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Freezing, and wrapped in every layer I could retrieve from my lightweight pack, I tossed and turned. Every time I drifted off, I jolted awake, suffocating. That’s the thing about altitude, you can’t breathe through your nose – it’s too shallow. I opened my mouth and heaved in a breath from the frozen air as I drifted in and out of sleep. I dreamt that someone was in my tent with me. They were telling me to keep up with everyone else. I couldn’t. These kind of dreams were strange. They were far away, like a hallucination. I lay there, shaking. My partner had continued earlier that day, leaving the tent too big and too cold for just me and my pack. Hakuna Matata – the mantra, I rolled the words over my tongue as I reminded myself to keep breathing. The climb was hard. My peers were faster than me and so I fell behind towards the end of each day. But, I knew that it was best to listen to my body and understand for the first time in my life what it was telling me. It was telling me to ‘pole pole’ - go slow. The altitude hit me very early on, I could feel the difference by the time we reached first camp and from there onward I knew the rest of the climb was going to be difficult. I was tired and short of breath which made carrying my day bag a lot harder than I wanted it to be. I pushed through losing my appetite, I pushed through being the slowest in the group and I pushed through the emotional toll. I did not want to give up. By the end of day three, I seriously considered giving in. I knew I couldn't keep up with the rest of the group, I knew each day would get harder and I knew I had taken on a task too big for me. The next morning, I went to our group leader, a big man who had been leading Kili expeditions for years. The day before he had told me about his daughter, a girl my age. The pay from leading Kilimanjaro expeditions was paying her school fees. It was clear he was tired, but he had to continue until she finished. I told him I couldn't go any further, I didn't think I would get through the rest of the day and I was worried about what lay ahead. He told me I should go on. I listened. I was still slow, but I pushed on as he said. I climbed the cliff face which famously homes kissing rock, I walked down loose, sandy slopes and up steep, cloudy ones. I sipped black tea and ate snacks. I was feeling on top of the world, or in this case Africa. Until, about 30 minutes before our lunch stop at Karanga camp. A downpour had started, I was drowsy from altitude and the steep hill face ahead was not going to be my friend. Hills made me much slower than I already was and before I knew it the rest of the group were long gone. It was me and 3 porters as I dragged myself up that loose dust-covered slope, my trekking poles scraping the rocks with each impossible step. Already at over 4,000 meters, barely able to lift my legs and breath at the same time, surrounded by strangers that I couldn't understand. I knew I was holding them back from their lunch, I knew we all wanted out of the rain and I felt my emotions lift inside me, sucking up every last drop of my energy into not letting tears fall and not sitting down and stopping. I made it to the tents of Karanga, where the hot soup greeted me with open arms and the medics with concern. They asked me to join them in their tiny green tent where I sniffled and confessed that I was exhausted. My muscles weren't sore but my lungs were. The big man from that morning joined us moments later to ask me if I wanted to continue. I didn't know.