In the summer of 2006, during the most severe thunderstorm of the decade in Missouri, my mother was fighting for her life. One year later, she was summiting Mount Kilimanjaro.

My family owns a cabin about an hour outside of Pilot Knob, Missouri, where we venture for family time and weekend getaways. It is isolated, with no internet connection or cell signal. The few neighboring cabins are miles away. My mother spends weekends there alone sometimes, in love with the tranquility of the forest.

On this particular weekend, she faced death when she was pinned between her Toyota Land Cruiser and an iron gate. The gate marks the entrance to the cabin, and the driver must exit the vehicle in order to open it so cars can get through. In a hurry to get in and out of rain pour, she tried to get to the gate as quickly as possible. By mistake, she put the car in neutral instead of park. It rolled forward so slowly that she didn't even hear the sound of the wheels on the gravel. She was trapped for six hours, rain pouring mercilessly the entire time. Because her engine was on, the car pushed her further and further into the iron and burned her skin severely.

At the sixth hour, when she had lost hope for any chance of being rescued, an intoxicated man happened to drive past. He moved her car, letting her free, and promptly abandoned her. Without the ability to use her legs, she drove her car with only her arms until she found someone who would help her. According to her doctor, if she had been trapped for just one more hour, she would have lost her legs if not her life. For six weeks, she was bed-ridden. After that, she could only walk with a walker.

She persevered. She was determined to make a full recovery and live life to the fullest. Just one year following the accident, she summited Mount Kilimanjaro, the tallest mountain on the African continent.

During the hours that my mother was trapped, she thought she was going to die. She survived. She was given a second chance at life, and she was going to make sure she took advantage of every new day given to her. During her recovery process, her doctor suggested that she make a goal for herself to help with the recuperation. She decided to climb Mount Kilimanjaro. The summer of the climb, my mother trained every day, wearing huge backpacks as tall as she was at the gym and on the Missouri hiking trails. Her determination and ambition was inspiring to watch. At that point in my life, I had never seen someone work so hard on anything. I had never seen someone want something so much. She returned from her trip renewed, full of new hope, happiness and growing ambition. Every summer since, she has embarked on another climb. Now, in 2016, ten years after that nearly fatal day in the Missouri woods, she has climbed Mount Kilimanjaro, Mount Kenya, Mount Washington, Mount Shavano, Mount of the Holy Cross, The Presidential Range in the White Mountains, Mount Mansfield, the Grand Tetons, the John Muir Trail, the Coastal Path, the Dingle Way, and parts of the Pacific Crest Trail. That list is what she refers to as "the highlights" and doesn't even include all the trails she has explored.

My mother is my hero. Her passion for climbing has taught me that anything is possible with enough hard work, dedication, and perseverance. Her love for the mountains has taught me to appreciate nature and spend as much time as possible relishing the beauty of the great outdoors. Her journey has taught me how precious life is and to follow my dreams, no matter what is thrown my way. This Christmas, my family is embarking on a ten-day hike in Iceland together. I couldn't be more excited for the chance to experience my mother's drive and passion first hand. I'm nervous and likely unprepared, but I have faith that with my mother by my side, I will leave a happier, fuller person. My mother climbs mountains, and for that I am pretty damn proud.