A Hundred Kilometres To Myself: What Zimbabwe’s Wilderness And Walking With It Taught Me

The
CEO
role
had
been
my
dream—my
opportunity
to
lead
with
impact
and
purpose.
To
the
outside
world,
I
had
arrived.
The
first
year
blurred
into
long,
exhilarating
days.
But
soon,
exhilaration
gave
way
to
exhaustion.
The
work
became
a
relentless
cycle
of
meetings
and
deadlines.
I
told
myself
this
was
what
leadership
demanded.
Big
dreams,
I
believed,
required
big
sacrifices.

One
night
over
dinner,
at
my
most
worn
out,
my
boyfriend
looked
across
the
table
and
said,
“You
need a
break.
We
should
go
on
a
walking
safari
in
Zimbabwe.”
I
stared
at
him
in
disbelief.
I
could
barely
climb
a
flight
of
stairs
without
losing
my
breath.
I
said
no—more
than
once.
He
didn’t
push,
only
held
that
steady,
knowing
gaze.
Afraid
of
what
refusal
might
mean
for
us,
I
finally
gave
in.

Hitting
The
Ground
Running

Two
months
later,
we
landed
in Victoria
Falls.
The
drive
from
the
small
city
to
our
guide
Leon’s
camp
felt
like
peeling
away
layers
of
noise
I
hadn’t
even
realised
I
was
carrying.
By
the
time
we
arrived,
my
phone
lay
forgotten.
The
only
real
challenge
was
wrestling
with
the
tangled
laces
of
my
brand-new
trekking
shoes.
That
first
day
on
foot
was
brutal.
My
boots
felt
like
bricks,
my
calves
burned,
and
my
heart
hammered
in
my
ears.
The
bush
didn’t
pause
for
me,
and
neither
did
Leon.
Surrounded
by
wilderness,
there
was
no
choice
but
to
keep
walking.

Slowly,
I
began
to
notice
the
air
carried
scents
I
couldn’t
name.
Birds
called
from
unseen
branches.
Somewhere
ahead,
a
branch
snapped—something
large
was
moving.
Then
we
saw
them.
A
herd
of
elephants,
quietly
threading
their
way through
the
forest. We
stood
in
silence,
watching.
In
that
moment,
I
understood
what
it
meant
to
be
in
a
place
not
made
for
you,
yet
still
welcome
to
pass
through.

Following
The
Wild
In
Zimbabwe

Leon
had
been
guiding
safaris
on
foot
for
over
thirty
years.
He
could
track
a rhino from
a
single
footprint,
smell
buffalo
on
the
wind,
and
read
the
day’s
mood
from
the
curl
of
a
grass
blade.
His
pace
was
steady,
deliberate.
Over
time,
I
found
my
own
rhythm
walking
beside
him.

We
crossed
dry
riverbeds
marked
with
lion
and
antelope
prints,
paused
under
ancient
baobabs,
and
followed
hornbill
calls
through
sunlit
woodlands.
Each
day
felt
less
like
a
journey
and
more
like
an
apprenticeship—as
if
the
land
itself
was
teaching
me
how
to
move
differently,
how
to
pay
attention
in
ways
I
had
long
forgotten.

On
foot,
we
weren’t
above
the
wild
but
equal
to
it—one
species
among
others.
There
were
no
barriers.
The
path
itself
became
the
destination.
Every
step
was
a
conscious
choice
to
stay
present,
to
meet
the
land
on
its
own
terms.

The
Magic
You
Don’t
Plan

Over
a
week,
we
covered
more
than
120
kilometres.
A
herd
of
eighty
elephants
at
sunset,
their
silhouettes
immense
against
a
flaming
sky.
A
rhino
and
her
calf
grazing
in
the
dawn
light. African wild
dogs,
fanning
out
in
perfect
coordination.
Magic
at
every
turn—the
kind
you
can’t
plan
for
and
can
only
receive
with
humility.

Evenings
at
camp
brought
us
closer
to
the
land.
Around
the
fire,
Leon
shared
stories
of
animal
behaviour,
bird migrations,
and
the
geology
beneath
our
feet.
He
spoke
like
someone
inviting
us
to
look
more
deeply,
to
notice
the
threads
that
connect
species,
seasons,
and
time.
Later,
we’d
lie
back
and
trace
constellations
of
the
Southern
Hemisphere—stars
we
would
never
see
at
home.
It
was
in
those
hours
that
I
realised
how
starved
I
had
been
for
wonder,
and
how
vital
wonder
is
to
feeling
whole.

In
Zimbabwe,
I
Returned
To
Myself

By
the
final
day,
my
body
had
shifted.
My
breath
was
deeper,
my
shoulders
loose,
my
mind
clearer.
I
realised
I
had
built
a
cage
out
of
achievement
and
success—and
that
it
had
locked
me
away
from
my
own
purpose.
Here
in
Zimbabwe,
walking
on
earth
that
pulsed
with
life,
I
felt
free
again.
I
left
with
no
souvenirs.
Only
the
memory
of
walking
as
part
of
the
land,
among
other
living
things. The
forest rewired
me.
It
filled
my
bones
with
quiet
strength
and
gifted
me
an
energy
that
has
never
left.

For
anyone
carrying
the
invisible
weight
of
the
everyday,
time
away
is
not
indulgence—it
is
survival.
Step
into
a
place
where
your
feet
remember
the
earth,
and
your
soul
remembers
itself.
Listen
when
your
loved
ones
say
something
feels
off—they
may
be
handing
you
the
map
back
to
yourself.
I’m
glad
I
followed
mine.
That
boyfriend
who
once
coaxed
me
to
walk
100
kilometres
through
the
wild
is
now
the
man
I
happily
walk
through
life
with.

Source:


A
Hundred
Kilometres
To
Myself:
What
A
Safari
In
Zimbabwe
Taught
Me

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published
in:

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