The organization is called NOLS – National Outdoor Leadership School. In January of 2015, I was in the midst of my gap year after dropping out of Wake Forest University. I was a nineteen-year-old girl who was extremely lost, confused, and recovering from mental and physical trauma of my first year as a college athlete. It was the classic case of a lost identity as I was trying to figure out who I was without the “athlete” label I’d obtained since, well, the womb. In order to do this, I felt as if I had to travel to the ends of the Earth… or more specifically, the Cochise Desert Mountain Range in Arizona.

I arrived in Phoenix with my North Face backpack (going for the “outdoorsy” look), my dad at my side, and some nasty stomach issues. The night before I had eaten a vegetable called a “Sunchoke” which, if consumed in large quantities, causes extreme irritability in the bowel area. It was a good start to the adventure. As I stood next to my dad in the lobby the next morning, we observed all my future peers who would be going on this excursion with me. The perpetual frown on my face remained stagnant as I looked around and couldn’t help but think that every single one of these people was some “weird hippie nature freak.” As my stomach began to act up again - it came in sudden waves – so too did a wave of regret. I glanced quickly around for the closest bathroom in which I would wait for many minutes, wondering what the hell I was thinking coming here to “get out of my comfort zone.”

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I said goodbye to my dad, we arrived at camp, and the first thing we did was learn to pitch a tent. I’m not a lazy person by any means; however, I had absolutely no interest in pitching a tent for it seemed unnecessarily complicated and just stupid. Not was I completely out of my element, but I had zero desire to enter into this element. The next lesson was on knots which made me even more bitter than the lesson on pitching tents. First of all, one dumb piece of string can create more types of knots than I ever could have imagined: there was the sailor’s knot, overhand knot, figure eight knot, clove hitch, double overhand, running knot, bowline, and -- wait for it -- bowline on a bite. WTF.

Now, my childhood was beautiful -- I would never take it back. Yet it was the same routine for many years which went something like this: practice, school, practice, eat, homework, repeat. One could say, “I didn’t get out much,” which would be an exaggeration because I had many friends and a great high school experience; however, when I arrived at NOLS, I realized I did not “get out much” in a different sense. I did not get out much in the sense that I had never been without my phone or any electronics for more than a day. I had no idea how to work a Bunson Burner let alone cook food on one. I had no idea how to tie basic knots. I was not aware of certain environmental protocols like the fact that stepping on moss was a bad thing. Finally, I thought the desert was always hot… because it’s the desert. I soon learned this is false and spent the entirety of the sixteen-day trip wearing an average of six layers and a beanie. The desert, I realized, actually consists of various extreme temperatures.

As I lay there awake that first night in my tent, I began to panic. I was sharing a tent with two people who I thought were weirdos, though I had no idea who they were. But I was in this now, miles out in the Cochise Desert, and there was no turning back. Unless… what if I faked an illness and got helicoptered out? What if I ran away when no one was looking? Why is it so freakin’ cold…? That dinner we just ate was literally rice and beans, and I’m still so hungry… The thoughts in my head were swarming me like bees over a bowl of honey. If I had just stayed in college and been doing what I usually do, none of this would be happening right now.

This is how I felt for the majority of the trip -- frustrated, pessimistic, uncomfortable -- and more than anything, cold. These feelings never subsided; however, as the days passed, I began to notice something interesting. Though they were constantly there, I started to be able to manage my feelings and emotions better throughout the trip. I began to fully appreciate the little things that brought me happiness. This newfound awareness for happiness in such seemingly small areas of life created a whole new perspective for me, a whole new sense of awareness. For example, I fell in love with rock climbing. It was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done at first. But as I learned the skills and practiced the art, every little victory and triumph on the rock brought me immense joy.

The highlight of every day was nighttime, not only because I knew I had survived another day, but because of the bonfire. I’ll never forget the first night we had a bonfire in the desert: when I finally felt warmth, it was the first time since I’d been there that I thought I would maybe get through this. From that night on, the nightly bonfire was what I looked forward to each day. As the trip went on and I became closer with my peers, the bonfire not only brought warmth but a powerful sense of trust, comradery, and love throughout the group. We shared stories, confessions, deepest secrets with the strangers around us who somehow became the people with whom I felt the most comfortable. Everyone, everyone, has a story. The transformation of my relationships with these people from the beginning of the trip -- where I thought I was surrounded by freaks -- to the end was truly life-changing.

All this being said, I remained an emotional rollercoaster throughout the entirety of the two weeks. My thoughts ranged from “You can do this!” to “How many more days of this misery must I endure!?” One night, after rigorous hiking for seven hours and being forced to reset camp in the cold darkness of the night, I’d never felt so defeated. Every part of my body felt sick, and as I stood there -- still incapable of putting up a tent and tying any sort of knot -- I began to cry. It was the end of the first week and I still had another full week to go… It was the most terrible feeling I’d ever undergone, and -- for the first time in my life -- I was sure I could not do it.

Suddenly, one of the older men in the group to whom I’d never even spoken (a 35-year-old, teddy-bear-of-a-dude from Indiana) patted my shoulder and asked me if I was okay. I managed to shake my head and say, “I don’t feel great.” As if he knew everything I’d mentally been through the past week -- the past year -- he pulled a honey packet out of his pocket and told me to put it under my tongue. “You look like your blood sugar could be low,” he said. “This will help.” He proceeded to make me a cup of hot chocolate with butter to help my body regain the strength it seemed to have lost over the past two years.

I’ll never forget how that single, simple act of kindness in a time where I felt ultimately helpless changed my life forever. The next day I felt enormously better and ready to take on that stupid desert. I took a shit in the woods for the first time all week, partly because I’d been too scared, and partly because my body seemed to shut that whole system down for a while after the Sunchoke incident. The night before was a turning point in the trip and in my life. The most important thing I could have learned was how a little bit of help and care from someone can impact you in more ways than they’ll ever realize.

At the end of the two weeks, we drove back to base camp located in the “front country.” As we drove passed a Walmart, the first sign of actual civilization I’d come in contact with for sixteen days, I knew I’d undergone a significant transformation. I wasn’t the same person I was when we drove passed that same Walmart on the way over… day one. Not only had I gained a completely new perspective on life, but I had overcome more than I could ever have imagined. On the night after the hike, for the first time in my life, I felt like I just could not do it. But I could. Everyone can. I promise. My message to you is this: when you feel lost and helpless in the desert, you will survive. Eventually, you’ll emerge victorious with new skills and wisdom to pass along to someone else in need. So for you, here are my 10 tips to make it through the desert of life:

1. Don’t eat Sunchokes. Ever.
2. The desert is cold, even though it’s the desert.
3. Rock Climb. Everyone should try it at least once.
4. Bonfires are healing.
5. Eat honey from a stranger.
6. Take a shit in the woods. You’ll feel as free as you’ve ever felt.
7. It doesn’t matter whether you can tie a knot or build a fire. Be willing to learn, be willing to fail.
8. Everyone has a story and guess what… People are really cool.
9. Cry. Let it out so you can let it go.
10. When you feel like you physically, mentally, emotionally can’t any longer, you can.