How it started
In 2020, the world stopped. I was locked in my apartment in Mexico City, going absolutely nowhere. But every morning, if the sky was clear, I could see her through the haze — Iztaccíhuatl. The sleeping woman, Mexico's third tallest mountain at 5,286m. Just sitting there on the horizon at sunrise, waiting.
I decided I was going to climb her.
It took me a year to get there. In 2021 I finally went up. I didn't make it — altitude sickness knocked me down before the summit. So I went back. And I made it.
And then something happened that I didn't expect. I wanted more.
I climbed Pico de Orizaba, the tallest mountain in Mexico. When I came down I felt incredible for about three days, and then — nothing, just a hollow feeling. So I climbed it again. And again. I've now summited Orizaba seven times. I climbed all ten of Mexico's tallest peaks. Then Peru — Vallunaraju and Nevado Pisco in the Cordillera Blanca.
Then came Aconcagua. 6,962 meters. The highest peak in the Americas and in the world outside of the Himalayas. I went with a group and we failed — weather pushed us back two hours away from the summit. I was destroyed. But as I was crying on the long way back to base camp that day, something clicked. I didn't come here to try. I came here to summit.
Three days later I went back up. Alone. 1:30 in the morning, minus twenty degrees, pitch black. Every ten steps I stopped. Breathed. Looked at the horizon. Kept going.
I made it.
After Aconcagua, I went to Ecuador — Cayambe, Cotopaxi, Chimborazo. Glaciers, crevasses, technical terrain. Building the skills for what comes next.
Seven mountains. Seven continents. The highest point on each one. They call it the Seven Summits, and fewer than 600 people in history have done it.
I'm going to do it in twelve months.