I was told I might never walk again, so I hiked a volcano in Guatemala

I woke up on Christmas morning to the mechanical beeping sound of a monitor.

I first thought I was imagining things. My chest thumped with my heart. I tried to turn over and orientate myself, but all my limbs went numb. The world around me was a blurred light of panic and pale light. Outside my hospital, voices faded in and then out of the fog until one voice finally broke through. A man rushed in—the one who changed everything. His face spoke louder than his words.

“It’s Lupus,” he said.

I didn’t understand what you meant. I didn’t know what it meant.

I was 22 and had just been accepted to William & Mary, a top public university in the U.S. I was in perfect health. A hiker. She was a wild-hearted, barefooted soul who loved sunrises and meaningful conversation. I had always been a thinker—someone who mapped out dreams and imagined every possible “what if” scenario life could throw at me.

Nothing, not even all of my imaginative fantasies, could have prepared me for that moment when I collapsed out of bed and faced the new reality.

Lupus, an autoimmune disease that is chronic, can be a serious condition. A body that has turned on itself. In a cruel twist of irony, after years of mentally picking myself apart, now my immune system was doing it for me—attacking perfectly healthy organs like they were intruders. The war was on and I lost. I was told I would die more than once and that I was in the worst category. I almost did. The fatigue was constant. The joint pain was unbearable. Just to keep myself alive, I needed nine blood transfusions. The list of restrictions and symptoms was longer than my age.

The doctor told me day after day, while I was confined to a hospital bed with an IV, what I couldn’t do anymore: no sun exposure, no swimming, no hugging my friends, no eating in restaurants, no playing with animals, no gardening, no walking in dirt. The doctors warned me that I might not even be able to walk unassisted. They said I had an immune system that was compromised and I needed to be in a sanitary space if I hoped to live. It was as if someone had created a list that listed everything about me The following are some of the ways to improve your own ability to speak.Then cross it out.

I was a girl that ran and danced towards her dreams. Sometimes, I tripped, but never stopped. Now I was told to stay still.

It’s true that I haven’t always been good at following instructions.

And that’s how I ended up 13,000 feet in the air, climbing Volcán Acatenango, one of Central AmericaThe highest peaks in. This decision was not rational. After being told that I may never be able to walk without assistance again, just months later I was hiking through the clouds on a path made of volcanic ash.

At the same, it was the most logical decision I’ve ever made.

Traveling is about so much more that just moving and taking cool pictures. It’s a way to reclaim our own pieces. It’s a way to get past our fears and discomfort, and discover who people really are. You can also find out more about us on our website. We are who we are when nobody else defines us.

I started the hike alongside a group of strangers—fellow adventurers whose names and stories I didn’t know, but whose silent grit matched mine. The thrill of hiking with strangers who did not know about my diagnosis but only my resolve was thrilling. I felt my heart sink after the bus dropped us at the trailhead. The climb was slow and burning. It’s a good thing I didn’t know what lay ahead or I could have turned back. We passed through five microclimates in a day—humid jungle, alpine forest, wind-swept ridges, dry volcanic fields, and a cloud-pierced summit. It was as if we were stepping into a different world every time.

Acatenango changed dramatically as we climbed. Farmlands gave way dense forests. The air became thinner. My legs burned. My lungs ached. I slowed. I slowed down. My legs were nearly falling off me as I was usually last in line.

But I still moved.

There are many stray dogs in the farmland. A beautiful chocolate shepherd joined us on the trip. I realized that he knew things I hadn’t told anyone. He was the only one who walked by my side.

As we approached base camp, at 12,000 feet I began to shake. My body throbbed. The trail narrowed, and a dense fog of wind and darkness quickly settled in. When our guide told us that our campsite was only a few minutes away, I was shocked. I could not see a single glowing light. It was freezing cold. Where is Fuego, that elusive column of rage? It was told that there would be accommodation at the top. When I saw the stack of mattresses, boxsprings and sleeping bags, I wasn’t sure if I should laugh or cry. The bed was far from hygienic, but it was more comfortable than the hospital beds. Around a flickering fire, we sipped hot cocoa. I had come here to see lava but was shivering as the coals were fading. But our guide told us that we needed to get up early at 4 am to complete the rest of the trail to see Fuego in its active state.

I was used to staying up all night after my hospitalization. I didn’t know how I was going to get myself out of bed. I was lucky that I didn’t have to set a clock. At 2 am, I was woken up by cold, slobbery slobber. The puppy who walked with me curled up in my pillow. He wanted to enjoy the warmth after sharing the journey. I was a little irritated and sat upright, trying to drag Fuego off my corner of mattress. I kicked the wooden door to our makeshift hut open and pushed him out. Then, I came face-toface with Fuego. In the thick mist, I didn’t realize that our camp was right on a cliff face directly in front of the summit. The earth shook and Acatenango’s twin flame erupted into the distance. It was brilliant, alive and bright. But the thousands of stars that framed it were almost as impressive. I peeled the deep fog back, like a curtain. The beauty of what was underneath had been hidden.

We were ready for the summit. The final push. The most difficult part. It was still three hours before what seemed so near. A glowing lava column erupted in the sky. Other people gasped all around me. Around me, others gasped. I was stunned into silence. I wanted to keep this memory and image in my head before I used a camera.

Throughout the night and into the early morning, the eruptions lit up the skies. I hardly slept.

Now it was pitch-black, and we had to push through sand and ash. Two steps back, one step forward. On either side, there were mounds that crumbled dirt. They formed a slithering path as we went down the ravine. A moment later, I stopped and looked around. Acatenango mountain, where we had camped, loomed massively behind me. Beneath its surface were deep, dark scars—grooves cut through the rock by old lava flows, now overgrown with stubborn green. Standing there, I was breathless and already dripping with sweat. I paused when I realized that the looming walls engulfing and forming my path were identical. The fog of sickness and the stinging of IV needles had now been replaced by the hazy veins that ran through the mountain.

The same burning force that had once destroyed this path had also shaped it—created it, even. It was then that I began to trace it. My own body, too, bore scars—seen and unseen. The pain had cut me but also made it possible for this journey. I was not walking despite pain. I was walking The following are some examples of how to use It and becoming something else through it. By definition, I was weak. But I was strong.

I was breathing hard—nearly wheezing—as the icy wind whipped against my face. My legs were swollen. My fingers were swollen and stiff. I stopped more often than I moved. I wasn’t the only one. Step by step I reached the top. There—at 13,045 feet—the sun rose above the world in every color imaginable—and some not even the most creative mind could fathom.

We stood in silence as clouds drifted below us and light spilled across the neighboring volcanic ridges—Agua Volcano to the left, Pacaya to the right. I was standing in the shadows of Acatenango on Fuego. Ironically, “Walled Place” means “Walled Place”, and I felt walls crumbling around me. All I kept thinking was how everyone told me I couldn’t—and how they weren’t here to see this view. My dirty, grimy hands reached out to pet the dog, despite my explicit instructions to stay away from animals.

I never wanted to descend. The trail down was nearly as difficult as the way up. I was slipping and sliding as joy exploded inside of me.

Whether or not we realize it, we each travel every day—through grief, joy, and fire. Each of us must face our personal Fuegos or Acatenangos. My Acatenango was real.

My lupus did not disappear when I returned from Guatemala. “Can’t” was just a word. Acatenango wasn’t able to cure me, but reminded me that my journey did not end in the hospital. It began there.

The beeping heart monitor was waking me up on Christmas morning. My body looked like a war zone and my future was a blur. The mist on the mountain was where I opened my real eyes.

They said I would never be able to hike alone again. I may never be able to walk without assistance. If I were to live at all, I would be forced to lead a much smaller life.

They weren’t around when the sky split and fire danced over it.

They didn’t witness me shivering and gasping as I climbed through the ash, holding on to a mountain which had seen its share of volcanic eruptions.

They didn’t witness the girl with windburned lips, dirt under her nails, and IV scars reach the summit, with a dog at her side, and a heart full of defiance.

I didn’t conquer the mountain—I bled into it. I learned to live with my own wounds by walking on its old ones. Fuego’s eruption, which lit the sky up like a pulse in the night, made me realize that I was never going to be the same. Not because I reached the summit, but because I learned I could keep rising—even while breaking.