What Pain, Privilege, and a Mountain Taught Me About Control
Letting go of grit to redefine how I move through the hard
“Just leave me—I’m of better use to the leopards than I am going up another hill,” I half-joked to Steven, the senior elder walking beside me, as he pointed toward yet another ridge in the distance.
We had already climbed for over 10 hours that day—scrambling through loose rock, sun-scorched trails, thorn covered bushes and steep elevation in the Ndoto Mountains of northern Kenya.
It was only Day 2.
When grit isn’t enough
My old sports injury—collapsed arches—was flaring up, each step lighting fire through my legs. In that moment, I honestly wasn’t sure I’d make it to Day 10. I’ve always seen myself as tough. I’ve competed athletically even as an adult. I’ve also hiked 21km (13 miles) in the Sierras with a 914m (3,000 feet) elevation gain.
I know endurance. I know grit. But this?
This was a different kind of hard.
The hypocrisy of numbing out
And still, I found myself doing something I rarely do: asking for pain medication in hopes to numb it away. I just needed to get through it. Push past it. But the irony wasn’t lost on me.
Numbness is something I’ve deliberately tried to avoid in my personal life—choosing instead to feel fully, to face discomfort rather than escape it.
The edge of control
In all the “hard” I’ve faced—whether running races, surviving abusive relationships, or navigating toxic work environments—I was shocked that this moment was pushing me to my edge.
I’ve endured worse, haven’t I?
So why did I feel like I had gone soft?
It also wasn’t just mental, it was the betrayal of my body—I couldn’t trust it.
Dehydration was challenging to get ahead of while managing both the heat and physical exertion. My legs would seize with full-body cramps every time I took a step—worsening if I dared to stop and rest.
This wasn’t just pain—it was the breakdown of control.
The quiet strength beside me
Steven, walking beside me, gently said, “No, you’re not staying with the leopards. Pole pole—slowly, slowly. You will get there. You don’t need to rush.” He admitted his feet were aching too and his shins were badly cut from the thorns. “This isn’t the best path to climb around these mountains,” he added.
And for a moment, I felt relief—relief that someone so rooted in this land also found it challenging. But I also felt helpless not knowing how much further we had to go.
That was the only time he spoke of pain. Then he let it go.
His silence made my own thoughts feel even louder. He was suffering too, but not indulging it.
The mountains don’t care about comfort
I glanced behind me and saw our camel safari host, Helen, trailing lightly. She knows these mountains like the back of her hand, never walking the same trail twice.
“I’m honestly so impressed that you’ve been doing this for decades,” I said.
She raised an eyebrow and smiled. “The hard things you are forced to do in order to stay alive.”
There it was.
If the universe was trying to humble my comfortable, privileged mouth—message received.
So I stayed quiet. The anger from exhaustion was building—fueling my silence, not out of peace but as protection. I didn’t want to lash out at anyone. Not because I was truly angry. I just had no capacity left. My body was failing me, and there was no space for anything else.
Aileen, is this really how you want to show up for this once-in-a-lifetime experience?
Is this a reflection of who you want to be?
Surrender is a form of strength
That was the moment I stopped paying attention to my feet. I had chosen this experience, even though it was far harder than I imagined.
And in that moment, I didn’t need to push through. I needed to surrender.
Hard isn’t about having to prove to myself I can handle the pain. It was staying present with it. Yes I was in pain, but what value was I adding or gaining by focusing on it?
My former yoga training started to kick in. I began focusing on my breath.
Inhaaaaaale—imagining air recirculating oxygen to my feet.
Exhaaaaale—letting the pain move and release through my mouth.
When pain becomes the only story
I was in the prison of my own thoughts negatively wishing the hard away. This wasn’t about whether or not I would see it through the end, this was about how I would see through. Presence over performance.
Sure, I could’ve finished the trek in pain, trapped in a loop of silent complaints and mental resistance—and still celebrated that I made it through. But if that were the case, my memory would be imprinted with the begrudging, the relentless chorus of “are we there yet?”
Those are not the kind of memories I wanted to make.
I was in Africa! I was walking beside a Samburu elder with decades of stories to share. And all I had to take away from it was my aching feet? No, Aileen. We are not doing it that way.
Forging a new path
Since that day, I chose to exist with the pain by continuing to walk and talk with Steven—immersing myself in his world and listening to his lived lessons. My feet still wanted to scream louder than the conversation I was trying to have, but I refused to let them define my experience.
I searched for beauty around me, capturing photos of native flowers, admiring how color bursts from the land even when the terrain feels barren, even menacing. Despite not speaking the same language, I connected with one of the younger warriors simply by sharing my love for the colorful vegetation. He began waiting for me at the top of each hill, unfurling his palm to reveal the flowers he’d picked—just so I wouldn’t miss the chance to photograph them.
During our breaks, I created a small ritual with Buriam, one of the leading warriors. He would teach me the Samburu word for each ingredient in the trail mix he offered. My inner child came alive when I found elephant tracks—and literally walked in their footprints.
Joy and pain can coexist. And on that mountain, they did.
The mountains we carry
Hard things will find us—on mountain trails, in boardrooms, in loss, in still moments when no one’s watching. And sometimes, we won’t get to choose the path or the pain. But we do get to choose how we move through it. Whether we resist or surrender. Whether we let it define us, or refine us.
What this mountain taught me is that true resilience isn’t just pushing through—it’s being present while you do. Feeling your breath. Softening the fight. Letting meaning in, even when it hurts.
Because in the end, control isn’t about dominating the experience—it’s about choosing how to engage with it, how you remember it, and how to let it shape you.
The Other Side of the Mountain
If you enjoyed this thought piece, my companion article, Walking with the Samburu, dives into how a 10-day journey with a remote tribe reshaped my understanding of leadership, resilience, and what it truly means to live in alignment—professionally and personally.
Amazing piece, Aileen! You had me back on that mountain, feeling the struggle of the day and not wanting that to be the take away of the trip. But maybe, just maybe, that day was needed to see the amazing experience all around us!
Yes! Although so challenging to be present for, joy AND pain can coexist. Thank you for sharing your wisdom 🙏🏼💝