If I had to boil down all the learning I've had through the years on this topic, I think the number one key to fixing this in your life is knowing and living your true purpose.
 
(oh, just that?)

Bottom line: if you are going to stop engaging in unhealthy habits like comparing yourself to everyone else, you're going to have to move closer to the best version of you. At some point, you're going to have to discover why you are here.

What's your purpose?

It does you no good to shy away from the question.
Ask it. Ask yourself. Be brave enough to ask yourself why you are here and answer this question:
When you are at your best, what do you do, for whom, and why?
It's that simple and it's that complicated.

And the answer will change your life.

I believe in you!
Love,
Jenné

“If there are no dogs in Heaven, then when I die I want to go where they went.” - Will Rogers


After 14 years, we've had to say goodbye to Pickles. It's been painfully difficult. She was the best dog ever. I know, everyone says that. And I'm sure it's true. It seems we all get the dog we most need. And we needed Pickles. There are so many memories and so many characteristics of her that we will never forget.  She was empathic, funny, loving and compassionate. We've always known that about her. What we didn't realize is what a good teacher she was. As I've sat by her empty bowl and stared at the quiet backyard and draped my hand over the bed only to find empty space and not a wet, pink nose, I've begun to understand the lessons she's taught us. They are important lessons and we were clearly very slow students - it took us 14 years of her sweet companionship to learn these simple truths:

1) Always get up and greet someone when they walk into a room.
Pickles never let anyone enter a room without being acknowledged - even if you only left that room 47 seconds ago. Very often, in fact, she would accompany you to the other room. She was a pink-nosed shadow to most people but always to Steve. In the past few months, Pickle's back legs haven't worked as well as they used to and sometimes Steve could quickly dart into the other room and get back before she got all the way up. "I'm coming right back, Picky!" he'd call or "Don't get up! Don't get up! Oh, Picky ... Okay." and then she'd trot behind him as he loaded his bowl into the dishwasher or moved the laundry to the basement or a hundred other little house chores. That dog has clocked more miles in this house over the years than any of us.

I hate to admit this but often people enter or leave my presence with no acknowledgement at all. Not so much in my home but for sure in my day. The mailman, the guy next to me pumping gas, the homeless man on the same exact corner with the same exact sign every day. I have no qualms about scooting on by and getting on with my life. Would it be so much effort to say hello? To greet and smile? I don't have to trot behind them when they pay the bill or head off to find the gourmet cheese section but certainly I can give a little more. It costs me nothing and can mean a lot. Every living thing responds to attention. Thank you, Pickles. That's a good lesson.

2) Don't worry so much about what name people call you. 
"Jenne" gets pronounced many different ways: Jean, Jenny, Jeannie, Janna, etc. I spend a great deal of time and energy correcting receptionists, hostesses, clients, pizza delivery men, credit card-returning waitresses and telemarketers. "Jen-nay" I say, "It's Jen-nay, rhymes with Hooray!" or I might make it super simple "Jen-nay, like Renee but with a J". I"ll be honest, it rarely works. 14 years ago I first held my yellow puppy when she was 3 hours old. I looked down at her sleepy face and said "Hello, Pickles." The name just fit. Since that moment, however, she's been called many variations - Pickle, Pickles, PickPick, Picky, PicklePup etc. We were as guilty as everyone else. A few years ago, Steve looked at me and said, "Wait, is her real name Pickle or Pickles?" I couldn't really say. And it's never seemed to matter. Not to her anyway. I once watched her trot happily up to a neighbor who called out "Hi, Bananas!" She knew who they were talking about. What did it matter if they used her exact name? And what does it matter to me? When I correct people who deign to mispronounce my name, they always apologize. "Oh I'm sorry!" they say.  And I always say "it's okay!" But if it really is okay, why do I say anything at all? Why do I correct? I know who they mean and so do they. I'm going to let that go. Thank you, Picky.

3) Being near is enough.
I went running this last weekend. I saw lots and lots of doggers jogging next to their owners on the trail. Happily smiling doggy smiles they kept up and bounced their jingly collars. Those dogs must be such great company during a run. It's hard to be in a bad mood when you have Jingly Jingles running next to you. Pickles never ran with me. A couple weekends ago, I saw a man in a wheelchair who had a guide dog. I'm not sure exactly what that dog did. Perhaps that dog was able to reach things on high shelves that the man could not reach. Or maybe that man has an unseen condition the dog can sense and warn him to. Maybe the dog drives, I don't know. But I'm absolutely sure whatever that dog did, Pickles could NOT do it. Not because she wasn't smart, she was! But because Pickles loved EVERYONE. If I ever went out with Picky in public, I was soon forgotten because in Pickles mind there were "LOTS OF PEOPLES WHO WANT TO BE BONKED BY ME!" She could never be a guide dog. I'd be abandoned in a heartbeat. Pick was an OK guard dog. I guess. I mean she would bark and bark if anyone came to the door, but mostly because she was happy to see them. She sounded fierce but the second anyone came in, she'd flop and give up the belly or trot off to see if this new person wanted to know where we kept the mini-marshmallows. Bottom line, Pickle didn't have a lot of talents. Except one. She knew how to be near. She was really really good at being near. She would sit next to you and lean into you. Or she would lay her head in your lap - it's okay if you didn't want to pet her, she'd just leave her head there, just in case. Or, if tired, she might lay down, not so much next to you, but on you - on your feet. Are you in the bathroom? She'd come in. Are you in the kitchen? She'd lay behind you as you do the dishes. Working on the computer? Oops, she'd lay on and switch off the power strip. Sorry! Being near was very important to Pickle.  She's not the only one. So often in life, not knowing what to say or do will keep us from saying or doing anything. Thank you, Sweet Dog, for showing me again that being near is enough. Near in presence, near in thoughts, near in love.

4) People first, toys second. Or third. Or not at all.
10 days ago when we had to take Pickle to the emergency vet, I knew in my heart she wouldn't be coming back home. She was 14. She'd had a great run at this life. She'd loved well and she'd been happy. We'd seen her slow down just a bit in recent months and we'd begun the discussion of "the right time." On that day, she became suddenly ill. She kept pacing from room to room looking for Nena, for me, for Steve. She was restless. Then she wasn't. I called my vet and then called the emergency vet. I told them we were coming. I could barely get the words out. I meant to say, "We're bringing our dog in. We want to see if she can be okay but if we can't fix it immediately, we are ready to make a decision." What I actually said through sobs was, "My dog ... my dog, Pickle .... it's ... she's ... I think I need to bring my dog in". They told us we could watch her or bring her in. They told us it was our choice. They said we knew her best.  I laid on the rug next to her and just kept saying over and over, "Tell me what to do, Picky, please just tell me what to do." Then I looked into her eyes and knew she was telling me. Steve took her outside for a walk in the yard and then to the van. As he was lifting her in I ran back inside. I wanted to bring something, a toy, a blanket, something from home that would comfort her. Something she loved. A ball? A bone? I was frantic ... I couldn't find anything, I couldn't think of anything. I stood and spun in the living room what is it? what was her favorite thing? ... and that's when it hit me.

It was us.

We were her favorite things. We were her very favorite things. She didn't chase balls or sleep with a stuffed snake or carry a blanket around, she never possessed anything. Happily, over the years, she let any other dog take her bed, her bowl, her space. She shared. She adjusted. But she always claimed us.  It's so obvious to us now in the pictures we flip through, in the short video clips she's wandering in and out of, in the giant hole she has left. She loved us the best. And she did it so well.

In the end, we were with her. We fulfilled our role as her favorite things. We laid next to her. We patted and stroked her back. We kissed that wonderful pink nose. We reminded her we loved her. We thanked her for making us better.

And then she was gone.

Pickles never did much. Not really. She never entered a dog show or saved someone from drowning or ever figured out to walk by my bike without getting bike grease all over her.  Pickles would drink too much water too fast and then erp it up on the carpet. She unintentionally would "table top" people by standing directly behind them. She barked like a maniac if you left her outside longer than she wanted to be outside. She never really learned any tricks. She would put her cold wet nose on you first thing in the morning and often step on your feet with her big yellow paws. She was relentlessly diligent about telling you it was time to feed her - even if you'd just fed her. She got in the way. She belched. Loudly. And she shed - a lot. It's hard to imagine that all of those things somehow combined in a way to create the best dog in the world. But they did. And now, her absence is the most present thing in our home.

Night night, Picky. You really were the best. We'll miss you every day.

As I reflect on my Kilimanjaro climbs, it's hard to recall the hard. When people ask me what they most need to know when thinking about tackling Africa's highest mountain I'm all like "You'll do great!" and "It's so fun!" and "Just do it! Don't over think it!" In that way, I think climbing Kili is a little like college. You rarely, if ever, hear anyone say "well, here's the really awful part of college .." or "You know, given the chance, I'd never go back to that place where I experienced freedom and found myself for the first time." Sure there are difficult things about college - all night studying, the endless labs, the relentless homework, the constant fear of letting the GPA slip, the reoccurring chin zit that you swore you weren't going to squeeze this time but ALWAYS DID RIGHT BEFORE A DATE- but the further you get from the slog/sleeplessness/acne of college the less you remember the hard parts.

It's the same with Kilimanjaro. Once you've been away from the difficulty of it for, say, 6 or 7 hours, once you've had that first hot shower (which, unfortunately may take a while since Tanzania sorta randomly decides when you're going to have water) and once you've gulped down that first celebratory Kilimanjaro Beer you will have forgotten most of the really not great things about the mountain.  Except for one. 

Lesson number two (aptly named) : The Long Drop

First, watch this video.

Next get on the phone immediately with your tour operator and add a private potty to your gear list. (A private potty is a chemical toilet that a porter - lovingly called "toilet boy" - will carry up the mountain so you have a place to crap. It's basically a small Igloo cooler with a lid, don't get too excited. And if you ever need solid proof that you're American, or British, or simply not a porter, then this is it - That you will pay someone to literally carry your shit up that mountain. And you will justify it by saying "it's employment!" Which it is, you're right. And if you ever EVER need a lesson in how to not be such a douche-bag at your job, then watch the toilet boy happily set up your private potty and smile and be so grateful that you've hired him. That, my friends, will humble you. I don't care what you do for a living, after watching these men deal with your crap - figuratively and literally- for seven days, you will realize you could use an attitude adjustment.)

After you've arranged to have a private potty then take a deep breath and relax. But not completely, because - Guess what?

You still may have to use a long drop. (Cue "dum da dum dahhh" music.) Yep. There may be times when you have no choice but go in the longdrop or go in your pants. Go ahead. Sit with that for a while... rather, squat with it.

If you've only traveled in the US or Europe, you probably aren't familiar with long drop toilets. Or scurvy. I put those two things at about the same level of pleasantness. A long drop is basically an outdoor closet - with a hole in the floor and with a whole lotta poo ...both in the hole and (somewhat impressively) scattered around the hole. It's sort of like an old-timey outhouse, but with no place to sit. Which means you squat. You place one foot on each side of the poo hole and drop it like it's hot ... which, given the amount of chicken curry you ate, it just might be. Occasionally you can find a super nice long drop that has raised pieces of wood on either side of the hole to place your feet. But mostly it's just a hole. And if you have to Number Two this will be your number one job - don't fall over. That's right, it can happen. It's difficult to balance in a longdrop, and honey, if you haven't been doing squats to prepare for this trip you need to start. Now. Between trying to keep your pantcuffs from dropping into droppings and desperately bobbling around on your toes so you don't launch forward or topple backward and worrying about how stable the wood is upon which you are standing, well, you very quickly understand not just THAT a bear shits in the woods but WHY. Because it's way better than a longdrop. Them bears are smart.

But don't let it scare you away from the mountain. If you don't rent the private potty (or if you do and still find yourself in the longdrop - which you might for reasons we don't need to discuss here) here are some hints.

HINT 1- take your TP and some wet wipes with you. Not surprisingly, longdrops don't seem to be well stocked. And there is no cleaning schedule or way to alert the management if your longdrop has become a not-so-long drop.  It's unpleasant all around. And your life will be better if you just accept it and move on. If at all possible, bring biodegradable paper and bag your wet wipe to be disposed of properly. I carried a ziplock with me that I could stuff my used wipes in - I know ... I KNOW - it's disgusting - I get it! But remember that toilet boy??? No complaining from you.

HINT 2- Roll your pantcuffs up before you squat down. Most hiking pants will roll and stay rolled. This is essential. There is a scant few inches where your pants can hover safely. And when you pull your pants down make sure they are well out of the way. In fact, if you are worried at ALL about this just take your pants off. Yes. I'm serious. You can either toss them over the wall of the longdrop or wrap them around your neck. If you are going to "be there for a while" then you'll be much more comfortably knowing your potential "shit pants" (which is how you will think of them forever more should the unthinkable happen) are well out of firing range.

HINT 3- The best position to use in a longdrop is fully squatted with feet flat on the floor. All the experts say this is the most comfortable and most effective method for - uh - success. If, like me, you haven't practiced this move since you were drinking from a sippy cup, you will probably find yourself doing a half-squat-elbows-on-the knees type thing. If this is your position, you need to realize your poo-hole and the longdrop poo-hole aren't going to line up. This will take some adjustment. I can't help you beyond this. In fact, I'm sorry I ever brought it up.

HINT 4- Don't be confused by the sign above some longdrops declaring it a "tourist's toilet". This is only to separate those toilets from the porters toilets. It is NOT a photo op.

HINT 5- This one goes out to the ladies. You know that plastic funnel you have in the kitchen drawer? Bring it. Or something like it. In fact go ahead and throw down the dollars for a nice Freshette. You won't regret it. What is it? It's the answer to your childhood dream - it's a contraption that allows you to pee STANDING UP! and it is a MUST on Kili. The first couple of days on the mountain you will have lots of cover. And if you need to pee - which you will since you are hydrating like a champ up there - it's no issue. After day 2, however, options for cover are limited. If you are equipped with a built in funnel this won't be a problem. If you naturally have an innie and not an outie, peeing discretely will be a challenge. What to do? Well, if you've prepared properly you just grab your pink plastic wee-wee, whip that puppy out and whiz right out there in front of - well, don't actually pee in front of people. Turns out that's considered rude. But you can simply turn your back, step behind a small rock and let 'er fly. Another benefit to using a stand-up pee device - if you live with a boy, you will finally understand the dribbles. For real. From what I can tell, shaking is completely ineffective.

HINT 6 - While we are on the topic of bodily functions let's just get this out of the way - You're gonna fart. A lot. It's a good thing. In fact, if you are farting well, you are faring well. That's science. And brother - chances are you will fare very well on Kilimanjaro. It's an altitude thing. So let er rip. The beautiful thing is your guides are used to it. When confronted with our gassiness, our sweet guides would say "Is okay! Is good for health!" or (my favorite) "Be free".  It's good advice. Be free. No worries. Hakuna matata. Gotta honk? Simply step to the side (a courtesy to the hikers behind you) and rooty-toot-toot. Say "samahani" (excuse me) and get back in line. We're all adults here. Which, actually, will be hard to tell because it turns out farts are funny in ANY language.

:giggle:
Farts.
:giggle:

The first time I climbed Kilimanjaro I went with my sister, Carrie. Carrie is a uberplanner. And because I figured she'd have most things covered, I didn't really worry about doing much research. A few weeks before we left, I did start to watch a YouTube video about how to pack for Kilimanjaro but then I got caught up in a weird YouTube related video string and ended up watching a botfly get removed from some poor bastard who visited Bolivia. Bottom line I learned from that little internet search: Don't go to Bolivia. And - YouTube is awesome.

So my learning curve was steep when I arrived on the mountain (steep - get it??? steep .. like the mountain is steep. Umkay, moving on). And I had to learn some things the old trial and error way. Which is okay and truthfully, the way I learn best.  In fact, even if I'd read ahead, I'm not sure I would have listened. I'm not really known for compliance. Or even comprehension. So reading ahead may not have helped me when, say, I pee'd all over my pants on day 1. But maybe you aren't like me. Maybe you are more like my sister - who never once pee'd on herself or her pants the whole trip - and you'd like to know some hints. I'm down with that. Here's what I've got:

Lesson One: Pole pole.

As you climb Kilimanjaro, if you pay attention at all, you will learn a handful of Kiswahili words. One of those words is "pole pole". I know, it looks like two words. It isn't. Not really. Two "poles" - "Pole pole" means something completely different than just one "pole". Kinda like two back-to-back shots of tequila mean something totally different than one. And "pole pole" isn't pronounced like you think. It's not "pole" like a stick in the ground or the thing you use to vault. It's pronounced "poe-lay poe-lay", like you're pointing out a couple of Edgar Allen's girlfriends.

"Pole pole" simply means, "slowly".  If, unlike me, you've done any reading about Kilimanjaro at all, you've probably already know about going slowly. It's one of the first things people tell you. Easy does it. The slow way is the only way. The tortoise beats the hare. Blah blah blah. And I know you *think* you know what slowly means. But you don't. Not really. Slowly on the mountain is not like normal slowly. Slowly on the mountain is like the gear before you get to first gear. It's like idle, on a bike, on an incline. I'm talking SLOW.

Why go slowly? Since I don't think "because I said so" will work, I will give you the actual reason. It's pretty technical. Try to keep up. Ready? Here's it is: Because if you don't, you'll crap out. (That's a climbing term you may not be familiar with. In layman's it means "get ready to pay for some hotel rooms at the base of the mountain cause you aint seein' the top. Brother.") The bottom line? Your body isn't used to altitude - and it takes time to get used to it. It needs you to go slowly so it can adjust.  It can, I promise. But it takes time. Your body needs you to slow-the-jack down so it can physically adjust to the changes you're asking it to make.  If you rush it, you're not going to like it. It's sort of like having sex the first time - it's not a complicated process but maybe let's not try to get it done during a commercial break of Dancing with the Stars. I just realized this analogy only works if you're female.  If you'd like a more technical explanation of how your body adjusts to altitude, you can find it here. I'm assuming it is accurate. Truthfully, I didn't read the whole thing. Mostly because I scanned it and there didn't seem to be any botfly extractions anywhere on the page.

For myself, I thought going slowly wouldn't be a problem. Having completed a handful of marathons and a couple of IRONMANs, I know the importance of pacing. I'm well acquainted with how important "take it easy and save it" can be. I've had to learn to dial it back and let the race come to me. Actually that's not really true. I go slowly because I really suck at running. In marathons, Ironmans, half-ironmans, olympic distance triathlons, 10Ks and 1 mile fun runs I go slowly because I don't really have a choice. That's my speed - None miles per hour. But, as it turns out, I'M SO GOOD AT WALKING! and that's what Kili is - a walk. And since I'M SO GOOD AT WALKING - I wanted to go faster ... because it was hard. Walking on Kili is hard.  It's uphill (which shouldn't be a surprise to you) and it's rocky and there isn't a lot of that stuff, what's it called again? Oh yeah - air.  So walking Kili is hard and when something is hard I just want to get it over with already! So maybe I pushed a little on that first day. Thankfully, I had a guide that was smart enough to recognize I was going too fast and gently reminded me of the importance of "pole pole". He gently reminded me by saying "Jenne, do not ever walk in front of me again. You stay. Here. (:::points to area behind him:::) Behind me." Got it. Direct and to the point. All clear. Roger that.

So we went slowly. And we reached the top. That should be enough to convince you. If it isn't, think about this:
what's the rush?  Why not go slowly? Slowly is good. Slowly is great, in fact. Slowly allows for observation, reflection, enjoyment. Each day you have ONE thing to do. Just one. Get to the next camp. That's it. When you get there, your tent will be set up, your dinner will be prepared, your hot water for washing will be waiting. All you have to do is get to the camp. That's your one and only job. So chill. Downshift. The mountain isn't going anywhere.

This mountain, this highest free-standing mountain in the world, has been here a long time - years, centuries, millennia - it's been keeping watch over the rainforest below, over the prowling lions and migrating wildebeests, over the nomadic Masaai and the banana-farming Chagga. It's grown trees so massive they rival buildings in any American city. It's crashed and tossed boulders the size of minivans half-way down it's slopes. It's seen the dawn of centuries, the dawn of progress, and the dawn of man. It's been there a very long time.

But you won't be. You will be on Kili basking in her hospitality and wonders for a very short time. She will amaze you with her beauty and terrify you with her harshness. She will rock you to sleep under an ocean of stars. Like a Geisha, she will peek out at you from behind a thick wrap of clouds only occasionally to show you her beauty and then quickly hide behind that curtain again - closing a cloudy kimono. She will reset your previous beliefs about what's possible and what's comfortable and your very western view of showers and the need for flossing. She will make you cry, she will make you laugh, she will silence your voice while your heart babbles on and on in an ancient language translated through gasps and exhales. She will thrill you. She will seduce you. She will enrapture you.

And then you will be gone.

You will swear you will remember her lessons. You will close your fist around the memories and pledge to never let them go. You will say, "I will remember" and "I won't forget". And you will mean it. But. You will forget. You won't remember. Your life will crash in around you. Your flight will get canceled. Your kid will spill milk on the car rug and not tell you. Your dentist will call to schedule your cleaning. Your house gutter will fall off in a storm and need fixing. Your check engine light will spotlight out on your dashboard when YOU JUST HAD THAT FIXED LAST WEEK! and you will forget. Because that's life.

But Kili is living.

So go slowly.
Don't rush.
Breathe in.
Breathe out.
And climb.

Pole pole.

I should be in bed. I should be sleeping. I should be drifting on dreams of mountain tops and white sands and 26.2 miles of dirt ribbon. My bags are full. Zippered. Boarding passes printed. It's go time. And I am peacefully overwhelmed. It's so much - the bags, the plans, the excitement, the connections, the details, the moments of anxiety, the hours of longing, the pressure to top out, the hope, the bulge around my hips created by my buckled pack, the sheer weight of the packed clif bars and pre-packaged applesauce. It's a lot. It is very, very much. But if you would put it all on a scale, pile it all up, stack it carefully - position and reposition it so it stays - and then add more. Throw in the days and weeks leading up, and the volume of emails to get details clarified again, again? oops can you help me again? Toss on top the number of trips to various stores to accumulate various very importing things I'm hoping we will never need - Imodium, blister packs, knee braces, a freshette (look it up). And on top of that pile the paperwork and the corrected paperwork. Pile it all on. Pile it high. Add every friend that's encouraged or laughed. Add family who cheers from stateside. Add all of the airport employees and the pilots and, why not!, add the planes themselves to this stack. When we arrive in Tanzania make sure you add hippos and giraffes, wildebeast and tree-climbing lions. The hyenas don't get along with much of anyone so place them carefully but include flamingos and Range Rovers and Maasai warriors as they're jumping and dancing while their women collect water. Line up dozens of porters ready to climb the mountain again and again - add them to the scale, each weighed down with luggage and gear and food balanced on their shiny heads. Put Kili herself on there - all 5 of her climates including the rainforest she beckons you in with, and the moorland she intoxicates you with, and the peak she lures you to. Include it all. Every morsel. Every drop. Pile it high. On that side of the scale.

And then, on this side of the scale place my gratitude. Place it square in the middle
... and then watch that scale tip.

If you think I'm lucky, you're right.
If you think I don't know it, you're wrong.

I'm the luckiest girl. Alive.