climbing for a cure in guatemala

the four of us on the trip living with Parkinson's

I’ve traveled a lot. For work, for curiosity, for escape. I’ve seen many corners of the world. But until this year, I never had a particular reason to go to Guatemala and I didn’t know what to expect. It turned out to be really wonderful for so many reasons.

Before the hiking, I spent several days in Antigua, working remotely and wandering the city, mostly solo, but I also met up with some friends. It quickly became one of those places that feels easy to settle into. Cobblestone streets, volcanoes looming quietly in the background, small cafés tucked into courtyards, the smell of fresh coffee everywhere. It was perfect for working during the day and decompressing in the evenings. Mornings were for writing and Zoom calls; afternoons for walking around, browsing little shops, and letting myself feel present in a new place. It felt calm, creative, and reflective—exactly what I needed before what turned out to be a physically and emotionally demanding trip.

Then it was time to meet the group.

This trip was organized through the Michael J. Fox Foundation’s Team Fox, and there were twelve of us in total. Four of us live with Parkinson’s disease. The other eight were connected to it deeply and personally—fathers with Parkinson’s, a sister with Parkinson’s, a lifelong friend who came to hike with his buddy who has PD. In different ways, every person there had some intimate knowledge of the disease.

The other three people with Parkinson’s had all been diagnosed more recently than I had been and were diagnosed later in life than I was. Two men and one woman. They were all married, had kids, and had already accomplished a lot before they were given the devastating news. So as usual, I felt a bit like the odd one out. However, I couldn't have asked for better teammates than Jay, Mark, and Lucretia. At 70 years old, Lucretia was the other woman with PD and she was incredibly strong. Watching her push herself on the trail was genuinely inspiring.

The hiking itself was great for me. I like to hike. It turned out to be a bit harder than I expected—longer days, steeper climbs, and thinner air––all pleasant surprises that I actually loved. For some people though, it was clearly a real stretch, both physically and mentally. In a strange way, that was part of what made it meaningful. In Crested Butte, where I live, I often feel like I’m the worst at everything—the slowest, the weakest, and definitely the most limited. On this trip though, I felt capable. I felt strong enough. I felt like my body—at least for those days—was mostly doing what I asked of it. It felt good to do something challenging and feel even a little bit confident in my body. Sadly, I haven’t felt that way in a long while.

At the same time, the trip was intense in ways I didn’t anticipate.

I spend a lot of my life trying not to think about Parkinson’s. I work really hard to ignore it when I can. My biggest fear since diagnosis has always been that this disease would take over my identity—that everything I do, everything I talk about, everything I plan would revolve around Parkinson’s. And the truth is, that fear is starting to feel less theoretical and more real.

On one hand, being around people who understood Parkinson’s was freeing. I didn’t feel quite as embarrassed. I didn’t feel like I needed to hide symptoms or explain why something was hard. Everyone just got it. That level of understanding is rare, and it brought a sense of ease and safety I don’t often feel.

That mattered more than I can easily explain.

On the other hand, Parkinson’s was everywhere. It was the reason we were there. I was reminded almost constantly that I have this disease—and that it is getting worse. Being around other people with Parkinson’s is complicated for me. There is solidarity and connection, yes. But there is also comparison– and that part is hard to admit.

No matter where I go, I am almost always the youngest person with Parkinson’s––definitely the youngest when I was diagnosed. And while it is devastating to be given this news at any age, I still find myself thinking things I wish I didn’t. I look at others and think things like: You [the other person with PD, not me] were diagnosed at 45, that’s lucky. I would have done anything to have had ten extra years without this. That envy isn’t rational, but it’s honest.

I also compare symptoms constantly. How am I moving compared to others? Does my speech come more easily than it does for them? Is my tremor better or worse? Why do they look more “normal” than I do? And when I see someone whose symptoms are more advanced, it scares me. It’s impossible not to think, Is that where I’m headed? How long do I have before that’s me?

And yet—despite all of those convoluted feelings—we climbed three volcanoes. All of us. Together. We pushed ourselves. We supported each other. We laughed, struggled, encouraged, and bonded in ways that only happen when you are tired, vulnerable, and working toward something bigger than yourselves. Honestly, I was amazed that 12 people from different backgrounds, different generations, different parts of the country, with very different lives were able to gel so seamlessly and connect so beautifully. By the end of the week, I genuinely felt close to every single one of them.

And..together, we raised over $135,000 for Parkinson’s research.

To everyone who donated: thank you, thank you, thank you. Truly. And if you didn’t—don’t worry. There will be more opportunities:) I hope to keep doing trips like this, and I’ve already been quietly brainstorming future challenges that Team Fox could organize.

I hate that I have Parkinson’s. I hate what it has taken from me and what it threatens to take next. But I am incredibly grateful that something like this exists. This trip hit all the right notes for me: a physical challenge, an outdoor adventure, a new and interesting country, alongside people who understood something about my reality. All while raising money that I hope—desperately—will lead to actual treatment, and one day, maybe even some sort of cure for this really awful disease.

It’s been a long time since I’ve blogged. Life has been a lot. But get ready—there’s more coming in 2026.

See more from my trip to Guatemala here and here.