Two years ago, I was pretty sure my adventure era had come to an unceremonious end.

Not in a dramatic blaze of glory. More like… struggling to get out of my car in a grocery store parking lot.

I had chronic, debilitating pain in my left hip. Sleeping was an Olympic-level event of tossing, turning, and negotiating with my body for a position that didn’t hurt. Half the exercises in my strength classes were off-limits because my hip simply refused to cooperate.

Hiking? Trail running? Basically anything I loved doing outdoors? Painful to the point of absurdity.

And so the internal monologue began:

That’s it.
You’ve reached the end of the road.
Your body has officially quit, and you’re never doing the things you love again.

These thoughts played on repeat.

Adventure travel generally requires three things: time, money, and a body that can get the job done.

I still had the first two. The third? Very much in question.

Cue mild hysteria.

Since I could still walk (sort of), I decided I should probably do all the things I’d regret missing while I could still limp my way through them.

This turned into what I now lovingly refer to as my “grand farewell tour.”

Which, in hindsight, escalated quickly.

It started innocently enough. I wanted to see the northern lights from one of those glass igloos where you lie in bed pretending you’re in a luxury snow globe. Add in snowshoeing, dog sledding, and other wintry nonsense—sure.

Then there was the TransRockies race: a six-day, 120-mile stage race through the Colorado Rockies.

Glenn and I had done it in 2024 and finished with a mutual, heartfelt “We are so glad we did that… and we will never do it again.”

Then we found out 2025 would be the final year after nearly two decades.

Well. Obviously, we had to do it again.

And while we were at it, why not sign up for the three-day version in Moab?

And of course, Mirna was planning another multi-day, multi-island trail-running adventure in the Azores—couldn’t miss that.

I also had the opportunity to travel to the mountains of Western Mongolia to visit eagle hunters—a dream I’ve had since childhood—so that was non-negotiable.

Then there were the Dolomites in Italy, which had been sitting at the top of my wish list for years. Based on how my hip was behaving, that window felt like it was rapidly closing.

Around this time, my friend Sayuri kept texting me to say there was still one spot available on her Mount Kilimanjaro hike. I figured if I could survive the Dolomites, I could probably limp my way up Kili too.

Oh—and backpacking through the Hoh Rainforest with a dear college friend, Kat.

And sharing Paria Canyon and Buckskin Gulch with girlfriends who had never experienced anything like it.

Before I knew it, I’d booked trip after trip after trip, with just enough time between them to come home, do laundry, and repack.

It was… a lot.

Training for all of this made my hip even angrier, which finally pushed me to see an orthopedic doctor. I’d been avoiding it because I was convinced they’d tell me to stop everything. Stop running. Stop hiking. Stop adventuring.

I had no idea who I’d be without those things.

X-rays. Physical exam. I braced myself for the inevitable diagnosis: something degenerative, irreversible, and ending in a hip replacement.

The doctor—a Doogie Howser–looking guy who appeared to be about fourteen—sat me down, took a deep breath, and looked me straight in the eye.

Here it comes, I thought. This is where it all ends.

“You have weak ass muscles,” he said.

…Wait. What?

“That’s it?” I asked, deeply suspicious.

“Yep. Go see a physical therapist. If you actually do the exercises, you’ll be fine.”

And so I did. Religiously. PT, massage, chiropractic, acupuncture, rolfing—you name it. Slowly, my pain eased. My strength returned. I could do the things I loved again, without white-knuckling my way through the pain.

Which left me in a strange position.

My hip was (mostly) better. The doom spiral had been unnecessary. But I had already planned an absolutely unhinged year of adventure.

When people asked, “Do you have any trips coming up?” I’d launch into a ten-minute monologue about everywhere I was going in 2025.

I felt ridiculous. Slightly embarrassed. Like I should apologize for existing with this much joy on the horizon.

It made me wonder: How much is too much?

If you’re lucky enough to have the time, resources, and physical ability to do the things you love—what’s the “right” amount? What’s respectable?

I even considered canceling some trips. Spreading them out. Being more reasonable.

Then several people close to us passed away.

My dad, who lived into his late 80s. Chuck, a longtime friend of Glenn’s who over the years slowly declined from brain cancer. And Steven, who felt a little off one afternoon, went to the doctor, and was told he had a week to live.

It forced me to think a lot about death—and how I’d want to meet it.

If it comes early, would I want a long, slow decline with time for goodbyes? Or something sudden, where life simply ends mid-stride?

My dad, meanwhile, was obsessed with living to 100. He spent hours watching YouTube “doctors” with advice on how to get there. He was focused on quantity of life; I’ve tried to focus on quality.

From my perspective, he was so busy trying not to die that he forgot to live. His final years were filled with regret over the things he never got around to seeing or doing. He wanted more time because he’d waited too long.

And that’s when it clicked.

No matter how this ends—early or late, fast or slow—I will never regret squeezing as much adventure into my life as I possibly can, while I’m able.

Travel, challenge, shared hardship, and wild places are core to who I am. They are how I move joyfully through the world.

So no regrets.
Do all the things.
See all the things.
Try all the things.

As long as I’m able, I’ll keep pushing, seeking, and saying yes—even if that means what it did this year… spending the better part of six months without running water, sleeping on the ground, and pooping in a hole!

Turns out, my days of grand adventure aren’t over after all.