Chebet Muigei, Class of May-July 2025
I’m not even sure where to begin. Maybe it’s with the 2 AM alarms during the day hike prep days. Or maybe it’s at the moment I stood at Point Lenana, knees trembling, tears pouring, with nothing left to prove, but everything finally acknowledged.
Three Days on Mt. Kenya but a Lifetime of Healing
We met in town before the sun came up. It was still, quiet, almost sacred! There was something about that morning: a mix of nerves, excitement, and disbelief that this thing we’d been planning for the past ninety days was actually happening. We left Nairobi at 5:45 AM sharp, bags carefully loaded, laughter slowly warming the cold morning air. Three hours in, we stopped for brunch at Nice Hotel in Mwea. I remember how casual it all felt, like we were just going on a road trip with friends. My seatmate, Wambui, even remarked that the experience thus far, felt easier. That ease would soon melt into something much deeper.
As we drove into Chogoria, the forest swallowed us. The air got fresher, the silence louder. No signal. No notifications. Just the rhythm of our own breath and nature’s chorus. I hadn’t realized how much I needed the world to go quiet. At Chogoria Gate, the Outdoorer team checked us in, signed us in, and had us ready with impressive efficiency. The 22km drive deeper into the park gave me time to ease into it mentally. I could feel my body surrendering, not just to the altitude, but to stillness. By the time we reached the starting point, the skies opened. Rain. Like a blessing. Warm tea in hand, surrounded by strangers who were slowly becoming friends. I felt something I hadn’t in a while: peace.
Our first hike to Lake Ellis, 8km in, was a soft introduction to what lay ahead. The forest was stunning, untouched. Trees swayed as if glad to see us. The squirrels hopped along the path to show off their habitat. I walked beside Robert, a friend I had just met but whose presence felt familiar. We talked about life, really talked. It set the tone for the kind of journey this would become. That night, I lay in my tent and whispered to myself, “This is definitely more than just a mountain.”
The trail from Lake Ellis to Camp Mintos was 9km, with a 900m elevation gain. I honestly thought I was ready. I wasn’t. It rained. The path undulated with steep climbs and treacherous drops. I started to feel the altitude set in, head heavy, breath shallow, but I kept sipping water and pushing through. One foot in front of the other. Pole pole. When we finally arrived at Camp Mintos, soaked to the bone, I was too tired to even feel proud. But again, the team that had gone way ahead of us came through: warm food, dry tents, kind faces. Our bodies may have been breaking, but we were held.
The evening came with the summit briefing. Sammy, our head guide, went on: "The summit is 4.5km away. The first 2km is gentle. The last 2 are steep and harder, but so are you. This is more mental than physical." I held onto that. Because mentally, I was already on the edge.
As I lay in my sleeping bag, I started remembering my father's funeral. The anger I’ve carried with me for years. The pain I never gave myself permission to feel. The countless moments of self-doubt. The shame. The survival. I recounted the struggle my mother had to endure for years. I carried her pain; the pain of seeing my sister wasting away...and the anxiety that grew to be my breathing pattern. That night, I decided, whatever I left at the summit would not follow me back down.
The Summit of My Soul
We woke up at midnight; sleep had barely come, chased away by the biting cold. But despite the chill, my heart held on to hope. I whispered a quiet prayer into the darkness, surrendering the day to God. And at precisely 2 AM, we began our summit push, headlamps on, hearts steady.
The first stretch was quiet. The darkness was thick, the kind that makes you feel small. The stars, however, were alive, bright, defiant, like they were rooting for us. The only sound was boots on gravel and steady breaths. And then, the climb began. I struggled. I wanted to give up. But Steve, one of our guides, kept encouraging me with gentleness and patience. Step by step.
With every incline, I felt like I was climbing out of grief. The weariness of constantly having to prove myself. The quiet battles no one sees. The higher I went, the closer I was getting to the part of me I had forgotten. The part that was tired of surviving. That wanted to live.
When I reached the stairs to Point Lenana, something in me gave way. I broke. I cried, loud, messy tears. For my father. The one person who should have loved and protected me, but did not. For my mother, who’s carried weight no one should have to, and still stands. Seeing her lift the burden like it wasn’t hard enough. For my younger self. For everything I’ve had to carry silently. And in that moment, for the first time in what felt like years, I let someone witness my breaking. No mask. No performance. Just the rawest, truest version of me.
Seen. Heard. Held.
At the summit, the sun began to rise. And with it, something inside me shifted. Coming down was rough. My knees aren’t great, and the terrain was unforgiving. But Steve, our guide, stayed close. Held my hand through that entire descent. The journey down was a reminder: I can do hard things. I can still show up, scared and scarred, and do the damn thing.
The kindness I received on that mountain? I’ll never forget it. This wasn’t just a hiking expedition. This was a rebirth. None of this would have been possible without the impeccable organization of Outdoorer; their planning, compassion, and care were unmatched. From warm meals to steady guidance, they made the mountain feel like home. They didn’t just take us up the mountain; they held space for something much deeper. Thank you for creating a container where healing could happen.
To the porters, with little to no gear, who carried our heavy packs in punishing terrain and weather that would break most people, your strength is unmatched. You are the real heroes!
To the cooks, thank you for every hot meal, every cup of tea that reminded us we were cared for.
To everyone I met, especially Robert, thank you for walking beside me, both physically and emotionally. To every soul I met, your stories reminded me that we’re all climbing something.
And on that mountain, I learned that it’s okay to break. Because sometimes, that’s the only way healing finds you.
The Takeaway
As I write this, medal in hand, memories still raw, I am reminded that we are allowed to begin again. That small steps count. That sometimes the only way to move forward is to go deep within. This experience reminded me that healing doesn’t happen all at once. It happens step by step.
That we’re allowed to feel, to cry, to break. That small steps, taken with courage, can still change everything.
Here's to more climbs. More letting go. More coming home to ourselves. And I can’t wait to meet myself at the next summit!
— Chebet Muigei, Class of May-July 2025