There’s something strange about walking toward the tallest mountain in the world. You think it’ll be about the height — about standing in the shadow of Everest and checking off a bucket-list achievement. But it’s not. Not really. It’s about what happens when you strip away comfort, certainty, and ego — and keep walking anyway.
I trekked to Everest Base Camp with 17 people last month. Some were strangers at the start. By the end, they were family. Each one carried their own reasons for being there, quite silently, if I may say so — curiosity, ambition, friendships, bucket list item, grief, healing, challenge, celebration. But we all walked the same trail. We all faced the same altitude, the same cold, the same aching legs and restless, sleepless nights. And in that shared hardship, something unspoken happened.
It wasn’t just a trek. It was a mirror.
The Himalayas don’t care who you are. They don’t care about your resume, your titles, your fitness levels, your goals. Out there, everything’s stripped down. You get tired fast. Your body rebels. Your mind plays tricks. You feel everything — the silence, the doubt, the rawness of being so far from everything familiar. There’s no room to fake it.
At 17,598 feet, you learn a lot about who you really are. And the transformation makes you carry those life lessons with you.
Lesson 1: When Plans Fall Apart, Stay Flexible.
We thought we were ready. We had trained, packed, double-checked our gear, weighed it to ensure that it met the permissible limit. The itinerary was tight, the excitement high. We left around 1 AM from Kathmandu on April 17th, on a bumpy 6-hour bus ride to Ramechhap Airport to catch the flight to Lukla from where the trek started.
All of us were squealing in excitement, posing for pictures as we were about to board the tiny 20-seater plane for our 18 minute ride to Lukla. Till the moment we were told that Lukla airport had shut down because of high winds.
We waited. For ten hours.
All of us in our EBC t-shirts, waiting patiently for our flight to take off for Lukla.
Flights to Lukla are always a gamble — the world’s most unpredictable weather, the world’s most dangerous runway (It’s true!). But when you're stuck in a tiny airport for hours with no real updates, it hits different. We sat there trying to stay hopeful, some slept off their jetlag on the benches, some prayed, and some of us just waited patiently because that is what we have learnt about the mountains. They will let you pass when they want to. Eventually, when we finally learnt that no flights would take off, we called it a night and slept at a nearby very basic hotel.
That was supposed to be day one of our trek.
And in that long, frustrating day, we learned our first mountain lesson: you’re not in control.
Out there, nothing runs on your schedule. The weather shifts without warning. The mountain follows its own rhythm — steady, ancient, unmoved by our plans. You can prepare all you want, but the trail often has other ideas. You can either resist and exhaust yourself, or learn to adjust, let go, and move with it. Letting go of the plan didn’t mean letting go of the goal. It just meant learning to bend. To wait. To breathe through the mess. And honestly, that skill ended up being more important than any piece of gear we packed.
Lesson 2: Comfort is overrated. Growth lives in the stretch.
When we left Lukla, that tiny runway clinging to a cliffside, I still had a trace of that “I got this” confidence. But as the days stacked up — each one harder, each one longer, each one colder, with lesser oxygen at higher altitudes — that confidence turned into something quieter. Not less powerful. Just more honest.
On our way to Namche Bazaar
Climbing higher, you sleep less. You eat less. You walk for hours in thin air. And the creature comforts start vanishing — showers, attached toilets with running water, warm beds, clean clothes. There’s no hiding from discomfort. But that’s the gift. Because what replaces it is something far more powerful: stillness, silence, and views so vast they feel almost unreal.
The turquoise ribbon of the Dudh Koshi River roaring below suspension bridges and carving through deep valleys; ancient chortens standing silent along the trail, draped in prayer flags; lines of engraved manis — stone tablets etched with sacred mantras — guiding our steps like quiet sentinels; snow-dusted peaks, with my favorites being Ama Dablam, Lhotse, and of course sneak peaks of Mt. Everest, stretching beyond the clouds. The winds felt like whispers from something older than time. Surrounded by that kind of beauty, you stop missing the comforts. They start to feel irrelevant. What fills you instead is awe — and a quiet sense that maybe, this is what we’re built for.
You realize how much of life is built around avoiding discomfort — air conditioning, food delivery, instant gratification, always having a screen to reach for, never having to be truly alone with your thoughts. But on this trek, discomfort is the price of admission. And once you stop resisting it, it transforms. It becomes a teacher. You learn that you don’t need as much as you thought. You learn that your body can do more. Your mind too. You learn how to sit with yourself — without the buzz, without the feed — and find something steady there.
Comfort zones are safe, but they’re small. The world is not.
Lesson 3: Everyone’s carrying something — and most of it’s invisible.
Among the 17 of us, we had a wide mix — different ages, backgrounds, stories. Most were friends, and I was meeting everyone for the first time. I’ll admit, I was a little apprehensive at first — the only one who didn’t already know the group. But that feeling disappeared almost as soon as introductions were made. The group was warm, friendly, and super fun. There was no awkwardness, just easy energy and laughter. The trail flattened all the differences anyway. One step at a time, we got to know each other. And slowly, the layers came off.
Our gang in high spirits, leaving Namche onwards to Debouche.
I saw people struggle. I saw some fall sick, I saw people break — and then keep walking. I saw quiet strength in the ones who never complained, even when it hurt. At the tea house in the evenings, we all came together — playing games, singing songs, reciting poetry, sharing snacks, laughing until our faces hurt. There was no pressure, no pretense. Just people showing up as they were. Those moments — simple, joyful, completely unfiltered — did more than pass the time. They deepened the bonds. By the time we hit the harder parts of the trail, we weren’t just trekking beside each other — we were looking out for each other.
You don’t need Wi-Fi to connect. You just need presence.
The acclimatization hike to Nangarshang Summit. We started from those tiny green settlements that you see on the left by the river :)
Lesson 4: Some things are worth the extra effort — especially the meaningful ones.
The day we trekked to Namche was one of the longest. It tested us. We were on our feet for nearly 12 hours — a demanding climb followed by an acclimatization hike after barely an hour of rest. My body was tired. My legs were done. Most would have called it a day right there.
But I had something on my mind — a painting.
There was a local artist in Namche I stumbled upon. I wanted to ask him for a custom piece — a painting of me walking towards Mt. Everest on a suspension bridge, something personal that could carry the spirit of this journey home with me. The only material thing I pursued on the entire trek. Not a souvenir. A symbol.
The EBC wall behind my work station :)
So, despite the fatigue and the pouring rain that evening, I made the effort to go there once everyone was settling into the warmth of the tea house. I went to see him that evening, spoke to him about what I had in mind, and placed my request. It was such a small act, but it felt meaningful — because it wasn’t about the object. It was about honoring the experience. About taking something back that wasn’t mass-produced or mindlessly bought, but thoughtfully chosen. A reflection. A memory. A feeling on canvas.
That painting isn’t just about Mt. Everest. It’s the 12-hour day and the ones following. The ache in my legs. The determination. The joy. The whole journey, distilled into color and line.
Sometimes the things that stay with us aren’t things at all. They’re stories. And sometimes, we’re lucky enough to bring those stories home — not for the world, but for ourselves. It hangs on the wall in my work space, along with my certificate, medal, and two pictures from the group at the base camp. I smile each time I turn to that wall to catch a breather between sessions.
Lesson 5: Dig deeper. There’s always more in the tank.
I never wanted to give up — not once. But there were moments when it got really, really hard. One of the toughest was the steep ascent up Thukla Pass. The terrain was relentless — a switchback trail of loose rock and uneven boulders, climbing sharply with no real break. The air was thin, the wind had a bite, and the path felt like it was going straight up. Every breath took effort. Every step asked a little more.
The climb up to Thukla.
There was no rhythm, no glide — just grit. And somewhere in the middle of that climb, I started to feel it. Not the urge to quit, but the full weight of how much energy it took just to keep going.
But then we reached the Everest Memorials — a quiet, humbling place where stone cairns and plaques honor the climbers and sherpas who never made it back. And suddenly, the struggle of the climb faded into something deeper. The exhaustion mixed with reverence. Grief. Gratitude. Perspective.
I took this photo of a plaque at the Everest memorial to read it later. And once I did, I was stunned that the memorial was for a person who had a degenerative spinal cord injury— an area that I have worked most of my life in.
You stand there, wind whipping through prayer flags, surrounded by reminders of both ambition and loss — and it shifts something inside you. You dig deeper, not out of pride, but out of respect. Out of heart. Out of the realization that being there — breathing that air, standing on your own two feet — is a gift.
And that’s when I truly understood: strength isn’t about charging through. It’s about choosing, over and over, to keep showing up. Especially when it’s hard. Especially when it hurts.
We all had our version of that moment. And we all made it. Not because it got easier. But because we found something steady inside ourselves and kept walking.
There’s more in us than we think. Sometimes, it takes a mountain to show us.
Lesson 6: The summit isn’t the point. The journey is.
When we finally reached the Everest Base Camp — 5,364 meters/17,598 feet above sea level — there was no epic fanfare. No fireworks. Just prayer flags, rocks, wind, and a sign that I thought read “Everest Base Camp.” And yet, it felt huge. Not because of the place. But because of what it took to get there.
But there was something sobering too. The famous base camp rock — the one people trek for days to see — had been defaced. Someone had scrawled over it in red graffiti, signaling “NO Everest Base Camp” and replacing it with “Chomolungma Base Camp.” It was jarring. Not because Chomolungma (the Tibetan name for Everest) doesn’t deserve its place — it absolutely does — but because of how it was done.
The moment at the rock!
A sacred spot, a hard-earned destination for thousands of trekkers, altered by one person’s need to make a point with a can of spray paint. It was a reminder — even here, in a place where nature is at its most humbling, humans still bring their ego.
We come to these mountains hoping to be transformed. But sometimes, we end up trying to leave our mark instead of letting the mountain leave one on us. That rock, in its defaced state, said more about human behavior than the person who did it probably realized.
Still, that defaced rock didn’t stay with us. It was everything around it — the wind, the silence, the sheer force of the peaks above. It was Romil, the founder of Boots and Crampons, the company we trekked with, taking us beyond the usual trail to the B&C base camp, where he was leading a team to summit Mt. Everest. It was the aloo paranthas, hot tea & coffee, and a range of snacks, the warmth of welcome, and the glimpse into the lives of true mountaineers.
As we walked into the B&C tents, where we got a rare glimpse of how real mountaineers live, dine, and prepare for the climb of their lives, it was awe-inspiring — seeing the grit and focus in those tents, the temple where they pray before they start the climb, the quiet intensity in the air. You could feel the weight of determination and humility mixed together.
We posed at the rock with our medals. We hugged. We took photos, yes. But mostly, I stood in quiet awe — of the mountains, of each other, of ourselves. The summit wasn’t the reward. The journey was. The early mornings, the nightmares and the headaches, the jarring push out of our comfort zones, where we encouraged each other along the way, cracked jokes at dinner, and had those shared moments in cold tea houses. That was the treasure.
Life isn’t made in the peak moments. It’s made in the steps that lead to them.
We did it!!
Lesson 7: Persistence changes you — quietly, completely.
Life has its fair share of ups and downs. For many of us, the past few years have cracked open things we thought were solid — routines, relationships, careers, identities. There were moments where just getting through the day felt like a climb. That weight came with me to the Himalayas. Maybe it came with others too, unspoken but real.
Trekking to Everest Base Camp didn’t erase that pain. But it reframed it.
Every hard step on the trail reminded me of the hard days I’d already survived and triumphed — the ones back home when life felt stuck, uncertain, or unfair. And with every mile we climbed, I saw it clearly: I had already been climbing, long before I reached the mountain. We all had.
There’s something sacred about persistence. Not the loud kind. The quiet, stubborn kind that says, I’m still here. The kind that keeps going even when nobody’s watching, even when it would be easier to give in, give up, or go numb.
This trek didn’t just ask me to persist — it showed me that I already knew how.
I’ve found more strength than I knew I had. More courage than I gave myself credit for. Not because I made it to Base Camp — but because I showed up when I didn’t have to. Because I kept walking through the fog, the fatigue, and the fear.
Lesson 8: Respect the team you don’t always see.
With Rinji and Dendi, our amazing sherpas. Dendi has featured in the movie “Everest” and has climbed the peak an astonishing 4 times!
It’s easy to romanticize a trek like this — the peaks, the personal breakthroughs, the sense of achievement. But the truth is, none of it would have been possible without the Sherpas, porters, and yak shepherds who carried the real weight of our journey. They moved ahead of us and behind us, often unseen, hauling gear, securing routes, managing logistics like meals and stay, and doing it all with quiet strength and grace.
Our team of sherpas led by Dendi (a 4 time Everester), Rinji, & Sange were incredible. They didn’t ask for praise. They didn’t slow down. They just showed up, every single day, making the impossible feel manageable. And often encouraging us to just keep moving, despite the fatigue, and whatever other challenges we were facing.
It struck me hard — the quiet dignity with which they worked. And it hurt to see how at the end of the trek some of their efforts went unrecognized. Some personal porters were tipped rather poorly and you could see the look of disappointment on their faces. That stayed with me. Because this team — the one we often forget to thank — is what makes the trip possible. They’re the backbone, the heart, the unsung soul of the journey.
The lesson? Gratitude isn’t just about what you feel — it’s about what you do. A thank-you. A fair tip. A moment of acknowledgment. These aren’t small things. They’re the very least we can offer to those who carry more than we’ll ever know — both literally and figuratively. They remind us that true strength is often quiet. And that the people who support us in the background deserve to be brought to the front.
If you ever trek these trails, tip well. Thank often. Remember who carried you.
Lesson 9: The way back can be just as meaningful.
Tannu and me :)
Of the 16 who reached Base Camp, only two of us — Tannu and I — chose to return to the start on foot. And it turned out to be one of the most special parts of the trek.
By then, we were fully acclimatized. There was no pressure, no group schedule to stick to even though we were very disciplined and punctual and did not give our trek leader, my dear friend Chetan, any grief. We walked at our own pace, pausing for tea, coffee, cake, and doughnuts at quiet little teahouses and cafes that felt like secrets hidden along the trail. The air felt easier. The views, somehow, looked even more beautiful on the way down — like we were finally seeing them with rested eyes and open hearts.
Circled back to Lukla, where we started.
What made it even better was the quiet companionship. Tannu and I were on the same wavelength — sharing long stretches of silence, pausing for conversations when they naturally bubbled up, and giving each other space when needed. There was no need to fill the silence. The mountains did that for us.
Coming back down, it wasn’t just the altitude we left behind — it was noise, ego, urgency. I noticed how differently I was moving through the world. Slower. Lighter. More tuned in. The mountain had stripped away the clutter. And with every step down, it was like I was walking back into myself.
I didn’t want to “return to normal.” I wanted to carry this version of me forward — more aware, more grateful, more strong, more alive.
Lesson 10: These journeys change you — in ways you don’t always have words for.
Every trek leaves its mark, but some leave something more — a shift deep inside. With each adventure like this, I find myself becoming a little stronger. A little quieter. A little simpler. The noise of the world fades. The relentless need to prove, perform, accumulate — it all softens. Something in the mountains strips that away.
There’s no audience out there. No roles to play. Just you, your breath, your feet, and the trail ahead. You start letting go of what doesn’t matter. And you begin to feel what does. Connection. Resilience. Wonder. Gratitude. The sheer gift of being alive, upright, and moving forward.
It feels spiritual — not in a grand, mystical way, but in the most grounded sense of the word. Like you’ve touched something real beneath all the layers we wear in everyday life. Like the mountain helped you peel some of them off.
And when you come back, you carry that clarity with you. Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just quietly — in how you speak, how you choose, how you live. Less clutter. More truth.
You come back a little more yourself.
17 people. 115 kilometers. One trail. Infinite lessons.
We came from different places, but we walked together. We suffered together. We celebrated together. And we left a part of ourselves on that mountain — and brought something bigger back.
Everest didn’t care who we were. But in trying to meet it — in walking toward it — we found out who we could be.
And that? That’s the summit I’ll never forget.