#my physical health was/is in a point of decline and the fear of pushing myself too hard became/is becoming too much

[punkrockisafulltimejob]

I'm working on a project on my computer and vaping, this is the closest I've been to my normal pain level in days. I know it won't last, especially not when I'm trying to sleep later.

Trying to ignore the guilt of disappearing from work for three days, when the last time I did that it was my mental breakdown two years ago.

[everyhowlmarksthedead]

❛ YOU ONLY LIVE ONCE ❜

✨ REQUEST: hermanikiiiiiii i wanted to request you the prompt number 1 with coco cruz!!thank you, love you muchisisimoooooo💕💕

✨ PROMPTS: “Wait, you love me? Like Garfield loves Lasagna?”

✨ MADE BY: Juls.

Gif credit: to my lovely @supervalcsi.

WORDS: about 2k.

❚❙ A/N: this writing hasn’t been edited, you may find some grammar mistakes, I’m sorry about that. If you find a description about body or a word out of place or something that makes you feel uncomfortable / unrepresented, let me know by a private message and I will change it delighted ❤

❚❙ JOHNNY ‘COCO’ CRUZ MASTERLIST.

❚❙ MASTERLIST.

❚❙ JOIN MY TAG LIST.

When you heard that Coco had been shot, your heart suddenly stopped. It was four days ago in some kind of dog's fight, as Chuckie told you at the scrapyard. Bishop needed someone to take care of him while they were investigating what happened, so you offered yourself without doubting it.

Much to your regret, you are only two good friends, even if you feel more things that you can't explain, about which you haven't talked with anyone. And thanks to your work in the hospital, you managed a room only for him, so he could rest as much as he wanted, as much as he needed. But your back hurts like hell after being sleeping on the sofa, close to the bed, just to make sure that you were able to attend to all his necessities for minimal they were.

These days there, you have learned a lot about him, about his curiosities, about his fears; spending his time awake talking with you to keep his mind entertained, to not think about the pain in his lower abdomen. Your mates took the bullet in a jiffy, but, normally, the sorrow remains for a couple of weeks. Luckily, he only complained when the hour of the next turn of medicines was close.

You have tried to not think about your feelings the time you were in the hospital, but it was impossible. All you wanted to do was to lie by his side on the bed, embrace him between your arms and kiss him, having to conform yourself with holding his hand and resting your cheek on the mattress. Your eyes have never left his eyes, not even when he was sleeping, on alert in case of an unforeseen because of pain, or an infection, or God who knows. You were really paranoid.

“You ready?”

Coco glared at you, slightly tilting his head. You had asked the same question five times in the last two minutes. Offering him a hand to secure himself, the mexican put down from the hospital bed, ready to leave and go home. Angel and Gilly had cleaned his house, even if you insisted to Bishop that you could do it. But he asked you back to stay with him till the next morning, so he wouldn't stay the night alone until they came back from the other side of the border.

Two knocks in the opened door brought you back to reality from your own thoughts, in the meantime that you helped Coco to wear his leather kutte. Directing your tired eyes to the entrance of the room, you found three Vicki's girls, happily waving their hands. Raising an eyebrow confused and your lips pressed, they came in without asking.

“Papi, we've missed you”. The latin and playful tone of voice from Mariela, as she swung her hips to your friend, gave you shivers.

In just one sight, your presence was pushed to the background. These girls hadn't even called to ask about his state of health and, now, they were there as if they did all the work you did —delighted, of course. Trying to keep calm, you put Coco's clothes into his bag, zipping it when everything is ready.

“No te preocupes, we take care of him now”. Carolina sentenced with contempt and superiority, grabbing his stuff ready to abandon the hospital.

“Yeah, mami. Go home and rest”. His words hurt. More than a bullet.

Preferring their company besides yours let you know that he hadn't taken in count what you did. And yes, you did it because you wanted, but you also thought that maybe could mean a step ahead. But it wasn't. Not saying a word, doing anything but a simple nod with your chin, you grabbed your bag to step out from there. Ashamed. Feeling stupid.

Two weeks have passed and Coco has come back to the clubhouse. This time you have been doing extra shifts to compensate for your lost days taking care of him, almost walking like a zombie from home to work, and from work to home. So, when Bishop invites you to a party in his honor, you decline it. You are too tired physically to assist and tired mentally for foolishness. What is the point of going to a party to see Coco having fun with those bitches? You have had enough after two weeks without receiving a single text to thank you or to know how you are. He hasn't even cared about the fact that you haven't shown up in the club for two weeks. That's the little he thinks in your friendship.

Zapping from one channel to another, you try to find something to watch. A movie, a tv show, whatever that helps to distract your mind, while you enjoy thai noodles with beef. Finally finding an action movie, you cover yourself with a cozy blanket, grabbing the cardboard box to start your dinner. The ringtone of your phone interrupts your calm, with Coco's name on the screen. At first, you don't want to answer, but he continues insisting for more than three long minutes. Hanging up and calling again. With a furious growl installed in your throat, you leave over the table your dinner to grab your phone.

“The fuck means you aren' comen'?”

He doesn't even let you say hi or how are you.

“It means that I'm tired and I have to work at five”.

“I don' think one damn beer reverses your sleeping schedule, Yo' Grace”.

“Fuck you, Jonathan. I've been working double shifts to cover the hours I was taking care of you in th—”.

“Nobody asked you to do it”.

Eyes widened and your heart racing. You can't believe he just said that.

“Yeah, nobody did. But your hermanos preferred to be on the other side of the border. Your putas preferred to be partying and sucking dicks in Vicki's. And your mamá sent me pal' carajo when I called to tell her what happened. I did it because I was your friend. Because I cared about you. Because seeing you there with… all those tubes was killing me. That shit continues giving me nightmares every fucking night. But you shit on that. You kicked me as soon as your putas came to the hospital”. You don't know when you have started to cry, more than because of the rage than because of the sadness. “I'm sorry if I'm too tired to drink a fucking beer, but my job is more important than a person who doesn't give a shit about me, who hasn't called or text me in two weeks, who only wants my company when no one else is around. Have fun in your damn party and fuck all those whores to thank them for picking you up from the hospital, but didn't care about how you were after being shot”.

Hanging up, you toss the phone somewhere on the table, wrapping your body with the blanket and lying down on the sofa. Trying to contain the tears, the only thing you earn is to cry bitterness. You can't understand why he only has noticed your absence at the party. What has changed? Probably it was his egocentrism working, wanting to be surrounded by a lot of people, not caring if they're his friends or not. But you're done being his lapdog.

About to fall asleep, the angry hits in the main door make you suddenly wake up agitated.

“Open up!”

The rage is consuming you again after hearing the strong mexican accent, taking three long strides towards it to receive him with your reddened crystal eyes.

“What the fuck 'you want now? Haven't you had enough beating myself up?”

“You're fuckin' dramatic”. He spits in your face, stopping with a foot the slam to his about to close the door again. “I didn't talk to you because you were working, bu' you didn't talk to me either”.

“Yeah, because you were served with your bitches. Go fuck yourself, Jonathan”.

“Don' call me like that again”. Coco grunts taking a step into your house. “You had to work, they came to cover your back”.

“Oh, please, don't make me laugh. They just wanted to have the credits of taking care of you, so you will expend more money with them. That's the only thing they care about you. Wake up from your world of fantasy, Coco. If you weren't part of the MC, you wouldn't be a shit for them; just another fucking soldier with a broken home”. You can't help but push his chest with both hands, driven by anger.

At first, he doesn't say anything. He looks thoughtful, being aware of the truth in your words. And it hurts that you have to be the one to open his eyes. The problem is that you weren't thinking while talking, pulling your gaze away from him and pressing your trembling lips, one against the other.

“I'm sorry”. You babble, cleaning your tears with the back of your left hand. “I didn't mea—”.

“But you said so”. Coco interrupts you with a husky tone of voice, bristling every inch of skin of your anatomy. “That's wha' I am without my kutte. An ex-soldier, a criminal, an outlaw. I spend my money on them because they take care of me, one way or another”.

“I did it too”.

“So, what? What you want? Money? Tell me an amount”.

Squinting at him, you can't help but chuckle with a painful and bitter laugh.

“I did it because I love you, not because I want your money”. You confess, knowing there's no going back. “I don't care about your money, nor your job, nor about your kutte. I love you because you make me happy. After all, for me, there's nothing better than a hug of yours, because you… you are simply amazing. You're intelligent, funny, loyal. And I wish that you could see yourself through my eyes, Coco”.

He, not saying anything, is killing you slowly. Barely breathing, you cross your arms over your chest to hide the fact that your lungs aren't receiving any air.

“I thought that after being shot, you realized you only live once. And that… after being those… boring days with me, you realized that you preferred the company of these other girls. The funny part of being alive. So I just pulled myself away”. Taking a small pause, you bow down your head, cleaning your tears again. “These weeks have been torture. I've written you a lot of texts that I haven't sent… and I've been a lot of times about to call you. But 'you know that… feeling when you think... the other person is not gonna answer you, because maybe is too busy for you? That shit has been destroying me”.

Hoping that Coco finally is going to speak, he remains silent. Looking at you openmouthed, processing all the information you have just give him.

“Can you, ple—please, say something?” You beg almost shaking.

“Wait, you… love me? Like… Garfield loves lasagna?”

Raising your eyes, pouting at him, you know that he's trying to make you laugh after understanding all the pain you have been through. Lonely. Without talking about it with anyone.

“I'm sorry, mami… I just… fuck”.

Cupping your cheeks onto his hands, Coco slams his lips on yours, tasting the salty tears you have shed because of him. The sloppy kisses bring some more air to your lungs, calming your racing pulse and making you feel less unhappy. As your fingers get intertwined in his shirt, crinkling under your grip, he urges you to walk backward so he can close the main door with a kick.

“God knows I'm so fuckin' sorry… Please, forgive me”. Coco's whispers brush your lips, keeping his eyes closed just like yours. “I'm gonna take care of you now, okay?”.

Nodding in silence, you place your arms around his middle back, hiding your face into his chest. His strong scent brings you back to life, while his arms wrap you tightly to comfort all the pain he has provoked you without knowing it.

“I just want you, ma'. No one else. Just you”.

[descentivity]

Depression, Trauma, (and Most Importantly,) My Thoughts on Hello Charlotte EP1 & 2

Eating has been difficult for me for as long as I remember. It started off as an aversion to food, in favour of spending my time more efficiently on what my dumb little mind viewed as more important: Homework, video games.

Over time, it turned into anorexia. I had already gotten used to eating just under 500 calories a day, and my depression took my poor habits and twisted them into a cowardly and slow attempt at suicide.

On my road to recovery, I’ve found that years of poor eating choices have lead to my body struggling to process food. I have to eat at a painstakingly slow pace lest my stomach turns against me, and the smell of food is sometimes enough to diminish my appetite altogether. My bowel movements are, for lack of a better word, a shitshow.

This brings me to today, the 10th of August, 2021. 6 or so years of barely eating enough to survive later, I’m setting the world record for the slowest consumption of a fillet o’ fish in the history of mankind. 

In my absolute boredom and unfathomable stomach pain, ManlyBadassHero’s playthrough of some random horror game (I can’t remember the name) appears in my YouTube recommended, and I’m reminded of a horror game I bought on sale on Steam, the last of a trilogy. In all honesty, I only bought the game because it was dirt cheap and one of my sisters’ names is Charlotte. I was too horrified at the time to process the story nor play the previous two games, so I did a quick achievement run and left it at that. I was certainly very confused as I had no idea who any of the characters or what any of the concepts were, but the gore had me too mortified to go and find out myself. 

A year later, I’m looking the trilogy up on ManlyBadassHero’s YouTube channel, and decide to start from the beginning of his Hello Charlotte journey, in 2016.

Hello Charlotte EP1

I’m going to be completely honest with you, the first game really didn’t resonate with me too well. It was a cute, quirky, RPG Maker horror game, with two loveable main characters and an interesting world. However, with context from the third game, the events felt too self-isolated and inconsequential. Felix and Charlotte are in a little self-contained TV world created by a fictional race called Pythia - creatures with 3 or 4 eyes that can create miniature dimensions, once brought into a hivemind by an “Oracle,” which seems to be some sort of god. They all seem to be falling apart and have taken a horrific turn as most of the Pythia have been “executed,” and those who haven’t have either gone mad or into hiding in their own bubbles of (albeit temporary) safety.

The ending of the game is somewhat misleading, too. Once Charlotte and Felix escape the TV world by having Charlotte merge with the Oracle itself, the game almost plays off the previous events like they were all a story made up by a young and imaginative Charlotte. Did they happen at all? Is she a reliable narrator or point of view to begin with? (Spoiler alert, she is not.) The explanation for it all seems to be that Charlotte herself is a schizophrenic, though the legitimacy of this is brought into question in the third game, which I will talk about later. Altogether, the game didn’t bring out many strong emotions in me, and I was starting to zone out as I moved on to the second game’s playthrough.

Hello Charlotte EP2

What struck me as odd in the second game is that while the first game seemed to bring Charlotte out of her own strange, black-and-white world and back into reality, we’ve found out that she’s right back where we started last game. A black-and-white world, inhabited by her imaginary friends. Aliens, gods, and the like. However, Charlotte’s seemingly made-up world feels more alive this time. I’m not sure if this is the consequence of the game developer improving their skills or an intentional detail, but even more characters are introduced, and previously shallow tenants of Charlotte’s home are given more depth. The hazmat-suit wearing aliens have faces, personalities and whole backstories attached to them, now. Charlotte has a best friend at school named Anri, who has a obsessive crush on her. She’s friends with a bullying victim named C with horrible germaphobia, who has almost identical struggles to her (more on those struggles later.)

What also surprised me is the continuity between the first and second game. For some reason, I thought that this Charlotte would be starting from scratch, completely oblivious to the fate of the first game’s iteration. However, this concept only seems to be used in the third game, so I guess I was simply mislead. This game, in fact, takes place 3 years after the first, and the Oracle still lives on within Charlotte’s conscious. However, it’s a dying god, on its last leg. It had already been dying during the time of the last few Pythia, but it had used the last of its strength to free Felix and Charlotte from their world. As the Oracle’s health declines, so does Charlotte’s mortal body.

Unlike the first game, most of the themes in this game hit way too close to home. The feeling of second-hand helplessness when someone you barely knew ends their own life. Anri’s obsessive and outright manipulative lesbian crush on Charlotte, bordering on bullying. The schooltime harrassment and trauma Charlotte underwent. The fear and dangers of social interaction. Feeling unlawfully punished by your school teachers for seemingly nothing at all. Depression, self harm, and the primal urge to escape from it. Getting roped into others’ mental health, until both of your issues converge into a disgusting amalgamation of the need but severe lack of therapy and a break from it all. Delusions of what could’ve been and the possible, yet near impossible future ahead. Looking back on everything you’ve ever done and regretting every second of it.

While I ticked off the trauma presented to me on a silver platter in the form of a fucking RPG Maker game like a twisted bucket list, I found myself relating more and more to not only Charlotte, but the students around her. Scarlett, whose life was so perfect that nobody had even thought about her possible mental issues until it was far too late. Anri, who would lay down her life for a girl who simply doesn’t feel the same way. C, who desperately wanted to escape from reality by any means possible.

An interesting fact about Hello Charlotte is that there are numerous omnipotent beings amongst its cast. They aren’t shy about providing very in-depth character analysis to Charlotte, and in turn, to the puppeteer (I suppose now is a good time to inform those who are unfamiliar with the series that the puppeteer refers to a species, character, and the player, all at once. Charlotte has a puppeteer controlling her by the name of Seth. You are/are controlling Seth as the player. Capiche? Capiche.)

What this meant for me watching Manly’s playthrough was the feeling of two gods (in this game, at least) peering right into my soul, analysing characters that reflected my exact experiences and even my personality during my school days. I learned and realised things about myself that I simply hadn’t known before. Just like Charlotte, I’m simply looking for direction in life, and I’m too afraid to act without instructions. I found myself bullied, manipulated and abandoned by someone who simply wanted my affections, and only learned to miss them when they were gone. Like Anri, my desperation for love and approval from an individual in turn lead to anger and resentment for them. Like both Charlotte and C, I eventually turned to hurting myself to make all the pain go away, refusing help from others and developing a shell of false optimism and naivety to forget about the damage I had dealt to my body, personality and relationships.

As much as I hate to admit it on my little obscure Tumblr blog with 0 followers and 0 traction, I still struggle with these things. I have no direction in life, and wander aimlessly, hoping for one of my offshot attempts at content creation to take off. I find myself missing the girl who emotionally abused me to hell and back every day. I resent another girl for never feeling the same way I felt about her. I still don’t take care of myself, and spend every day in a state of denial about my physical decline and sickliness. I’m so incompetent emotionally that I spend days ignoring my own boyfriend, starving him of the proper relationship that he deserves all because of how broken, fragmented and distant my own mind is.

Hello Charlotte EP2 has four endings. All four of them, in my eyes, are bad.

In the first, C and Charlotte overdose together, leaving their mortal realm to become gods. They choose to ignore and forget the pains of their mortal lives, and live the rest of their godly lives in ignorant bliss. Do I want to forget about my depression and trauma? Learn nothing, and forget about everything that made me who I am today? Or worse even, do I dare take the plunge into “godhood,” and leave this mortal plane to end my suffering altogether?

In the second, Charlotte discovers that C isn’t who she thinks he is, and she finds him without a soul. Alive, but empty. Charlotte could not save him. Consumed by grief, she ascends and becomes a god, consuming the entire world around her. After all is said and done, she realizes her mistake. All of her friends are gone, C is still empty and unresponsive, and now she is alone. Sometimes, I feel as though I’ve already gone through this ending, many times over. Countless times I’ve let my depression become all-consuming and take over my life. I’ve pushed so many people away and hurt so many more, and for what? I have nothing to gain from every fit of depression, and the consequences make it seem nothing more but a selfish attempt to make myself feel better.

In the third, Charlotte is the only one who dies. In her last moments, the Oracle comforts her, like a mother cradling her child. They embrace, and say goodbye to each other, as Charlotte’s own life was the only thing keeping the dying god alive. At this point, I’ve started to draw parallels between the Oracle and depression. Depression isn’t always a horrible thing that beats you down and keeps you from being truly happy. Sometimes, wallowing in my own sadness and depression would be the only thing that keeps you sane, stable, and calm. The feeling of hopelessness really is bittersweet, and in desperate times, goes hand-in-hand with acceptance of one’s circumstance. Oftentimes, I find that this is the most realistic way I’ll go out. One day, I may just accept depression, and succomb to it. There may not be a struggle at all. Rather, a quiet, submissive hum, which will fade away into silence.

In the fourth and final ending, Charlotte and C die alongside each other. After her death, Charlotte confronts the Oracle, and wishes to save everyone, and for everyone to be unhappy. Of course, this is where the classic saying: “Be careful what you wish for” comes in. Because of her wish, everyone’s soul, what makes them individual and unique, is erased. After all, no one can suffer if they cannot think at all. In some ways, emptiness is pure bliss. This once again goes back to the bittersweetness of depression. The sheer emptiness it may bring on, at times, is bliss. Feeling nothing isn’t always a bad thing. It’s a way to cope with the horrors of the world. To remember nothing at all is such a tempting yet unattainable solution that I can’t say I haven’t longed for in the near or distant past. Charlotte, of course, is distraught that her friends are all gone, their identities and souls lost forever. Following this, she has one request to make of another god, the observer. She wishes to be killed, as all of her actions have lead to nothing but pain for others and herself. The observer, however, refuses this offer. Instead, he comforts her and takes her hand. They go on a journey together. He suggests that one day, she’ll learn to control her power, and she can recreate the world and her friends. As they leave, Charlotte reflects on her hopes and dreams for the journey. She hopes to learn to be kind, and not hurt others. She wants to change her ways, and become an honest, good person. Charlotte, slowly but surely, is on the road to recovery.

Putting the unsettling sequel to this game aside, maybe I could learn a little bit from Charlotte.

[fingersinmyhair]

Full Tilt by Neal Shusterman

My rating: 6.5/10

Rated: Child - Teen

SFW or NSFW: SFW

There are spoilers under the cut! You have been warned!

Overall Review:

At the request of a close friend, I read this book alongside them, as they'd read it once years ago on assignment in class. They swore by the book and said I'd enjoy it, and I couldn't agree more. This book was an easy read, but still keeps your eyes on the page wanting to find out what happens next.

I was impressed by how much happens in the book, as it's only around 120-135 pages of reading, but every chapter was eventful and detailed, giving the reader a clear vision of almost everything that happens.

As the main character, Blake, searches for his brother in the metaphysical amusement park where he and his friends must ride seven rides before dawn, he finds inner strength where he once only found cowardice and fear. The park conjures his worst memories and fears, using even his interests and insecurities against him and his friends, Maggie and Russ. The book ends with a clear resolve and a happy ending all wrapped in a pretty bow, but it wasn't forced or undeserving.

The characters and plot worked well together, in my honest opinion. There were many chuckle-to-myself moments and it was nice to root for the main character, not only to reach his goal but in pride as he found his strength.

Characters:

Blake: The main character and the biggest show of character development aside from Quinn and Cassandra. The park and his love for his younger brother push Blake to act entirely out of character in the perspective of the first few chapters. It's said multiple times through the book, even by Blake, that he's a coward, fearful and skittish, yet he storms into every adversary to his health - physical and mental - and perseveres only to save his brother and his friends from Cassandra and her park. It's also worth noting that Blake also finds comfort in having complete control of his environment, needing everything to be comfortable, neat, clean, and organized. He makes a remark to himself that he doesn't "have some weird disorder" about it, and it felt like it was meant to sound like he's in denial about it. It doesn't address this again in the book. At the beginning of the book, he is unsure if he will actually go away to college, but he's decided wholeheartedly that he wants to go and will be by the end of the book.

Quinn: Quinn is my favorite character in the book. It's said in the beginning and end of the book that many, for a long time, thought he was autistic when he was young because he was nonverbal, had poor social skills, and refused to make eye contact. The reasons for him, apparently not being autistic, are that he stopped being nonverbal when he was three and a half (after experiencing a roller coaster for the first time, an intense stimulus that he enjoyed greatly) and is now "self-centered" (as he thinks and acts impulsively based on his own emotions and needs). Since Quinn's first roller coaster ride, he was attracted to high-stimulus things, such as having a large number of piercings in his face and ears by age 13 (his age in the book), loud music, neon-bright colors, and eating mainly things with a large amount of sugar. I fully believe he is neurodivergent in the vein of either ADHD or being on the spectrum, if not comorbid. That being said, Quinn shows a lot of character development in the book. He goes from reclusing and even suicidal (he goes to the amusement park and willingly leaves Blake behind after learning that if he stays he will die, stating emphatically that he doesn't want to live in the real world anymore and so be it if his soul is trapped in the park for eternity) to being cooperative and working with his brother actively to find a way out of the park and beat Cassandra at her games. He tells his brother he loves him for the first time by the end of the book as well because of this development in his character.

Maggie: One of Blake's two best friends, his other being her boyfriend, Russ. Maggie is all but introduced as insecure and unsure of herself, but a good friend to Blake. She takes his side in most arguments that he gets into with Russ, as Russ usually starts them and is wrong, to begin with. She's very kind, though her insecurities in her appearance and how unsure of herself she is comes back later to bite her in the ass, physically altering her appearance to look how she feels on the inside. She is also a love interest to Blake, as they share a kiss while she looks like a monster and he tries everything he can to save her before failing to do so and having to move on due to time and urgency. Russ asks Blake if something is going on between him and Maggie when they're all out of the park, safe and sound, and Blake says, "I don't know. Maybe." She's the first person Blake comforts and assures when they reach safety as well.

Russ: Russ is introduced as a jock with no chosen sport, more so having the physique and interest in physical activity, but not having the attention span to focus on staying in a sport for too long. He's also, from the get-go, not very smart. (He interprets Blake's news of going to Columbia University as Blake would be moving to Columbia, making a remark that he didn't know Blake spoke Spanish.) At one point in the amusement park, he breaks before any of the rest of the group. He leaves Maggie behind when he sees her turn into a monster, not caring that it was her. When he gets on the Ferris Wheel, he sees something not detailed or described that shakes him to the core enough that he strikes a deal with Cassandra. If he saw Blake's death or demise, Russ would be released from the amusement park. Despite this, Blake still forgives him. Russ is absorbed by the park moments later for failing.

Mom & Carl: I do not like Blake and Quinn's mother. Several of her exes physically abused Quinn, and most likely Blake as well, and she knows this. It isn't detailed if she knew while it was happening or later on, but the way she handles Quinn not being comfortable around her new fiance and being "too" wary of him as a person in general due to her track record with me and him believing Carl will leave like all the others, including his father, is uncomfortable. She even complains to Blake about Quinn's attitude to the news she and Carl gave him, saying that not everything is about Quinn and that he essentially needs to get over it, negating Blake saying that not everything is about her to defend the way Quinn feels. If she's aware that her exes, including the father of her children, have either been physically abusive or have left her with no warning, why is she being harsh about Quinn being wary that the same thing is going to happen, not letting Carl's sunny disposition make him drop his guard? Carl himself is nice and tries to understand, so I don't have a problem with him.

Cassandra: A timeless, beautiful being that invites Blake to her amusement park, specifically so she can right the only wrong she's ever had. She's a fantastic antagonist, aloof and flirtatious (and even helpful) the first few times she's seen, but she slowly devolves into an angry and fearful being that wants Blake to stay with her, period. She goes from wanting to claim his soul to be absorbed by her park to wanting him to rule alongside her and bring balance to both her and the park, giving Blake the opportunity to carve out a realm of peace and fun for his loved ones trapped in the park, but he declines, infuriating her further. They even share a kiss intended to convey determination and the denial of her offer. Her world falls apart because Blake is, for lack of a better phrase, the one that got away.

[rediscoveringmichelle]

An Apple a day keeps the cravings away

January 2021, back in London after spending Christmas at home in Ireland with my family. This time had been a very different experience to the last. Freer, both mentally and physically. The last time I had been home was at the beginning of the global pandemic, restricted to the 2km radius of my home in Clontarf, North Dublin. However, on this occasion not only had restrictions been lifted by the Taoiseach for the Christmas period, I had lifted my own restrictions too. The beginning of the pandemic was the turning point of my recovery and now, 9 months later, I was no longer limiting myself to 3 healthy meals per day, with no snacks and a strict schedule of two 10km runs per week and a minimum 2 and half hours of walking per day. I felt happier and healthier than I had been in years, able to relax and enjoy late night glasses of wine and mince pies with my parents, meals out with friends and the odd day of rest and relaxation with nothing but a few hours of TV to pass the day. It didn’t matter how much weight I had put on; I had gained my life and laugh back, and I would be forever grateful for the lesson I had learnt thanks to this awful pandemic. That making myself thinner and fitter, didn’t make me any happier. And that being physically healthy is nothing if you destroy your mental and social health too.

January 2018 was really where it all began. Recently single and having spent a lot of my newfound freedom on nights out, eating takeaways and drinking large volumes of alcohol, I had understandably put on a bit of weight. The guy I had been seeing, suddenly stopped texting me and I felt rejected. My parents were back to living their lives after their run-ins with poor health. Dad back to smothering his toast in thick layers of butter and Mum loving her newfound ‘real-Mum’ life of Pilates and coffee catch ups since selling her practice for good. I was no longer needed. Mum didn’t need me to drive her to chemo or cook my Dad his no red meat, no oil, no salt dinners. I felt anxious as they went back to living their lives. No longer able to control them, especially my dad. I couldn’t force him into living a by-the-book healthy lifestyle. But I figured what I could control was myself. I could be the healthiest person I could possibly be. And with the added benefit of making that guy wish he’d never let me go. My perfectionist self would ensure that I would be the perfect picture of health. No cheating, no dieting, just a new lifestyle. A new me. One I could love.

I scoured the internet for all the advice on changing your lifestyle, getting fit and losing weight. Running apparently boosted your metabolism and was an efficient way to burn calories and fat. So, I started by running 5km, three times a week. Weights would help then to reduce my body fat and tone up so I coupled the running with strength training in the gym, also three times a week. I pounded out Kelsey Wells workout routines, while listening to ‘This is me’ from The Greatest Showman, a song about not being afraid to show the world exactly who you are, as I was ironically punishing my body into a shape that was not naturally me. I strictly followed Dad’s cardiologist’s advice and cooked everything from scratch, substituting beef mince for turkey mince and not using oil, butter or salt in my cooking. I cut out all snacks and limited myself to three meals per day. Social Media became my home ground for weight loss advice. ‘You’re not hungry, you’re thirsty. Drink some water.’ ‘No pain, no gain.’ ‘Ignore your cravings and they will eventually go away.’ ‘Craving sugar? Have an apple instead’. Each day would end with eating an apple to stave off the cravings and to quieten the rumbles in my stomach.

I started weighing my food, tracking everything from litres of water drunk and then steps walked and active minutes of exercise. I upped my runs gradually to 10km, twice a week because social media told me that after running for 35 minutes, you no longer just burn calories, but also fat. And yes, I do realise that anyone who has a degree in anything science related would quickly realise these were all completely made up and not based on fact, but I guess I wanted to believe them. I would believe anything that forced me to push (or punish) myself more. I stopped going out for drinks or dinner with friends. Too many calories and too worried that I wouldn’t be able to get up and run in the morning, unable to flex from the specific days I went running, for fear I would never run again. When I moved to London, I spent my weekends walking 40 thousand steps so that I could then earn a slice of banana bread from Deliciously Ella’s Vegan & Gluten Free Deli. I felt a rush of joy wash over me each time I saw the number on the scales or the minutes of my 10km runs decline, but like a drug, the high didn’t last long. I was addicted. I had no trust in myself. ‘You’re so controlled’, they complimented me. But deep down, I felt like there was a lazy, sugar and fat loving girl inside me. An imposter in a gradually reducing body. Fearing that just one biscuit and I would be back as that unhappy and overweight rejected girl.

I really believed that being thinner and looking like those girls I idolised on Instagram would make me happier. They were all smiling, surely that meant they were happy? As the compliments turned to concern, I felt that surely people were just jealous of how much weight I had managed to lose. Weight loss was something to be proud of, wasn’t it? The truth of it all didn’t hit me until the pandemic. As I sat up in my bed struggling to breathe on the night of the Taoiseach’s first lockdown announcement, I started to wonder what I was really fearing. During a time when people were dying, all I could fear was not being able to exercise enough and being locked up in a house full of food. I feared putting on weight and relinquishing control. I felt trapped with nothing to look forward to. Holidays cancelled and my boyfriend of two months at home with his family 167km away in Belfast. That was my rock bottom.

In an effort to cheer myself up I started to make a list of all the things I wanted to do post lockdown. Have date nights in with my boyfriend, making pizzas, ordering takeaways and eating breakfast in bed. Then the excitement of getting to do these things started to dwindle as the anxiety crept in, as I tried to count up how much exercise I would need to do in order to earn those nights. A day in bed with no exercise? Nope, that’s a no go. And that’s when it hit me. I had made myself thin, with the thought that then I would be lovable and that then I could enjoy my life. But I was thinner, thinner than I’d been since I was a preteen and I still wouldn’t let myself go enough to do the things I deeply wanted to do. To let myself enjoy life. How freeing it would be to just, let go!

My love for learning kicked in and I made the decision to start reading up and educating myself. I came across a book my mum had not so subtly left lying around the house. ‘Just Eat it – How Intuitive eating can help you get your shit together around food’ by Laura Thomas. I didn’t believe I had an eating disorder until I started reading her book. As she listed off the disorders, she then came to Orthorexia – defined as an unhealthy obsession with healthy eating or over exercising. ‘When was the last time you even asked yourself what you’d like instead of what you ‘can’ or ‘should’ eat?’ she queried. The sad reality was that I couldn’t remember. ‘We trust our phones more than we trust our bodies’. Well that was certainly true for me. She used science, showing that weight was in fact not a determinant of health but that by exercising, eating healthy and not smoking we could be healthy, regardless of our size. That eating a donut didn’t in fact negate the nutrients of the carrot we ate earlier. And that white flour was actually infused with calcium and that those carbs are what give us energy to move and enjoy life. My eyes gradually opened to all the lies diet culture had taught me and I felt empowered.

I moved on to more books and podcasts and started culling my social media feed of anyone that didn’t make me feel good. I started following intuitive eating dietitians and anti-diet advocates. Following people of all shapes and sizes and realising how biased our society is towards people in smaller bodies. Not just the size of airplane seats but assuming that all health issues experienced by fat people can be solved by weight loss. I learnt that the night sweats I had been experiencing, the pretty much non-existent sex drive and the inability to maintain body heat for any length of time were in fact all side effects of the restricted eating and over-exercising. Half the time I didn’t even look as thin as I had become because I was wearing so many layers of clothes in order to keep warm. Walking around the house with a hot water bottle strapped to my waist and wearing a fur coat indoors while out for dinner with friends. Only now can I laugh at the image of it. I started to make a list of all the things I would gain through gaining weight and glancing back over it now, I have gained all of these and more. My headspace, my laughter, my body heat and a fantastic relationship that I thankfully didn’t destroy because of my restrictive, anxious mind-set.

My recovery hasn’t been easy. The steps toward eating intuitively start with banishing your food rules and allowing yourself to eat what you want. A process that takes time before you can start tuning into your hunger and fullness cues again and introducing gentle nutrition. It involved allowing myself to devour entire tubs of Oatly chocolate fudge ice-cream, multiple evenings per week. Making my way through all the delicious Deliveroo takeaway options London had to offer – Honest Burgers red meat beef burgers with rosemary salted fries, Franco Manca pizzas, with all the toppings, and Kin & Deum Thai curries, with full fat coconut milk. Gradually I started being able to listen to my body and trust it. Whether it hungered for a salmon stir-fry or was seeking out a slice of chocolate cake. The interesting thing being, that months later it now craves nutritious food the majority of the time. And that by allowing it to have higher sugar or fat containing foods whenever it wants, I no longer feel out of control around them. I no longer find myself devouring three large sized bags of crisps in one sitting, overtaken by the fear that I will never let myself eat them again.

I have days where I find myself critiquing my larger thighs in the mirror but instead of allowing the thoughts consume me, I allow them float by with curiosity and continue about my day knowing that the way I look doesn’t define me and that the greatest things about me have nothing to do with my body shape or size. I am a thoughtful friend, who prides herself at remembering important moments in friends’ lives. A courageous girl who isn’t afraid to try new things, whether that be travelling solo across Vietnam or signing up to a surf and yoga retreat in Cornwall. A creative person who loves to draw and a lifelong learner that is open to new ideas and wants to challenge her way of thinking. My body will change a lot over the next 50 plus years of my life, but the great thing is that thanks to freeing myself from the disease, I get to look forward to the possibility of being alive for that long and to enjoying every waking moment, no longer postponing life for when I look or am a certain way.

© Michelle McCarthy January 2021

[masked-buffoon]

Chapter 3: The Sweet Appeals (Part 2)

Warnings: none

Author notes: let’s take a break from violence and start some interaction... Shall we?

I was still as empty as my medication box when I went to the train station to wait for my superior to come back. It had been several hours since the end of the mission, but even though it was so late at night, there were so many people going in and out of the building. Some had just dropped off of the train, some were waiting for a loved one, some were departing and some were just looking for a shelter against the pouring rain. The noise of those people talking and laughing, as well as the rumble of the trains on the railroads were killing my head, and, unable to stand the tumultuous atmosphere any longer, I wished I had some pills at the moment. It was almost desperate that I kept playing with the empty box between my cold fingers, until someone sat next to me.

"Ogawa-kun... Am I right?"

I turned toward the stranger, recognising his red hair and familiar hat, and made a move to stand up and greet him, but he grabbed my wrist to stop me.

"No need to." He made me sit back down, and sighed "You know, Ogawa-kun... Your medicine can only relieve your physical pain, but it does not work on broken feelings."

Nakahara-san was my superior's partner. He was only close to being an executive, but it did not make him less important.

"What do you mean...?" I played dumb, shoving the box back into my pocket.

"I'm not sure, only small talks in the Mafia, but you apparently went to exterminate your entire family, earlier?" He lit up a cigarette.

"I did." My answer was short.

"Was it not too hard?" He glanced at me with a tint of concern showing in his voice.

"Just another mission." I shrugged "With all due respect, Nakahara-san, smoking is bad for your health..."

"Nonsense!" He laughed, waving his hand "Do you want one?"

I stared a moment at the pack he presented to me, and started to decline. After all, I often coughed, it would not be wise to smoke in that state.

"I'd rather not —"

"Nonsense!" He exclaimed again, lighting one up for me "A cigarette here and there never killed anyone."

"Thank you..." I received the present, hesitating.

I brought it to my mouth and tried to take a whiff, but the smoke burnt my lungs and I ended up coughing, trying to reject the foreign product.

"With time, you'll get used to — Ogawa-kun?!"

The cigarette had triggered my abnormal cough, and blood started to accumulate in the palm of my hand. When I calmed down, I weakly took a tissue I kept with me and cleaned the blood the best I could, shamefully trying to avoid Nakahara-san's dumbfounded look.

"Well..." He took the cigarette from my hand and threw it on the ground to extinguish it with his heel "No smoking for you."

"A cigarette never hurt anyone..." I cracked a smile.

"Except for you. Damn, what the hell with that cough? Have you seen a doctor, something?"

"I haven't... Can you not tell Dazai-san, please...?" I begged him "I... Don't want him to know..."

"Well, I won't..." He raised an eyebrow "I don't know what the bandage freak does to you, but feel free to come to me. He can be rough without even realising it..."

"I definitely will. Nevertheless, you should not worry. Dazai-san only does his best so I can stop being a burden to him..."

"Another one without a sense of good or bad..." He sighed heavily "That way of thinking is wrong, but there is no point in explaining it..."

As the train arrived in front of us, he put out his cigarette too, and showed me the first class wagon.

"He should be there. Go ahead, I'll wait here."

"Nakahara-san...?"

"Just go. I'll wait for you at the entrance." He left me on the platform.

I noted to myself that, whereas there was a public ashtray just next to the bench, he had dropped the stubs on the ground. He really was a peculiar man... However, I did not have time to wonder much further about the mafioso, the familiar silhouette of Dazai-san came into my view, surrounded by the crowd. Using my elbows, I made my way toward him, but got pushed by the flow of people and bumped into him instead.

"Ogawa-kun...?" He sounded surprised.

"A-Ah, Dazai-san, welcome back...!" I stuttered, immediately stepping back "I-I'm sorry, I didn't mean to... I-I'll just take your suitcase..."

"... I'm back...?" He raised an eyebrow, letting me carry his luggage.

"How was the mission...?" I did not want for a blank silence to install itself "Did you have a nice journey from Kyōto...?"

"It was horrible..." He mumbled looking away.

If it had truly been horrible, he would be so disappointed and pissed off he would have taken it out on me. But it had not happened... Instead, he seemed uncomfortable, almost awkward. Perhaps even him was disgusted by the awful parricide I had committed....

"W-Why so...?" I frowned.

"Because, deep inside, I feel like an idiot." He sighed, and I saw a seemingly upset look on his face "I did something I shouldn't have..."

I hoped it had not made him fail his mission. Oh, but, he never failed at anything; he always had a hundred backup plans if needed... There was never anything he would regret, so I truly wondered what he could be talking about. He was not being himself... He was not rude, harsh and threatening.

When we reached Nakahara-san and the two instantly started to bicker, I noticed, after all this time with him, that he was only sixteen years old. The childish expressions and annoyed pouts forming on his face reminded me more of a high schooler than of a demon prodigy, youngest executive of the Port Mafia, and, somehow, this was enough for my hatred toward him to fade away, slightly. He did appear less frightening than usual, perhaps a bit more concerned too... Even though it was surely a facade he put on to cope with my worthlessness, seeing him acting his age around his partner made me smile the slightest. It did suit him better, that childishness, after all...

Outside, the rain had not stopped. If anything, it had gotten stronger. Obviously, my superior had not taken his umbrella, for the weather was nice in Kyōto.

"I... Um... I'll go fetch a taxi..." I put Dazai-san's suitcase down and handed him my umbrella so he would not get wet.

"Wait —"

I did not let him finish and ran off under the downpour, toward the cabs. The water was cold against my skin, and, despite the fact the two men were waiting for me, I stopped in my tracks, looking up at the heavy clouds. Would the rain wash my sins away if it was this heavy...? I had killed my family, but had not shed a single tear. Either I was not human, either I was simply heartless. And now, the sky was crying for me... It reminded me of my failure as a being, it reminded me of my emptiness, of the lingering coldness I could never get rid of...

An umbrella obstructed my vision.

"Are you out of your mind?! Going without an umbrella?!" Dazai-san scolded me when I looked at him.

I remembered my task.

"I-I'm sorry, the cab..." I looked down, embarrassed and fearing he would beat me.

"That's not the point..." He sighed again "Hold it a moment."

I shakily took the umbrella from his hand as he removed his heavy coat.

"D-Dazai-san, your —"

"Just take it." He dropped it on my head and shoulders, sounding annoyed "You're soaked. Chūya already took care of our mean of transportation."

"Thank you..." I squeaked out.

A luxurious sports car parked in front of us, and Nakahara-san's head appeared through the opened window.

"Are you two going to get in?" He motioned the back seats.

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[sighmurderbot]

Irish Coffee Chapter Two

Title: Closing Time

Chapter Rating/Warnings: G, I don’t think there’s even any profanity in this one

Word Count: 2.4K

Summary: They meet over coffee and Kierkegaard. There was a spark in his honey-brown eyes that drew her to him. There was a sadness behind her bright smile that drew him to her. Spencer Reid/Original Female Character. Slow burn coffee shop meet. Strangers to friends to lovers. This fic is also available on AO3, it’s ahead of tumblr currently!

previous chapter//next chapter

“Friends are those rare people who ask how we are and then wait to hear the answer.” 

- Ed Cunningham

It had been a tiring Thursday, which is saying something. Thursdays were the one day a week I only worked at the coffee shop, just coming in for a few hours to close, meaning it was the closest thing I had to a day off. That being said, somehow the denizens of DC had decided this was the Thursday to descend on this coffee shop and just...be assholes. My head ached from the amount of focus and energy it took to process complaints and orders simultaneously while making drinks and keeping the cafe clean.

It might only be a three hour shift, but sometimes it’s a long three hours.

I finished wiping down the table in front of me and stood, arching my back to stretch it out. 

I’m not sure what caught my attention. A flicker of movement, perhaps, or maybe just the sense of someone else nearby.

I glanced towards the front of the store, scanning the city street on the other side of the floor to ceiling windows.

And there he was.

He looked a little worse for wear, his clothes wrinkled and hair mussed, as if he had only slept briefly and in uncomfortable places. Light spilled from the streetlamp above him, his high cheekbones casting harsh shadows across his skin.

His eyes widened a little as I spotted him.

I couldn't stop the smile that spread across my face upon seeing him. He intrigued me, and...I'll admit it, I thought he was cute. The door was still unlocked and I waved for him to come inside. 

Maybe my Thursday is starting to look up!

He seemed confused at my gesture, glancing over his shoulder and pointing a hesitant finger to his chest.

“Me?” he mouthed, eyebrows drawing together in a confused frown.

I rolled my eyes and grinned, quickly making my way to the door and holding it open with one arm. Cool air rolled in off the street, ruffling a few flyaways around my face.

“Come on in!” I exclaimed. “We don’t close properly for another ten minutes.”

He shoved his hands into his pocket, rocking back on his heels a little.

“Are you sure? You-you probably already cleaned everything and I don’t want to be in the way.”

“Don’t be silly,” I smiled. “Just come in, sugar.”

He ducked his head and stepped inside. I watched his shoulders relax slightly as he stopped a few feet into the store.

“What can I get ya?” I asked, crossing to behind the counter. His eyes flicked from the menu to me and he tilted his head a little, as if in confusion. I felt my lips twitch in a small smile.

I wonder what he’s thinking, he looks baffled…

“Sir?” I asked, thinking it was perhaps not a good idea to let on that I overheard and remembered his name.

“Why do you call me sugar?” He asked. His tone wasn’t accusatory or upset, simply curious. My cheeks reddened slightly.

“Well, that’s your order, right? Uh...large mocha with extra sugar?”

He nodded, a pretty frown still wrinkling his forehead.

“You remembered?”

I looked down, chuckling a little. 

“It’s not every day a nice man reading Danish philosophy comes in and is kind enough to talk to me like a person,” I said honestly.

More confusion from the man before me. I worried that I had said too much, scared him off. I serve hundreds of people a day, remembering one customer might come across as creepy or weird or-

He cut off my train of thought as he spoke.

“You think I’m nice?”

The question was genuine, he blinked a few times like he was having trouble processing what I said.

“...yeah,” I laughed a little. “I mean, I obviously don’t know you, but I get feelings about people. My feeling is that you’re nice.”

“Huh,” he said, eyes returning to the menu above me.

“So…” I gently prompted him. “What can I get you? Same thing?”

“Oh! Yeah, same thing please.”

“Have a seat anywhere!”

It only took me a minute to finish making the drink, and instead of calling it out at the counter I walked it to his table.

He looked up as I set the drink in front of him, giving me a closed-lip smile and wrapping long, delicate fingers around the warm cup.

“Reid,” he commented into his cup. I almost missed it. “Doctor Spencer Reid. That’s my name.”

Doctor Spencer Reid. That’s a nice name, I decided.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Doctor Reid,” I said with a smile. “Katie, but, you already knew that.” He nodded and looked back down at his coffee. 

“Let me know if I can get you anything else, Doctor,” I said, then turned to finish closing. He seemed like the quiet type who preferred to be alone, or maybe he’d just had a long day.

“Uh, Sp—” he said as I turned around, so quiet that I missed most of what he said.

“Sorry?” I turned around, pushing some hair back towards the ponytail it had slipped out of.

He looked up and his gaze swept over me, analytical and probing. I found myself nervously twisting my apron tie around my fingers.

What is he looking for? What does he see? 

“You wear a hearing aid,” he said matter-of-factly.

Oh.

I nodded silently, my face falling before I could catch it.

What’s he going to say? Berate me? Mock me? My thoughts were perhaps a tad more bitter than intended, and I tried to keep that out of my voice.

“Yeah, sorry,” I said, cringing inwardly at how flat I sounded. “I can’t pick up certain frequencies.”

“You know,” he said, taking one hand off his coffee cup as he began to gesture with his words. “The use of hearing aids has actually been proven to reduce cognitive decline and lower the risk of developing dementia.”

What’s he doing? I thought, thrown off a little, but not upset by this turn of events. Is he...trying to make me feel better?

“There was a study conducted in Europe, two out of three people who used hearing aids wished they had gotten them sooner,” Spencer continued, both hands involved in his gestures now. I began to fear for his coffee. 

“They lead to a better social life, mental and physical health, and job performance. So...it’s a good thing. That you have them.”

“Yeah, I guess so,” I accepted, watching him with a small smile. He seemed embarrassed after his small outburst.

I gestured to the chair across from him.

“May I?”

He nodded, taking a sip of his sugary drink.

“So,” I said, taking a seat. “You’re studying philosophy but you’re also a doctor. How’s that work?”

If I thought he looked embarrassed a moment ago, he was downright flustered now.

“I, uh…” he fiddled with the cardboard protector around his coffee cup. “I am a philosophy student,” he said. “But I already have my doctorates in Mathematics, Chemistry, and Engineering. And another bachelor’s in Psychology.”

He suddenly fell silent, eyes fixed on the steam coiling out of the slit in the cup’s lid. I couldn’t keep my impressed admiration off my face, smiling as I opened and closed my mouth, trying to process something to say.

After I hadn’t replied for a few seconds he looked up at me from beneath his lashes. He was almost wincing, as if bracing himself for ridicule, mockery, disgust.

Just like you, my mind prompted. 

I gave him a wide grin and set my folded hands on the table, leaning forward a little.

“Doctor R— Spencer. That’s amazing, you don’t look much older than me.”

“I’m 26,” he replied, almost automatically, then frowned. “Wait, what?”

“That’s amazing,” I emphasized. “You’re amazing, that’s a huge accomplishment.”

I watched a light shade of pink spread up his cheeks.

“Oh, uh...thank you,” he said unsurely.

Waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“I mean it,” I said, meeting his eyes. “You must have worked incredibly hard for those.”

“Well, I have an eidetic memory and an IQ of 187 but...college isn’t friendly to 12-year-old high school graduates.”

I gave him an empathetic grimace.

“Sometimes it’s not the course load that’s the hard part of college.”

“You can say that again,” he agreed, taking another sip of his coffee. “I thought you weren’t a student though.”

I pressed my lips together, looking down at my hands.

“Not anymore,” I said shortly.

“Oh. I’m sorry,” he said, but it sounded like he was reading out of a book. I didn’t really mind. People don’t understand, they can’t, not really. 

“I’m working to go back.” I don’t know why I said it, why I told him. It wasn’t any of his business, but for some reason I wanted Spencer to know I didn’t drop out because I screwed around, I didn’t want him to think that I didn’t care.

“Everyone has their own pace,” Spencer said. “At least, that’s what my mom told me.”

I felt my breath catch in my chest, and I gave him a small smile that I hoped wasn’t as sad as I suddenly felt.

“My mom told me something similar,” I found myself admitting. “Run your own damn race, she told me.”

Spencer tilted his head, as if asking me to explain. His eyes were fixed on me, I felt almost shy about being the complete focus of his attention, but I also had a feeling that anything Spencer did was the absolute center of his focus.

“It means that everyone has a race they’re running,” I said. “And you should focus on yours, not anyone else’s. If you focus on someone else’s race you’ll probably trip while trying to run your own. If...if that makes any sense.”

“It does,” Spencer assured with a small smile. 

“Heh, moms, right?”

I let out a slightly nervous laugh, but something in Spencer’s eyes, an understanding, calmed me.

“Moms,” he agreed with a small smile.

We shared a quiet moment, just looking at each other. His face was too harsh and angular for a man with liquid honey eyes and perfectly curved lips. I wondered where he worked, what stressful career painted dark circles like bruises under his eyes and stripped the softness from him.

“I should close up,” I said finally, regretfully. 

“Oh, yeah, of course,” Spencer hurried out of his seat, almost knocking over his coffee but deftly catching it before it could tip too far. “I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” I replied, maybe too quickly, as I stood as well. Spencer arched an eyebrow.

“I just-” I started, then exhaled a laugh and looked down at my shoes. “I don’t get to have a conversation with...well, anyone, very often.” 

I twisted my apron tie around my finger three times, then unspireled it. 

“I don’t really talk with anyone outside of work,” Spencer admitted. He didn’t seem upset about it, it was simply a fact of his existence. 

“That’s kinda sad,” I said, my hand flying to my mouth right after. 

“I’m so sorry,” I said quickly, hand returning to harassing my apron ties. “I didn’t mean-”

“No, it’s okay,” Spencer cut me off with a shrug.

He really doesn’t seem upset, I guess some people are happy that way.

“Well,” I smiled up at him. “If you ever want to talk to someone you don’t work with, you know where to find me.”

He nodded, returning my expression.

“Thanks.”

I noticed how he kept a respectful distance between us, and remembered how he hadn’t offered to shake hands when we swapped names. 

Touch avoidance.

He seemed to notice everything, and with an eidetic memory he’d remember it all, so I carefully filed this away. Even though I might not be able to compare to him on memory, I could still try and remember something important to someone who had gone out of his way to be nice to me.

“Can I walk you out?” I asked, glancing around the room to make sure I had finished closing.

“Uh, yeah, sure.”

“Great.”

I gave him a bright smile.

“Wait here, I’ll be right back.”

I hurried to the back room to grab my coat and bag. A few moments later I returned, and Spencer was still there. For some reason I had almost expected him to disappear, almost as if he wasn’t ever there.

But there he was, tugging on the sleeve of his cardigan and shuffling in place.

“Ready to go?” I asked, tugging my coat around me. It was old, and too big for me, and frayed at the bottom, and I had to patch the elbows last winter, but it was warm.

And it was hers.

Every time I pulled the old blue coat on it was like a memory of a hug from my mom.

Spencer nodded.

“Andiamo!” I exclaimed cheerfully. Spencer’s attention perked.

“You speak Italian?”

“A little, you?”

“I’m passable.”

I grinned. 

“I’ve only spoken with you a little, but something tells me you’re a sight more than passable.”

Spencer cracked a smile, ducking his head to hide his pleased expression.

“Maybe I’m closer to fluent, but I’m not there yet.”

I made my way to the door, hitting the lights on my way. The shop fell into darkness, the only illumination the emergency lights and the city ambience outside. 

“It was really nice to meet you, Spencer,” I said earnestly as he joined me on the sidewalk outside. I locked the door and gave it a rattle to make sure it was secure, then turned to him. He tipped the last of his coffee down.

“It was nice to meet you too, Katie.”

“I’ll see you around?” “Yeah, probably.”

He raised the now-empty cup.

“You’re the only one who puts enough sugar in,” he joked, and I laughed with him. 

Raising my hand in farewell, I set off to catch the bus and he began walking the other way. Once I reached the corner I glanced back at the tall figure, passing in and out of sight under streetlamps as he drew further away.

When was the last time I talked to someone who wasn’t a coworker? I wondered. No time was easily coming to mind and I grimaced. It wasn’t easy to maintain a social life while working three jobs.

It’ll be worth it, I assured myself, Friends can come later, I need to do this.

I was dedicated to my goal, and I’d stick to it, but deep down I was hoping to see the handsome Doctor Spencer Reid again. 

A friendly, casual acquaintance. It’ll be nice to see a friendly face every now and then.

And that’s truly all I hoped for, for now.

[thisisridiculousdude]

I would like to state that I am ONLY making this account to address this issue and I will not discuss it after this. I will not engage with the online community regarding this, and I will not post anything else on here. However, I need to set the record straight because you’ve involved me in a personal way when you do not know me. Hello! My name is Em. I’m the current partner of @strawberryswisherrpt3 - otherwise known as Joey Hart. There are accusations firing at my partner, and him attempting to defend himself. In the original message, I was spoken to as though I was somehow a victim of my partner, or that I wasn’t fully aware of what was going on so I’m sitting here to address everything that has been said. This will not continue and I will not engage with people I don’t know, and that don’t know me, my life with Joey, nor him at this point in time. To Kai:

1. I have never harassed you. You attempting to paint the image of me bothering you in any way is ridiculous. I have made 2 posts to you in the 4 years I have been involved with Joey. The first (that I will attach to this post) was in direct response to you posting shitty things about my relationship with Joey of which you knew nothing about. I have EVERY RIGHT to defend myself or to inform someone of the truth. Sure, I was a little harsh in it with my word choices but I was incredibly angry that you inserted yourself in a relationship you were not apart of.

2. I AM NOT A VICTIM OF JOEY HART. I REPEAT, I AM NOT A VICTIM OF JOEY HART. I will not EVER reach out to you so I can “confide” in you about some horrific fact of a person that simply no longer exists. He has never and would never harm me.

3. You make the statement that I will never understand and you hope I don’t have to, so let me paint a picture for you. I’m 21, I start dating someone that I went to high school with that I trust with my life. He takes care of me while I’m sick, he knows all of my medical and personal information. I move across the country with him so I wouldn’t be a burden on my family. We get married so I have health insurance, and can have the procedures I need without paying an arm and a leg for them. I change my last name on my social security card with him promising to pay for me to have my license changed over too so I can eventually go back to work. He proceeds to slowly remove all food from the house, the keys from my pockets so I can no longer leave and if I do, I won’t be able to get back in. He started to speak to my mother, my daughter’s family, and my friends behind my back. He let them all know I was losing my mind, that I wasn’t making any sense and he was doing everything he could to make me happy but it never seemed like it was enough. In reality, he backed me into a corner. He was drunk. He had the windows open so our neighbors could hear him humiliate me. He yelled in my face that I was a whore. I was his wife and he could fuck me whenever he pleased. I didn’t have to tell  him yes or no. I didn’t have to consent. He owned me because I was his wife. I try my BEST to fight back. I yell, I beg him to close the window so the neighbors won’t hear. I cry and tell him I love him and i’m so sorry. Do you know what his response was, Kai? Do you want to know? His response was to rip open my dress, drag me by my hair, push me over onto our bed, rip my underwear off, shove himself into me, ripping me on his way in to where i was bloody with his hand shoving my face into the mattress so he could muffle my cries.That happened over and over again. He beat the shit out of me. He starved me. He held me hostage. If I tried to book a flight home to Texas, he’d find out. He’d cancel it because he worked at the airline. My family wouldn’t speak to me. I couldn’t get a job because my IDs didn’t match. When I finally decided I was going to leave him, he ripped the cushions out of the futon I was sleeping on so I had to sleep on raw springs. He would bring home a triple cheeseburger and 10 nuggets every single night and force feed me them but if I declined, I did not eat. He took my phone and controlled everyone I spoke to and everything I did. He used my personal information against me in an attempt to have me committed. After I finally found a way out, he ACTUALLY stalked me. He followed me home on the train and to my workplace. He called DCFS on me (the time you’re referring to that Joey told you) because I took my child and fled to a dude’s house because I was terrified for my life. I almost had my child taken away from me because of him. He kidnapped my child and took her to Denver CO without my consent or knowledge. He caused my daughter to hate me because he filled her head with lies about me. To this day, my daughter is his picture on Facebook.  I know what abuse is like. I know what it’s like to question your own sanity, to be so stained by what you considered love that you don’t know if you’re ever going to be able to feel safe again. I can no longer be touched without almost throwing up. I can’t answer phone calls I don’t know and I am always living in fear that he will finally find a way to kill me.  You do not have a right to tell me that I do not understand what you have endured in your life because I do. You do not know me. Do not belittle my intelligence and capability of rational thinking.

3. I’m not insecure of you and I never have been. I have never been under the impression Joey was trying to date you again because he never was. 4. The final thing I have to say to you is this: Joey has never hidden anything from me. He has never tried to justify his actions. I have always been honest with him whenever he has messed up, and he is well aware of the things he has done. He has taken accountability for the wrongdoings of his past and the people he has hurt. He told me every single thing before we started dating so I knew what his past was. He never hid it. He never tried to twist it to paint himself as a victim. He point blank said “I did this” without any attempt of swaying my opinion one way or the other. I CHOSE to acknowledge the fact that this is someone with a very stained past that goes far beyond what he has done to others, and what has also been done to him. I chose to pursue a relationship with him because I respected his honesty, and truly believed he wanted to move forward and work on being a better person. He can’t UNDO the things he has done. We all fucking know this, including him. But I’m TRULY confused on what you want him to do. What you expect of him. Like, do you want him to just disappear off the face of the earth? Because that isn’t going to happen. He’s got a life, he’s allowed to be on the internet and interacting with people that he knows or is involved with. The ONLY thing he can do is apologize, take accountability, and try to be better. That’s it. That’s all he can do. And I know he has apologized to you. I’ve heard it, and he did it again in the recent message to you. You absolutely do not have to accept his apology but you cannot say that he hasn’t attempted to take responsibility verbally to you directly. Same with Sarah. He messaged her on OkCupid to apologize well after they broke up and she essentially told him to fuck off (which is totally fine, and understandable) and he didn’t push the issue. He understood why she was angry and had every right to be. He left her alone and hasn’t once bothered her since. You know this happened because you were with him when it happened. Like literally WITH him physically and found out later and were angry. So I don’t understand. You don’t owe me an answer but i’m not stupid. I’m not naïve like you portray me to be, Kai. I’m not justifying or defending his past. I’m telling you the truth, which is that the person he is today is not the person he was then and you truly CANNOT say otherwise because you wouldn’t know. No one would know.  He reached out to you again on December 22nd because he reaches out to people from his past. Like you, I never really understood this, but I don’t make his decisions for him. It was probably a mistake and I’m sure he’s realizing this now, but either way, he left you alone. He didn’t message you again and he didn’t bother you. He didn’t vague post at you or say anything offensive to you/about you. He posted a photo of me with a ferret where YOU then said something shitty and he finally asked you to stop. He told you he wasn’t going to stop posting his personal stuff out of fear of what you may say.  Yes, it’s your blog and you can say whatever you want. No one is stopping you or trying to. However, you clearly know he’s looking just like you’re looking at his. His message to you was not reflective of the way he once was. That doesn’t suddenly mean he’s unchanged or not a better person from his mistakes (which for the final time, what else do you want dude). It means he got upset because he posted a photo of a ferret and you copied something shitty he said to you like 5 years ago in an email as a response to something that never required a response??? it was a photo of a ferret! Whatever. In general: As I said already, I won’t be addressing any of this again. I don’t know any of you and I’m not going to pretend to. I do know my partner though and I do know the things he has done because he has been honest. He’s told me when he was having doubts about our relationship, He’s told me virtually every single thing that he’s done or experienced. He has worked very, very, very hard to work on his toxic patterns and address his past in a way that is meaningful for his future as a person, all while understanding that the past cannot be undone and taking full accountability where it is due.  He is disabled, he is schizophrenic, he is neurodivergent and he has been since he was a child. Some of the behavior you comment on is clear schizophrenia. He is NOT RESPONSIBLE for his family. He does not have contact with his family. He has not been in contact with them for nearly a year. We endured the exact same thing as all of you did from his family while we resided there which isn’t okay and I don’t blame any of you for feeling uncomfortable or unsafe there. However, he can only do so much. He can only yell at his family so much. He can only demand they stop doing something so much. It’s not feasible for someone who brings in $863 a month to simply move out and quite frankly, it’s incredibly ableist to push that narrative. His family abused him his entire life. His dad was absolutely horrific to his mom, and grandmother. He harassed Susie literally to fucking death. And to be clear: none of this excuses his actions. These are not excuses, these are facts. Someone can state that they were severely mentally ill and had undergone a lifetime of abuse and trauma that caused them to act out a certain way or have a distorted sense of reality to some degree (schizophrenia), or even harm those they cared for or were near because of those things. That does not make someone a bad person. That means they have done bad things. For the final time: he cannot undo what he did. To anyone. He cannot take it back even though he DOES wish he could. ALL HE CAN DO is try to move forward and better himself while acknowledge who he was to prevent himself from being that person again. He is not perfect, I’m not perfect. But he is different now than he has ever been. He has continued to grow over the time I have known him and whether you believe that or not is not something I can control but it’s not something I’m going to continue to let spew from people that no longer know who he is. I have chosen to remain silent until now, and I will go back to being silent of my own accord because I’m not going to engage with anyone who is insistent and honestly, hell-bent on destroying a person who has done exactly what you SAY you want done and why you SAY you’re doing this “again:” so he’s accountable.  I truly do not understand the purpose of this and I truly do not appreciate you saying things about our relationship that are not true. You do not know anything about our relationship, about me as a parent, about my life at all. You’ve made derogatory comments about me in the past because I lived in the house with his family since I was laid off from my job and lost my housing. You compared babysitting your siblings to me having a child alone in a hospital room at 15 and raising her by myself. You felt the need to comment on how my child would be hurt by the fact that I left relationships which I had to do because I was being raped or glass was thrown at my head. You do not know me. You will never know me, and I don’t want to know you. You don’t know him either, as I’ve said a million times over in this entire post. This won’t change anything if you’re not willing to listen to the person who DOES know him best now. This is all I have to say. I’m done now.

[maidenariana]

Post-Op with No Regrets

Post-Op with No Regrets

by Ariana Danielle Wojcik  11/15/2018

You have probably seen certain headlines or heard certain talking points being discussed over the airwaves such as these:

“Sex Reassignment Doesn’t Work!”

“De-transitioners and Transgender Regret”

“Sex Change Horror Story”

et al.

  Exactly one incredible year ago today, and three years after beginning hormone replacement therapy, I underwent gender confirmation surgery or GCS. My results and my story are the polar opposite of these frightening headlines that are part of a narrative being pushed by certain groups.

Folks, lean in close and listen.. it works!

My life is good, great, and wonderful with respect to my surgery and its results. If this surgery is in your future and you are nervous about it and have read the horror stories, know that most of us come out of it with the results we were hoping for. It is major surgery, so you have to expect a long carefully monitored recovery. For me, it was so very worth it. In addition, the common feared road blocks of transition from legal name changes, identity document updates, workplace transition, the disapproval of certain family members, dealing with the loss of loved ones, laser treatments, online attacks, disapproving stares, being purposely misgendered and dead-named, countless blood tests, injections galore, electrolysis (even in the nether regions before surgery), the nightmare of dealing with insurance companies and billing departments, were all things I had to face. I would still say despite all of that, it was all worth it!

There are many risks, just as there are with any major surgery. There are possible side effects that could cause life long issues. This is all known and will be explained to prospective surgical candidates in minute detail by any surgeon performing this operation. This surgery is never undertaken lightly and represents the end result of years of refinement and accepted medical practice.

This does not sit well with those who want to vilify not only transgender people, but their doctors, therapists, surgeons, and parents. Transgender people are under attack at every level and this includes a targeted effort on whether or not transitions should even be allowed. As an example, I suggest you search for information about the plan of attack of the anti-LGBT hate group ironically named the “Family Research Council”. The problem with all of the efforts from groups like the FRC is that their hatred and dismissal of the existence of transgender people is based on their own “beliefs” and not on reality. The medical professionals who actually study and understand this topic fully support the practices of hormone replacement therapy, and gender confirmation surgery for those that require either treatment. They do this because it is the right, and extremely successful treatment path for many transgender people. Transgender people exist and have been a part of the human condition throughout history. Attempting to erase us from history will not succeed. These groups like the FRC are wasting their time, breath, and money from donors who often do not even realize they are funding hate.

Many transgender women contact me every week asking questions about my transition and surgery, often expressing worry that surgery is a long shot to be successful. When external efforts to cast doubt and fear on transgender health practices cause confusion among those who deeply need help, it is time to speak up. I am writing all of this to try and address those concerns and to discount some of the stigma regarding this surgery and transition.

Can you find examples out there of people who regretted transitioning?

Yes, you can find a small number of cases of people who experience regret. In fact you can find those rather easily because those cases are purposely and inaccurately touted by motivated anti-LGBT groups as the “consistent and unfortunate experience” for those who have this surgery. This is not accurate. Thousands and thousands of transition related surgeries are performed every year by surgeons across the globe. There is a growing number of surgeons in the United States and the numbers of surgeries performed is only growing, not shrinking. My surgery was performed in Chicago, IL by one of the more recent additions to the experts in this field.

Do I worry that no surgery could ever make me a real (insert societal definition of a certain gender type here)?

Nope, not a concern. I underwent gender confirmation surgery because it was right for me. My doctors, (yes plural), my surgical team, my therapist and psychiatrist (a therapist and psychiatrist are both required by the WPATH standards of care) all agreed that this surgery was right for me as a medically accepted treatment for my personal health and well being. Who is anyone else to think they have a right to get in between that circle of people? My doctors, surgical team, therapist, psychiatrist, and I are the only ones that should have input into whether or not gender confirmation surgery is right for me. Every other person on the planet should rightfully decline from attempting to insert themselves into that discussion. To do so is to tamper with things they do not understand. This goes for people in government, religious institutions, water-cooler discussions at the office, people online, family members at Thanksgiving dinner, really anyone. Do not presume you know better than the true experts involved in a person’s care.  The surgeons who perform this medically necessary surgery should never have their professionalism questioned in the slightest bit.

Detractors will try to argue semantics about whether or not this surgery actually changes a person’s sex/gender often interchanging the two as if they are synonyms (they are not). By now most people have probably heard the commonly used quips, such as the often tweeted “you can’t change chromosomes” (which of course is now widely accepted to be an inadequate single determining factor of one’s gender). We could spend time refuting every “argument” but I simply see no need for me to do so. Do you know why? I AM HAPPY. Now at age 44 as a “late transitioner,” my life is just one of many that are the ultimate refute to all of those who attempt to misinform and to spread hate regarding transition and surgery.

Four years ago, I was suddenly happier than I had ever been just weeks after beginning hormone replacement therapy or HRT. Having your body and brain in sync with the correct hormones alleviates so many of the issues that transgender people face. It is something that has to be experienced to fully understand it. I was more in sync after starting HRT than I had ever been as a human being. It only got better from there as the hormone replacement therapy advanced and slowly over time did its work to reshape my body. It is funny how many of the detractors out there do not even understand what hormone replacement therapy actually entails. Our hormone levels are closely monitored by our doctors and this means that at any given time we know our levels are the same as those of any non-transgender woman. With that comes the expected changes to our bodies. Yes, we do actually grow breasts and our body shape can dramatically change only with HRT. I have had people admit to me they assumed all transgender women get breast augmentation, not knowing that we “grow our own”. It’s a second puberty after all and a “body reset”. We experience not only the obvious breast growth and softer, thicker hair, but softer skin, changes in things like our overall temperament, sense of smell, sense of touch, range of emotion (such highs and lows now!), energy levels, and most importantly, we find a sense of peace within ourselves. It’s miraculous what finally having the right hormones for our transgender bodies does for us. The happiness I experienced was so palpable that it just flowed out of me constantly. Despite the difficult circumstances brought about in social transition, the physical transition is life giving and life affirming. Gender confirmation surgery, for some like me, takes all of that happiness to another level of magnitude. No regrets.

What were my reasons for having surgery? 

Was I “so gay” that I just had to have surgery so I could have sex with men?

Nope, it’s all about just being me. “Just be you,” became my mantra. Even if I never had sex with anyone else again, surgery was still my path. In fact, sex and future sexual prospects were of very little concern to me as I sought help. The gender (binary or non!) of any current or future sexual partners of mine is my business, but the point here is that a certain type of sex act was never a driving factor in the least bit in my decision to transition or to have surgery.

Was I some loser who could not cut it “as a man.”

Nope, I already had the “American Dream.” By American societal standards, I had it all. You would have known me then as a college grad with a successful career supporting a family on one income with a lovely house, two cars, a nice yard, and a garage. The problem was, there was the painful fact that I experienced all of that while not ever being free to be me. I stopped myself from being me because of fear and denial and eventually I had to address it because my health was starting to fail as I rotted from the inside out.

Was I a “pervert” that wanted to dress in women’s clothes because it excited me sexually, so much so that I would undergo surgery for the privilege?

No. Are you serious? Not even close. The stigma and hatred towards transgender women specifically gets a lot of fuel from the lie that we are perverts or sexually driven (As a side note, it is interesting how transgender men are not targeted the same way). Far right religious groups are nothing but consistent when it comes to attacking sexually driven behavior of all kinds. Please understand that I am not judging fetish driven cross-dressers here. I am merely pointing out that there is a difference between us. Heterosexual cross-dressers are men who choose to wear women’s clothing because it excites them. They can spend time enjoying that practice, but then they happily go back to their often very manly and very “normal” life. When people open up their minds and accept that people can be born transgender, then they can also understand that what is different about us is that we are simply wearing the clothing that is appropriate for our gender. I was actually being forced to crossdress in men’s clothing most of my life because I was not being honest with myself about the fact that I was a transgender woman. Nowadays, I regularly get excited about finding a super cute dress on sale and will tweet about it and post pics on Instagram for my girlfriends to see. “Look at the bargain I found!” They get excited and I get excited. I just don’t get that excited. Am I being clear enough there? It doesn’t turn me on. Get it now? The same goes for heels and tights. Nope, no heels or tights fetish here. I like practical boots and sandals. I work in an office you all, so wearing tights is called for with certain outfits, it does not mean I am a walking, quivering, mass of constant sexual excitement because I own and wear tights. I should be so lucky if it were that easy! Do some transgender women have a particular thing for heels or tights? Sure they do, but then any given human being regardless of gender can also have a “thing” for tights or heels or other things. All people have kinks, it’s a part of life. I am so glad we do, otherwise we would be a boring species. I am merely further pointing out that the stereotype that transgender women are by default fetishists regarding clothing and sex fantasies is complete garbage. We may have other kinks just like anyone else, but don’t falsely assign to me things that just aren’t there!

Was I ever suicidal?

No, I was not healthy though. Until I made the decision to finally admit to myself and the world at large that I was transgender, my health was at a steady drastic decline. By the time I finally began to accept myself, I was overweight (over 65 lbs lost by this point), with high-cholesterol and on cholesterol medication, considered pre-diabetic, and I was experiencing heart palpitations regularly. I reduced and eliminated all of those negative health conditions by transitioning and beginning to actually care about myself and my body again.

  Eventually, staying in shape and being mindful of what I put into my body became easy once I began to accept and love myself for who I was.

  You can see much more regarding my transition on my advocacy website and specifically you may want to check out my Gender Reveal Pictorial and my Full Timeline.

Other Questions to Address

Did you worry about dying alone and unloved if you underwent surgery?

No. Despite what people like Ray Blanchard think. The often quoted transphobe once tweeted “One social problem of MTF trans can’t be solved by legislation: Finding attractive men or women who want to sleep with them”. I did not worry about dying alone and I am very happy to report that dating has been an amazing experience since I began transitioning (both pre and post op). Dating is all about conquering your own fears about the act of dating itself, whether you are a transgender person or not. Also, people who are confident and comfortable with who they are tend to have the most success when dating. Aside from dating, I have built a large group of friends since beginning transition. Being happy with myself allowed me to connect with people more easily and through a purposeful effort of making social connections by attending events and joining groups I was interested in. I now have a much larger collection of friends than I ever have had in my life.

What should you do when you see a quote from someone with a PhD who detracts from the practice of HRT and GCS?

Know that they likely have a paper trail of transphobia or are part of an organization that is backed by known LGBT hate groups. Do actual research and see what is behind their statements, and you will likely find an agenda. My agenda in writing about this is not to promote “turning people transgender” as if that was even possible. My agenda is to speak out against the lies, stigma, and misinformation that for a long time prevented me from being myself and being happy living the life I was meant to lead, which I am now privileged to be doing. I made it through. I am a success story like many others who came before me. I have zero regret and zero shame about the fact that I was born a transgender woman. I also have zero regrets regarding undergoing surgery. Rather than falling silent and again hiding, I wish to clearly tell my sisters out there that they need to know transition and even the big scary surgery that is possibly in your future was all worth it for me.

At long last, I have achieved the basic equilibrium of self that everyone else in the world who is not transgender has a much better hope of finding. Most of you reading this had the privilege of being complete after your first puberty. It took me two, followed by an amazing surgical procedure to find that equilibrium of self. Other than those differences, we are all just people. Transgender people deserve the same level of respect that you would provide any other person. You may “not understand” us, but have you actually tried to? Are you instead believing the negative things being said about us? We do not seek special rights or privileges that take away from your rights. Our fight is about our safety and our basic rights (the same rights you hold to be self-evident) being protected.

How do you remain positive despite the climate in this country and in the world at large for transgender people?

It is amazing what freeing yourself from the concern of what other people think of you can do for your well being. Most human beings have a tendency to want to conform to what those around us expect of us even if it is completely contradictory to who we are as a person. Overcoming that fear of letting people know who we really are is a key part of every human being’s growth and speaks to their level of maturity as an individual. By overcoming that fear and beginning to transition, it is easy for me to project positivity because that just flows from me now. Being right with yourself is a major key to happiness. It makes you a better person. It makes you a better partner, parent, friend, boss, employee, and a better citizen of the world.

  Do you still experience lack of acceptance from friends or family? 

Unfortunately, in certain cases, yes I do. However, that sadness will never eclipse the happiness and overwhelming level of acceptance I have received from so many others, but most importantly, from myself! By the way, one of the best days in my life mid-transition was when after giving them many months to adjust by wearing only androgynous clothing, both of my children told me, “You can come pick us up ‘as yourself’ today!” One of the first things they said upon seeing me ‘as myself’ was, “Oh it’s not really that different. You are still just you.” Yes. They nailed it. Also, I have reconnected even with many friends from my past whom I had made the mistake of pulling away from before I transitioned.

Do you think there is an age that is too young to transition?

I would not for one second attempt to insert myself into that circle I mentioned before of doctors, surgical teams, therapists, psychiatrists, and their patients, and in some cases the parents of young patients. It is for them to decide on the best care and approach and timing. As a young child, growing up in such a different time period, I was unable to express what was going on inside. The explanations were all hidden from me back then and I did not know how to vocalize any of this. I learned to fear it all at a very young age. I could never have imagined the wonderful possibilities my life would hold at that young age or even well into my thirties when I was still fighting against fear, stigma, and self hatred instead of acceptance. You have no idea the damage that causes over time and the wonderful release of it all once it is gone.

How do we get past the stereotypes that stop us all from communicating?

I was able to transition in place while still working with my long standing employer. It is a company based in Alabama and I was at first worried about the attitudes and reaction I would receive from the people in my company who live down South. I have to apologize, because this was an example of me believing in stereotypes. I was so wrong to do that. Thank you to all of my co-workers for proving I was in the wrong to worry about that. We all to some extent can let stereotypes influence us, which is why I bother to try to educate the general public about people like me. Some day, I hope you all have the privilege of knowing someone who has transitioned. Chances are that you already do and may not know it. Please consider looking past stereotypes, misconceptions, and those using hate as a weapon and become a more vocal supporter of transgender people. You might just learn you are already a friend to one of us.

Well, at least now you know one. My name is Ariana, and I am Post-op with No Regrets!

LGBT Hate Group List provided by the SPLC: https://www.splcenter.org/fighting-hate/extremist-files/ideology/anti-lgbt

Post-Op with No Regrets was originally published on arianadanielle.com - Visit this page for full size images and the most recent version of this story.

[leftpress]

Bernie Sanders | July 24th 2019 | Socialist Project

Sen. Bernie Sanders (I-Vt.) and Rep. Ilhan Omar (D-Minn.) led a group of 13 members of Congress urging the US Department of Labor to immediately investigate chronic violations of workplace safety at all Amazon warehouses, “owing to the breadth and severity of past violations as well as mounting public revelations of brutal and hazardous working conditions.”

Their letter to the Department of Labor’s Occupational Safety and Health Administration (OSHA) comes in the wake of a Monday work stoppage by Amazon warehouse workers in Minnesota to protest unfair and unsafe conditions in the midst of Prime Day, Amazon’s biggest sales event of the year.

Dear Deputy Assistant Secretary Loren Sweatt:

We are writing to request that the Occupational Safety and Health Administration (OSHA) launch a comprehensive investigation into the workplace conditions at the warehouses from which Amazon.com, Inc. and its subsidiaries and contractors operate.

In the year 2019, working conditions in the United States of America should be the best and the safest in the world. Unfortunately, according to numerous media reports, and reflected in previous fines levied by your agency, that is not the case at Amazon. In fact, the working conditions at this highly profitable company have been described as “unsafe,” “bruising,” “grueling,” “a recipe for disaster,” putting “workers and communities at risk,” and “intrusive.”1

Work Stoppage on Prime Day

Just this week, Amazon workers in Minnesota organized a work stoppage in order to protest their employer’s unfair, unsafe practices. Workers at the Minneapolis facility, and all of Amazon’s warehouses across the country (referred to by the company as “fulfillment centers” and “sortation centers”) undertake work that is physically demanding, often requiring walking more than 10 miles in a single shift and repeatedly lifting heavy objects, all while being afforded minimal rest breaks, not being allowed to sit, and being forced to work “mandatory overtime” shifts.2

This work environment creates a high risk of physical injuries, a risk increased by Amazon’s intentional disregard for the health and safety of their employees. Last year the National Council for Occupational Safety and Health (NCOSH) put Amazon on its “dirty dozen” list of most dangerous places to work in the United States, referencing Amazon’s “disturbing pattern of preventable deaths,” which includes “seven workers killed at Amazon warehouses since 2013 – including three workers within five weeks in 2017.”

Earlier this year, Mother Jones published an investigation showing that “hazards on the warehouse floor can launch months and years of medical injury that ultimately result in worker disability.” When workplace injuries occur, Amazon has repeatedly ignored their severity. Last year The Guardian published an investigation that revealed “numerous cases of Amazon workers suffering from workplace accidents or injuries in its gigantic warehouse system and being treated in ways that leave them homeless, unable to work or bereft of income.”

Desperate Working Conditions

Hundreds of stories shared with our offices paint a picture of desperation and a corporate employer with little regard for the health of its employees. We heard from an Amazon worker who described the warehouse as a “21st century sweatshop.” Workers shared stories of high temperatures in some warehouses and an inability to take water or bathroom breaks for fear of retaliation: “I myself take medication so I will not have to use the restroom and drink little fluids also to help. Sometimes I think is this torture really worth it??;” “afraid to drink water for fear of not hitting [his] rate;” “no air conditioning when it’s hot in the facility;” “the air conditioning was not working and you could easily pass out from the heat in Arizona going on 115 that week;” “please help stop the mandatory overtime and ten hours shift in a humid atmosphere.” One worker issued this plea: “please send OSHA to investigate these conditions that are affecting workers physically and mentally.”

In addition to the intense physical stress, Amazon pushes workers to the emotional brink. Over the last five years, emergency workers were called to Amazon warehouses at least 189 times at 46 different locations for workers experiencing a mental health breakdown or at imminent risk of suicide. A navy veteran and former Amazon employee told our offices that “there was a point where I would find myself crying on my shift… I really felt like I just didn’t wanna be alive anymore.”

In another story shared with our offices, a former Amazon employee said, “working at Amazon was one of the most depressing periods of my life. For nearly four years I worked in isolation barely speaking to anyone. At work you never heard much from anyone other than how much they hated it there and wanted to leave. I imagine prison is very similar… My mental state began to decline until I began to feel unstable. My nights were spent walking around in circles in the warehouse pulling things from shelves for hours until it made me want to snap. One day I just broke. I found myself unable to get out of bed where I stayed for five straight days. I ate nothing. I thought about suicide.”

Workers also commented directly on injuries and safety concerns: “someone would get injured in the building every day. They would talk about working safely yet keep demanding high rates. That’s why there were so many injuries. They also filled WAY too many items in the warehouse. This caused items to fall off shelves onto workers. It was common to hear someone received a concussion or back injury.” Another worker noted that safety was disregarded during busier periods: “while generally my supervisors are concerned about safety that seems to fly out the window when we are under pressure to fill orders on time.” Another worker said, “I frequently see the ambulance come to the warehouse. Three laborers fainted in front of me – they keep a wheelchair in the middle of the warehouse.”

Amazon operates more than 100 warehouses across the country that employ more than 125,000 people,3 and yet in the last five years OSHA has reported conducting only 150 inspections of Amazon spaces and issued just 41 violations.4 OSHA has previously found that Amazon fails to report worker injuries and when OSHA does investigate, your agency has found instances of egregious injuries, including fractures and amputations.5

In one year at one facility, OSHA found 26 separate cases of “work-related fatality, injury or illness” that Amazon failed to report. Those incidents included falls resulting in head injuries, face wounds that were “glued closed,” as well as a number of severe back, shoulder, and wrist strains. After finding these unreported injuries, OSHA issued one “other-than-serious” violation with a penalty of $7,000.

When Amazon employee Phillip Terry was “fatally crushed when a forklift’s lift fell on him while he was doing maintenance work on it,” the corporation was fined just $28,000 for “failure to ‘provide adequate training’ and to develop and document certain safety procedures.”

That is unacceptable. Owing to the breadth and severity of past violations as well as mounting public revelations of brutal and hazardous working conditions, we request that OSHA launch a thorough and comprehensive investigation into the workplace conditions at all of Amazon’s warehouses, and that any violations uncovered in the course of such an investigation be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law. OSHA’s mission is to “ensure safe and healthful working conditions for working men and women.” We ask that you intensify your efforts to ensure that goal is met for all Amazon workers. No employee, especially those who work for the wealthiest person in the world, should be forced to work in unsafe conditions.

We look forward to your response. Sincerely,

Bernard Sanders United States Senator

Ilhan Omar Member of Congress •

A PDF of this letter is available here.

Further information: “Amid Amazon Prime Day Protests, Sanders and Omar Lead Call for Probe of ‘Brutal and Hazardous Working Conditions’,” by Jessica Corbett.

[Read More On LeftPress.org]

[outtathepressbox]

I am Tiger Woods

I am Tiger Woods

By Ivan Tolentino

April 14th, 2019, a date I will never forget. Sure I was excited about the long awaited premiere of Game of Thrones , who wasn’t?! However, yesterday will forever be enshrined in my memory as the day TIger Woods returned to glory. Prior to this past weekend only three dates have stood out to me. October 27, 1986, my beloved Mets winning their second world title. June 11, 1997 two words, flu game. Then there was June 14, 1998. Michael Jordan hit the shot of shots (no push off) and secured the Chicago Bulls six NBA championship. Now the Tiger roars again. You can say now I have my Mount Rushmore of sports memories.

Each date has meant something to me in a different way. Back in ‘86 my love affair with the Mets and sports as a whole began. The flu game left me in awe. I never seen anyone want something so bad and accomplish it, even as his body was riddled with the flu. That same man who left me in awe made me quite emotional in June of 98. As a 17 year old kid I knew it wasn’t just the end of the Bulls great run, but my childhood was ending as well. Nearly two decades later another legend and Nike spokesman brought out some heavy emotions in me.

One thing I’ve learned over the years is that everyone loves a great comeback story. If I would of told you a decade ago Tiger Woods was the most beloved figure in sports , you would of fitted me for a straitjacket. Tiger was aloof , a robot , and at times came off as arrogant. Then it all came tumbling down. We all know how the decline started. During Thanksgiving weekend 2009 Tiger Woods reportedly crashed into a hydrant and suffered some minor facial lacerations. In the upcoming weeks rumors were circulating that Woods accident was a result of a domestic dispute. Mistress after mistress appeared allegedly reporting having an affair with Tiger. That was followed by an embarrassing press conference, a stint in rehab, sponsors dropping like flies, and the end of his marriage.

As if that wasn’t enough the most physically fit golfer of all time, became a walking mash unit. A laundry list of injuries began. A neck injury in 2010, sprained MCL and Achilles in 2011, 2012 a second Achilles injury, 2014, 2015, 2016 and 2017 back surgeries. As if having back surgery in four consecutive years wasn’t enough Tiger officially hit rock bottom. On May 29, 2017 Tiger Woods was arrested on a DUI charge. Soon after videos of his arrest were going viral online. It was easy to think that was the end of Tiger, it wasn’t!

Sunday April 14, 2019 one of the best redemption stories ever played out before our very own eyes. Fourteen years since his last green jacket , eleven years since his last major Tiger Woods was back on top. As I sat back and watched a rare feeling came over me. A feeling I haven’t felt in nearly two decades. Sports had awaken something in me yet again.

The beauty of sports is how it brings people together. As a child a baseball game was the only way I could connect with my dad. In my teens my friends and I would quarrel back and forth every Spring over the Knicks and Bulls rivalry. These days catching a ball game with friends and family is a great escape from everyday life. Yesterday’s finale of the Masters Tournament helped me connect with someone else….. me.

Admitally not many people may know this but I struggle moving forward in life. I’m not sure if it’s a fear of success or one of failure but I always seem to end up in the same place.I have many great qualities, for some odd reason ambition was not one of them. When I do accomplish things I always do it for the wrong reasons. Like proving a point to others, never doing it for myself. For years I constantly put others before me , and rolled out every excuse known to man. Never once did I take a hard look in the mirror.

My epiphany came several years ago. I received harsh but much needed criticism from someone I care for. That person looked at me and out of nowhere said “what are you doing with yourself, what a waste”. Even after that it took awhile to for me to snap out of it. I was in a dead end job, overweight, and doing nothing to secure my future. Lately things have improved tremendously. I work for two solid companies, one of them being my dream company. I am happily back in school, and I’ve made much needed changes to my health. Despite all that my demons were slowly finding a way to creep back in.

After landing a job at my dream company it only took two weeks for me to say , “that’s it”. When it came to school my assignments went from a challenge to a drag overnight. Handing things in on the eleventh hour. This past week I skipped the gym for practically the entire week. Oddly enough even with all my doubts and demons , I walk around supremely confident every day. This past weekend I learned something watching Tiger. I’m not confident I’m arrogant and full of excuses.

It’s easy to look at Tiger Woods and take one glance at me and say you’re nothing alike. He’s a dominant athlete, he’s famous, has countless endorsements, and well I’d say he’s doing slightly better than me financially. However, the brilliance of Nike’s marketing team stood out to me yesterday afternoon. Of all the countless Tiger ads it was his “I am Tiger Woods” commercial that aired nearly two decades ago that stood out. The ad featured children of both genders and all types of backgrounds uttering three words…. “I am Tiger Woods” I thought it was a clever commercial for selling golf equipment at the time, not realizing it had a deeper meaning.

Deep down we all are Tiger Woods. We all make mistakes and hurt the people we love, even ourselves. Anyone can confuse arrogance with self confidence . Arrogance makes you ignorant and hurtful towards others. Tiger humbled by his past mistakes has put his arrogance behind him. It’s a lesson I hope to learn. My arrogance has caused me to be unkind and that false confidence has allowed excuses to seep in. It’s time to put them to bed.

Through my own doing my body has broken down. I got two bad knees that sound like an attic from a horror movie each morning. My feet and my back hurt all because even with a much healthier lifestyle I’m still probably a good thirty pounds overweight. No back fusions , no countess hours of rehab like Tiger , so there shouldn’t be any excuses to become a better version of myself physically as well.

You can be the greatest golfer of all time who recaptures his glory days at the age of 43, or you can be a 38 year old man who admittedly has underachieved most of his life. It really doesn’t matter it’s never too late to achieve greatness , and just be a better person to yourself and those around you. Tiger was humbled and learned what was more important in life. It wasn’t the fast cars, countless women , and fame. It was all about the game his father taught him at the age of three and now his own children.

Mistakes will happen , nobody is perfect. Not even a guy who’s won fifteen majors, or the man writing this piece.

Don’t just come back to the golf course, reclaim your crown. Don’t just land the job, thrive in it.If you go back to school give it your absolute best. Have confidence NOT arrogance. Arrogance comes off as excessive confidence , but it reality it’s a lack of confidence. Confidence allows you to get back up when life and your own insecurities knock you down. I will never forgot April 14, 2019 it’s the day I realized I am Tiger Woods

[bctims]

Procrastination

There are so many different methods around online and in books that people claim to be the key to prevent procrastination.

A lot of the time however, we completely disregard them. We brush them off and not think twice about even trying to attempting them ourselves. I myself am also guilty of this where I usually see links pop up every now and then, which talk about ways people have overcome procrastination along with all that motivational crap they involve. However, I’m ironically usually too busy procrastinating to even watch the video or read the article that talk about it all.

Laziness typically revolves around lack of motivation combined with a lot of self doubt, which is far more common among youths (roughly aged 15-24) than older generations. A 2007 meta-analysis from the University of Calgary reported that 80-95% of college students are guilty of procrastination[1].

“ As students, you're always being pushed out of your depths—that's what learning is," Pychyl says. (Referring to Timothy A. Pychyl - a Carleton University psychology professor)   Graduate students worry about performing inadequately or fear their success may raise others' expectations of them, he says. Other students may actually think they get a thrill out of delaying their work and believe they work best under pressure, though that's not borne out in the experimental data, says DePaul University psychology professor Joseph Ferrari, PhD. Several studies in Steel's 2007 meta-analysis suggest procrastination is negatively related to overall GPA, final exam scores and assignment grades. “ [1]

After reading this, and thinking properly about it, I can understand this research and it definitely applies to why I think I procrastinate. I personally leave a lot of my work till the last minute, which is exactly what motivates me to be extremely productive in such a short amount of time. However, I do agree it can lead to a lack of professionalism and a decline in quality of work, as you have a lot less time to proof read and go over old ideas with fresh eyes on following day. Proof reading usually takes longer than you think, since going over everything, you’ll usually think of new or alternative ideas to add to your work, which usually ends up in having to rewrite whole paragraphs. 

“ Procrastination can also take a toll on a student's mental health and well-being. In one 2007 study, Florida State University psychologists Dianne M. Tice, PhD, and Roy F. Baumeister, PhD, examined procrastination among students in a health psychology class. They found that early in the semester, procrastinators reported lower stress and less illness than non-procrastinators, but that late in the term, procrastinators reported higher stress and more illness (Psychological Science, Vol. 8, No. 6). “ [1]

It’s pretty hard to properly diagnose yourself of any mental problems, however I can definitely say that for projects I worked consistantly from start to finish, stress levels remain relatively the same throughout the entirety. Even after it’s finished, it doesn’t seem like a huge accomplishment. On the other hand, with projects I cram everything into the last few days, my stress levels are more of a a huge build up and release. Over the entire duration of the project, stress starts off minimal, but as each day passes, it builds and builds rapidly, which makes focusing on what you’re doing day to day very difficult - whether it be playing games or doing everything except what you’re meant to be. When I finally get off my ass and start working through the last few days (or hours), that’s when the real stress kicks in and I begin to actually do what I’m meant to. This period of time is full stress mode, where I’m rushing around up until the last minute to start and finish my project or essay. I know a lot of people can relate to this. When the few days are over and the project is finished, relaxation mode kicks in and you feel great about yourself from not having to do anything again. It feels like you’ve legitimately finished an entire life’s work in an evening, and the last thing you want to do is more work.

A good an analogy my design teacher back in high school used to to use is the idea of a pressure cooker: It starts off slowly, but gains intensity slowly until it’s completely full of steam and stays at full steam for a short time before shutting off. This is a great representation for the stress levels I experience during a project using this method of work.

When all is done, this method unfortunately has a habit of occurring again in the following project because of how burnt out those few days of work make you feel. When those stress levels completely dissapear for the next few days, you do absolutely nothing and feel great, but by the time your stress levels normalise again, a whole new project is almost due, and then the process repeats itself. This leads to an almost endless cycle of minimal effort work- and therefore an endless cycle of immense bursts of stress, which is proven to not be good for both mental and physical health.

Simon and my project is wanting to help make people realise that they need to break this loop to take back control of their lives to learn as grow as a man or woman, as opposed to a girl or boy.

In reflection, leaving everything to last minute is a horrible method of completing any project, because not only due to health reasons, but also if you’re involved in a group, then it will lead to a huge decline of reputation and sanity. Through most of high school, this was all I did, which actually lead to me having more grey hairs than I could count and a lot of breakouts on my face. (Recently I have been working a lot harder, and have seen a lot less breakouts and less greying of my 20 year old head of hair). Stress also leads into depression as it has huge direct effects on your mood, which anyone can relate to - especially when working a part time job in a stressful environment, the stress can makes a lot of people quit because of how horrible it can make them feel (I also have first hand experience of this from when I used to work at Subway).

I will personally be consciously attempting to do more consistent work, and keep my standards high. I think at the end of the day, procrastination is something that every single person is guilty of, however is not necessarily a bad thing, and can be good at times. Of course with all good* things, only in moderation, however. It is important to take time for yourself to do what you enjoy, to keep your hobbies active, and not lose all sanity of life. At the point where the majority of what you do in your daily life is only procrastinating, that’s when you have to take a step back and look at where your life might be heading.

[1] Novotney, A. (2010) - “Procrastination or ‘intentional delay’?”, from the “American Psychological Association” (http://www.apa.org/gradpsych/2010/01/procrastination.aspx_

[mybumpbirthandbeyond]

Grit

I didn’t think I’d be writing a blog again so soon after the last two, but there’s been plenty going on and it’s easier for me to write about how I’m feeling at the time. I mentioned my consult with Antony, Gráinne and Lyndsey in my last blog. It was originally meant to be a follow up to my in person consult with Gráinne, but it turned into a more practical consult with me doing various exercises to see if they were still viable. Remember those crunches with a double leg lift that Antony loves so much? I thought they were definitely gone, so how I ended up doing exactly that I’ll never know, but Antony is a master at proving to you that you’re capable of so much more than you think and before you know it, you’re doing something you had no idea he was asking you to do in the first place. I was lying on the floor doing headlifts and before I knew it I was lifting my legs knowing fine well that they didn’t agree with my back and I probably wasn’t overly comfortable with the idea. I did a few full press-ups, decline press-ups and various strength exercises. Most were, thankfully, easy enough. The press-ups I already knew from what Gráinne has said were a no so I was at peace with that. I know I won’t be doing them fully again until I’m postnatal. We talked through how I was feeling about the prehab programme but thankfully I was feeling better about that because Gráinne has been so thorough in going through what was and wasn’t on the table. Lyndsey was seeing me the following week in person and she was also going to be checking things exercise wise so I was feeling pretty relieved all round. It was weird that it had been 7 months since I last saw Lyndsey in person. I was there every couple of weeks for 10 months then just stopped. We were confined to the treatment room as opposed to the gym, but there was still enough space for me to be put through my paces. This time we were joined by an MSK student in his final year. Lyndsey had filled the student in on my case before I arrived - she said they’d basically been through Instagram 🤣 It was weird having someone know the stuff I had done then ask me questions about it because it was their first time seeing it. I didn’t mind at all, but the questions were actually quite thought provoking for having just met him! He asked me how I felt finding out I was pregnant - was I scared? I said no my fear was actually surrounding my progress not my pregnancy. He asked about chin-ups. I laughed and said no more chin-ups until the postnatal period. We went through any exercises we weren’t sure of from the consult the week before as well, which really helped to reassure me what I could and couldn’t do. One of the most important things I took away was something I had had on my mind even before I fell pregnant. What would happen to me after birth? Before Covid in Fife, it used to be that there was ranking system of women who were priorities to be seen on the ward by pelvic health physios. I didn’t know that until I saw Lyndsey and she recommended I speak to patient relations. We know already I ranked at the bottom of that list in my first. Somehow I didn’t think that would be the case this time but everything had probably changed. Lyndsey said they weren’t on the wards at all now but I wouldn’t be forgotten about - she would be contacting me within a week and seeing me ideally between 4-6 weeks.

That makes me think a GP check in my case is pointless. Certainly from my experience anyway. I have a few friends who are GPs and also mums so I know their checks are thorough, but I can’t help thinking there should be a checklist for a GP - any stitches/wounds should be checked; breasts for engorgement, mastitis or thrush; possible diastasis so referrals should then be made; mental health/well-being checks, and they should last longer than bloody 10 minutes if they need to! There may already be a checklist, but I doubt it from hearing so many women say it was a waste of time. My own experience was I directed the GP to my stitches, I told her I still had symptoms of thrush that hadn’t that that hadn’t cleared up, and that I had a separation so she would need to refer me. I can and always have been able to advocate for myself - others can’t and it’s those people we need to help.

I came out of that consult feeling really positive - between the exercises I was given by all three physios, there was quite a bit still on the table and they were happy with how everything looked. I’ve also started online pregnancy strength and fitness classes with Lorna at Ur Mama Strength and she is excellent. She had previously very kindly given me tips and strategies to work on for my chin-ups which helped massively. I go into a bit more about classes below, but basically it’s two classes per week at 45 minutes each which is perfect to slot in with prehab and keep me active.

The problem is how I’ve been feeling. Lazy is one thing I’ve alluded to, but I’ve not just felt lazy - I’ve felt guilty. I’ve gone from doing my rehab most nights and pushing myself hard, to almost not being able to bring myself to do prehab. I almost can’t admit that out loud. I feel like I’m hiding behind my written words but if the truth be told, if I recorded a video saying exactly this, I would be ashamed. It’s the closest I am to speaking directly to my physios and admitting I haven’t done what I said i’d do. I’m not holding up my end of the bargain. My face is going red even writing that. I know they know I’m hard on myself. I know I am. I watched someone say they felt guilty early postnatal not doing something. When I get to that stage this time? I absolutely know I will berate myself endlessly. No amount of support or telling will fix that. I know exactly the faces and words all three would use to tell me to give myself a break and that’s why I think the world of them, but I know it doesn’t matter. I can’t and won’t be able to help it. Part of it is when I do eventually get to doing something, another exercise is modified or removed altogether and I’m left feeling like I’ve missed my opportunity because that exercise is now benched. I said the other night I swore when I lost a few exercises and I wasn’t joking. When that happens, if I’m honest, it takes me minute to accept it.

When people are given help, it blows my mind that they don’t follow it. What biggest motivator is there than getting your body back? I felt guilty not doing pelvic floor exercises for gods sake and there was really nothing wrong with my pelvic floor 🙈 it’s me who’s to blame if things go wrong. I may have been proactive and advocated for myself to get help, but now I have it, what use is it unless I hold up my end? You don’t need to tell me to work hard. I’d rather die than be considered lazy. Bit dramatic maybe but I’d certainly die of embarrassment. Feeling lazy is bad enough! I thought I didn’t care what people think of me. To some extent that’s true - the people who don’t matter I don’t care. But the people who do matter to me, it’s everything.

Obviously I can’t push myself hard in pregnancy but I feel like consistency is still important. The classes with Lorna have been a godsend from that point of view - structure and routine. Lorna knows my story and she absolutely knows her stuff. She is without doubt one of the most highly qualified, diligent, and one of the best as far as I’m concerned. As much as it speaks volumes as to how far I’ve come that I can know what is right and what isn’t, sometimes just checking in on a more routine basis with someone far more qualified than me is reassuring. I may have come a long way in terms of rehab, but this is now prehab and a pregnancy with an existing, significant diastasis. Not exactly something I feel comfortable with in the slightest. I’m confident in that I know my body, but even then it’s thrown me some curveballs this time that I’ve struggled to understand.

That’s why I value my consults so much. That’s why I have lived and in some respects still live from one consult to the next in my journey. It goes without saying that I take much more from these than just exercises. I’ve said it before, but this is an opportunity to have questions answered, to speak my mind and know that my three physios are the ones who get it when no one else does. How do you feel when someone understands how you’re feeling and can not only say the right things, but can reassure you because they know everything you’re going through?

This is not just a mechanical thing - fix my tummy and send me on my way. I’m broken in more than a physical sense by this. Initially in those early days there was just so much other shit going on it took a back seat. I thought it would take time but that it would be sorted one way or another. I kept pushing feelings away until I broke down in March. That night I was doing my exercises but I couldn’t fight the feeling I was overwhelmed. It was the stupidest thing that set me off. Initially I was angry which powered me on at first, then I just collapsed in a heap crying on the mat and couldn’t get up. No one knows that. I then resented rehab and refused to do it for a few nights. Probably indicates how bad I was hurting. I got a message the next day from Gráinne out the blue asking me about some questionnaires to fill in. I know she won’t take this the wrong way given everything that was going on but I almost didn’t reply as quickly as I do normally. I didn’t want a reminder that day because I still felt hollow. Somehow, without going into massive detail, it came out and she made me feel 100 times better. That’s the importance of getting the right person, or in my case, the right team. They’ll pull you back from the brink again and again.

As much as I value my consults, it can be uncomfortable talking about your feelings. Knowing it’s as close to face to face as you’re going to get. Knowing it’s recorded and will be made available for others to see and analyse. I don’t in any way begrudge that it’s public. I think it’s fantastic because the more public this is, the more people this helps. Having three of the most incredible people listening who are so understanding and so supportive is invaluable, but it can still be hard to be honest. I have developed what I consider to be a close relationship with all three of them, but it’s still difficult. I don’t wear my heart on my sleeve and I don’t articulate my feelings often. I bottle things up even to my nearest and dearest. I sometimes rewatch the consults and think we all get along so well and a lot of the time there’s quite a bit of banter and plenty of laughs. I couldn’t be more grateful for that. However, any time I’ve hit a dark place, I always thought it might be valuable to share it, but by the time we have a consult I’m past it and then it would just seem like dwelling. I’ve probably been able to analyse my feelings more in retrospect and hopefully that has still helped people understand, but it’s probably not a true reflection on how I really felt at the time. Nobody needs to see me cry that’s for sure, but I do worry that I’m painting some kind of rosier picture sometimes. I guess that’s why I still write these blogs. This is how it all started of course, but you need to see the whole picture to understand. Sometimes the armour I’ve built up hides the cracks.

My next consult is a virtual one with Lyndsey and then I’m seeing Gráinne in person should everything stay as it is pandemic wise. I know when I see the ultrasound I’ll know how much my ‘laziness’ may have impacted on my muscles and linea alba. It will thin again and the muscles are bound to separate, but I have to do all I can to maintain strength and mitigate the changes as much as possible. That’s probably another reason I’m feeling guilty.

So I guess this is an apology to my physios for not holding up my end of the deal. I can’t promise it won’t happen again or that I won’t falter. This pregnancy seems to be different in terms of how I’m feeling day to day. What I can promise is, that I will more than make up for it on the other side - that I won’t just promise, I’ll guarantee. After all, they know better than anyone that this is a marathon, not a sprint.

[wearepetsabs]

6 Ways Pet Can Improve Your Mental Health

When I am feeling down and exhausted, and I can hardly lift myself off the seat, my canine plays the major role. She nestles with me, at that point inspires me to get up, dressed, and out the door for a walk or some play time. By one means or another, my pet-baby makes me grin, regardless of how hopeless or focused I feel. Not that only. It appears that all pets, not simple consuming pets only, can enable your mind, body, and soul. Here are six reasons why: They get you outside: Sun and natural air, lift your temperament and the sun gives you an additional measurement of vitamin D. Vitamin D introduction helps battle physical and mental conditions, including melancholy, growth, corpulence, and heart attacks. Likewise, when you stroll out with your pet, you are drawing in with nature. Take a stab at pausing for a minute to tune in to the trees stirring, feel the breeze surging past, and the sun upon your face. The sounds and feeling of nature can be unbelievably quieting and adaptive. Pets lessen pressure: Numerous individuals feel pressured. Research demonstrates that simply walking a pet can ease pressure and diminish your pulse. Notwithstanding watching fish swimming in an aquarium diminishes pressure. It can likewise enable you to unwind and rehearse care Probably you have a dog, they require frequently strolls, and this activity is beneficial for you as well. Exercise, such as strolling, has numerous advantages for your emotional well-being. You can likewise utilize the time strolling your canine to enhance your wellness and benefit as much as possible from the outdoors to enable you to additionally create care and unwinding. On the other hand that you have a fear of social circumstances or social fear, a pet can help with gradually acquainting you with other individuals who additionally have pets and upgrade your emotional wellness. They make you move: Strolling your pooch and taking part in outdoor's exercises like hurling a Frisbee gives you a characteristic jolt of energy, and enables you to let off steam. It likewise makes you more physically fit, reinforcing your muscles and bones, which helps your body, as well as your confidence. Studies have demonstrated that animal proprietors, both grown-ups, and youngsters, have lower blood pressure, and also bring down cholesterol and triglycerides. Pet proprietors additionally have been noted to have a better course and a lower danger of encountering major cardiovascular issues. What's more, when your body feels more grounded, you are less vulnerable to psychological wellness issues. They reduce depression: If you don't prefer to be separated from everyone else, pets can be awesome local friends. Frequently, a pet is extremely natural and will stroll you out when you're feeling down, declining to enable you to stay alone. Simply ensure you can completely tend to and adore a pet before you take her home. Pets ought not to be utilized to fill a brief void and afterward pushed aside. A dog or feline is a long haul duty, and it's not generally simple, but if you are off to it, they can give much love through the great circumstances and the awful. They offer unrestricted love and fondness: We should all be lucky to the point that we're adored as much as that pet cherishes us when we walk in the door in the wake of a prolonged day's worth of effort. Unqualified positive respect goes long route toward influencing us to like ourselves and about the world for the most part. Our pets additionally help us with dependability and schedule. Pets can enable us to keep present and associated with our surroundings as they enable us to cling to structure and schedule. Routine can be exceptionally remedial for those battling with a psychological maladjustment and pets can fill in as helpers for schedule. A few pets require encouraging, lavatory, and exercise breaks. For somebody battling with sadness, getting out of bed, your canine can be only the inspiration you have to go ahead. Be strong! Read the full article

[badlydrawnkaky6in]

((Okay, time to explain my absence. I am, officially, back and active. My explanation will be under a read more in case you don’t care to read it. This isn’t an April Fools joke either, to be clear.))

((Okay so, let’s start. My mental health is on the decline. I hate to be straight forward, but I am not okay right now. I’m becoming more impulsive in my actions, my dysphoria is getting worse, my suicidal thoughts are back, and just in general im not enjoying living life as much as i used to. I swap between having too much energy and needing to do something at all times or else i’ll freak out and cry, or having too little energy to even try to be human and get anything done. I am sick, physically and mentally. I’ve been writing more and more because i cant bring myself to leave my bed on some days. I don’t like speaking out loud as much as i really used to because i hate the way my voice sounds. I’m trying to keep up with school, and i’ve been managing well so far since my last breakdown.))

((I’ve come to the realization that i am not where i want to be and i will likely not be for some time. I can, for now, try my fucking damnest to make life as okay as possible, but it’s getting harder the more i keep regressing. I am damaged, and currently my only method of coping is writing or drawing. To be blunt again, I was in a heavily abusive relationship about a year ago. My partner at the time was an adult, while i was a child. He did things to me i despise even thinking of, and i wouldn’t wish it on anyone. He made me into nothing but an object of desire, manipulated me to the point that i saw my dysphoria as something i should ignore to embrace my femininity because it was the only way i’d be desirable, and he made me believe all my issues that i were facing were never important enough, which is why i often don’t speak up about what’s been eating me for fear of being pushed away. He was sick and horrible to me and i wouldn’t wish what i went through on anyone because it was so beyond fucked that i was rethinking my identity as a man.))

((I’m trying hard to overcome the damage he’s done to me. He’s not to blame for all of my problems, either. I’ve always been kind of sick. I have a personality disorder and a slough of mental illnesses, and i’ve been seeing a therapist (although not frequently enough, quite honestly, as my guardians have pushed my needs out of the way for my younger sibling’s needs) and im making the best of what i can, even though it’s very hard. I’m not asking for pity or sympathy, or forgiveness for that matter either. I’m sorry i never make moves to speak to anyone in the community. every time i try, i shut myself down for fear of being annoying and needy. I dont post as often as i would because i think my art is shit. i dont post most of what i write for the same reason, and to be honest, i dont fully think i believe myself to even be worthy of the friends i already have. I dont want to hurt them.))

((i’m trying to get better, but it will take time and support. I cant actually do it alone, i know i cant. if you’ve read this, thank you. If you care, thank you. if you want to help, thank you. keep me occupied on here. keep me drawing and writing so i can keep coping and getting better. speak to me. I’m not great at replying a lot of the time, but i’ll try.))

((thank you. - Abba))

[claycookphoto]

WINGS OF KILIMANJARO

I have feared this memoir for quite sometime. I have feared the pressure of recounting the most intense, yet rewarding trek of my entire lifetime. The tale isn’t one that can be told in just a few words, it’s a tale of blood, sweat and tears and a tale that traversed thousands of miles with thousands of emotions. 

On September 28, 2016 at 6:55am, I set foot on the summit of the highest free standing mountain in the world; Mount Kilimanjaro. Then, along with an expedition of 16 professional pilots, attempted to paraglide off the summit, all in the name of clean water and education for the people of Tanzania, Africa.

It all started with a warm beer. In the summer of 2015, in partnership with Nadus Films, NFL Network and Worldserve International, we were contracted to produce a short promotional documentary and photography for Waterboys, a non-profit foundation lead by Chris Long of the New England Patriots. It was the first time I had traveled outside of the United States. I was completely out of my comfort zone, but completely elated to be apart of such an incredible philanthropic effort.

While stationed in Tanzania for Waterboys, the crew and myself met a man named Adrian McCrae who had been casually enjoying a Kilimanjaro Beer at the Mount Meru Hotel bar. Adrian owned a mining company in northern Australia and did a lot of humanitarian work throughout Tanzania, but his passion was paragliding. We soon came to discover, Adrian led an expedition entitled Wings Of Kilimanjaro, in which a group of brave paragliding pilots trek up Mount Kilimanjaro and sail off the top. He and his expedition are the only group allowed by Tanzanian law to make the jump, as they are one of the leading charitable organizations in Tanzania. Top paragliding pilots from all over the world raise thousands to have this adventure of a lifetime.

Adrian didn’t necessarily lack the content to promote the foundation Wings Of Kilimanjaro. Over the years, he had gained worldwide attention, including a special edition of 60 Minutes and numerous day-time shows, all covering the project. What Adrian did lack was an extensive documentary that covered the expedition from start to finish. That is where myself and Nadus Films saw an opportunity for our “Give A Story” project, in which we provide a grant to a international foundation such as “WOK” making waves in the industry.

One beer led to several more and Adrian offered to fly our crew up and around the summit of Kilimanjaro for a glimpse into the mighty landscape from the air. Only hours before our flight was scheduled to head back overseas we jumped into a 4-seat Cessna plane that was smaller than my compact car. We opened the windows for a clear picture and took off the runway. Immediately, it was freezing. The temperature had dropped some 40° from sea level and wind chill made it all worse. Despite the cold, I was able to maneuver a few shots of the summit through the large open window. The plane stalled as we peaked through the clouds, only to rapidly dive a hundred feet, where the thick air caught the wings. Needless to say, I was relieved upon touchdown.

I had always dreamed of big adventures and climbing the world’s highest peaks. At a young age, I became obsessed with stories of survival, such as Jon Krakauer’s “Into Thin Air” or Joe Simpson’s “Touching The Void.” There always was a calling, something that told me I could do it and would do it. I’m not sure if I loved the sense of danger or just the fact that a mountain was there to be conquered. The thought of Mount Kilimanjaro was overpowering, I had a million thoughts and one question; What if?

With the rapid success of my photography business and a complicated personal life, my health had been on a steady decline. I put everything into work, unfortunately at the cost of my mind and body. Shortly after our project for Chris Long and Waterboys, I began a passionate path of wellness. If, by the slim chance that I do have to climb Kilimanjaro, I would have to be in the best shape of my life, both mentally and physically. I immediately sought the knowledge of my friend Sol Perry, who himself lost 130 pounds, which eventually led him to become the top personal wellness and fitness trainer in Louisville, Kentucky. I remember the day I told Sol about the possible project. His demeanor was serious, but his outlook was positive. We had a lot of work to do.

I had a staggering heart rate of 100 beats per minute, with 50% body fat at 311 pounds. I was up to a 52.5 inch chest and a 48 inch waist with a dangerously high-blood pressure. I could barley do 10 push-ups, couldn’t walk without sucking wind and I could no longer look at myself in the mirror without a punch to my confidence. I remember the day after my first consult, I was consumed with anxiety. I was on the verge of a heart attack and completely ignored the fact. I changed everything.

With a solid blueprint, I dramatically altered my diet and began resistance training nearly every day. I started with a vegan detox program and eventually progressed into a diet appropriately named the “Sol Food Diet” which is a precise version of Paleo. The diet cycles carbohydrates based on energy expenditure, no weighing of foods or counting calories. I stuck with organic meat and a significant amount of vegetables. No fruit, no dairy, all protein. It was not just a diet, it was a lifestyle. Along with my friend Chris Miske, we started a food Instagram feed entitled Primary Plates to keep a pictorial record of every breakfast, lunch and dinner. I also began intermittent 12-24 hour fasting, which supercharged my body and its fat-burning potential. Fasting increased my overall productivity. Another attribute to the blueprint was green detox tea, which became apart of my morning ritual, along with coconut coffee, lemon juice, collagen hydrolysate, ginger root and supplements. From the start, my goal was to never have model abdominal muscles, vascular biceps or perfectly sculpted shoulders, I just wanted to be healthy.

I always considered myself to lean towards “beige” food, mostly carbohydrates. It was tough to give up the bread for broccoli but, I substituted. I found new methods to fulfill my carbohydrate craving with cauliflower or egg. This opened my palate to a entirely new respect for food. Over time, I discovered a love for quality dining with a unique wholesome menu. It was an interesting point in time, not only was I altering my lifestyle, but my career had taken me all over the world. Within the first 6 months of following Sol Perry and his wellness plan, my photography had taken me to Africa, India, Nepal and Cuba. Arguably, it just made the diet easier. While based in these foreign countries, I didn’t have to deal with preservative-packed food or un-whole options. However, making my standard Arbonne protein shake, twice daily, was a incredibly arduous task. My first instinct was to travel with a “Magic Bullet” blender. It was compact, powerful and had the reputation for the trek. I was completely wrong. The first day the blender exploded due to the voltage difference in Africa to the United States. I had learned my lesson, so I brought a heavy duty blender to India, which once again resulted in failure. The outlet cracked and the blender began to seethe smoke, which smelt of burnt rubber. I decided to give up on the international protein shake, but I stuck with the plan. Meat and vegetables, meat and vegetables. 

The first month, I lost 34 pounds. The third month, 65 pounds total.

Once the weight began to shed, I was seeing an enormous improvement in my confidence, career and attitude. There was a balance shift. Relationships began to flourish and I noticed an overall change in the efficiency of not only my work ethic, but also my staff. With the introduction to a morning routine and a balanced schedule, I also noticed an improvement in mental health. I was able to handle more stress and calmly take more risk.

Wings Of Kilimanjaro was distant, but still lingered in the cloud. There had been a few possible projects come into light, such as a collaboration with Mountain Madness for a documentary on the legacy of Scott Fisher. A mountaineer who tragically died in a storm over Mount Everest in 1996, which was beautifully described by Jon Krakauer in the book “Into Thin Air.” Despite many conference calls, the project never gained traction beyond the point of conversation. Around the same time, negotiation and logistics started to come to light for WOK. There was buzz of celebrities joining the expedition such as Mike Tyson and Nicolas Cage, but I remained skeptical.

My training had elevated from simple resistance to martial arts and density training utilizing battle ropes, truck tires and sleds. I began to use and build muscle in places I didn’t know I had. In one year, I had lowered my resting heart rate by 40 beats per minute, shed 85 inches of body fat and lost 100 pounds. I had cast out the old me. I felt modern, contemporary and anew.

Then, only three weeks before Wings Of Kilimanjaro was set to sail, we received a green light. It was an emotion I still have trouble to define. I was thrilled, yet uneasy and on edge. I had prepared for 14 months for this opportunity and the project had remained elusive. I constantly battled and subdued any excitement to prepare my mind for the ultimate let down. But, it was all real and WOK was a tangible project, especially when the flood of paperwork started to come through.

I went into overdrive. I kickstarted my high altitude training with hill sprinting and stepping. I doubled down on supplements such as Magnesium, Beta Glucan, Zinc and D3. I began to formulate a strategy with Sol for staying alert in extremely low oxygen and adjusting to a mountain morning ritual of yoga exercises and Myofascial release.

The human brain with little oxygen alters physical and mental health and triggers a state of hypoxia, which without supplemental oxygen can often lead to Acute Mountain Sickness and death. With that said, it’s important acclimate the body to the extreme altitude, and it’s crucial to trek slowly. The most effective plan is to climb to a high camp then descend back down to a lower camp to rest. We call the method: “Climb High, Sleep Low.”

Among the mountains of paperwork, we also had to consult with the expedition doctor, Dr. Rob Forsyth, who would personally make a recommendation for a healthy trek. He suggested I purchase Diamox and Dexamethasone, both a form of steroid to reduce the chance of altitude sickness and can save your life. While I chose to pack the medication, I opted to not take Diamox unless the circumstances called for it. Instead, I would pump my body full of natural supplementation; Quercetin, Ginger, D3, Curcumin, Zinc, Beta Glucan, DIM, Grapeseed, Magnesium and Pancreatin

I had no mountaineering gear, no proper clothing and outdated health records, but I did have knowledge and relationships on my side. I had a million questions to confirm my research, luckily answers started to trickle in. Questions such as schedule, weather expectations, weight restrictions and paragliding standard practice. 

I immediately blasted all of my sponsors for help. I cold called companies that I didn’t even have a relationship with, which I prefer not to do. And, to my surprise, every partner was thrilled about the project and wanted to be involved. So, I created an extensive list of equipment needed for the job, equipment that could handle high altitude, extreme temperature and could pack down to a low-footprint, under the 50 pound maximum luggage for international flight.

Mount Kilimanjaro stands at 19,341 feet or 5,895 meters. It is the highest highest peak in Africa. The landscape is outer-worldly and through much of my research found that it was hard to describe without seeing it live and in person. I learned that as you trek to the top you pass through 4 different ecosystems. rainforest, mooreland, alpine desert and arctic. The temperature can rapidly change from a beautiful bright 70° Fahrenheit to a freezing -20° Fahrenheit. In general, in the lower elevations, there is a belt of forests and as you proceed up the mountain, there is less and less vegetation. The summit is similar to what you see on the planet Mars, with an extreme low level of oxygen. Our expedition would take us up the Machame Trail, a total of 192 hours on the mountain, from 5,400 feet to 19,341 feet in just under 8 days.

The expedition would be led by Tusker Trail, a renowned adventure consultant company that leads treks up Mount Everest, Mount Kilimanjaro and through Mongolia, Peru and Iceland. Tusker Trail would organize the mountain guides, porters, safety, cuisine, water and lodging. We had an expedition of 25 people, along with nearly 80 porters, also know as “sherpas” in the mountaineering world, who would haul all of the expedition needs, including our personal gear and equipment. As a documentary crew, we hired an additional 4 porters to maximize the amount of gear we could pack. I was personally assigned 2 porters with a 50 pound equipment pack, a 30 pound personal pack and a 10 pound day pack, which would be on my back.

The first priority was not camera equipment, it was mountaineering equipment. We consulted with our friend Blake Maddux of Elemental Climbing for all the appropriate gear. Blake, being an avid mountain man, was a vital asset to the pre-production. I needed layers of clothing and a significant amount of climbing accessories such as trekking poles and a lightweight day pack. A week into pre-production, my front door step looked like Christmas. The boxes began to arrive and I went through all the equipment step-by-step. I had new boots, hiking shoes, liners, socks, light breathable layers, medium layers, down layers, high gaiters, glove liners, down gloves, tactical sensor gloves, athletic underwear, a wool cap, winter hat, mountaineering sunglasses, insulated CamelBak, wool neck sock and a headlamp. And, that was just what I would wear, fortunately I didn’t have to send a single item back to Outdoor Research or REI.

Although, I had my personal gear tied down, I still had questions regarding camera logistics; how would we charge batteries and accessories at 19,341 feet? It’s a question that lingered for awhile. Our first plan of action was to simply take fully-charged batteries for each day on the mountain. The cold and altitude play a massive role in the depletion of battery life, so we considered the life of a battery to start at 50%. We then went through timing and discovered legitimately how many batteries we would need. It was dozens and seemed laughable, our weight limit would be easily surpassed in just batteries. Our next plan was to research portable solar-powered battery stations from Anker or Goal Zero, which seemed like a plausible idea, but with the weather being unpredictable, we couldn’t expect a hard sun every day. So, we landed on the idea of gas generator that was under 50 pounds, a generator we would buy in Arusha, Tanzania and leave in Arusha. Fortunately, Tusker Trail consulted us through the entire process and agreed it was the only true option for a guaranteed source of power at high altitude.

Through the trial and error of previous adventures, we knew we needed our standard international still camera kit. We kept it simple and cut the fat. Two camera bodies, two lenses, a strobe kit, one modifier, one reflector, one monopod and a boat load of accessories. The video side looked much different. It was a lot, but all the equipment was essential for the production level required. With a crew of 4, we had 10 cases and 4 backpacks, including personal gear. The ThinkTankPhoto Airport Accelerator Backpack, at full capacity, came in at 49.9 pounds. This would be my carry-on.

Amidst the logistical preparation, each member of the crew setup a crowdfunding website to raise money before we attempted to set sail on the summit. I set a goal of raising $2,000 Dollars before we even landed in Africa. Every Dollar passed to WorldServe International and directly into the education of Maasai children and the advancement of clean water in remote villages. Within just a few hours of making the announcement to my community, the donations started to flood through, it was humbling to see the support.

It all came down to the wire. Just 24 hours before our departure, equipment was still arriving at our door step and questions were still being answered. It was controlled chaos but, we had a process, schedule and plan which we strictly adhered to, I felt rested, organized and confident.

On September 16, 2016, our plane took off from Louisville, Kentucky to Newark, New Jersey to Amsterdam, Netherlands to Dar Es Salaam, Tanzania to Arusha, Tanzania, which sat a mild hour from the base of Mount Kilimanjaro. Naturally, some hours later we found ourselves running through the Amsterdam airport to catch our next flight. It’s not easy with a 50 pound backpack crushing your shoulders. Unfortunately, our dash to the gate was too little, too late and we missed our flight from Amsterdam to Arusha. But, we weren’t to upset about a fun 24 hours in Amsterdam. Once we checked into our hotel the airline had setup, we grabbed some breakfast and hit downtown Amsterdam. But, jet lag instantly set in we all crashed in the backseat of the taxi. But, a beer did the trick and we were back in the action. We wandered the streets, explored the “coffee shops” and had a quick patio cocktail overlooking the quint city canals. With the next leg of our flight plan looming over our head, following an awesome Amsterdam dinner, we hit the hotel and caught some rest.

Some 18 hours later, we arrived safely to the Mount Meru Hotel in Arusha, Tanzania, but not without a few speed bumps. We had a extremely close call with security, who almost questioned our DJI Inspire Drone, as it’s illegal on Kilimanjaro, but with some distraction techniques, made it through with all our cases and bags in tow. Just for future reference, always budget for petty cash when traveling to third world countries.

Unfortunately, our layover had altered our schedule and after a night of rest, we ventured into a remote Maasai village, where Wings Of Kilimanjaro had funded the construction of two classrooms, where over 400 Maasai children can be given a solid education in the middle of the bush. It’s hard to describe the cultural impact of something so small to us, yet so much to a community such as this. You are greeted like a celebrity and hundreds of people flock to celebrate. Within moments, we were crowded by a sea of children, dressed in their maroon uniforms and surround by their parents in traditional Maasai garb. In these scenarios, my camera acts like a shield, seeking a moment in time with a rapid pace. Capturing the photograph of children who perhaps have never seen a camera is by far the most rewarding aspect of my job. We stayed for hours, all through a class, ceremony and village dinner. It all ended with each of the crew being wrapped with a Shúkà, which is a sheets traditionally worn wrapped around the body. These are typically checkered red and black, though sometimes orange or blue. It was a beautiful way to share a new experience with our team of 25 and bless the long journey ahead. I would come to know all of these people, very well.

Gabriel Jebb is a legendary paragliding pilot and safety expert. You could find him causally chatting about his hundreds of paragliding tests, where he would voluntarily create an mock-accident in order to pull his reserve parachute, all for experimental safety testing. Gabriel was in charge of safety and arguably had one of the most important jobs in the entire expedition. It was his responsibility to get all paragliding pilots and tandem passengers off Kilimanjaro safe and sound.

I had done a lot of research into Mount Kilimanjaro, I knew the stories of failure, but mostly stories of success. There was no story of paragliding from the summit, Uhuru Peak. I could only lean on Adrian and all the pilots in the expedition. The sheer challenge of it all didn’t truly become real until our meeting a day before we were set to leave Arusha for Machame Gate. Gabriel went through the strategy on sailing off the summit. Step by step and risk after risk, the danger of it all slowly began to sink in and a bath of anxiety washed over my body. I had to quietly take a deep breath and close my eyes to accept the knowledge. Each passenger would be strapped to the front of one pilot, whom Gabriel would choose the rest day before the launch. Of course, people preferred some over others and there was gossip of me strapping to Danielle Cole, a beautiful experienced pilot from Hawaii, all due to our weight differences. But, the gossip also scared me. Could a 5’2” 120 pound woman launch a 6’1” 210 pound man? I had no idea.

The evening before the bus arrival was chaotic and equipment was everywhere. Fortunately, the perfected pack job paid off and the preparation beforehand saved me from significant stress. All of our equipment had to be stored in waterproof yellow totes, which made it easy for the porters to carry up the mountain. Every bag was assigned a number, which would coordinate with your tent at each camp. I was assigned lucky number nine.

The bus to Kilimanjaro was somber and sobering. You could find most of the expedition blankly staring out the window in deep thought, others quietly conversed, but there was an overall sense of calm, a calm before the storm. We had a brief layover in Moshi, where they had plotted for the landing zone post-summit. It was an old University soccer field with rusty goal posts and over grown grass. The large brick University buildings planted a remote section of Moshi were the perfect visual marker for all the pilots on descent.

After a few hours, we finally arrived to the Machame Gate, where I first witnessed the impressive numbers of people it requires for an expedition such as this, Wings Of Kilimanjaro contained nearly 150 strong. Mount Kilimanjaro being a National Park, required all those in the park to check in at each camp. The process of the check in was often long and the information we had to provide was unsubstantial, such as your profession and passport number.

We then proceeded to receive a quick health test, one person at a time. This test was comprised of a few personal yes or no questions and others on a scale of 1-10. They also checked our resting heart rate and oxygen level. This test would be administered twice a day to every member of the expedition. After a dull box lunch, which I opted not to eat, we lunged through the gate with anticipation and set foot onto the Machame Trail on September 21, 2016 at 1:00pm.

DAY ONE - MACHAME GATE TO MACHAME CAMP - 9,400 FEET

Within 5 minutes of setting foot on the trail at the base of Kilimanjaro, the atmosphere and energy was infectious. You couldn’t help but stare at the vast beauty of the rainforest. Long vines, ancient trees and colorful plant life that was split to a small path for those brave enough to traverse. We hit the trail late in the afternoon and wanted to guarantee ample time to setup on our first camp, so we hustled and walked at a fast pace. Although, many of the porters politely requested we slow down in Swahili, we ignored the warnings and blazed the trail, everyone was experiencing an amplified level of adrenaline. 

Fully rigged, my Canon 5D Mark III added an additional 9 pounds to my shoulders. Unfortunately, I misjudged the system for holding my camera and used a BlackRapid Backpack strap, which would normally work wonders with a large backpack with an external frame, but not with a small 14 liter pack. With every move the strap dug into my left shoulder which dramatically caused discomfort and pain. It also threw off my balance to the point, in which I had to over compensate with my right leg to lock in a pace. Additionally, I decided to not use my Black Diamond Trekking Poles the first day.

With the ultra fast pace and strap malfunction, I began to seriously sweat. My fleece felt like a wet blanket and a plume of steam could be seeing coming off my body with the clash of cold air. I stripped down to my base layer and latched the wet fleece on my day pack. We continued to navigate the dirt trail through steep slopes, often encountering crude steps in the trail.

The landscape was easy to navigate, but it the trail seemed to never stop. I took a deep a breath of relief upon overhearing a passing porter mention the fact that Machame Camp was close. Just a under an hour later, we stumbled into the first camp, close to sunset. The first day was one of the longest in my opinion, mostly due to the fast pace, wardrobe malfunction and the misjudgment of the proper camera strap. With wet clothing, a banged up shoulder and sore legs, I already felt like crisp toast and it raised a lot of fear.

After a moment to stretch and re-compose, we checked in and found the Tusker Trail camp. Shockingly, many of the porters had already arrived to setup camp. I ventured to tent number 9 and got organized. I placed my wet fleece and wet wool cap on the top of my tent, praying it would dry. I changed from my heavy Solomon Mountain boots to my water-resistant Keen Hiking shoes. It’s truly amazing what a dry clothing can do for your morale.

As the sun set, the cold lurked into the camp and I grabbed my down jacket and dry-cotton beanie. Hot coffee seemed like an attractive idea at the time, so I enjoyed a couple of cups, breaking the rule of caffeine at night. Soon enough, an incredible dinner followed. Tusker Trail wasn’t kidding when they claim they have some of the best cuisine on Kilimanjaro. Our first meal on the mountain was grilled Tilapia, with rice and hot vegetable soup.

Long before the trip, Sol and I decided it would be best to intake as many calories as possible, including a significant amount of carbohydrates. Mount Kilimanjaro isn’t a place to diet. The human body has to work harder in high altitude, so naturally it will burn more calories then at sea-level, so I would not only would be burning calories just by being on the mountain, I would be burning calories by hiking the majority of every day. Good nutrition and extreme water intake was extremely important to success.

The camp consisted of nearly 30 Eureka 4-season K2XT alpine tents, with two massive community dining tents, which looked like a hub NASA would have on the moon. The rest of the camp was built out with porter tents, cooking tents and 4 toilet tents, which resembled a mobile Porter-Potty. While most of the 25 people in our expedition had a tent to themselves, some shared tents. Miraculously, we noticed 4 or more porters shared the same exact tent. When I first witnessed these brave warriors stacked on top of each other, I gained an instant respect and admiration for these men. It was catalyst for a small idea; a portrait series.

Even if food was not on the table, I noticed that most people spent their time in the community tent, sipping on tea or coffee. It was a place of warmth and conversation. A place we could get to know each of our fellow climbers.

After dinner, the camp became very quiet and very dark. I decided to settle into my tent for the first sleep on the Kilimanjaro. I have never cared for sleeping bags, I feel claustrophobic and unable to comfortably stretch out, so I was worried about getting good sleep, but I decided the first night to suck it up and deal with it. I laid awake for the majority of the night, tossing and turning. I asked myself if it was the caffeine or the fact that I just couldn’t find any position remotely comfortable encased in a bag. Perhaps it was the size and softness of my pillow, which was actually my down jacket stuffed into a square 8x8” sleeve. My body was exhausted and my mind was tired, I have never had sleep issues, ever.

I had to urinate, but decided to hold it for as long as possible. Fortunately, I packed a wide mouth, 32oz Nalgene bottle, so I could comfortably take a leak without having to leave the warmth of my tent. The relief of emptying my bladder was enough to settle my mind. I ripped open the zipper on the sleeping bag laid directly onto the cold dirty sleeping pad and used the bag as a cover. I stretched out my legs and fell into a couple of hours of much needed semi-comfortable rest.

DAY TWO - MACHAME CAMP TO SHIRA CAMP - 12,500 FEET

It was a hard sunrise wake up call. But, I was one of the first out of the tent and on my feet. Hot water was brewing and coffee and green tea was all I needed to get my body in motion. We were to start the next hike at 8:00am.

I certainly learned a lesson the first day on Kilimanjaro, especially when I woke up to find my fleece jacket on top of my tent frozen and still wet from the day before. So, I spent the morning re-organizing my day pack, adjusting to the proper base layer and outer layer and transitioned to the BlackRapid Curve Breathe. The sling-style strap features a soft breathable cushion to offset the camera weight, so I didn’t have the backpack strap racking my left shoulder.

After breakfast and our heath test, I snapped a few images of the gorgeous view of the summit. It was hard to believe that we would be on the top of it in just a few days. It seemed so small and so far away as the clouds rolled over the snow capped mountain. It inspired me to take a moment of calm and proceed with my mobility drill to stretch the muscles. I covered myself with Sawyer SPF50 waterproof sunscreen and hit the trail as others lined up. I felt amazing and ready to tackle the next leg. It was important for me to always be ahead of the guide. I wanted every photograph on the trail to have a unique vantage point and visual. Therefore I had to work twice as hard transitioning back and forth from the back of the group all the way to the front of the group, several times throughout each hour. Fortunately, I was never questioned or never stopped. As a member of the “film crew” I had a pass to do whatever I wanted within common sense. I would never question that decision until the last day on the mountain.

The trail from Machame Camp to Shira Camp was extremely elevated and considered one of the hardest, longest days. We had moved from rainforest to mooreland, and the vegetation had evolved from a lush green, dense forest to a gaunt, craggy mountainside. As the landscape opened up, it introduced incredible views of the cloud covered rainforest, I couldn’t help but capture a painterly panorama with every step. On the way up the ascending jagged trail, the clouds hit our bodies like a wet, cold gust of wind. But, the slow moving clouds also provided a sense of tranquility that inspired each step.

Nearly halfway through the trail, we noticed a large rock boulder that jet out from a ridge. It seemed like a popular place to take a breather. We decided it would be the perfect place to give our drone a spin. After setup, which seemed like an eternity, we had to problem solve a few issues, such as magnetic interference and battery levels. So, we moved to alternate location a few feet down the trail and we lifted off. Within moments of the drone being in flight, I noticed massive cloud approaching our landing zone. Coury Deeb, our director and drone pilot, quickly shifted position to the left side of the ridge and after a few quick shots of the trail, brought the drone to its home point. Unfortunately, the trail was to elevated to land the drone, so Reid Olson, our second camera, had to grab the drone from mid-air. Coury slowly lowered the drone, but failed to put the landing gear down, Reid grabbed the cross bars of the drone in turn severing the tips of his thumbs. The blood began to flow and the expedition doctor, Rob, went to work. He wrapped Reid’s thumb with massive field bandages, enough to get Reid through the day, until the next camp. Unfortunately, due to the altitude the wound would not heal until the descent. It was the first emergency on the trek, but it would not be the last.

I settled into a my own pace and took each step one and a time. This is where I learned that I failed to download music, with exception of one album; RY X - Dawn. Nevertheless, the soothing sound of the Australian singer songwriter was exactly the background noise I needed. The album stayed on shuffle, over and over again. I started to listen to the lyrics, and it simply spoke to my struggles. I would occasionally find myself pausing just to consume the surrounding and soaking in the reality of the situation, which timed perfectly to the music in my ears.

I arrived, alone, shortly before sunset into Shira Camp and was immediately taken aback by the view. The perfectly organized camp set right in the middle of a large plateau that overlooked the cloud-covered rainforest and directly behind that beautiful picture is the towering peak of Kilimanjaro which was a inspiring, yet frightening reminder of the days to follow.

We spent the sunset gathering content and mingling with our fellow climbers. I soon came to befriend a pilot out of Santa Barbara, Cormac O’Brien, who just like us, was a walking billboard for all of his sponsorships. Cormac was also a hobbyist photographer who carried a Sony A7RII and had a love for slow-shutter landscapes. Cormac would often brave the frozen temperatures for night photography and I was always impressed. Although a pilot, Cormac became my second eye and a true asset.

I don’t remember dinner that evening, but I remember it being interesting. Most of the expedition consisted of Australian pilots, but also pilots from Canada, United Kingdom, Portugal, Belgium, South Africa, Algeria and Norway. Often the conversation led to the United States and its state of government, especially with Donald Trump as the potential President elect (at the time). I reminded silent until the conversation went another direction.

The wind was very cold that evening. Unlike Cormac, I decided not to brave the cold for a star trail photograph. I hit the tent early and knew exactly what I needed to do to get rest. I threw on one base layer and one thin sock liner and laid directly on the sleeping pad while using the sleeping bag as a open cover. I never slept better.

DAY THREE - SHIRA CAMP TO MOIR HUT CAMP- 13,660 FEET

We all awoke to a beautiful sunrise at Shira Camp. Sadly, a few under a complete haze of altitude sickness. But, for the first time, we felt like a team. We all began to open up and a bond developed on the trail. We all formed a line at the base of the trail and step-by-step slowly followed the Tusker Trail guide in front. This is the point where the altitude really started to set in for everyone and time seemed to blur and many drifted into autopilot.

Our team charged their electronic devices using battery packs powered by a solar panel station. To charge the battery pack they attached the solar panel to the backside of their day pack. The sun was hard and bounced off all the solar panels with a burst of blinding light. The trail took us up steep inclines and barren terrain, but it was an easy and fun day. The short hike to Moir Hut Camp would last no longer then 2-3 hours, so I stuck to close to my friend Cormac. We took it slow and often broke to capture content.

The last hour of the trail descended into a steep valley which resembled a rough desert more than a mountain and on either side of the valley was a steep ridge. I set a impromptu personal challenge to trek off the trail and climb to the top of the ridge for a better panoramic view of the valley. It was a hard solo climb to the top, but once I reach the even ground on top of the ridge, the sight was worth it. I could softly hear our expedition cheer in encouragement, as I could be seen as a small black speck far off in the distance on top of the massive ridge. It was a beautiful moment of success, personally. I was last into the Moir Hut Camp and walked right into a production meeting.

The short trail provided a lot of time, so we spent the majority of the afternoon executing time lapses and drone flights. As sun began to settle, all the porters and guides gathered for a dance and song session. It was an amazing scene to see such a close-knit group of people celebrate as they would in their own culture. I couldn’t help but point and fire my camera in every direction.

Once the sun pushed below the valley, I asked Tusker Trail guide Baraka Ayo to step in as my assistant and hold the strobe. I didn’t have enough time to get my standard monopod-strobe setup together, so I quickly pushed open a 41” Medium Shallow Umbrella with a Medium Diffusion baffle and threaded the shaft through the Profoto B2 head and asked Baraka to hold the modifier by the shaft.

We gathered Adrian and his mother Julie, for a quick portrait session on the cliff side of the camp. But, light dissipated at such an astonishing rate and I had to drag my shutter a third of a stop, every third frame just to bring in any ambiance, in order to balance out the artificial light. Within 10 minutes, we had lost all of our light and flicked on our headlamps to returned to camp for a hot dinner.

After another incredible mountain dining experience sans red wine, we closed the evening with a cold night photography session, capturing slow-shutter star trails and time lapses. We even decided to leave a camera out overnight on the bluff.

DAY FOUR - MOIR HUT CAMP TO BARRANCO CAMP - 12,950 FEET

Moir Hut Camp was stationed somewhat off the beaten path, which laid closer to the Shira route rather then the Machame route. But, with our bodies adjusting to the altitude Tusker Trail decided it would be beneficial to stay one night at a higher altitude and then descend back down to Barranco Valley at a lower altitude before making any big jumps toward the high camp: Kosovo. Luckily, the time lapse lasted through the frozen night only with a layer of frost on the lens, body and Benro Hi-Hat support system. We scored an incredible time lapse, which was completely worth the risk. 

Similar to the previous couple of days, I organized first thing, double checked the charge all batteries, double checked the backup, replaced memory cards, brushed teeth, ate a hearty breakfast and filled up my 32oz Nalgene bottle and my 100oz insulated CamelBak with cold water, before heading off to the next trail.

The first leg of the day was by far the hardest of the day, the extremely steep incline was tough on body and required a lot of energy. But I knew I couldn’t stop, I pushed through the pain and worked my way up the elevated rock face. I soon came to rely a lot on my upper body than lower body. The trekking poles not only provided balance but, with every step it was vital to lean into the pole and use my chest and arms to lift the weight off my thighs, knees and feet. Once I found a proper stride, I never altered that dynamic.

The dry rock soon opened up to a desolate alpine desert on our way up to Lava Tower at 15,190 feet. The open brown vistas with the towering blue mountain-scape provided the most beautiful scenery, I have ever seen. Speckled on the trail the distance were dozens of porters with the bright yellow waterproof bags on their head. With every few steps, I grabbed the rubber grip of my camera and fired the shutter. The environment was so vast, I had trouble focusing through the small viewfinder on my camera, I wanted to see it all in the frame. As we hiked along the gradual incline of the lava flows, the bleak landscape seemed to stretch on forever. With each rise we would pass, there would be another on the other side. We continued the pace.

Our arrival to Lava Tower was met with intense wind and cold. I put on nearly every layer in my day pack and switched to my Outdoor Research Frostline Hat, which covered my ears and face with a built in balaclava mask. Much of team started to feel the effects of the altitude, shattered with headaches and nausea. We all shivered at the thought of moving forward, but our nerves calmed when we learned the rest of the day was mostly downhill.

It took sometime for Tusker Trail to setup the dining tent for lunch, so we took the time to capture the beauty of the area as well as some long lens static shots of the expedition. While a small few, decided to ascend to the Arrow Glacier at 17,390 feet for acclimatization, the documentary crew decided to stay and lounge in the community tent. The small group returned after a couple of hours and we packed and prepared for the second leg of the trek, which was all downhill into the Barranco Valley at 12,950 feet. The further we descended the further I felt like I was walking into another planet. The slope in the Barranco Valley was made up of a slippery scree, so my trekking poles were a vital asset to take the stress off my knees. The lower we hiked the more unique vegetation that came into the picture. Massive alpine plants known as the Giant Groundsel lined the trail and varied in size. After a quick drone flight to capture the beauty aerially, I moved forward alone. With RY X chanting to my soul, I passed through a layer of cloud cover that gushed over the camp down in the valley, similar to cold and clear tsunami. The moment was indescribable.

The further I walked into the valley the less vision I had. Deep in the clouds, I could barley see my hands in front of me, but I followed the trail at my feet until I reached the camp at the base of the Barranco Wall. I arrived to much of our team dormant in their tents from exhaustion. I felt relieved, but knew my evening had only begun.

The Barranco Camp was known as one of the most spectacular scenes on the entire Machame Trail. I didn’t know what to expect further, so I took the word of veteran mountaineer Jeffery Brown, a man who had conquered many mountains and attempted Mount Everest as seen in the documentary film “Sherpa.” I had to capture portraits of not only our central characters, but also ourselves. With the Kibo Peak towering in the background and the sun starting to slowly descend I gathered pilot Chris Hunlow from the United States and passenger Alison Armstrong from Australia, who would be our focus in the documentary. The sun created a gorgeous pink highlight on the tip of Kilimanjaro which provided perfect contrast off the each subject. I quickly blasted through a series of poses and quickly moved onto our crew. I asked my friend and guide Baraka to hold the Benro MMA38C Monopod which supported a Profoto B2 head and Profoto umbrella, while I photographed Reid, Coury and Justin. Our session was so brief, I decided to have Baraka jump in to a shot. During the session, I learned that Baraka had summited over 250 times and leads a new expedition every few weeks. As a guide for Tusker Trail, he is able to abundantly support his wife and children who live in Moshi at the base of Kilimanjaro. 

Baraka soon turned out to be the first in a list of over 20 porters I photographed while on Mount Kilimanjaro. I gained an instant admiration, when I first saw that small group of porters cramped together in a single person tent at Machame Camp. I felt a special respect and had so much appreciation for their hard work. I photographed a total of six porters at Barranco Camp before we completely lost our ambient sunlight. We admired the night view for a hour after dinner before collapsing in our tent. I would need the rest.

DAY FIVE - BARRANCO CAMP TO KARANGA CAMP - 13,200 FEET

The morning was cold, but the sun began to expose the camp like a warm wash over the intimidating Kibo Peak. My morning ritual was no different then any other day, I simply added an additional layer and doubled checked my pack to make sure I had all the proper equipment for the treacherous climb ahead.

The Barranco Wall is a vertical ascent of nearly 900 feet. While you don’t need any ropes or technical skills to climb the Barranco Wall, you do need all hands and feet on deck. It can be daunting, but with proper health and pace, it is completely achievable to the most inexperienced climber.

As we slowly moved up the wall, we immediately noticed a major issue. There is only one route up the wall and if an inexperienced climber was leading the pack, it put a dramatic hold on the rest of the line up the wall. Unfortunately, this was the case at the bottom of the wall. The queue would move in shifts, we would move for about 2 minutes, then wait for 5 minutes. After the third pause, I decided to make a small shortcut and traverse the more dangerous and technical portion of the wall to get ahead of the pack. Fortunately, doing so placed me beyond the bottleneck, where I was able to freely climb to the top of the wall, where we paused for a quick aerial shot with the drone.

The rest of the day was a blur. I settled into my pace through the alpine desert which seemed to never end. Step after step, I analyzed the scene and waited for a moment to pause and turnaround to photograph the expedition to my back. The moments of pause became few and far between. We traversed hill after hill, until I saw Dolf Derkinderen, a pilot from Beligum, moving down the trail the opposite way, he had already been to Karanga, touched the ground and worked his way back and forth as a personal challenge. In passing Dolf mentioned we were just under a hour from Karanga camp, which gave me the last bit of energy I needed to tackle the last section of trail.

The last hour to Karanga proved to be one of the most difficult for me on the entire ascent to Uhuru Peak. Just before the camp, the landscape dove into a deep valley washed away by themelting glaciers above. It was step trail which was held together by the roots of alpine vegetation and broken scree. Once at the bottom, we rested before making our way all the way back up the valley to Karanga. I gasped for air and prayed after every move. Every step felt like a roaring fire burning my leg muscles and every pebble I encountered felt like a boulder. This was the moment I had to dig deep and let my mind be consumed by RY X. We started to notice climbers of other expeditions failing to reach the plateau of Karanga. Bodies were being hauled on the back of porters, who were frantically attempted to descend to save the life of the person on their back.

I refused to be one of those people. I began to control my breathing, using my diaphragm and focused on each step. Soon enough, I was at the top and felt a bath of alleviation. While others didn’t seem to struggle as much on that valley wall, I believe it was a combination of factors that led to the exhaustion, mostly water depletion.

Karanga Camp sat on a 50 degree slope, which overlooked the mountain-scape covered with pillowcases of clouds and gave us a full view of Mawenzi Peak. The camp appeared weathered and abused, but gave us the needed sanction for the summit bid in two days. Immediately, talk of cell phone signal brushed through the camp and you could see everyone scramble to their phone and gracefully pace around for signal. Before I even threw down my pack, I raced over to a high-ridge on the south end of the camp and the beautiful words “Vodocom 3G” suddenly appeared. It was an extremely erratic signal, but notifications started to pour in after five days in the dark. I had enough signal to send my family and assistant a text. The small connection to home was all I needed to push forward.

The moments before sunset on Karanga was spent photographing another six porters, who loved every moment. It was special to see the smile on their face when I showed them the LCD on the back of my camera. Some laughed and had fun, while others took it very seriously. I didn’t care, I wanted each of their personalities to shine through each photograph.

I didn’t sleep much that night. The incline of Karanga caused some nausea, and the only way to avoid a gradual slide to the bottom of my tent was a smooth boulder conveniently embedded into the ground behind my tent on the downslope. As luck would have it, I was able brace my feet against the boulder for more support which calmed the nausea.

DAY SIX - KARANGA CAMP - KOSOVO CAMP - 15,750 FEET

Sunrise at Karanga was absolutely beautiful. The light burst through cloud cover which caused strong diffused rays that highlighted the frosted rock face above us. Despite the beauty, the altitude started to play a role in the overall health of the camp. I woke out of a cold slumber with a headache and hazed mind. The entire expedition started to move slower and I heard tents unzip much later than normal. Nevertheless, we all knew our role, we had to get up the mountian.

Just like the last week, we rucked up, sucked up and took off towards Kosovo Camp, where we would spend a total of 40 hours to acclimate, double check equipment and prepare for lift off. The trail from Karanga to Kosovo really opened my eyes to the real threat of extreme altitude. We often stopped dead in the trail to witness a fallen climber being rushed down the trail to oxygen. Unfortunately, a few of our team began to struggle significantly, especially Julie McRae, Adrian’s adventurous mother who was attempting to summit at age of 66.

The pace was slow and the Tusker Trail was adamant about keeping a strong queue. For obvious safety purposes, they strictly frowned upon any member of the expedition moving ahead on the trail, except for our documentary crew. Therefore, I worked hard and gained ground with quickness to get the right shot, angle and composition.

The cloud cover became more and more intense and shielded our field of vision, but also brought along a mysterious serenity. I had never felt closer to a higher power, then on that climb to Kosovo.

Eventually, the trail turned to an aggressive uphill battle as we gracefully stumbled into Barafu Camp like zombies. Most every expedition stayed overnight at Barafu before making the summit bid. We opted to stay at the halfway point between Barafu and Uhuru; Kosovo. The camp is unknown and unmarked, but right below the first step towards Uhuru Peak. Fortunately, the trek from Barafu to Kosovo was short, only a hour or so. On the way up, we were met with smooth vertical rock faces, which required either extreme foot balance or all four hands and feet.

We celebrated, as the entire expedition, including Julie, made into the safety of Kosovo Camp. Immediately, I noticed that the summit appeared to be extremely close, but it was just an illusion, as we were another seven hour trek away. Nevertheless, I promptly went to work on not only capturing proper content needed for sponsors but also a self-portrait and the conclusion to my porter portrait series.

At 15,750 feet the view was breathtaking. As the sun began to lower, a purple cast began to feature Mawenzi Peak which jet out of a blanket of white cloud cover, like a sharp knife. I struggled to get every photograph I wanted shot. Soon enough, I found myself pulling the shutter to 1/10 just to expose any ambient light. It was ambitious, but I am no doubt very proud of what I captured in such little time.

With the dark, came dinner and this was the evening Gabriel finally revealed the game plan for the paragliding summit launch; the order of launch and every tandem passenger to pilot. We all anxiously waited. The first to launch would be veteran climber Jefferey Brown. I would be paired with Howie Tarpey, a pilot from the United Kingdom. I took a deep breath and gave a giant hug to Howie, who was no doubt one the kindest, most humble members of the expedition. I was honored to trust my life with Howie. But, Howie had also struggled through the entire climb and was hammered with altitude sickness. It left an uneasy feeling in my stomach, but I had to trust proper safety procedures would be taken. And, Howie was certainly no amateur. This was by far the most prestigious, legendary paragliding group in the world, celebrities in their own industry. I had to trust that.

Adrian, Jeff, Dolf and our Director of Photography, Justin Gustavision, opted to climb to the summit that evening to prepare and rake the launch site, as Justin would not be attempting to paraglide. It was a hard decision to make, but we also needed a member of the crew at the landing zone to capture all the pilots sailing into the University soccer field.

I stayed up later then normal with Coury that evening and admired the stars, while Cormac and Faisal Khan, a pilot from Algeria, braced the cold for night photography. I eventually wandered to my tent to prepare for the cold sleep. Around 1:00 a.m., I heard Adrian, Jeff, Dolf and Justin head off Uhurhu Peak.

DAY SEVEN - REST - KOSOVO CAMP - 15,750 FEET

I don’t remember much from our 10 hour rest day at Kosovo Camp. But, I do remember Adrian, Dolf, Justin and Jeff stumbling down into camp from their summit trek, exhausted and near collapse. Upon arrival Dolf became immediately ill and vomited. His body was trashed from the strain and had touched the limit. All four proceeded to their tents.

We didn’t see Justin and Jeff until later in the afternoon. Adrian and Dolf didn’t show until dinner. We all questioned Jeff and Justin about the trek we were shocked to hear the story of their journey. 

“It’s a fucking death march.” Jeff repeatedly claimed. 

This was not the experience we wanted to hear, especially from a veteran climber. This type of news was not taken lightly. Suddenly, we had strong odds against our team even making it to the top and I felt afraid. Jeff also stated that it was pure suffering, comparable to Mount Everest and bitterly cold, unlike any previous venture he had had to the top. He provided a few tips on what to wear and how to prepare for the extreme conditions

“Wear every layer you packed!” Jeff tipped.

With a deep breath, we soaked in the story and all the pilots started to double check their glider, harness, reserve chute and equipment. We walked about a hour up the cliffside to a soft launch zone to practice take off and procedure. While most pilots were hesitance to break out their wings on the sharp rock surface, a few braved the risk and launched their glider. It was impressive to see the colorful paper-thin kite expand into the air and only heightened the level of stress for the morning to come.

We learned that in high altitude there are two steps to get off the ground. First, both the pilot and passenger have to sprint as fast as possible down the incline of the launch zone in order to catapult the glider off the ground. Secondly, as luck would have it, a strong wind cycle has to push and lift the glider into the air as the pilot and passenger continue to run. If the wind is not strong enough, the passenger would likely crash face first into the rock. It would be awkward and extremely tough on the body. I was nervous, but held my composure and further shielded that anxiety with my camera.

After the cold hard “death march” that Justin Gustavision had pushed through, he began his long descent back down the mountain to Moshi, where we would film the incoming pilots upon landing.

Our goal was to launch from Stella Point, roughly a hour below the summit. Stella Point was known for its clear zone and strong winds, which is what we needed for lift off. But we had to hit Stella Point at sunrise before any deep cloud cover moved in, therefore we had to leave Kosovo Camp at approximately 11:00 p.m. to provide an ample seven hours of climbing time to hit a 6:00 a.m. summit. Roughly, 8:00 a.m. launch.

Dinner was relatively solemn, as it was our last meal on the mountain and weather was a concern. I crashed into my tent shortly after dinner to get at least a few hours of sleep before what would become the longest day of my life.

DAY EIGHT - KOSOVO CAMP TO UHURU PEAK - 19,341 FEET

The clock moved slowly. I couldn’t sleep, I couldn’t breathe and and my body was wired. The hours seemed to passed like days and minutes felt like hours. Shortly before 8:00 p.m., I went into a short slumber that lasted only what felt like a second. I woke in shock to my phone alarm blaring, but buried underneath my small pillow. As is opened my eyes, I could only see warm air from my lungs fill the tent in a haze. The cold was something I had never felt, even inclosed in my tent. I shivered as I started throwing on every layer I owned, which included one pair of Performance SAXX Underwear, Smartwool Sock Liners, two pairs of Smartwool Heavy Wool Socks, two pairs of SmartWool Midweight Long Underwear Bottoms, two Midweight Long-Sleeve Crew Tops, Outdoor Research Radiant Hybrid Fleece Tights, Radiant Hybrid Fleece Hoodie, Furio Waterproof Pants, Transcendent Down Jacket, Furio Waterproof Alpine Jacket, Catalyzer Liners with Sensor Gloves, Down Riot Gloves, Wool Buff Balaclava, and a Frostline Cap. Then I applied two dozen hand warmers and feet warmers all over my socks, hands and completely around my CamelBak tube and Nalgene Bottle.

I strapped up my Salomon X Ultra Winter CS Waterproof Winter Boots and covered them with a pair of Outdoor Research Rocky Mountain Gaiters. Then packed extra batteries, memory cards, hand warmers and any additional accessory I could conjure in case of emergency. I felt like an overweight version of the “Stay-Puff Marshmallow Man” but felt prepared for the battle of a lifetime.

I was one of the first to appear in the community tent. It was approximately 10:00 p.m. Hot water has just been delivered to the tent, so I poured a cup of coffee and green tea. I sat and waited. Then, I waited longer. Eventually, each climber began to trickle in the door, but it was approaching our scheduled departure time of 11:00 p.m. It seemed like we waited for over a hour further until we all finally made it slowly into the community tent for a quick impromptu breakfast.

With only the cylindrical light from your headlamp, we eyeballed our dirty boots pounding the ground. One by one we hurried to the trail and lined up in a military style formation for the final headcount. We were missing one pilot, Dolf. Gabriel immediately began to shout at the top of his lungs throughout camp to shock or wake Dolf. He continued for several minutes, until Dolf eventually scurried to the lineup near the front. He appeared frazzled and not prepared for another journey to the summit. Elias Massawe of Tusker Trail, was the leader of the expedition and would be the first to set foot on the trail. I quietly plugged in my headphones and went into my own headspace. One step at a time, one breath at a time, we were on our way.

I had to get into a slow solid pace. So, with every breath, I sucked in as much air into my stomach and lungs as possible and exploded air through my mouth like I had practiced so many times before. I placed one foot nearly two inches in front of the other and locked in my knees to catapult my body forward into my upper body, where I depended on my trekking poles to follow through. With every step, I became more locked into the motion and the higher we got, the more I had to focus. Nearly a hour into the climb, my hands became completely numb and the altitude hit me like a fright train.

When oxygen is depleted from your brain, it feels similar to be extremely intoxicated. Your speech begins to slur and your body begins to lose its motor functions, such as walking straight. You aren’t necessarily aware that there is a problem and you feel completely out of mind and body. Halfway, I began to strongly hallucinate and see shadows that weren’t there and traces of colored light the burned into my vision. Occasionally, I would have to pause, tap my head with my pole, just to re-focus and continue on the path. The trail was silent, but the struggle of each individual was deafening. Right behind Elias, followed Julie our oldest and weakest, I was positioned directly behind Julie. Eventually, the altitude strengthened its grip and it had become extremely dangerous for Julie to be on the mountain. She began to sway back and forth like a lose sail in the wind, often I would have to reach for he backpack to save her from falling off the mountain side. The entire team rooted for Julie and pushed her to carry on, but Julie was in serious trouble and needed to descend back down to Moshi, it took nearly 24 hours and four porters to do so.

I often turned to make sure my crew was still on the mountain. All I could see were distant headlights bobbing in the foreground and a painting of stars in the background. As the music continued to play, I took one step after another for what seemed like an eternity. I sharpened sight on my feet, my breath and the hard trail. I didn’t look at my watch or endlessly count in my head, I too fixated on the summit. I had to do it, there was no other choice.

After a brutal six hours, I briefly looked up and the headlights beyond the trail began to disappear over the ridge. We had reached Stella Point. At first, I didn’t know how to react, a dozen emotions punched into my thought process at one instant. But, then Elias signaled that I hike in front of the line for a good viewpoint of the expedition reaching the milestone. My instincts snapped into action and I practically ran the last 40 feet and turned around to capture whatever image I could in the pitch black environment. I cranked my ISO to 4000 and dragged my shutter to 1/20 to pull in any light from the rising sun. I shot frantically at six frames a second, despite not having much feeling in my right hand. I didn’t know where to focus or even how to focus in the dark, I just shot.

We were met with a quiet song from the porters that gave us a bit of hope that the end was near. We were now just a hour away from Uhuru Peak, the summit of Mount Kilimanjaro. Our time at Stella Point was short-lived, as it was approximately -20° Fahrenheit, we had to keep moving. The documentary crew, including myself was allowed to have a head start in order capture the entire team make the summit. We jet off with our own guide and porters to the final point in our journey.

The trek to the summit was hard, but the sun began to rise which made the air dramatically warmer with every minute. Despite the warmth, the air became more thin. In dramatic phases, I found myself struggling to breath, as if I had a plastic bag over my mouth. I would pause, center my range of view and take in as much as possible. I repeated these steps until I felt coherent enough to walk. I was hypoxic and stumbled around the crater with only one mission in mind; to touch the top and fly off this rock.

As we approached the last 100 feet, the emotion rang heavy throughout the entire crew. I began running through my head the content needed and the right process we would need to follow to capture a summit portrait of Adrian. I ran ahead of the crew and turned 180° to capture an incoming shot with the hard sun at their backs, I flipped around and suddenly found myself at the sign. I had made it to Uhuru Peak; the “Roof Of Africa.”

The next hour was one of celebration, but confusion and chaos. After sometime, the remainder of the expedition found themselves at Uhuru Peak, each individually seizing the opportunity to take a picture of themselves on the summit. I took full advantage of the time and setup for a quick portrait session of Adrian. The session lasted under one minute, before I heard a call out for the entire WOK team; a group photograph. We gathered in front of the sign and gave our best winning face.

Within seconds of the shutter snap, a plan was in place for the paragliding launch. Gabriel made an abrupt and pressed decision to launch directly off Uhuru Peak rather then trekking another hour back down to Stella Point. The decision was based on weather, wind and time. Immediately, all pilots raced to the far end of the summit and began unpacking and preparing their wings, while each went through serious health test and inhaled a few minutes of oxygen. If they failed the test, they would not be allowed to fly. 

As I placed my legs through the passenger harness, I thought to myself; I could die. This is the moment where the risk became very real. With a simple breath, I shook the nervous and welcomed the anxiety. I concentrated on the task at hand and made sure to capture the right content, prepare every GoPro and secure every piece of equipment.

Contrary to the scheduled order, Chris Hunlow and our director, Coury Deeb were the first to prepare and the first to launch. I could see Chris watch the windsail like a hawk. With the first whisk of air Chris and Coury dug their feet into the scree and sprinted down the face of Uhuru at lighting speed. The aircraft shot into the air and slowly followed Chris and Coury until the sail jerked the pair off the ground which pushed Coury into a horizontal dive across the rock. With the crash, the glider deflated like an exhausted motor.

I knew it wouldn’t be easy. But, it was discouraging to see the first attempt fail, but inspiring for other pilots do make it happen. I believe Jeff was the first solo pilot to launch. Jeff ran for what seemed like a mile, to the point of his glider dipping below the surface of the summit rock. Then suddenly his glider exploded straight up into the air and everyone celebrated the successful launch.

Thereafter, it was a free-for-all, which had our safety expert Gabriel violently pacing and shouting jargon over the radio. I had discussed with Howie beforehand our method for launch and we patiently waited for right time. It was a race to the bottom, tandem pilots were making attempts which mostly failed, while at the same time, some of the solo pilots were making attempts which failed. The wind was mild, which was not what the pilots needed for lift off, so they had to depend on their bodies to get them off the mountain. If they weren’t up to the task of sprinting down the 100 feet track, they would crash and burn. Unfortunately, Dolf was one of those pilots.

With every failure came success and as soon as one pilot would fail, another would fly over and around the glacier which flowed parallel to the summit ridge. I stayed positive as I saw many successful flights. Around that time, Howie stood up and prepared for launch, it was go time. I could feel my heart pounding through my chest. I was terrified, but willing to make a move. As I felt a breeze graze my face, I dug my right foot into the rock scree. Howie tapped me on the shoulder and I bolted forward, keeping my eye on the path in front of me. It felt like I was being pulled backward with extreme force as Howie’s massive glider lifted over our heads. As I sprinted down the face of Uhuru, the glider would lift my feet off the ground, then plant back down in the middle of a stride. Then again and again, until my legs could not synchronize with the speed of the glider and my body heaved horizontally. I instantly pitched my hands forward to soften the landing into the rock. My face went into the rock sediment, split open my down jacket and shredded the top of my right knee. I lifted my gloves out of the scree and the rubber fingertips of my Sensor Gloves had been completely torn open. We both laid in the sun for a moment, sucking in air as much as possible. Our bodies were devastated. 

Almost immediately, our team of porters raced down to the bottom of the summit launch to provide supplemental oxygen to both Howie and I, but it didn’t help. I stood up with dignity and began the long walk back up to the top of the zone. This walk was not easy, as the incline was steep and the rock rubble didn’t provide a solid foundation. Nevertheless, once I arrived at the top, I was ready to give it another shot. An ominous cloud had begun to sneak toward our direction, which sent many pilots into overdrive.

My second attempt with Howie was close, we lifted off the ground over and over again, but just didn’t have the wind to get into the air. I thought it was over. I didn’t even want to make another attempt, I couldn’t, my body couldn’t. A ten-ton headache hit me like a brick, as I slowly made it back up to the launch zone, once again.

I was bummed, but it didn’t take away from the fact I had just achieved something great. Like myself, Reid Olson, who had just failed two attempts with pilot Rudi Van Der Walt, decided to descend on foot. I, being the wishful thinker, had to think before making the call. Reid gathered his gear and headed back down to Stella Point. I swallowed all self-pride and began to do the same, that is until I noticed my friend Cormac setup on an alternate zone south of the summit and take off successfully. I was proud of him and his passenger Alison, but I’d be lying if I didn’t say I was completely jealous. I looked to Rudi Van Der Walt, who represented South Africa, and he looked at me. We both knew we had a chance. We shifted over to the southend of Uhuru Peak and setup to launch. The ominous cloud was drifting fast and we didn’t have much time, within 10 minutes, Rudi and I launched. I rushed down Uhuru as fast as possible, but our glider never caught wind. Shortly after, we attempted again and made it halfway down the summit with a small lift, but ended up in the rock rubble, once again. I called it, Gabriel called it. It was over.

Along with Howie and Rudi, I made a total of four solid attempts to paraglide off Mount Kilimanjaro. Some made as much as eight attempts, unsuccessfully. However, 10 of the 16 pilots did make it off, in turn setting several world records for paragliding at high altitude. I was proud of our expedition, others were not.

Once the weather covered the summit in cloud, we began the walk back down to Stella Point, where an executive decision would be made. We had two choices; stay one more night and make another attempt to launch the following morning or descend immediately. If we stayed another night, we would camp in Crater Camp, the coldest, highest camp on Kilimanjaro. It has history of being unpredictable and uninhabitable. If we were to descend it would be a long 10 hour hike to the bottom. It was an easy decision for the pilots who had worked so hard and lived for this dream. Six pilots and two passengers would be staying at Crater Camp overnight to make another attempt at sunrise.

With a crushing headache, I opted to inhale oxygen for a few moments to process my next move. I went back and forth in my mind. I was without the rest of my crew, all alone. I was thrashed with a injured knee and felt sick. But, I could still fly. I sat close to Gabriel for a moment and asked about the incoming weather. I could tell he was crushed, but suggested I descend. In that moment, I made the decision to stay, despite the advice of Gabe. But, remained silent. 

Throughout my career I often follow my instinct and make an educated decision based upon fact. I’m not sure what compelled me to change my mind in an instant, but in my hypoxic state, I believe I made an educated call based on fact; I was in agony.

“Elias, I need to descend.”

Elias looked up with a surprised expression, but after a quick up and down, didn’t hesitate to grab his radio and organize the descent. He provided specific instructions on the process of the descent as I prepared my pack for the long journey down the mountain. I shed as much weight as possible and left everything with exception of a base layer of clothing and my camera. I would follow Tusker Trail guide Stanford Maleku down to Barafu Camp to meet Reid, then I would follow Reid and his guide down to Moshi.

Except, I truly didn’t realize I would be up for the hardest day of my entire life.

Reid had a two hour head start, so we had to gain ground as quick as possible so Reid and his guide would not have to wait at Barafu Camp too long. Stanford in a calm demeanor prepared his pack and we were off down the trail. We would trek down back through Kosovo Camp, through Barafu Camp then take a direct porter supply route which was used by climbers only in emergencies, straight into Moshi. The trek usually required a solid 12 hours, but we had to make it back before dark. It was nearly 11:00 a.m.

The first leg of the trail was a slope of soft rock rubble, with the help of our trekking poles we practically lunged down, similar to cross-country skiing. We pitched left then right which created a massive dust storm behind us. Within the hour, I was suffering. Despite wearing high gaiters, rock had collected in the bottom of my boots and Stanford was well in front. I did everything in my power just to keep up with his lighting pace, but my knee was in significant pain and unfortunately, any downhill descent greatly depends on the strength of your knees. I offset the pain by placing most of my weight on my left leg rather then right, but it didn’t ease the discomfort like I had hoped. I swallowed the pain and pushed forward.

We broke for rest briefly at Kosovo Camp and Stanford noticed I was in serious pain. He suggested I shed all of the weight with exception of my clothing. He took my camera and day pack and stuffed it into his pack. He offered me a light snack, which I gladly accepted. I was already extremely grateful to have Stanford at my side. After a few minutes rest, Stanford asked me to go ahead on the trail to Barafu Camp. He would eventually catch up.

I didn’t see Stanford until I sluggishly arrived at Barafu, where he found me practically limping down the trail. I expected to see Reid and his guide patiently waiting, but they were no where in sight. We made it down to the checkpoint, where Stanford filled out some paperwork and questioned the park rangers for a moment. After a short rest, Stanford requested I follow him. In my hypoxic state, I asked Stanford about Reid more than once, and time after time he stated “Your friend will meet you at bottom.” That was that, I was all alone with Stanford for the remainder of the descent. 

The second leg of the decline was straight down the porter supply route. To make significant headway, this was the section where we practically ran down a level decline, which was easier on my knee, but harder on my energy. I began to sweat profusely and hallucinate. I felt my mind drift and my body slip into a numb state of locomotion. Standford began to multiply into three as if my eyesight was altered. But with every sharp prick of pain, I was instantly brought back into reality. 

We often passed porters racing up and down the trail carrying food and water for other expeditions. I felt selfish for holding up the pace at every bottleneck, but I couldn’t physically push harder. I was at my limit and for the first time in my life I was truly scared of not making it home. I remember planting on a rock for break after break as Stanford eagerly waited for me to gain composure and push forward.

Nearly four hours into the brutal descent I began to see green vegetation for the first time. We had reached the rainforest. It gave me hope, but began a long trail of nothing but natural steps. I asked Stanford a rough estimate of our time, in which he responded “three hours”.

With the timeline, I began to mentally charge myself and incite as much fire as possible. My headache has slowly dissipated with the rise in oxygen, but my energy level began to significantly sink, especially with the never-ending steps that this portion of the trail introduced. With every step, pain shot straight from my knee and sweat pelted the trail like rain. I just kept going.

We trekked through villages and passed dozens of porters going up the supply route. Eventually, it began to downpour. So, we took shelter at a nearby camp to refill our water and reorganize. Everything was soaked with sweat and both feet had begun to blister and ache. I changed into a dry shirt, dry pair of wool socks and packed away my wool hat. I crammed down a granola bar Stanford has provided and threw over my Furio Waterproof Jacket. As we made progress down steep wet trail, the rain began to lighten and the temperature began to rise. We we’re almost there, I could feel it. We occasionally passed a house or gate, which triggered an emotional reaction of excitement only to often be let down. After each rise in hill, I hoped we would see the end at the bottom. The trail never stopped. The steps never stopped.

Stanford was just an animal. He not only physically carried me through a few of the dangerous routes, he inspired me to walk faster, ignore the pain and dig deep. I learned quite a bit about him and his family on the trail and we shared stories of our lifetime. I’ll never forget what he did for me on that descent. I can only hope to have the opportunity to reunite. This is the only photograph of Stanford I have.

When we finally reached the Mweka Gate, I couldn’t believe it was real. I nearly cried, but didn’t have any tears to give. I was mentally on the edge and physically beyond my limit. On the gravel road below, there was an ambulance waiting for my arrival, which Stanford had called in. After a quick Q&A with the medic, we raced down a gravel road to finally reunite with Reid, who had walked the last mile backward to relieve pressure of his battered knees and shattered toenail. With the guidance of Stanford, the descent required us only six and a half hours, compared to the average 12 hour descent and I didn’t take one single photograph. My right knee had been significantly bruised and cut, but nothing severe. I signed out at the checkpoint and we began the long drive back to Mount Meru Hotel.

The arrival at Mount Meru was met with celebration, a pizza and a lot of wine. But I’ll never forget the shower. After eight days in the bush, I was able to wash away the sweat and discomfort, but the emotional power of Mount Kilimanjaro never left. A soft warm bed was just the icing on the cake.

I was allowed to stay at the hotel the next morning while the others anxiously awaited the possible paragliding arrival of the six pilots at the Moshi landing zone. But the news traveled fast, I had chosen wisely. A morning storm hit Crater Camp and left the remaining six pilots with zero chance of a launch, they were to descend on foot.

Despite having a clean head of hair, my body was wrecked. I limped around like an elderly person and could barley sit without the assistance of my upper body. I immediately began to back up files and import all imagery into Capture One. It was then I noticed a problem, none of the summit day images could be found on the card I used. I frantically double checked all my hard drive with zero luck. I began to download every SD recovery software program on the market. 

What happened? Was it the altitude? Was it the cold?

After a distraught 18 hours, I had all but given up. I would wait until I returned to the United States to send the card off to a data recovery center. As a last resort, I went back through every single memory card. I stumbled upon all the summit images on the backend of a full memory card. I was shocked. I came to the conclusion that in my hypoxic state, I switched a completely empty memory card with a full memory card and to this day have no recollection of doing so. It scared me to think of the possibilities of human error at high altitude and the risk we took.

Eventually, the remainder of expedition stumbled into the hotel to the entire crew cheering, in attempt to lift the spirits of the pilots that did not launch. All looked haggard, morose and unappeased to see us greet them at the entrance. I knew their pain and chose not to celebrate or photograph the scene as a respect.

Nevertheless, after long shower and a fresh change of clothes, the whole expedition, including Tusker Trail, gathered at the bar for a special night. We celebrated with fine bourbon, beer and 20 pizzas until sunrise. It was the much needed morale boost.

The morning after presented a new challenge, I started to become ill. Our Director of Photography, Justin Gustavision had bailed the night before due to his uneasy stomach and never left the toilet. I was afraid that I had caught the same bug. I doubled up on my immunity supplements and pounded lemon water. I was able to keep everything at bay, enough to travel with the expedition to the final adventure for Wings Of Kilimanjaro.

In two small buses, we traveled nearly three hours outside of Arusha, on unmarked dirt roads and rugged paths to a Maasai village in Longido, Tanzania where WOK had officially funded the completion of running water well. This water well would serve thousands of people and save hundreds of lives. We arrived to a massive celebration. All the Maasai people were fitted in their best garments and jewelry. The Maasai men shouted and jumped like a basketball team warming up. The women collectively chanted that carried through the village. The stomach pains moved in waves, but the camera and environment provided a easy distraction to take my mind away from the sickness.

I frantically shuffled from one position to another to lock in a good composition. Despite, having photographed hundreds of Maasai, every new village demands a new process. The celebration moved fast, but provided a harmonious tempo I could sink into. After an initial introduction to the WOK expedition, we followed the Maasai about a mile across several villages, to the dry water bed, which these people relied on for water. The ground was cracked, like an earthquake has shattered the pond. Water was no where to be found, unless the Maasai dug several feet underneath the bone-dry surface. We all gathered to hear a few short words from Adrian and the Maasai Elder and headed back to the main village to reveal the water well.

As the purple ribbon was cut, dozens of children flooded the water well, reaching for every drop. Some filled massive yellow containers, while others bathed under the cold tap. I’ve been blessed to see a lot of cultural impact in person, but there is nothing in the world that compares to witnessing an event such as this. For many, this was the first time they have ever seen or felt clean running water.

I wildly snapped the shutter and danced around the water well for the best shot. The moment moved with electricity and energy, there wasn’t a single member of our crew without a giant smile on their face. Within minutes, the WOK crew was embraced with a traditional Maasi Shúkà as an honor for our adventure and donation. The beautiful moment was short lived, as Coury, Justin and I had to catch our outgoing flight to the United States in just four hours from this point. We had to say our goodbyes.

The ride back to Mount Meru Hotel was bittersweet. I was thrilled to be returning to the United States, but also pensive; the adventure I had worked so hard for was over. I had spent the last year climbing a mountain of personal growth to climb a physical mountain.

After a brutal 48 hours of travel, I returned back to my comfortable home of Louisville, Kentucky. I still had a stomach sickness, I had lost a total 17 pounds and was mentally in a distant space. It required weeks to transition, heal and measure my thoughts. Although, I loved being with friends after nearly four weeks in Africa, it was difficult to changeover into my normal state of reality after such a dramatic event. Nevertheless, It became second nature to merge my story into a brief report that was easily digestible to my peers who had followed my journey. But it was never the real narrative, which this exposition affirms.

Although Wings of Kilimanjaro pulled off an amazing feat and set a Guinness World Record, I believe our greatest accomplishment was not sailing off a volcano at 19,341 feet. Our triumph was raising nearly a half-million dollars for the progress of education and clean water in Tanzania.

We all strive to be happy, to live out our dreams. But an excuse is the the first step to failure and a method to diminish our fear. Progress is mobilized from change, and change isn’t created from comfortable happiness, it’s shaped from a struggle; a relationship, a photograph or a intimidating mountain. There are a lot of mountains out there, whether it be a physical mountain or a mountain of mental. I have no doubt, I will continue to climb.

Throughout the the year, I found myself at various points of exposure and adversity. I exhausted a lot of money, time and energy towards change. But, Kilimanjaro had set a beacon, sparked a fire and cleared a black cloud. It was a gift, that solidified my wellness journey and provided a new sense of strength. I guess you could say it saved my life.

“The mountains are calling, and I must go.” - John Muir

Thank you to Sol Perry for your accountability and navigation through a sea of misinformation.

Thank you to Nadus Films, my brothers in arms; Coury, Justin and Reid.

Thank you to the WOK team for their patience and trust; Adrian, Cormac, Dolf, Chris, Gabe, Julie, Danielle, Jeff, Faisal, Mark, Alison, Kristy, Naomi, Gavin, Daniel, Damien, Raechel, Matt, Carlos, Justin, Rudi, Howie and Rob.

Thank you to Tusker Trail for their guidance and leadership; Eddie, Julian, Elias, Stanford, Baraka, Frances, Happyfrais and the dozens of incredible porters.

Thank you to our partners for their durable product and support; Red Bull, Elemental Climbing, Rab USA, Outdoor Research, SAXX Underwear, Think Tank Photo, BlackRapid, Profoto, Zacuto, Atomos, Benro and Light & Motion.