An Ode to Quitting
in the spirit of honesty
On Monday morning at 6 a.m., Ryan and I landed in Guatemala for our friend’s wedding. Despite the 1 a.m. departure from Dulles, we were excited to be in a warm, tropical country and away from the politics of Washington, D.C.
One of the main draws of visiting Antigua, Guatemala, is the volcanoes. Clay, the groom, had organized a group hike up a local volcano a few days before the wedding. I had even added "hiking up a volcano" to my 30 before 30 list back in July!
While I was eager for the hike, I had a few concerns. The most pressing was that I had fractured my fibula and torn my meniscus in early December, leaving me only six weeks to recover. Compounding that, I’d been in injury recovery since September after re-injuring my hip flexor during a half marathon. Months of physical therapy followed, only to end with a fractured fibula during my first run back. In short, I haven’t done more than 10 minutes of cardiovascular movement since mid-September.
Adding to my apprehension, I learned the hike would be 4.5 miles to base camp, with over 3,400 feet of elevation gain. To put that in perspective: I’ve done plenty of hiking and backpacking, but I’ve never tackled that kind of elevation in just four miles.
On Tuesday morning, we woke early, collected gear from the outfitter, and fueled up with banana pancakes before driving an hour to the trailhead. Our group of about 25 included Clay and Grecia’s friends, along with a few European travelers. Each of us carried light daypacks, while our overnight gear was bused to the base camp.
The trail wasted no time—it was steep and unforgiving from the start, a mix of loose dirt and sand that made every step feel unstable. Within minutes, my heart was pounding from the steep incline and the thin air at 8,000 feet.
I’m no stranger to tough hikes. Ryan and I climbed Half Dome two summers ago, a grueling 5,000-foot ascent over eight miles. But this trail was on another level. At one point, I even wondered if I might be having an asthma attack.
Here’s where honesty kicks in: no one else seemed to be struggling. I fell at least three minutes behind the group, with the guides practically pushing me up the trail. It was mortifying and a huge blow to my ego. I still don’t fully understand why I struggled so much—maybe a combination of diminished cardio, steep terrain, high altitude, and lingering knee instability. Whatever the reasons, I was miserable.
I’m a big believer in type II fun—the kind of suffering that’s worth it in hindsight—but this felt different. Less than a mile in, I knew I wasn’t going to make it to base camp, or, if I did manage to make it, I’d be miserable.
Ryan and I decided he would continue while I turned back. It was the right call for me, but it still felt crushing. I pride myself on being fit enough to handle most physical challenges, and this hike proved me wrong. On the way down, I teared up, frustrated and disappointed. The narrative in my head was brutal: Why can’t I do this? What’s wrong with me? Everyone’s going to think I’m weak.
Back in Antigua, I tried to lift my spirits. I got my hair cut and colored at a local salon, had dinner alone, and read in bed. Meanwhile, Ryan and the group made it to the base camp at 11,900 feet, with only moderate struggle.
In the past 24 hours, I’ve done a lot of reflecting. Turning around was a brave decision, even if it felt like failure. My body wasn’t up to the challenge, and I listened to it. That doesn’t make it easier to process, though. I felt humiliated watching everyone else succeed while I struggled. The comparison game was brutal.
Despite the tough emotions, I’m grateful. I’m at a point in life where I can prioritize my wellbeing over my ego. I’m also thankful for the trust and independence in my relationship with Ryan. He knew I’d speak up if I needed him to turn back, and I encouraged him to keep going.
As it turns out, rain poured down at the summit overnight, and the trail became a muddy mess the next day. Given my knee’s condition, I likely would’ve injured myself on the descent. Knowing this reinforced that turning back was the right call, though I still felt the sting of missing out. Bonding through shared suffering in the outdoors is my love language, and I missed that connection with the group.
I didn’t summit Acatenango, but I did reach my summit—just 0.75 miles up the trail. The trip didn’t start how I envisioned, but I’m glad I made the choice to turn around for my sanity and recovery. Social media often hides these kinds of stories, which is why I decided to share mine. We all fail, quit, or change course sometimes, but those stories rarely get told.
I post plenty of outdoorsy photos that make me look invincible, but I’m not. I have hard, bad days where I question everything I think defines me. And sometimes, quitting or turning around is the braver choice. That doesn’t make it any easier.
