There are moments in life when words barely touch the depth of what you feel — when everything you’ve ever known shifts, and you’re left searching for a new kind of footing. For me, that began in September 2022, when I lost my mum, who died on a flight coming home from Spain. Her very sudden death left a silence that no words could fill. It wasn’t just losing a parent — it was losing the person who shaped so much of who I am. Then, as if one mountain of grief wasn’t enough, I faced another in April 2024 when my dad died after being taken ill. Two anchors gone, just 18 months apart.
It was not just about losing both my parents. Norman, my loyal little Border Terrier, had always been more than just a dog — he was family, a quiet companion through every storm. When I left for my Kilimanjaro training, I had a feeling he was fading, but somehow, he held on. It was as if he knew I needed to finish that chapter before saying goodbye. When I came home, tired from the mountains, he was there waiting — barely able to pick his head up from his bed, his breathing laboured. That night, he slipped away peacefully. I’ll always believe he waited for me, his final gift — one last act of love from a friend who never left my side.
Video: A tribute to Norman
The months that followed were heavy, confusing, and raw. Grief isn’t linear — it doesn’t move neatly from sadness to acceptance. It ebbs and flows, sometimes creeping up quietly, other times crashing down like a storm. There were days I felt completely lost, questioning why and how I was meant to keep going.
But sometimes, life finds ways to show us how to climb again — literally.
In August 2023, I stood on the slopes of Mount Kilimanjaro, surrounded by a group of 17-year-olds full of energy and life. It was more than a physical challenge — it was a journey of emotional healing. Each step was a conversation with my own heart. I carried both my mother’s and Norman’s ashes with me, with a goal to sprinkle their ashes at Uhuru (Freedom) Peak, just under 20,000 ft above sea level. The climb forced me to dig deep — to find strength when every part of me wanted to stop. It taught me that pain and perseverance can coexist. That even in loss, you can still rise.
Then, in December 2024, I returned to Kilimanjaro — this time coinciding with Tanzania’s Independence Day. It felt symbolic: another chapter of freedom, not just for a nation, but for me. Freedom from fear. From self-doubt. From the weight of grief that had defined so much of my recent years. As I stood near Uhuru Peak, snow swirling around me, I sprinkled my dad’s ashes. The climb wasn’t just for me anymore — it was for them. It was for everyone who’s faced darkness and chosen to keep moving forward.
Grief, I’ve learned, doesn’t go away. It simply changes shape. Some days, it sits quietly beside you. Other days, it pushes you to your limits. But through all of it, I’ve discovered that mental health isn’t about pretending to be strong — it’s about allowing yourself to be vulnerable, to feel, to cry, to rest. And still, somehow, to keep going.
Losing both parents in such a short time could have broken me completely. However, it has evolved into a unique form of motivation — to live fully, love deeply, and give back. My journeys — the wing walk, the climbs, the awareness work — are not just adventures; they are my way of saying, “I’m still here.” I’ve been through storms, but I continue to climb, because I owe that resilience to them — and to myself.
Let’s not forget, if you’re walking your own path through loss, remember – it’s okay to stumble. It’s okay to not be okay. But keep walking. Keep climbing. One day, you’ll look back from your own summit and realise — you carried love with you every step of the way.
