for one another.
But we can be that presence for ourselves and for others. We can lead with calm, steadiness, and care. We can hold space instead of controlling it. And we can remind the people around us, just as he reminded us, “Left side, safe side.”
Sometimes leadership isn’t about getting to the top first. It’s about helping others feel safe enough to keep climbing.
Everyone talks about reaching Base Camp, but few speak about the journey back down. The descent took five days through steep, broken trails and washed-out paths. By then, our bodies were tired, but our connection was stronger than ever. Every step reminded me that endurance is not just about reaching the top, but about finding the strength to keep going when everything aches, and to do it together.
It is easy to feel small among the peaks of the Himalayas. Yet that feeling brings perspective. It reminds you that we are all part of something larger; that our stories are interconnected, and that compassion is the only real measure of success.
As we journeyed back along the rough, broken roads of Ramechhap, I kept thinking about the girl we saw by the roadside, no older than eight, splitting wood with an axe. Her focus, her determination, her sense of purpose. She was not waiting for life to be easy; she was already living it. That moment stayed in my heart. It was a mirror: a reminder that resilience is not a choice for many, but a way of being.
Nepal reminded me of the beauty in imperfection, of how life unfolds in its rawest forms far from comfort and control. It reminded me that connection is not built through words, but through presence, in the way we look at each other, share a smile, or carry another’s burden, even briefly.
When I think back to this journey now, I do not just remember the mountains or the blizzards. I remember the faces, the laughter, the moments of stillness between steps. I remember the feeling of being part of something both fragile and infinite.
And perhaps that is what this journey was always meant to teach me. That beyond endurance, beyond courage, beyond even belonging: what matters most is our capacity for connection. To each other. To the earth. To ourselves.
Everest did not change me the way the Arctic did. It revealed who I already was.
Because in the end, the real summit is not a place. It is a state of being, found in humility, in humanity, and in the inner strength of walking each step with purpose.
And who knows where these lessons will take me next. What I do know is that my path ahead will not be about chasing another mountain or reaching another summit. It will be about opening the door for others who feel lost in the noise of life: those who want to find stillness within the chaos, to face their inner roadblocks, and to rediscover who they are beneath it all.
Because sometimes, the most powerful journey is not the one that takes us higher, but the one that takes us home.
Above all, this journey was about far more than reaching Base Camp. It was about walking beside one another, each with our own story, strength, and reason for being there. Along the way, I found a connection with each person through laughter, conversations, moments of reflection, our shared love for a good curry, a bit of shopping along the way, or light-hearted chats that made us smile after long days on the trail. In different ways, each connection revealed something meaningful, something that tied us together. These photos capture not just faces, but friendships that will stay with me long after the mountains fade from view.
The Faces of Nepal
There was something about the children of Nepal that touched me deeply. Their smiles, their quiet strength, their curiosity. I often found myself stopping to take a photo, not because I planned to, but because I couldn’t look away.
Perhaps it is because part of me sees my younger self in them. Their lives could so easily have been mine. Yet despite the challenges they face, there is a light in their eyes that speaks of resilience, hope, and joy.
These are not just photos of children I met along the way. They are reminders of humanity in its purest form, the kind that transcends language, background, and circumstance.
The Porters of the Himalayas
There are no words strong enough to describe the resilience of the porters. Day after day, they carried unimaginable weight through steep paths, rain, and thin air, often moving faster than the rest of us. Watching them was a quiet lesson in humility and strength. Their endurance reminded me that courage does not always roar, and that the greatest strength can often be found in quiet persistence.
They are the heartbeat of these mountains, the unseen force that makes every journey possible.
