The Night the Mountains Fell – Morocco

“Life is about nodding to the wild things that cross your path, and then walking on..” - Simon Clark

I went to Morocco to climb.

Mount Toubkal – the highest mountain in North Africa.

After Iceland I wanted something different: heat instead of ice, the crush of a city instead of empty wilderness.

But mountains don’t care what you want.

In the narrow streets of Marrakech, before the climb had even begun, I tore my leg.

It doesn’t sound like much, but when you’ve built yourself out of broken bones and scar tissue, even a small injury can be the difference between standing and crawling.

I had to make a choice: force the climb and risk tearing myself apart – or stay behind.

For the first time since leaving that hospital bed, I stayed behind.

That night, as the rest of the group headed into the mountains, the earth moved.

The earthquake came like a growl from deep under the city.

Walls shook.

And then they fell.

I ran into the streets as the buildings cracked open like eggshells.

The dust was so thick it turned the air white.

The sound – the sound was like the world breaking apart.

And then came the silence.

Followed by the screaming.

I pulled bodies from rubble that night.

Some alive.

Many not.

I saw things no one should ever see.

I carried the dead through streets that just hours before had been alive with music and the smell of spices.

When the sun came up, Marrakech was a different city.

I was a different man.

I came home from that trip with nothing.

No climb.

No summit.

Just the sound of buildings falling and the weight of those I couldn’t save.

But if Iceland had taught me anything, it was this:

you don’t leave something unfinished.

So months later, I went back.

Back through the same streets that had once been rubble.

Back to the same mountain that had waited for me while the earth shook.

This time, I climbed.

Toubkal isn’t the tallest mountain in the world, but that day it might as well have been Everest.

Every step up that path was a promise: to the city, to the dead, to the man I used to be.

And when I stood on the summit, looking out across the Atlas Mountains, it wasn’t pride I felt.

It was peace.

Because sometimes, the mountain isn’t just about the summit.

Sometimes, it’s about going back when everything in you wants to run away.

The Mountain You Haven’t Gone Back To - A Reflective Return Exercise

Not about pushing forward, but about choosing to face what was left behind.

1. Name the Mountain

This doesn’t have to be literal.

What is the thing you walked away from because you had to?

• A place

• A goal

• A relationship

• A version of yourself

• A moment interrupted by loss, fear, or circumstance

Write it down in one sentence:

“The mountain I didn’t climb was…”

2. Acknowledge Why You Left

This is not about guilt.

Why did you stay behind?
What made leaving the right decision at the time?

“I stayed behind because…”

(Be honest. Survival is not failure.)

3. What Fell That Night

Every earthquake takes something with it.

What did you lose in that moment?

• Certainty

• Innocence

• Confidence

• Direction

• Someone you loved

“That night, I lost…”

4. The Return Question

You are not required to go back to everything.

But ask yourself this quietly:

Is there one mountain I am ready to return to, not to conquer, but to make peace with?

Write yes, no, or not yet, and why.

5. Define Your Summit

Not all summits look like success.

If you did return, what would peace look like?
(Not applause. Not achievement. Peace.)

“If I went back, peace would look like…”

6. The Promise

Finish with one sentence only:

“When I am ready, I will go back, not to prove anything, but to…”

Closing Reflection

You don’t owe the world a summit.
You don’t owe pain a performance.

But sometimes, going back gently, on your own terms, is how we close the circle.

Not every mountain is meant to be climbed immediately.
Some are meant to wait until we are whole enough to return.