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Pupils wide in the darkness. Lungs thirsty for oxygen. Muscles burning. Not 48 hours earlier had I been stood, teary eyed, saying farewell to my mother before embarking on my first solo trip. It was a few hours before sunrise was scheduled and, despite the tropical climate, the absence of the sun left the air feeling biting and the darkness a monolithic unknown. Despite our torches and bamboo sticks, we still stumbled over tree roots and ruts in the untamed path as we cut through the jungle. The earlier chatter and jokes among our group had fallen away into the underbrush and we walked in a breathy silence; the speedy pace set by our local guide and his daughter. At 19, naïve and nervous, it had never been my plan to hop 7,739 miles around the world. However, fuelled by a desire to be reckless after a breakup, I decided it was now or never. “Halfway!”, exclaimed the little girl, putting us all to shame with her abounding energy whilst we pretended, unsuccessfully, that our legs weren’t begging for a rest. Not more than a moment later, we emerged from the suffocating foliage into clear air, giving us a magnificent view of distant glimmering lights silhouetting the villages below whilst a clear sky full of winking stars seemed to giggle at us. As we caught our breath, I marvelled at how unbelievably far from my normal life this was. Not simply moseying downstairs to pop in some toast before work, I was hiking an active volcano on the picturesque island of Bali to boil an egg in volcanic steam. Having never ventured abroad without the security blanket of family or friends, I second guessed my decision to go it alone as soon as I felt the plane wheels leave the tarmac. Fighting the overwhelming urge to (very politely) scream at the pilot to turn around, I had no choice but to settle in for the 24hr, two-legged journey. Scaling the last part of the volcano, I wished I was more mountain goat than gawky teenager as the rocks required a deftness my pavement-battered feet could only dream of. Determined not to give up at the last hurdle, I threw my faith into my feet and their primitive instincts, trusting them not to let me tumble downwards. It wasn’t long before we reached our destination and, still surrounded by night, we settled onto the ground with a steaming cup of tea prepared for us by our guide. A small dog, whom I named Pépe, snuffled at the ground around us and decided to curl up beside me to await the sunrise. Not previously being known for spontaneity, I knew this trip had the potential to be a personal soul-crushing disaster or simply my magnum opus. I felt like I was stepping out onto the moon, this seemingly straightforward plane ticket holding a much bigger resonance for my perception of myself. I was shaking off repetitious routines, unending deadlines and excessive self-pressure – at least, that was the goal. No stranger to a sunrise, I was not expecting what I saw. As the sun gently flamed into the sky and filled the heavens with a divine glory, the soft mist stroked my skin in the cold air as it rose from the earth. The vast volcanic crater was becoming visible and the realisation that we were perched metres from an opening to the core of our world posed a dramatic contrast to the sunlight’s warmth tenderly caressing my face. As the light turned from grey, to orange, to blue, I felt an absolute stillness. Comforted by my insignificance next to the majesty of the natural world, I was totally at peace with the knowledge that I had nothing to do. Nowhere to hurry. No expectations to fulfil. Looking forward to what was ahead.