When I first swapped my high-powered microscope for the towering Mt. Kilimanjaro, I won’t lie, I was a bit dumbfounded. As an ophthalmologist, I’m used to navigating the contours of the human eye, not a mountain. It felt like I was trading in a familiar constellation for a foreign galaxy.
My daily practice as an ophthalmologist has always been a careful dance. Precision is key in procedures like cataract surgery – every move has a purpose, a wrong step could mean disaster. Rushing is not in our lexicon. Imagine my surprise when I traveled thousands of miles away from my operating room to the heart of Africa, only to discover this principle echoed in the local phrase – “pole pole”. This Swahili mantra, which translates to “slowly, slowly”, became my unwritten guide as I navigated the trials of Kilimanjaro. It’s funny how a mountain can teach you a life lesson, one that you’ve unknowingly been practicing all along in the OR.
Navigating the mountain’s trails was like suturing an eye under a microscope. Every foot placement mattered, just as every move to place a tiny suture matters. The delicate dance of precision, the practice of patience and the importance of taking things slow, was reiterated, thousands of feet above sea level. It is funny how life hammers home a lesson when you least expect it.
If you know me at all, you know I have a soft spot for space – the vast, infinite mystery of it all. It is humbling and offers perspective – a gentle nudge reminding us that we’re tiny specks in a grand cosmic ballet.
Climbing Kilimanjaro and venturing into space share more in common than you might imagine. Both are extreme environments that push you beyond your self-perceived limits, physically and mentally. They challenge your boundaries, making you question what you’re made of.
On the mountain, my guide, Sistus, was my co-pilot, my anchor. At times, I leaned on him for support, just as astronauts depend on each other in the solitude of space. And sometimes, in a plot twist I didn’t see coming, he leaned on me, reminding me of the strength we often underestimate in ourselves.
But to be honest, the jewel in the crown of this adventure wasn’t the mountain, or the stars above it. It was the people. Over thirty of us, from all walks of life, found ourselves tied together by this shared goal. The camaraderie, the connections we formed, were as precious as any summit view.
Vulnerability was our secret sauce. Opening up to each other, sharing our fears, and rooting for one another – that was our lifeline in the harsh terrain. I believe that’s the key to truly living, no matter where you are: on a mountain, under a starry sky, or in the hustle and bustle of everyday life. It’s always about the people, the connections, the shared laughter, and even the shared falls.
In life, we all have our mountains to climb and our galaxies to explore. Along the way, it’s the “pole pole” principle, the strength in vulnerability, and the beauty of human connection that guide us. Whether you’re reaching for the peak or the stars, remember to take a moment, share a chuckle, and remind yourself of the cosmic dance we’re all a part of.
So here’s to the telescopes that bring the stars a little closer, the microscopes that unveil the unseen, and the mountains that remind us of our shared humanity. From an ophthalmologist, a space enthusiast, and now a mountaineer, I share this story with you in hopes of passing along a bit of the inspiration I found on my way to the summit.
