Kilimanjaro was more than a mountain. It was a journey of grit, heartbreak, and transformation. Here’s what I learned about slowing down, celebrating the small wins, and finding joy in the climb, not just the peak.

Midnight starts, frozen bladders, bloody noses, tears, and finally the highest point in Africa—summit day on Kilimanjaro was the hardest thing I’ve ever done.

Snow, fog, and endless rock scrambles marked the climb to high camp. By the time we reached Kosovo, nerves set in—summit night was almost here.

The Barranco Wall loomed above us, and today was all about trust: in our guides, in each other, and in ourselves. Between tears, rumors of descent, and even a helicopter evacuation, we clawed our way to Karanga—still standing.

Day four brought songs, sneezes, and the slow grind up to 15,000 feet at Lava Tower. Headaches, rainstorms, and endless descents tested us — but the promise of the Barranco Wall ahead gave me something to look forward to.

Day three tested me in ways I wasn’t expecting. Between diarrhea, hailstorms, and endless rocky climbs, I learned what it really means to dig deep—sometimes just to keep your pants clean.

Day two was long and grueling: nearly eight hours of hiking, steep ridges, new climates, and plenty of laughs with guides and strangers alike. By the time we reached Shira Camp, my nails were full of dirt, my head was throbbing, and the stars stretched endlessly above.

Day one on Kilimanjaro was anything but glamorous: bus breakdowns, bracelet scams, rain showers, and a whole lot of peeing. But between the chaos and the laughter, we finally stepped onto the trail and took our first real steps toward the summit.