The Day I Saw Myself Through Younger Eyes

It was a beautiful, sunny winter’s morning in the Western Cape, and I decided to go hiking in the Helderberg Mountain. Hiking is a soul-restoring activity that I try to do as often as I can. However, with the constant demands of work, it is not always possible to escape to the slopes. Having spent the last few weeks exercising vigorously in the gym, I decided it was time to swap the treadmill for the open air and do something completely different.

The Helderberg Mountain is an exceptional place to hike. It has quite a few routes marked out clearly, and it offers the immense benefit of being very safe to navigate entirely on your own. On this particular morning, I chose the Protea Route. This is a lovely, circular trail that climbs steadily before turning just before you reach the deep gorge. Once you hit that crest, you are rewarded with a magnificent, sweeping view across False Bay. The entire trail is about eight kilometres long.

As I packed my bag, I decided to bypass the healthy, chopped-up apple which I had so responsibly laid out earlier that morning. Instead, I grabbed a rich block of fudge for quick energy. Every hiker needs a reward, after all.

I started walking, and I immediately fell into a wonderful rhythm. I just love the feeling of my body working with me as I ascend a mountain. The steady burn in my muscles was proof that all the hard work in the gym was paying off. I felt strong, capable, and entirely in tune with the environment.

When I reached the top of the circular route, I paused to look out over False Bay and enjoyed my block of fudge. It was absolutely delicious.

On my way down, however, the mountain reminded me of its winter character. I noticed that the path was very clay-like and slick in several areas. As my father taught us when we were children, you must always go down steep inclines with your feet positioned at an angle. Because I was wearing my sturdy Hi-Tec hiking boots, I felt confident and quite comfortable.

However, halfway down the descent, my boots found a patch of treacherous, greasy clay. Suddenly, I found myself flat on my backside. My feet had completely slipped out from under me.

A young woman jogging up the trail passed me at that exact moment. She stopped immediately and was deeply and genuinely concerned for me. I quickly scrambled to my feet and assured her that I was completely fine.

For a brief moment, as I lay on that muddy trail, I did not feel the usual embarrassment that follows a public fall. Instead, I was surprised by the young jogger’s intense concern. Her concern was immediate and sincere, and for a split second I found myself seeing myself through her eyes rather than my own.

It was not that her care was unwelcome. Rather, it was a sudden reminder that at sixty-one years old, I am no longer viewed as indestructible by people who are young enough to be my own children.

To that young jogger, I was not the strong and capable woman I feel myself to be. I was simply an older lady who had taken a hard fall.

It was a profound moment because it reminded me that I now belong to a completely different age category compared to what I feel on the inside. In my mind, I am still the strong, vibrant woman who goes to the gym three to four times a week to do intensive cardio and strength training. I easily crush my ten thousand steps every single day. My Garmin even tells me that my VO2 max places me in the "Superior" range for women my age.

It is strange how we see ourselves on the inside, and how the world perceives us from the outside.

My history with this specific mountain also flashed through my mind. Exactly fifteen years ago, I fell on this very same trail. On that occasion, I was not so lucky. I fractured my left ankle and faced the agonising reality of having to hobble three kilometres down the steep terrain on a broken bone. Yesterday, I walked away unscathed.

As I brushed the clay from my clothes, I could almost hear my father reminding me once again about slippery descents.

However, just as I was privately celebrating my "superior" athletic status, technology decided to humiliate me. My Garmin watch began to beep with deafening and frantic urgency. The screen flashed aggressively: "Incident Detected".

Oh my gosh, I was so embarrassed. Just moments earlier, I was conquering a mountain. Now, I was a public nuisance. The watch was practically shrieking, preparing to notify my emergency contacts that I had perished in the fynbos. I desperately needed to cancel the alert, but there was a major logistical problem. Without my reading glasses, my watch face was nothing more than a neon blur.

What followed was deeply embarrassing. I was standing in the clay path, squinting down at my wrist, stabbing randomly at buttons, and hoping I was not accidentally calling an ambulance. On a beautiful nature trail where the only sounds should be the sweet chirping of birds and the soft rustle of the wind, the beeping of my watch could be heard for miles.

It took me a full, agonising minute of blind guessing to silence the device. When the digital beeping finally stopped, it felt as though it took forever for nature’s beautiful silence to return. To have successfully deactivated a medical emergency alert while not being able to see was a huge accomplishment.

I finished the remaining kilometres of the hike with a smile on my face. The experience left me with a beautiful, grounding truth.

It is not that I am getting old.

It is simply that kindness feels entirely different when you are on the receiving end of it.

💌 Before You Go

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— Frannie ☕