I almost didn’t go.
This was my first trek. Ever.
Not because I didn’t want to, I’ve wanted this for a long time. But eight weeks before my departure date, I was sitting in a physio’s clinic with a diagnosis of chondromalacia patellae, a knee that couldn’t do a full squat, and a very real possibility that Buran Ghati wasn’t going to happen this year.
So I did what you do. I showed up anyway.
I showed up to physio sessions three times a week. I showed up to the pool and learned to breathe in the water like a complete beginner. I showed up to Cult classes and modified every lunge, every squat, every movement my knee wouldn’t allow. I started running ten days before I left — ten days — with a metronome app telling me how fast to place each foot so my kneecap wouldn’t grind.
There were moments I cried. Genuinely. Sitting with the overwhelming weight of feeling underprepared, undertrained, and unsure whether my body would hold up at 15,000 feet.
And then I went anyway.
Janglik arrived before the trek did.
