I did a hard thing. Well… It was hard for me. Perhaps you would find it easy. Or impossible. Perhaps like me you’d give it a go and maybe you’d succeed. Or not. Who knows? Whatever the case, I did a hard thing.

I CLIMBED MOUNT KINABALU

So while it is not quite Mount Everest (less than half in fact) it is a lot more than Hobart’s iconic Mount Wellington (more than three times). And let’s face it, when it comes to hard things, life is not a competition.

Before I go in further I should just clarify – I attempted to climb Mount Kinabalu and I got ever so close but I didn’t quite succeed. I will always be terribly disappointed that I didn’t get to the summit and it is a very humbling thing to have to admit I tried and failed.

People tell me it’s not failure. But it feels like that regardless. And that’s where the life lessons begin.

I ALWAYS KNEW I WAS PUSHING SHIT UPHILL TO EVEN TRY IT

I am not as fit as I once was. I am a lot heavier. And I am carrying injuries. So I was starting behind the eight ball.

I had the enormous privilege of climbing Mount Kinabalu with my youngest and oldest sons – both of who were enormously patient and encouraging. As I climbed those endless, endless, rocky, uneven stairs I was constantly reminded of my recent years in recovery from eating disorder and mental health issues.

I started with vulnerabilities that other people don’t necessarily have – I have a genetic predisposition to anxiety and depression and was exposed to lived experiences that were always going to make me vulnerable to being unwell.

But I am nothing if not determined and I was fucked if I was going to start and not at least achieve something. So I put one tired foot in front of the other step after painful step for seven hours and eventually I came out at Palaban where the Laban Rata Hostel was.

Through all my recovery journey since 2015 every step felt laboured and impossible and after every steep rocky set of stairs I would round a corner to see yet another steep rocky set of stairs. So it is on Kinabalu. Muddy, uneven, rocky, narrow, steep steps – many of them an enormous step up. Again and again and again. Each one pulling on torn tired muscles.

THE AVERAGE WALKER TAKES FIVE HOURS – I TOOK SEVEN

I knew from the get go I would be slow. My eating disorder recovery was also slow. Some people recover in a couple of years. It has taken me seven years and it took me seven hours to get from Timpohon Gate to Laban Rata Hostel. But you know what? I got there anyway. I was slow. So slow. Everyone walks slowly on Kinabalu – if for no other reason than to acclimatise to the altitude. But I was slower than most (but not all).

At no point did I consider quitting. I was getting to that hostel if it killed me. There was no turning around. Although we did see two people being piggy backed down (at 35 ringgit per kilometre). That was not going to be me – I would crawl on hands and knees to the hostel if needs be.

The air was thick and humid. The air temperature not too hot. The rainforest thick and overgrown with vines and ferns and pitcher plants. Every kilometre there was a hut to rest in. At every hut were hungry squirrels ready to steal food. I lost my little shiny yellow packet of oat biscuits very kindly provided by the mountain guide to a particularly cheeky squirrel that grabbed the little packet in its tiny little hands and disappeared into the bush before I could stop it.

On the flat at home, when life is going easy, a kilometre is nothing. On a steep mountain a kilometre is a long, long way. There are only six kilometres between Timpohon Gate and Laban Rata Hostel – the longest six kilometres of my life.

IT RAINED FOR TWO HOURS

We were miserable in the rain. We always knew to expect rain – it’s a rainforest in wet season so hardly a surprise. But let’s face it, there’s not much joy in slogging through muddy, rocky tracks in the rain. But I had company – I was walking with my two sons who could have in all honesty skipped to the hostel in a mere four hours if I wasn’t slowing them down. But much like the cheer squad of friends and family who have stood by me since my terrible decline, they stood by and waited as I slowly clamoured over the rocks and when I wondered how to keep going they just said to keep going one step at a time. And lo and behold, one step at a time, the path unfolded before me until eventually we found ourselves walking through the mist to a sign that said Palaban.

The last kilometre to the hostel was the hardest of all. Every 100 metres the park rangers have posted a sign to encourage weary travellers. Every 100 metres sounds so simple and feels so hard. It’s like recovering from eating disorder behaviours – everyone else thinks it’s so easy (just eat food! It’s just 100 metres!) But it’s really fucking hard. You’re exhausted and you’ve done a gazillion of these steps already. Body wracked with pain and exhaustion. One step feels too hard. One hundred metres impossible. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned in life it’s that impossible things can become possible – one step at a time.

Laban Rata Hostel is a divine little haven. The three of us had a little room with two comfy bunk beds. Slippers and towels provided. Rails to hang up the wet soggy hiking gear. There was power during the busiest times and bathrooms with cold showers, toilets, mirrors and even shower gel and toilet paper. It may not be the Ritz Carlton but it was so much more comfortable than I’d imagined. The buffet meals were truly fantastic – especially considering every piece of food and equipment is lugged up the mountain by heroic porters.

In recovery I was so grateful for the reprieve of psychiatric hospitals. For me they were havens of respite where I knew I was safe and cared for for a period of time, while I readied myself for the next journey.

The hostel has a beautiful view looking up to the summit of Kinabalu. Our lovely guide explained we needed to be up at 1:30am for early breakfast and then head off to the summit at 2:30am. I said I didn’t think I could do it – I was too slow. He smiled that beautiful gentle Malaysian smile and said I should at least try and see how far I could get.

SO AT 2:30AM I STRAPPED ON MY HEAD TORCH AND STARTED FOR THE SUMMIT

While the boys walked with me on day one, I wanted them to go at their own pace on day two. I had made life slow and difficult for them to the hostel, I wanted them to make the summit in time for sunrise. So they took off and the guide stayed with me.

I am really enormously proud to share that they were first to the summit at 5am. The summit is 2.7km from the hostel. They are young and fit and strong and it still took them 2.5 hours. There is no easy way to the summit.

The summit trek begins with stairs. Bazillions of them. The park limits numbers to 150 people per day on the mountain. At the base everyone begins at different times but on summit day all the walkers start together. That’s 150 head torches all lined up as far as you can see – looking forward, looking back just head torches. Almost everyone just watches their feet, many struggling with the thinner air (quite a few didn’t start for the summit as they were struggling with the altitude).

More stairs. Thin wooden planks. Wet, slippery rocks. Rope handrails. More stairs. Look up and see head torches as far as the eye can see. A spidery gossamer trail of people all putting one foot in front of the other.

I was slow. I knew I was slow but I also know I can keep putting one foot in front of the other for the rest of my natural life if needs be. The torn calf muscle I’d been rehabilitating for six weeks giving me very little grief. I was filled with cortisone and anti-inflammatories and pain killers just in case. I could feel the muscles pulling but they weren’t tearing. I wasn’t making it worse. I was pretty happy with that.

I WALKED TOWARDS THE SUMMIT FOR NINETY MINUTES

And then the great slabs of steep, slippery granite began. Where there is a rope on the ground to haul yourself hand over fist and it’s slippery. It’s really slippery. I was scared. I slipped several times, people guiding me before I hit the ground.

I knew at this point that I could make the summit but not in time. There was no way I could get to the summit before sunrise and what goes up must come down. If clambouring over granite is scary on the way up I had no confidence in my ability to get down.

I completed the first stretch of granite then said to the guide I wanted to return. He was surprised. I was 200 meters from the checkpoint but the line of head torches in front of me was lighting up all the stairs and I knew there was a lot more granite to come.

It was a really painful decision – to turn around and go down. Perhaps if I didn’t have an entire mountain to descend on that day I would have made a different decision. Perhaps if there was no time pressure I would have kept going. Perhaps if I didn’t feel like the slowest one I wouldn’t have felt like it was the end. I am not usually one to quit but Kinabalu was teaching me that everyone has a limit and just because I’m prepared to walk two hours down a mountain on a broken leg, it doesn’t mean everything is possible.

I WAS NOT GOING TO MAKE THE SUMMIT

Once I made the decision it was easy, turn around get past everyone who was still behind me (there were a lot of people coming up, I was the only going down). I slipped and fell three times on the way back to the hostel. Slippery, slippery rocks. Bruises on my arms and legs for days as a gentle reminder that hard things often have a price.

I left the hostel at 2:30am and got back before 6am. I had walked 900 meters up and 900 meters back. I had failed something I had been working towards for months on end. But I had failed something some people didn’t believe I was ever going to achieve and I had done something many people would never start. It was not a competition. I had explored Kinabalu and fallen short but at least I tried.

I feel like it is a life lesson. I have worked on mental health recovery for seven years and I have tried really hard. I am really extremely well. I have no eating disorder behaviours. I do not struggle with depression or high levels of anxiety. I have found peace in my life. But it is not perfect. I still struggle with body image and I have come to accept this little thorn in my side will be there forever. Some things are stamped onto our infant psyche and no amount of talking ourselves out of it can overcome it. I doubt I will ever feel positively about my body but I can teach myself not to be negative – I can find neutrality. Acceptance. That is what I found on Kinabalu – a willingness to embrace success and surrender to those things that are not meant to be for me.

I live vicariously through my boys who made the summit. It was hard they said. When they got to those first slabs of granite that I climbed they told each other that I would turn around there – they knew it was not for me. I would be too nervous. And they were right – except I did the first section of granite.

IT ONLY GOT HARDER THEY TELL ME

The first section was most definitely not the worst section and the more they describe the summit the more grateful I am that I did not attempt to push through. Because I don’t know how I would have done the descent if I’d spent six hours doing the summit.

Because once back at the hostel we were treated to second breakfast and then we packed up our gear and got started for the descent. My knees are 57 years old (just like the rest of me) and I was concerned about knee pain on the steep continuous descent. But I was lucky – the cortisone was working.

I slipped quite a few more times and marvelled at each steep step down that I’d climbed up it in the first place. For five hours we did the descent – skipping most of the rest huts on the way down. So many of the steps are knee high or higher. Big stretches. Not so bad for my 6 foot 2 inch eldest son but for the rest of us it’s a strain. By the time we reached the bottom I was not the only one staggering and swaying. My youngest son who could have skipped to the top was struggling with the descent. His legs were clearly jelly. But none of us wanted a piggyback so we soldiered on.

From the hostel to the gate took five hours. The two boys had spent five hours doing the summit and then another five hour descent. It was a big day.

AT THE END OF THE STEEP DESCENT ARE 100 HUNDRED STAIRS GOING UP

I stared at those stairs with a fatal weariness. My eldest son let out a whoop of joy and ran them two at a time. My youngest soon willed his weary legs to move and ran them until he felt the burn. I took them one step at a time knowing full well that the end was in sight and nothing was going to stop me now. Standing at the top were my two boys cheering me on.

Climbing Mount Kinabalu is by far the most difficult physical challenge I have ever faced. I heard it described by many people as being a technically easy mountain (doesn’t require complex mountaineering skills) but extremely physically challenging. I saw people being carried down. I saw the faces of the people who did the summit as they returned to the hostel, many staggering before they even started the descent.

So I did a difficult thing. Some people would find the difficult thing easier. Some would find it harder. Some wouldn’t start it at all. Some like my boys could skip to the top and run to the end. But we’re all running our own race and for me, this was a challenge that I set myself. I will always, always, always be disappointed that I didn’t get to see the view from the summit – which I am reliably informed was spectacular.

But I have limitations and Mount Kinabalu was a lesson in majestic humility. I gave it a red hot try. I almost made the summit – but in the end, not quite. That’s sometimes how the dice rolls in life.