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The ticket has yellowed, but I still hold onto it. When I bought that plane ticket, I longed to see nothing more than the inside of a wooden box. For years the black dog of depression had not only followed me, it relished in feeding on my pain and trauma. It ripped at already open wounds till I was nothing more than mangled pieces. It was not bravery but the force of desperation that pushed me to abandon my agoraphobic ways, and leave my prison home. Instantly transforming into a lone female traveler, on a three-month adventure in South America, was a lofty goal. It was also my last hope. I prayed the 'will to live' would be hidden like some uncovered gem, deep within the Andes. My pilgrimage from across the globe made with hedged bets I'd unearth this elusive treasure in a land increasingly calling to people searching for the same thing. Dwarfed by the Andes and chilled by the crisp air, I mustered all my strength to quiet the hammering dark thoughts. Coming all this way and spending all this money I didn't have fueled my hunger for success. My exhausted mind and body summoned to break through rock and dig even deeper. Ecuador, the shamans, the Andes, and salmonella planned to throw everything they had at me. If this were a test, they'd conspired to ensure it was the greatest test of my life. As I continued to dig through the pain, fatigue, and storm of emotion, my eyes that perceived weaknesses saw strength. My mind that accosted me for being worthless recognized the magnitude of the battle I'd fought. It bestowed worthiness upon me merely for still standing. I was led to Oscar, a seventh-generation Quechua sound healer. For a month, my home was a two-room adobe house at the base of a dormant volcano. Oscar and his family shared a room, and I shared the other with incessantly hungry bed bugs. By the end of the month, my skin mottled with dark scars, red spots, and weeping sores. The risk of permanent scarring just another lesson, one in further breaking down the vanity of a former model. Every morning the sleeping giant Imbabura would peer through the window to watch us at the breakfast table. At over 15000 feet, the sacred male protector of the mountains stood, his head poking through the clouds. He too, seemed to anticipate Oscar's morning announcements. Between my limited Spanish and Oscar's broken English, little got lost in translation. Ethereal swirls rose from the medicinal tea, warming my hands. Through sips of hot earthy liquid, I listened intently to the humble man standing before me. "My wife and I talk. We say now ready you do initiation. We go place many people die. We think for you maybe ok. Sometime mountain no like so people is dead." Even Oscar wasn't convinced that the mountain would play nice. Immersing myself in volcanic hot springs notorious for claiming lives was just another part of the test. And I was here to be tested. I've never been able to work out which of these tests unearthed my new found strength. Was it bathing in icy lakes and streams, being doused in flames, whipped with stinging nettle, or contending with the Ecuadorian nurse from hell? Was it being led astray in a foreign land, far from transport, by an old woman hoping to sell a foreigner a blanket? Escaping a shaman's isolated house in the middle of the night, suitcase in tow, upon discovering I could be locked in my room; or was it recognizing I was strong enough to do it all? That if I want to live, I need to get better at digging. Not digging my own grave but digging to find the inner strength I possess because ultimately, that will be what saves me. The tickets pile up now. Each new land unlocking tests, treasures, and newfound strengths. But the ticket that says 'Quito' takes pride of place at the top. The gateway to a world of exploration, a world I almost never saw.