Yesterday, I did something I once thought was impossible. I hiked from the Indiahikes Raithal base camp to the meadows of Dayara Bugyal — reaching in just four hours.

This is my story — of taking one leap of faith after another, while learning to live and trek with Ulcerative Colitis.

It was early 2024 when I was diagnosed.

Looking back, the signs had been there since late 2023. What I thought were small, passing stomach troubles slowly turned into something I never imagined.

Life changed almost overnight. I stopped going out much, avoided public transport, and kept my world small. Even something as simple as my daily commute to work became something I had to plan around anxiety. Eating before leaving home felt like a risk — because I never knew when I’d need a restroom.

For months before my diagnosis, I was being treated for Irritable Bowel Syndrome (IBS). I wanted to believe that’s all it was. But deep down, I knew something wasn’t right. So when the doctor finally said Ulcerative Colitis, I remember sitting there, numb. My heart sank. I knew what was coming — the lifestyle changes, the uncertainty, the fear that nothing would ever feel “normal” again.

The medicines helped me stabilise, but the first few months were hard. Every day felt like walking on eggshells — careful, cautious, unsure. I had to relearn how to live — to plan every small movement of my day around my condition. 

Travelling for leisure? That was out of the question. But somewhere deep down, there was still a part of me that longed that sense of freedom again.

By mid-2024, my body began to settle. The medicines were working, and so was my patience. I started feeling a little stronger. I remember looking at photos of the Har Ki Dun trek — Gangaad and Osla villages, Thamsa, the snow-clad Swargarohini— and thinking, maybe someday. 

I looked at Hampta Pass in monsoon 2024. I even reached out to the Indiahikes team and started reading travel bloggers who continued despite living with the same condition. It gave me hope.

My parents weren’t ready for it — and maybe rightly so. It had only been a few months since my diagnosis, and I was still learning to live with it. So, I waited.

Around the same time, I had left my well-paying job. I was home — restless, uncertain, trying to figure out what came next. And then, in August 2024, I reconnected with Indiahikes — this time not as a trekker, but as a writer.

I wasn’t very familiar with the world of trekking. It was all new — and honestly, a little intimidating. I was anxious, unsure if I’d fit in or if my body would keep up.

But somewhere, we all have to start. There’s a first time for everything, I reminded myself.

So, I packed my bags and moved to Bengaluru — anxious, yes, but also hopeful.

Within two weeks of joining, I was sent on a short day hike to Harihara Betta, accompanying a group of students. I was assisting the trek leader in facilitating an experience for them. The night before, I didn’t eat dinner. My mind was racing with what ifs — what if something went wrong? What if I needed to rush back?

But the next morning, something changed forever. The hike went beautifully. My first hike after being diagnosed — and it went without a single hitch. 

That day, I took my first real leap of faith.

After that, I kept trekking — carefully at first. For the next few hikes, I still skipped dinner the night before, still played it safe. But slowly, I began to trust my body again. 

It’s been more than a year now. I’ve done over a dozen hikes — around Bengaluru, in Kodaikanal, Gokarna, and beyond. Each one has been a small leap, a quiet reminder that I can still do the things I love.

And then, in March 2025, I finally trekked to Har Ki Dun — the trek I once had to let go of. Somewhere, deep down, I kept manifesting it — quietly, somedays loudy, and mostly patiently.

When I finally stepped on that trail, I remember feeling nervous. I kept my meals very light. But as the days went by, the fear softened. I remember tears rolling down my face on almost all days of the trek. I could feel the pain and weight of all those months slowly lifting off my chest.

Living with an autoimmune condition isn’t easy. Trekking with one is even tougher. Waking up at odd hours, braving cold mornings, pushing your limits, while still listening to your body. There’s always that voice at the back of your head, what if something goes wrong?

And honestly, there are plenty of days when things don’t go the way I hope they would.

But somewhere along the way, trekking is turning that fear into bits of confidence that I carry with me on every trek I go for.

I don’t just trek for myself. I assist trek leaders too — helping others experience the same joy I once thought I’d lost.

The mountains have transformed the way I see myself. I don’t think of my condition as a disability anymore. It’s simply a part of who I am.

Just yesterday, I completed the Dayara Bugyal day hike — yes, a day hike to Dayara Bugyal. This time, I didn’t skip breakfast. I ate well, stopped at dhabas along the way, even drank a glass of chai to keep myself warm.

A year ago, I couldn’t have imagined this — twenty kilometres in a single day and that too on a mountain. I ran, slipped, clicked photos, and looked at the mountains with nothing but gratitude.

Every trek I’ve done has been a leap of faith.

Trekking hasn’t just been transformational for me — it’s turned my biggest fear into acceptance.