The journey from peak physical condition to battling a chronic illness is a challenging one, filled with grief, adaptation, and unexpected revelations. This is the story of a dedicated athlete whose life took an unforeseen turn with the onset of Long COVID. It’s a narrative about confronting loss, redefining identity, and navigating the often-unseen biases within the athletic community.
From the thrill of scaling granite peaks to the frustration of battling chronic fatigue, this article delves into the emotional and physical battles faced by an individual who once defined themselves through movement and adventure. Discover how this athlete confronted ableism, redefined her relationship with rest, and found new paths to fulfillment despite the constraints of her condition.
In this exploration, we’ll cover:
- The initial passion for athleticism and adventure.
- The onset and challenges of Long COVID.
- The emotional impact of losing physical abilities.
- The confrontation with ableism in the climbing community.
- The journey toward acceptance and finding new sources of joy.
The Making of an Athlete
From a young age, movement was integral to my sense of self. Growing up, restlessness was a constant companion if I wasn’t engaged in some form of physical activity. Whether it was the thrill of running, the challenge of climbing, or the camaraderie of playing soccer, being active defined my childhood. The bruises earned were badges of honor, symbols of toughness and a life lived to the fullest.
The anticipation of skiing trips to Mount Hood was almost unbearable, and the transition to running brought new levels of exhilaration. As one of the ‘three fast freshmen,’ I quickly found myself competing at the Varsity level, driven by an insatiable need to push my physical limits. However, this relentless pursuit often led to physical pain, a sign that, while celebrated, hinted at the unsustainable nature of my approach.
The Steens Mountain High Altitude Running Camp marked a turning point. Running nearly 100 miles at 7,500 feet over five days was both a test and a revelation. While the experience solidified my love for running, it also made me realize that it wasn’t a sport I could sustain indefinitely. The physical toll was immense, and I understood that my need for movement had to evolve.
It was my dad who introduced me to the documentary ‘Meru,’ a film that captured the harrowing yet captivating world of high-altitude climbing. Watching Jimmy Chin, Conrad Anker, and Renan Ozturk battle the elements on the Shark Fin of Meru, I felt a profound connection. I knew, in that moment, that climbing was the next adventure I needed to pursue.
Finding My Way to Climbing
My senior year of high school marked a significant shift as I decided to leave running behind. The energy and drive that once fueled my passion for running needed a new outlet. Enrolling at the University of Montana in Missoula, I found myself surrounded by mountains and a vibrant outdoor culture that beckoned me towards new challenges.
Despite the initial homesickness, the desire to push my physical boundaries remained strong. I became almost evangelical about the documentary ‘Meru,’ sharing it with anyone who would listen. It wasn’t long before a friend recognized my passion and suggested climbing. The idea was met with both excitement and trepidation, but the seed had been planted.
My 20th birthday brought climbing shoes, and soon I was exploring climbing gyms and bouldering. A Black Diamond sale provided the necessary gear, and before I knew it, I was attending Women’s Night at the Rec Center. The experience was transformative. Learning to belay, tying a figure-eight knot, and completing my first route, I was electrified. The intense focus, the physical challenge, and the supportive community drew me in completely.
Climbing quickly became an all-consuming passion. My circle of friends expanded to include fiercely athletic and independent women who shared my love for the outdoors. Weekends were filled with climbing, backpacking, camping, and skiing. Montana was no longer just a place for school; it was a place to explore, challenge myself, and build lasting connections.
The Pilgrimage to Moab
Spring Break in 2018 marked my first pilgrimage to Moab, Utah, a destination that embodies the dirtbag climbing life. The towering marmalade sandstone cliffs, the endless slot canyons, and the vibrant outdoor culture created a paradise for climbers. This trip was an awakening, a full immersion into a world where adventure and community intertwined seamlessly.
My first outdoor climb, Banana Peel, a 5.10a mixed route, tested my limits and introduced me to the realities of outdoor climbing. A fall resulted in a whipper against the sandstone, but it didn’t deter me. The challenge and the thrill only fueled my determination.
One of the most memorable nights was spent around a campfire, surrounded by fellow climbers, under the vast desert sky. The whispered conversations, the distant shimmer of headlamps, and the silhouette of the pistachio mountains created a scene that captured the essence of the climbing life. I discreetly captured the moment with my camera, creating an image that perfectly encapsulated the week.
Returning to Missoula, I was forever changed. The next four years revolved around climbing, with every break dedicated to trips to the desert. Moab became a second home, a place where I could push my limits, connect with nature, and build lasting memories. It was in Moab, in March 2020, that I first heard the news of the world shutting down due to the pandemic.
The Arrival of the Pandemic and the Onset of Long COVID
On October 31, 2020, while photographing the Highlining Festival in Lolo, Montana, I began to feel unwell. A few days later, I tested positive for COVID-19. After a 12-day illness, I assumed I had recovered and was ready to return to my active lifestyle.
My first days out of quarantine were spent climbing and skiing. In December 2020, I had the opportunity to climb in Red Rocks, Nevada. On December 31, my friends and I tackled Dark Shadows, a ten-pitch mixed route. The climb was exhilarating, a testament to my physical endurance and skill. The experience reinforced my belief that I was invincible.
However, driving back to Missoula in early January 2021, I felt a persistent low energy that didn’t dissipate with rest. These post-exertional malaise crashes became a recurring pattern throughout my senior year of college. Despite these symptoms, I continued to climb, dismissing the warning signs and assuming that I had nothing to worry about.
In the spring of 2021, my friend Hazel shared her experiences with health issues that prevented her from engaging in outdoor activities. She described the darkness and isolation that followed. While I struggled to fully grasp the physical aspect, I couldn’t deny the emotional toll. Climbing had become my sanctuary, my escape from grief and darkness. I naively stated that if I could no longer climb, I wouldn’t be okay.
The Ringing of Alarm Bells
By the spring of 2022, I was still living in Missoula, juggling climbing with work while battling persistent fatigue. Two consecutive weekends at Smith Rock State Park pushed my body to its limits. Despite seeing multiple doctors who dismissed my concerns, I knew something was wrong. My roommate sensed my discomfort and offered to cancel the trip, but I was determined to push through, ignoring my body’s warning signs.
Climbing was my life. My truck was equipped for sleeping, I worked at the local climbing gym, and my room was dedicated to gear. My friendships, career, and journalistic beat all centered around the outdoors. The thought of losing that was unbearable.
After returning from Smith Rock, my symptoms intensified, forcing me to stop climbing. I had to cancel my sixth climbing trip to Moab, a decision that triggered alarm bells in my head. I blamed myself for pulling away, even though it was necessary for my health. Eventually, I moved back home to seek answers and support.
Packing up my life in Missoula, I encountered a disheartening experience with climbing friends who couldn’t understand my limitations. Their confusion and subsequent silence highlighted the ableism prevalent within the community. It became clear that my perspective on climbing had changed, and I was now seeing it through the lens of someone living with a chronic illness.
The Harsh Realities of Ableism in the Climbing Community
Living with a chronic illness opened my eyes to the pervasive ableism within the climbing community. Many athletes are unaware of how their attitudes and behaviors can exclude or marginalize those with disabilities.
The emphasis on pushing limits, the dismissal of rest as weakness, and the judgment of climbers who perform at lower grades all contribute to a toxic environment. The lack of resources for individuals with health conditions who want to learn to climb further exacerbates the issue.
Professional climber Margo Hayes’s sharing of her struggle with Lyme disease resonated deeply. Her experiences of being questioned about her performance and facing criticism for pursuing other interests highlighted the challenges faced by athletes with chronic illnesses. Her words affirmed my own feelings of frustration and isolation.
The stringent culture of toxic masculinity in climbing also contributes to the problem, fostering sexism, misogyny, and homophobia. The glorification of unhealthy and dangerous practices, such as climbing without sleep or adequate sustenance, further alienates those who cannot or choose not to engage in such behaviors. Ultimately, there is a lack of empathy and understanding for individuals with disabilities in the climbing community, particularly when those disabilities are invisible.
The All-Consuming Grief of Losing Movement
The summer of 2022 was marked by profound grief. The inability to climb or camp led to feelings of darkness and isolation. The world felt impossibly small, and I struggled to find purpose or escape. Memories of past adventures only intensified the pain.
Simultaneously, I was battling the healthcare system to obtain a diagnosis. The stress, sadness, and overwhelm were constant, and the one activity that had always provided relief was no longer accessible. I couldn’t help but feel I’d jinxed myself when I told Hazel that I wouldn’t be okay if I couldn’t climb.
Finally, in February 2023, I received my diagnosis of Long COVID. While there was relief in knowing the cause of my physical limitations, the reality of the situation was crushing. There is no known treatment, and the future of my athletic abilities remained uncertain.
The grief of losing climbing and the associated lifestyle took over a year to process. Redefining myself, finding new activities, and building new friendships became essential for survival. Although the grief is still present, I have learned to live with it, finding solace in reading, walking, music, and light weightlifting. The journey has been challenging, but it has also led to profound growth and a deeper understanding of myself.
Finding Solace and Acceptance
My break-up with climbing was not a choice, but a necessity. Learning to rest, acknowledging my limitations, and challenging the internalized toxicity of the climbing culture have been crucial steps in my healing process.
The plastic bin containing my climbing gear serves as a constant reminder of my past life. While the double strap Chaco tan has faded and the sleeping setup in my truck is gone, the memories and lessons remain. I have learned to accept this new reality, and the pain has diminished.
To my fellow climbers and outdoor enthusiasts, I offer this: It is a privilege to move freely and engage in physical activities. Rest is essential, and every climb is a success, regardless of the grade. Let us foster a community of kindness, empathy, and acceptance, where everyone feels valued and supported.
Ultimately, a day in the mountains is well spent, no matter the objective. Let us remember why we started climbing in the first place: for the joy of movement, the connection with nature, and the camaraderie of fellow adventurers. By embracing these values, we can create a more inclusive and fulfilling climbing community for all.