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Yahoo
3 days ago
- Health
- Yahoo
I Was Told I Might Never Walk Again—so I Hiked a Volcano in Guatemala
I didn't let my lupus diagnosis stop me from hiking one of the highest peaks in Central America. It was Christmas morning when I blinked awake to the mechanical beeping of a heart monitor. At first, I thought I was dreaming. My heart thumped loudly in my chest. I tried to roll over and orient myself, but my limbs were numb, and everything around me was a blur of pale light and quiet panic. The voices outside my hospital room faded in and out until one finally broke through the fog. A man rushed in—the one who changed everything. His face said it before his words did. 'It's lupus,' he said. I didn't know what that meant. I only knew it wasn't good. I was 22 and had just been accepted to William & Mary, a top public university in the U.S. I had been the picture of health. A hiker. A wild-hearted, barefoot-loving soul who spent her weekends chasing sunrises and meaningful conversations. I had always been a thinker—someone who mapped out dreams and imagined every possible 'what if' scenario life could throw at me. But even with all that imagination, nothing prepared me for the moment I stepped out of bed one morning and collapsed into my new reality. Lupus is a chronic autoimmune disease. A body turned against itself. In a cruel twist of irony, after years of mentally picking myself apart, now my immune system was doing it for me—attacking perfectly healthy organs like they were intruders. It was a full-on war and I was losing. I was diagnosed with the worst class of it and told multiple times I might die. I almost did. The fatigue was relentless. The joint pain, unbearable. I received over nine blood transfusions just to keep me alive. The list of symptoms and restrictions, well, they were longer than my age. Tied with IVs to the hospital bed for more than a month, I remember the doctor rattling off day in and day out what I could no longer do: no more sun exposure, swimming, hugging friends, eating at restaurants, playing with animals, gardening, and walking in dirt. Even walking unassisted, they warned, might not be in the cards. I had a compromised immune system and was supposed to live in a sanitary bubble if I was to live at all. It was like someone had compiled a list of everything that made me me, then crossed it all out. I was a girl who ran and danced toward her dreams, tripping sometimes, but never stopping. Now, I was being told to sit still. But I've never been very good at doing what I'm told. And that's how I ended up 13,000 feet in the air, climbing Volcán Acatenango, one of Central America's highest peaks. The decision made no rational sense. Just months after being told I might never walk unassisted again, I was hiking into the sky on a path of volcanic ash and cloud-thin air. At the same time, it was one of the most logical decisions I ever made. Travel is so much more than movement and cool pictures in new places. It's how we reclaim pieces of ourselves. It's how we stretch beyond discomfort and fears and find out who other people are beyond our presumptions and who we are when no one else is around to define us. I started the hike alongside a group of strangers—fellow adventurers whose names and stories I didn't know, but whose silent grit matched mine. There was something exhilarating about trekking next to people who knew nothing of my diagnosis, only my determination. After our bus dropped us off at the beginning of the trail, my heart sank. From the start, it was a slow, burning, upward climb. I am so glad I had no idea what lay ahead because I might have turned around right then and there. We passed through five microclimates in a day—humid jungle, alpine forest, wind-swept ridges, dry volcanic fields, and a cloud-pierced summit. Each shift was like stepping into another world entirely. As we climbed, Acatenango's landscape shifted beneath our feet. The farmlands gave way to dense forests. The air thinned. My legs burned. My lungs ached. I slowed. And slowed again. I was often last in line, stopping frequently to rest, my legs almost crumbling under me. And yet, I was still moving. Stray dogs are abundant in the farmland, and a beautiful chocolate shepherd shared the journey with us. I soon realized what I hadn't shared with anyone, he probably knew. Out of the 20 of us, he stuck by my side, stopping when I paused and walking together with me when I began again. When we reached base camp at 12,000 feet, I was shaking. My body throbbed. The trail narrowed and a dark windy fog quickly set in. I was surprised when our guide said our camp was just ahead because I could see nothing, not even a glowing light. It was icy cold. Where was Fuego, the elusive pillar of angry fire? We had been told there would be accommodations at the top. I didn't know whether to laugh or cry when I saw a stack of used mattresses, box springs, and shared sleeping bags. There was nothing sanitary about it, but it felt more healing than the hospital bed. We sipped hot chocolate around a flicker of a flame. I had come to see lava and was shivering around fading coals. But our guide was confident and told us we should wake up at 4 a.m. if we wanted to hike the remainder of the way to see Fuego up close and active. I had plenty of experience staying awake through the night from my weeks in the hospital. I had no idea how I would pull myself out of bed this time. Luckily, I didn't even have to set an alarm. At 2 a.m, I awoke to cold, wet slobber. The puppy that walked with me had curled up on my pillow. Having shared the trek, he wanted to share the warmth, too. I was more than a little annoyed and sat straight up, trying to drag him off my corner of the mattress. I kicked open the wooden door of our makeshift hut to shove him out and came face-to-face with Fuego. In the deep mist of the night, I had no idea our camp was clinging to a slab of cliff right in front of the summit. The earth growled and Acatenango's fiery twin erupted in the distance. It was bright and brilliant and alive and somehow almost outdone by the thousands of shimmering stars framing it. The deep fog that had suffocated everything was peeled back like a curtain and I realized all the beauty that had been hiding underneath. We rose for the summit. The final push. The hardest part. What seemed so close was a full three hours away still. A pillar of lava burst into the sky, glowing against the dusk. Around me, others gasped. Many reached for their phones and cameras. I stood in stunned silence. I wanted this image and memory etched in my mind before I tainted it with a camera lens. The eruption lit up the sky again and again throughout the night and early morning. I had barely slept. It was pitch black, and we were pushing through heavy sand and ash now. Two steps forward, a half step back. Mounds of crumbling dirt rose on either side, forming a slithering trail as we dipped down into the ravine and steadily rose up the other side. There was a moment, somewhere above the clouds, when I paused and turned around. The mountain where we camped, Acatenango, towered behind me, massive and ancient. Beneath its surface were deep, dark scars—grooves cut through the rock by old lava flows, now overgrown with stubborn green. I stood there, breathless from exertion and awe, already dripping sweat. I realized something that made me pause: The looming walls of dirt both engulfing me and forming my own path were the same. From the fog of sickness and the sting of IV needles, I was now coursing through the hazy vein of the mountain. The same burning force that had once destroyed this path had also shaped it—created it, even. And now, I traced it. My own body, too, bore scars—seen and unseen. Pain had carved through me, but it had also made this journey possible. I wasn't walking despite my pain. I was walking with it and becoming something through it. I was, by every definition, weak. But I was so strong. I was breathing hard—nearly wheezing—as the icy wind whipped against my face. My legs were leaden. My fingers were stiff and swollen. I stopped more than I moved. But I wasn't alone. Step by step, I made it to the top. There—at 13,045 feet—the sun rose above the world in every color imaginable—and some not even the most creative mind could fathom. We stood in silence as clouds drifted below us and light spilled across the neighboring volcanic ridges—Agua Volcano to the left, Pacaya to the right. I was standing on Fuego in the shadow of Acatenango. Ironically, the name means 'Walled Place,' and here, I felt the walls placed around me come crumbling down. All I kept thinking was how everyone told me I couldn't—and how they weren't here to see this view. I reached my grimy, dirt-covered hand down to pet the dog in blatant defiance of my instructions not to be around or touch animals. I didn't ever want to descend. The way down was almost harder than the trail up. I was slipping, sliding, and tumbling, joy erupting inside me. Whether or not we realize it, we each travel every day—through grief, joy, and fire. We each have our own personal Fuegos and Acatenangos to face. Mine just happened to be a real one. When I returned from Guatemala, my lupus didn't vanish. But I proved that 'can't' is just a word. Acatenango didn't cure me, but it reminded me my journey didn't end in a hospital bed. It started there. It was Christmas morning when I blinked awake to the beeping of a heart monitor, my body a battlefield and my future a blur. But it was through the mist of the mountain where I really opened my eyes. They told me I'd never hike again. That I might never walk unassisted. That I would have to live a smaller life, if I lived at all. But they weren't there when the sky split open and fire danced across it. They didn't see me rise through ash and altitude, gasping and shaking, clinging to a mountain that had known its own share of eruptions. They didn't see the girl with IV scars, windburned cheeks, and dirt under her fingernails reach the summit with a dog by her side and a defiant heart in her chest. I didn't conquer the mountain—I bled into it. Walking on the wounds it once carried, I learned how to live with mine. And when Fuego erupted, lighting the sky like a pulse, I knew I would never be the same. Not because I reached the summit, but because I learned I could keep rising—even while breaking. Read the original article on Travel & Leisure Solve the daily Crossword
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Travel + Leisure
3 days ago
- Health
- Travel + Leisure
I Was Told I Might Never Walk Again—so I Hiked a Volcano in Guatemala
It was Christmas morning when I blinked awake to the mechanical beeping of a heart monitor. At first, I thought I was dreaming. My heart thumped loudly in my chest. I tried to roll over and orient myself, but my limbs were numb, and everything around me was a blur of pale light and quiet panic. The voices outside my hospital room faded in and out until one finally broke through the fog. A man rushed in—the one who changed everything. His face said it before his words did. 'It's lupus,' he said. I didn't know what that meant. I only knew it wasn't good. I was 22 and had just been accepted to William & Mary, a top public university in the U.S. I had been the picture of health. A hiker. A wild-hearted, barefoot-loving soul who spent her weekends chasing sunrises and meaningful conversations. I had always been a thinker—someone who mapped out dreams and imagined every possible 'what if' scenario life could throw at me. But even with all that imagination, nothing prepared me for the moment I stepped out of bed one morning and collapsed into my new reality. Tess while dealing with her diagnoses. Tess Moormans/Life Through A Lense Lupus is a chronic autoimmune disease. A body turned against itself. In a cruel twist of irony, after years of mentally picking myself apart, now my immune system was doing it for me—attacking perfectly healthy organs like they were intruders. It was a full-on war and I was losing. I was diagnosed with the worst class of it and told multiple times I might die. I almost did. The fatigue was relentless. The joint pain, unbearable. I received over nine blood transfusions just to keep me alive. The list of symptoms and restrictions, well, they were longer than my age. Tied with IVs to the hospital bed for more than a month, I remember the doctor rattling off day in and day out what I could no longer do: no more sun exposure, swimming, hugging friends, eating at restaurants, playing with animals, gardening, and walking in dirt. Even walking unassisted, they warned, might not be in the cards. I had a compromised immune system and was supposed to live in a sanitary bubble if I was to live at all. It was like someone had compiled a list of everything that made me me , then crossed it all out. I was a girl who ran and danced toward her dreams, tripping sometimes, but never stopping. Now, I was being told to sit still. But I've never been very good at doing what I'm told. And that's how I ended up 13,000 feet in the air, climbing Volcán Acatenango, one of Central America's highest peaks. The decision made no rational sense. Just months after being told I might never walk unassisted again, I was hiking into the sky on a path of volcanic ash and cloud-thin air. At the same time, it was one of the most logical decisions I ever made. Travel is so much more than movement and cool pictures in new places. It's how we reclaim pieces of ourselves. It's how we stretch beyond discomfort and fears and find out who other people are beyond our presumptions and who we are when no one else is around to define us. View of Volcán Acatenango seen through the clouds. Tess Moormans/Life Through A Lense I started the hike alongside a group of strangers—fellow adventurers whose names and stories I didn't know, but whose silent grit matched mine. There was something exhilarating about trekking next to people who knew nothing of my diagnosis, only my determination. After our bus dropped us off at the beginning of the trail, my heart sank. From the start, it was a slow, burning, upward climb. I am so glad I had no idea what lay ahead because I might have turned around right then and there. We passed through five microclimates in a day—humid jungle, alpine forest, wind-swept ridges, dry volcanic fields, and a cloud-pierced summit. Each shift was like stepping into another world entirely. As we climbed, Acatenango's landscape shifted beneath our feet. The farmlands gave way to dense forests. The air thinned. My legs burned. My lungs ached. I slowed. And slowed again. I was often last in line, stopping frequently to rest, my legs almost crumbling under me. And yet, I was still moving. Stray dogs are abundant in the farmland, and a beautiful chocolate shepherd shared the journey with us. I soon realized what I hadn't shared with anyone, he probably knew. Out of the 20 of us, he stuck by my side, stopping when I paused and walking together with me when I began again. The friendly stray dog who stuck by Tess's side; Hiking up Volcán Acatenango. Tess Moormans/Life Through A Lense When we reached base camp at 12,000 feet, I was shaking. My body throbbed. The trail narrowed and a dark windy fog quickly set in. I was surprised when our guide said our camp was just ahead because I could see nothing, not even a glowing light. It was icy cold. Where was Fuego, the elusive pillar of angry fire? We had been told there would be accommodations at the top. I didn't know whether to laugh or cry when I saw a stack of used mattresses, box springs, and shared sleeping bags. There was nothing sanitary about it, but it felt more healing than the hospital bed. We sipped hot chocolate around a flicker of a flame. I had come to see lava and was shivering around fading coals. But our guide was confident and told us we should wake up at 4 a.m. if we wanted to hike the remainder of the way to see Fuego up close and active. I had plenty of experience staying awake through the night from my weeks in the hospital. I had no idea how I would pull myself out of bed this time. Luckily, I didn't even have to set an alarm. At 2 a.m, I awoke to cold, wet slobber. The puppy that walked with me had curled up on my pillow. Having shared the trek, he wanted to share the warmth, too. I was more than a little annoyed and sat straight up, trying to drag him off my corner of the mattress. I kicked open the wooden door of our makeshift hut to shove him out and came face-to-face with Fuego. In the deep mist of the night, I had no idea our camp was clinging to a slab of cliff right in front of the summit. The earth growled and Acatenango's fiery twin erupted in the distance. It was bright and brilliant and alive and somehow almost outdone by the thousands of shimmering stars framing it. The deep fog that had suffocated everything was peeled back like a curtain and I realized all the beauty that had been hiding underneath. We rose for the summit. The final push. The hardest part. What seemed so close was a full three hours away still. A pillar of lava burst into the sky, glowing against the dusk. Around me, others gasped. Many reached for their phones and cameras. I stood in stunned silence. I wanted this image and memory etched in my mind before I tainted it with a camera lens. The eruption lit up the sky again and again throughout the night and early morning. I had barely slept. It was pitch black, and we were pushing through heavy sand and ash now. Two steps forward, a half step back. Mounds of crumbling dirt rose on either side, forming a slithering trail as we dipped down into the ravine and steadily rose up the other side. There was a moment, somewhere above the clouds, when I paused and turned around. The mountain where we camped, Acatenango, towered behind me, massive and ancient. Beneath its surface were deep, dark scars—grooves cut through the rock by old lava flows, now overgrown with stubborn green. I stood there, breathless from exertion and awe, already dripping sweat. I realized something that made me pause: The looming walls of dirt both engulfing me and forming my own path were the same. From the fog of sickness and the sting of IV needles, I was now coursing through the hazy vein of the mountain. The same burning force that had once destroyed this path had also shaped it—created it, even. And now, I traced it. My own body, too, bore scars—seen and unseen. Pain had carved through me, but it had also made this journey possible. I wasn't walking despite my pain. I was walking with it and becoming something through it. I was, by every definition, weak. But I was so strong. I was breathing hard—nearly wheezing—as the icy wind whipped against my face. My legs were leaden. My fingers were stiff and swollen. I stopped more than I moved. But I wasn't alone. Step by step, I made it to the top. There—at 13,045 feet—the sun rose above the world in every color imaginable—and some not even the most creative mind could fathom. Aerial view of Antigua, Guatemala. Tess Moormans/Life Through A Lense We stood in silence as clouds drifted below us and light spilled across the neighboring volcanic ridges—Agua Volcano to the left, Pacaya to the right. I was standing on Fuego in the shadow of Acatenango. Ironically, the name means 'Walled Place,' and here, I felt the walls placed around me come crumbling down. All I kept thinking was how everyone told me I couldn't—and how they weren't here to see this view. I reached my grimy, dirt-covered hand down to pet the dog in blatant defiance of my instructions not to be around or touch animals. I didn't ever want to descend. The way down was almost harder than the trail up. I was slipping, sliding, and tumbling, joy erupting inside me. Whether or not we realize it, we each travel every day—through grief, joy, and fire. We each have our own personal Fuegos and Acatenangos to face. Mine just happened to be a real one. When I returned from Guatemala, my lupus didn't vanish. But I proved that 'can't' is just a word. Acatenango didn't cure me, but it reminded me my journey didn't end in a hospital bed. It started there. It was Christmas morning when I blinked awake to the beeping of a heart monitor, my body a battlefield and my future a blur. But it was through the mist of the mountain where I really opened my eyes. They told me I'd never hike again. That I might never walk unassisted. That I would have to live a smaller life, if I lived at all. But they weren't there when the sky split open and fire danced across it. They didn't see me rise through ash and altitude, gasping and shaking, clinging to a mountain that had known its own share of eruptions. They didn't see the girl with IV scars, windburned cheeks, and dirt under her fingernails reach the summit with a dog by her side and a defiant heart in her chest. I didn't conquer the mountain—I bled into it. Walking on the wounds it once carried, I learned how to live with mine. And when Fuego erupted, lighting the sky like a pulse, I knew I would never be the same. Not because I reached the summit, but because I learned I could keep rising—even while breaking.
Fox News
19-06-2025
- General
- Fox News
Cellar unearthed beneath America's oldest Black schoolhouse reveals artifacts
Archaeologists at William & Mary University in Virginia unearthed a piece of American history tied to the oldest surviving schoolhouse for Black children. A near-complete foundation - including a chimney base - and cellar were excavated, The Associated Press (AP) reported. The building belongs to the Williamsburg Bray School, which taught mostly enslaved students in the 1760s using a religious framework to justify slavery. The Williamsburg Bray School was later transformed into a dormitory for some of the first women to attend college. William & Mary's Center for Archaeological Research, Tom Higgins, said the cellar "was probably dug soon after the foundations were laid" as it was not lined with bricks, reported AP. Artifacts found from the 18th century through the mid-20th century are not known to connect to the school. Recovered artifacts such as buttons and a slate pencil from the 18th century will be researched to determine their origins and connections. Katherine Rowe, William & Mary's president, said, "The roots of our city and university entwine here." "Every layer of history that it reveals gives us new insights into our early republic, from the Williamsburg Bray School through the generations that followed, up through the early 20th century," she added, according to AP. The structure was discovered in 2020 by historians and is being restored by the Colonial Williamsburg Foundation.
Fox News
19-06-2025
- General
- Fox News
Secret cellar unearthed beneath America's oldest Black schoolhouse reveals artifacts
Archaeologists at William & Mary University in Virginia unearthed a piece of American history tied to the oldest surviving schoolhouse for Black children. A secret cellar was found with many artifacts such as slate pencil fragments and jewelry, The Associated Press (AP) reported. The building belongs to the Williamsburg Bray School, which taught mostly enslaved students in the 1760s using a religious framework to justify slavery. The Williamsburg Bray School was later transformed into a dormitory for some of the first women to attend college. William & Mary's Center for Archaeological Research, Tom Higgins, said the cellar "was probably dug soon after the foundations were laid" as it was not lined with bricks, reported AP. Handmade ceramics associated with sites of enslavement and a shard of glass depicting Minerva, Roman goddess of wisdom, justice, war and the arts, were also found. Katherine Rowe, William & Mary's president, said, "The roots of our city and university entwine here." "Every layer of history that it reveals gives us new insights into our early republic, from the Williamsburg Bray School through the generations that followed, up through the early 20th century," she added, according to AP. The structure was discovered in 2020 by historians and is being restored by the Colonial Williamsburg Foundation.
Al Arabiya
19-06-2025
- General
- Al Arabiya
Archaeologists Unearth Foundation of 1760s Schoolhouse for Black Children
Archaeologists in Virginia have unearthed the foundation of a building from the 1700s that once supported the nation's oldest surviving schoolhouse for Black children, William & Mary announced Wednesday. The university in Williamsburg said the foundation is nearly completely intact. Archaeologists also uncovered a cellar that is layered with centuries of artifacts, including slate pencil fragments and jewelry. The schoolhouse was later used as a dormitory housing some of the first generations of women to attend college in the US. 'The roots of our city and university entwine here,' said Katherine A. Rowe, William & Mary's president. 'Every layer of history that it reveals gives us new insights into our early republic from the Williamsburg Bray School through the generations that followed up through the early 20th century.' The Williamsburg Bray School taught hundreds of mostly enslaved students in the 1760s. The school rationalized slavery within a religious framework. And yet becoming literate also gave them more agency, with students sharing what they learned with family members. The schoolhouse then became a private home before it was incorporated into William & Mary's growing campus. The building was expanded for various purposes, including student housing, and later moved from its original location. Historians identified the structure in 2020 through a scientific method that examines tree rings in lumber. It was then moved to the Colonial Williamsburg Foundation, a living history museum that includes parts of the original city. The museum has restored the schoolhouse and is working to identify the students' descendants. Meanwhile, archaeologists with Colonial Williamsburg recently uncovered the foundation and cellar during a major project by William & Mary to renovate a university building, Gates Hall. The school's archaeologists are also involved. Tom Higgins of William & Mary's Center for Archaeological Research said the cellar is not lined with bricks and was probably dug soon after the foundations were laid. Researchers have found handmade ceramics often associated with sites of enslavement and Indigenous communities, the university said. There are also items that appear to be more recent, such as a shard of glass depicting Minerva, Roman goddess of wisdom, justice, war, and the arts. From 1924 to 1930, the building housed Methodist women attending William & Mary. 'We know that the girls at Brown Hall were furnishing their dorms,' said Michele Brumfield, senior researcher at the university's archaeological center. 'So maybe they were bringing in things like this.'
