I climbed Kosciuszko last weekend… and nearly didn’t finish

On Saturday, I climbed Mount Kosciuszko.

That sentence still feels surreal to write — mostly because I am not a hiker. I’m not the ultra-fit, mountain-conquering type. Some days I need a walking stick just to get around. Some days my body rebels completely. And just a week before this climb, my husband had to help me out of bed.

So no, Kosciuszko wasn’t exactly a logical choice.

But I did it for two reasons:

1. To raise money for UN Women and support women experiencing violence worldwide.

2. To remind myself — urgently — what I am capable of.

Those two motivations were the only things that carried me through what became the hardest physical experience of my life.

The Climb Started at 1:40AM — In the Dark

Our group began the hike at 1:40AM, aiming for a sunrise summit. That meant a few hours of broken sleep before stepping into the freezing dark, relying on tiny headlamps and blind faith.

Walking in the dark is a strange experience. Your world shrinks to a small circle of light in front of your feet. Everything else — the landscape, the people around you, the scale of the mountain — disappears.

Sometimes we’d hear the sound of running water without seeing a creek.
Sometimes snow would crunch suddenly underfoot even though we couldn’t see it.
Sometimes I couldn’t see the person walking directly ahead of me, only a few bobbing lights in the distance. 

It was eerie. And magical. And exhausting.

The Snow Line Changed Everything

I knew there’d be some snow near the peak. I imagined it would be beautiful.
I did not imagine we’d be walking through snow for hours.

Not soft, postcard snow.
Hard, uneven, slippery, unpredictable snow.

Snow that demanded constant focus.
Snow that turned every step into a full-body effort.
Snow that sometimes felt a little dangerous on the steeper climbs.

At the six-kilometre mark, as the sun began to rise, we hit the snow line properly — and that’s when my body started to give out.

My dysautonomia flared badly.
Nausea.
Dizziness.
That awful “I’m going to vomit” feeling that fogs your brain.
Legs that wouldn’t cooperate.

And the mountain… kept going.

Rain. Sleet. Hail. Because Why Not?

As if the climb needed extra challenges, the weather turned against us too.

First rain.
Then sleet.
Then hail — sharp and relentless, with nowhere to hide.

By the time we reached the first lookout, I could only take three steps before having to stop to catch my breath. Three steps. Stop. Three more. Stop.

Those moments felt endless.

We reached a rocky rise just as the last of the sunrise was disappearing. I sat on a cold rock and didn’t move until the guides called us to continue.

I honestly didn’t know if I could.

The Summit That Looked Impossible

 And then I saw the final ascent to the summit.

A steep, snow-covered slope with a drop-off on one side. It looked impossible.
It looked like something other people could do — not me.

Two women in our group took one look and decided to turn back.
Strong, capable women who had handled the climb better than I had.

They made a completely reasonable choice.

Then they looked at me — the person struggling most visibly in the group.

I didn’t want to keep going.
Every part of my body screamed “stop”.
My head spun.
My stomach churned.
I couldn’t imagine pushing any further.

But the idea of turning back when the summit was right there?
That felt worse.

“I can’t have come all this way to stop now," I said quitely. 

And something shifted.

The women who had decided to turn back looked at me — truly looked — and changed their minds.
If I could keep going, maybe they could too.

We began the final climb together.
Slow.
Shaky.
But forward.

A little miracle happened just before the summit:
my nausea disappeared.

My body steadied itself.
I still felt physically wrecked, but the fog finally lifted. I started to feel better, and I think this is the only reason I was able to handle the climb back down. 

Reaching the Summit

I will never forget the moment I could see the summit in front of me. I had been working alone for a while. I had no energy to talk. I couldn't keep pace with everyone else, so I was just doing it as I could. The wind was brutal, and I had to focus on my feet in front of me and staying in the middle of the path. Then... the end was in sight. 

Knowing that every step, every wobble, every moment I wanted to quit was helping women who don’t get the luxury of “turning back”… that made the summit mean something deeper.

I thought I’d cry because of how hard it was.
But I cried because we did it together.

The women who almost turned back? They made the summit too.

We hugged.
We laughed.
We tried to not get blown off by the immense winds. 
We looked out over jagged ridgelines and rolling white, and realised the view wasn’t beautiful because of the landscape — it was beautiful because of the journey.

And then… it was time to go back down.

And Then: The Storm on the Way Down

Just when I thought the hardest part was over, the weather reminded us who's in charge.

A storm rolled in fast — the kind of fast that makes your stomach flip.
We saw lightning strike the peak in the not-so-far distance.
And there we were: the highest objects on an exposed ridge.

It was a little frightening.

Our guide stayed calm and reassured us she’d tell us if we needed to drop to the ground. Her steadiness kept all of us grounded.

So we did the only thing we could do, we kept on moving. Through the wind, the rain, the hail, the snow. One step at a time. 

The Longest 4 Kilometres of My Life

On the way down, I walked the entire descent without stopping — except for a short break in a rescue hut during yet another hailstorm.

The final four kilometres I walked with Simone Clarke, the CEO of UN Women Australia.
It was a privilege — and also the longest four kilometres of our collective lives.

We kept telling ourselves, “Just get around the next bend…”
But every bend revealed… more bends.

We laughed.
We swore.
We questioned our choices.
And we kept going.

I am not joking when I say I nearly cried when I finally saw the cars at the end. I've never got myself in a car so fast in my life. That hot shower back at the lodge, had never felt so good. 

The Women Made the Walk What It Was

One of the most powerful parts of the climb wasn’t the scenery — though the views were breathtaking once the sun was up.

It was the women.

We were strangers.
Different ages.
Different backgrounds.
Different fitness levels.
Different reasons for being there.

And yet — the kindness was constant.

Every time I struggled, someone checked in.
A hand on my back.
A “you okay?”
An offer to slow down.
A willingness to walk beside me, even if they could have gone faster.

It wasn’t one particular woman.
It was all of them.
At different times.
In different ways.

By the end, we were bonded in a way that’s hard to explain but impossible to forget.

The After

Reaching the summit felt like relief, pride and deep purpose all rolled together.

But more than that — it reminded me that sometimes the hardest things we do have nothing to do with personal achievement…
and everything to do with the people we’re trying to help.

The climb pushed me physically, mentally and emotionally.

But it also showed me what women can do when they come together for a shared mission —

we don’t just make it to the top;
we lift each other there.