I Climbed Mount Kilimanjaro on My Hands
I climbed Mount Kilimanjaro on my hands – At the age of five, I underwent surgery to remove my legs, a decision made after being diagnosed with sacral agenesis, a rare genetic condition that left my lower body underdeveloped. The doctors warned my parents that I might never sit upright, let alone participate in daily activities like others. But my family believed in pushing boundaries, and I grew up with a relentless curiosity about the world. By walking on my hands, I navigated our Wyoming neighborhood, often joining peers on skateboards or using a wheelchair to move around. This early independence became a foundation for my determination to explore life on my own terms.
My journey took a pivotal turn when I graduated from university in Utah in 2003, earning a degree in communication despite the bleak job market. While I worked in client operations, I felt a yearning for something more profound. That yearning crystallized during a 2008 volunteer trip to Kenya, organized by a nonprofit group. The experience of witnessing international development projects and connecting with schoolchildren who listened to my story ignited a passion for purpose-driven work. I began speaking publicly, sharing my narrative as a way to inspire others. Over time, my career shifted from corporate roles to advocacy, with a focus on empowering youth through storytelling.
Yet, even as I spoke to larger audiences, a question lingered: *Had I truly lived the life I wanted?* In 2011, a friend shared an idea—climbing Mount Kilimanjaro on my hands. At first, I laughed, thinking it was a joke. But within days, the notion took root. I reached out to Alex and David, two friends who had become my climbing partners, and they agreed to join. The journey required more than just physical preparation; I enlisted the help of doctors, a local expert in adaptive sports, and my employer. My goal was ambitious: raising $500,000 for clean water initiatives in eastern Africa. The climb became a symbol of my desire to prove that limitation and purpose could coexist.
For a year, I focused on fundraising, working with a personal trainer to build strength and endurance. The training was grueling, but I found joy in the progress. In June 2012, we flew to Tanzania, where the adventure began. Day one was promising, with clear skies and excitement in the air. I wore padded rowing gloves, a choice that seemed practical for gripping the ground. However, the wheelchair I relied on for part of the trip struggled on the rugged terrain, forcing me to adjust my strategy. By the end of the first day, I had already covered 80% of the climb using my hands, as dust from the path stung my face and the altitude began to take its toll.
Day two brought unexpected challenges. The incline grew steeper, and the wind howled across the mountain. My companions, Alex and David, felt the strain, while I managed to keep pace—though not without discomfort. I swapped to thicker gloves to protect against the cold, a small victory against the elements. The route split into two distinct zones: the alpine desert and the lunar-like expanse above the cloud line. Each section demanded a different approach, and the physical and mental endurance required was immense. By day six, the summit loomed close, with snow and ice blanketing the path. The wind made every step a battle, and I joked that my height gave me an edge over my friends, who were struggling to stay upright.
On the final day, the trail became a zigzag path to Kilimanjaro’s rim. We rose before dawn, the sky still dark, to begin the ascent. A porter wrapped me in a blanket and secured me to his back for the first leg of the journey, as the risk of falling by hand was too great. My companions laughed, calling me “cute,” but I felt a mix of vulnerability and pride. As the sun rose, I transitioned to walking on my hands again, the cold air sharp against my skin. The summit was a blur of exhaustion and triumph, with the first rays of light illuminating the Earth’s curvature below. We collapsed, embracing one another in a flood of emotion—tears, laughter, and the weight of what we had achieved.
A Journey of Resilience and Reflection
The climb was more than a physical feat; it was a test of mindset. I learned to trust the support of others, whether through the expertise of a climbing guide or the encouragement of colleagues. This lesson extended beyond the mountain, shaping my professional approach. After the nonprofit I worked for closed its doors, I continued my advocacy independently, creating online content that blended humor and insight about the intersection of being gay and disabled. The experience taught me that resilience is not a choice—it’s a necessity when your body and circumstances demand it.
Today, I’m 45, and I often wonder if I could tackle another mountain. The memories of the climb, however, remain vivid. Each time I speak to audiences, I revisit that journey, drawing parallels between the challenges of climbing and the struggles of navigating life with a disability. My story, now encapsulated in the book *Breaking Free*, aims to show that even when the path seems impossible, there’s always a way forward. The question I’m asked most frequently—“Where does your resilience come from?”—has a simple answer: I have no other option. If I’m not resilient, I can’t live the life I want.
As told to Deborah Linton
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