After an intense near-death experience, the fear begins to recede—smaller and smaller each time you recount the story. It becomes almost just a string of words. The feeling dims into a distant image, no longer present in the body—so you think.

About ten days ago, I found myself in a near-disaster in the Pyrenees Mountains in the south of France. (Full story here.)

I was with my 15-year-old son, chasing the idea of adventure: summit the mountain, then descend to a lake on the other side where a barren refuge with only a roof awaited us. No fire. No comforts. Just sleeping bags. We were going to rough it.

We were excited—and inexperienced.

To make a long story short and jump to the lessons learned:
Don’t follow Google GPS.
Don’t bring a crappy battery pack that fails when you need it most.
Do bring at least four extra pairs of socks.
Bring a tent.
Don’t follow an unmarked trail through snow and fog, watching Google Maps shave off just one minute every twenty.
Don’t wait until sunset to realize you might need to dig a hole in the snow to sleep—or try escaping back to abandoned buildings you may not even reach in time.

Do trust your intuition—especially after your foot sinks thigh-deep in the snow and there's water underneath, and you think, Maybe this isn’t a good idea.
Don’t follow the 15-year-old who’s seen it all on YouTube and thinks he knows best.

The moment that remains etched in my mind is this one:

We had just hiked 6.5 hours over a summit and found ourselves surrounded by blinding white snow, perched on a steep incline that disappeared into a foggy abyss. Visibility was nearly zero.
Ahead: another summit.
Below: who knows what.
The general map said we were supposed to descend toward a lake. This whole hike was supposed to take four hours. Now it was almost sunset.

We were standing on the only dry patch of rock with a tuft of grass. Shaking and trembling. Our feet soaked. Pants soaked from falling and sliding repeatedly.
We dug our feet into the snow to form a mini-ledge, bracing ourselves from sliding backward.

The choices:
Keep going into the white void and hope to reach the refuge—wherever it was—before nightfall.
Or retrace the perilous route we barely survived to get here. Hike two more hours back to the old, abandoned mining buildings and hope:

We make it before sunset.
They’re open.

Then came the flash: my son began to cry. He was shaking. I still see that moment—his fear, the nothingness around us, and the shared terror that we might actually die that night.
I had to stifle the wave of heat—panic—rising in my chest, threatening to take over.

But something inside me snapped into focus:
No. We must survive.
We have to move now. Fast.
We retrace every single step.
We reach those buildings before dark.
No stopping.
We will survive.

We barely made it.
We found an open building, made it through the night, and lived to tell the tale.

Followed the whole series of letting people know we were alive and driving 5 hours back to my little tiny home near Bordeaux in France. Collapsing into bed after the sleepless night before.

The next morning, I savored my warm bed like never before—immense gratitude for the heater, for running water, for food.

Later that day, we went to help a friend dealing with health issues. The task? Move two tons of wood—logs large and small—from one side of a fence to the other.
No entryway.
We had to launch each log over the fence by hand.

The pile looked endless.
The work was grueling: bend, pick up, adjust, throw—again and again.
I found myself fine-tuning my calisthenics: engaging the hips, using momentum, focusing deeply with each toss.

My son and I both got in the rhythm.
Hundreds of throws, and the pile barely shrank.
I listened to my audiobook and went into engine mode. Just keep going.

I felt the sweat.
My abs.
My muscles burning—and it was familiar.
Since the hike, I now knew what my body was capable of.

And then, something shifted.
I started to enjoy the movement: the muscle contraction, the twist, the propulsion.
I became a perfectly tuned machine—and it felt good.

After what felt like a thousand throws, we finished.
I thought: I climbed the Pyrenees and survived. I can do this too.
And we did. Every last branch.

That night, in bed, I felt everything: abs, obliques, thighs, shoulders, chest. Every inch of my body was alive and strong.

The following days were filled with intense work on my property in France. I’d decided to list my land and tiny house as an Airbnb before heading out just a few days later.

I cleaned, repaired, painted, weed-whacked, negotiated with locals, bought sheets, soap, towels, and all the little amenities you never think about for yourself.
I found a property manager.
Checked every item off a never-ending list to get the place guest-ready.

In two days, I pulled off a Herculean task—while still spending evenings with my son and holding client therapy sessions online.

On the last day, I peeled off my filthy overalls and boots, hands scraped and shredded.
These hands had worked.

I took a two-minute shower, threw on my white clothes, brushed my hair, and we drove to a local fine-dining restaurant.
I sank into my seat, ordered a wide chalice of Bergerac Pecharmant red, and savored every bite of the three-course meal.

Done.
We did it.

The next day, I left France: a 30-hour journey to Hawaii, including a short overnight in LA.

The plane felt like a luxury.
Coffee in hand.
Time to write.
My body had hit its limits—and now, we rest.

Hawaii welcomed me with her warm winds and endless blues of ocean and sky.
She exhaled ease, and my body melted.

Saturday evening, I danced.
Still jet-lagged from waking at 4 a.m., I moved—feeling the ground, the beat, the release of expression.
Suddenly, a flash: the top of the white mountain.
Terror. Lost.
My body curled into a ball.

Carly, you were Supermom there. But now—you can be the little girl.
That was scary, wasn’t it?
You survived.
You’re safe now.

I put on my shoes, drove home, and slept—wrapped in white sheets and comforter.

The next day, I hit my personal free-diving record: 27 meters.
90 feet.
1 breath.

It felt easy.

I often wonder about human capacity.
What we’re really made of.
I’ve always thought I had strength and endurance, but now I know—
I have a gold mine inside me that hasn’t even been tapped.

What we think we’re capable of is just conditioning.

This past week, five people have asked about retreats with me in Hawaii.
Three new clients have signed up for somatic therapy.
I can’t help but notice the connection.

It’s as if the universe saw that I can.
I can.

And it’s offering me ways to put that into action.

And just because I can doesn’t mean I have to all the time.
But now?
It takes less effort.

And for that, I thank our Pyrenees adventure—and the unleashing of life force it stirred awake.

I don’t recommend trying to find a near death adventure to prove you have buried resources within you~
but sometimes it’s the trials that we surpass that makes us realize we are much more capable than we could ever imagine.

If you haven’t read the full adventure check it out here:

Near death in the Pyrenees Mountains.

and follow my blogs on substack for free CARLY KO

MAY 11

Summary: ❄️ Near-Death in the Pyrenees ❄️