Cotopaxi

I stood on the side of Cotopaxi and realized something about fear—it’s loud on the way up and quiet at the top. I climbed Cotopaxi.

Even now, writing that down feels a little unreal. It was better than I thought it would be. Harder in the way that makes you lean in. Kinder in the way that reminds you your body was built to endure more than your mind gives it credit for.

I love challenges that look bigger than me. The kind that make other people tilt their heads and ask, Why?The kind that whisper, You sure about that? right before you lace your boots. Yes. I’m sure.

The cold wasn’t the villain I’d made it out to be. My hands tried to stage a revolt somewhere above the snowline, but the gloves did their job, and so did I. Step. Breath. Step. Breath. There’s something brutally honest about climbing in the dark toward a summit you can’t yet see. No shortcuts. No distractions. Just the rhythm of your own persistence.

And I felt strong. Not in a loud, triumphant way. In a steady, grounded way. In the kind of way that settles into your bones and says, You can do hard things. You already are.

I don’t know if this is the beginning of more climbs. I’m not sure I need another summit to prove anything. But I do know this: I’m proud of myself. Not for the altitude. Not for the photos. For showing up. For saying yes to something that scared me a little. For finishing.

It was an adventure. Something different. A sharp, clean break from the noise of Christmas—the expectations, the traditions, the everything. Up there, none of that followed. Just snow and sky and the quiet thud of my heartbeat reminding me I’m alive.

The biggest reflection? We have to pack it in. The miles. The risks. The moments that make us question whether we belong there. Keep choosing the climb. The summit won’t come down to meet you. But you can rise to it.