Antarctica is not just a place but an encounter with something larger than life. It is an immersion into silence so profound that it presses against you, enveloping you in a vast landscape that defies comprehension. The towering and luminous glaciers seemed to glow from within, their jagged edges catching the shifting light. Icebergs, massive and sculpted by time, drifted in the frigid waters, indifferent to the smallness of my presence. Even in the height of summer, the continent remained wrapped in ice and snow, a place where life endures against all odds. And yet, for all its harshness, I have never felt more at peace with myself. Never so still, so entirely in the moment. There are no words to fully capture the vastness of what I experienced, but I know I am changed.

I kayaked through this frozen dreamscape, my small vessel skimming the water’s surface so clear it felt like a portal into another world. I could hear the ice shift, cracking and groaning in a slow, glacial conversation. The humpback whale’s breath broke the silence, close enough that I could feel its presence before I saw it, its fluke rising in an elegant arc before disappearing beneath the surface. For five days, I lived within this untouched wilderness, moving through it as a guest, knowing that this experience was something few would ever have.

And then, there was the plunge. The moment my body hit the Arctic water, it was as if every cell awakened at once – an immediate, consuming, yet exhilarating shock. For a few seconds, my mind went blank—there was no past, no future, only now. And as I surfaced, gasping and laughing, I felt something I never expected: absolute stillness. A clarity that only comes when everything else has been stripped away.

A bibliophile friend suggested I read the story of Ernest Shackleton in “South” before I arrived in this frozen realm. After reading, I was gobsmacked, and then I made my husband watch the movie a few days later.  Shackleton’s story resonated with me profoundly because I feel it mirrors my resilience, tenacity, and survival in the face of impossible odds. His survivor’s story in Antarctica, together with his fearless leadership, refusal to surrender to despair, and ability to inspire and protect his crew—even in the most desolate and unforgiving conditions—speaks to something primal within me: the part that has endured, fought, and led through adversity.

I have navigated profound loss, betrayal, physical trials, and emotional isolation, yet I have done my best never to let the storms define me. Like Shackleton, I take responsibility for myself and those around me, often orchestrating survival for my family, even when I was struggling. His ability to hold onto hope to push forward without knowing what lay ahead mirrors my journey of breaking generational cycles, choosing self-preservation, and facing uncertainty with unwavering determination despite the odds.

There’s also the element of the frozen, barren landscape, which symbolizes moments in my life when I felt emotionally frozen and abandoned—cut off from warmth, safety, or clarity. But Shackleton’s journey wasn’t just about survival and bringing his people home against all odds. Perhaps that part of the story—the promise of return, of overcoming impossible distances, and the odds of finding a way back, notably within myself—is what strikes me most profoundly.

I couldn’t stop thinking of Shackleton and his men while wandering this ethereal continent. Of the world they encountered more than a century ago—a world far more savage than the one I experienced as I came here wrapped in the privilege of modern exploration: thermal layers, guided excursions, and a warm ship waiting for me at the end of each day. Shackleton had none of that. He and his men were at the mercy of Antarctica in its most ruthless form, yet he refused to break. Shackleton refused to let his men break. He held them together through sheer force of will, navigating the impossible and ensuring no life was lost. It is one thing to read about it—to understand it intellectually. But it is unfathomable to stand here, feel the bite of the wind even in the luxury of my gear, and know that he survived without any of this.

His story isn’t just one of endurance; it’s one of leadership, toughness, and the will to carve a path forward, no matter how impossible it seems. And in that, I think I see myself and was deeply moved.

There is something about Antarctica that strips you down to your essence. It asks nothing of you except that you be fully present. In its extremes, its brutal beauty, I found something unexpected: myself. The part of me has always been willing to lead, fight, and find a way forward. And yet, even in that knowing, I cannot begin to fathom what Shackleton endured, what it means to survive not just a journey but an odyssey of the impossible.

I witnessed something greater than myself at the end of the earth, where ice meets the sky and time stretches beyond meaning. I came expecting awe—I left with a sense of reverence. For the explorers who came before me, for the untouched landscape, for the silent lessons Antarctica gives to those willing to listen.

This was not just my final and seventh continent checked.

This was a reckoning.

A beginning.