There are days when leadership feels like navigating fog, when you cannot see the summit, only the next step. In those moments, I’ve learned to trust the rhythm of my own pace, to lean on the team beside me, and to hold faith in the purpose that called me to climb in the first place.
When I decided to climb Mount Kilimanjaro, I wasn’t chasing a bucket-list adventure or a photo at the summit. I went searching for silence, for stillness, for perspective, for a conversation with myself that only the mountain could host.
At 4,800 metres above sea level, the air grows thin and time slows. Each step becomes intentional, each breath a small victory. I remember thinking, this is what leadership feels like. The higher you climb, the quieter it gets. The noise fades, and what remains is rhythm, step by step, breath by breath, decision by decision.
I did not go to conquer Kilimanjaro. I went to be humbled by it. And somewhere between the mist and the aching muscles, I realised that leadership is not about standing tallest; it is about learning to keep walking, especially when the air thins, when your team is tired, and when your own feet begin to protest the journey.
There were moments when my body begged me to stop. But in those same moments, I discovered something sacred, that service is not sustained by strength, but by surrender. By the willingness to keep showing up, even when the summit feels far away.
“Leadership without a limp is dangerous; it lacks empathy, and empathy is what makes service humane.”
I used to think that strength meant having all the answers. Now I know it means admitting when you don’t. Every meaningful journey, personal or professional, leaves us with a limp. That limp, that scar, is not weakness. It is wisdom earned. It reminds us to walk more gently, to listen more deeply, and to lead more humanely.
When I first took on the responsibility of leading a newsroom, I thought the climb had ended. I was wrong. It had only just begun.
Transformation, whether of an organisation or of self, is never a one-time ascent. Every summit reveals another slope, another lesson, another test of heart.
There are days when leadership feels like navigating fog, when you cannot see the summit, only the next step. In those moments, I’ve learned to trust the rhythm of my own pace, to lean on the team beside me, and to hold faith in the purpose that called me to climb in the first place.
“True service is not loud. It is consistent.”
On Kilimanjaro, I met people who taught me that leadership is not about reaching the top first. It is about making sure everyone arrives safely, even if it means slowing down.
There were times when someone’s pace faltered, and another quietly offered their hand. Those were the most beautiful moments of the journey, when progress became shared, and the summit belonged to all of us.
When I finally stood at Uhuru Peak, I felt less triumphant and more tender. The mountain had stripped away all pretence of power and left me with a deeper understanding: that leadership, at its best, is an act of stewardship. It is about care, not conquest.
“The summit is not the story, the climb in service of others is.”
So, to every leader, parent, teacher, or dreamer reading this — do not fear the limp. It is your proof that you dared to climb something worth climbing. It is your evidence of grace. The stumble is your strength.
In a world that rewards the sprint, may you have the courage to walk slowly, with purpose, with patience, and yes, with purple grace.
Safari ni hatua, and every step, in service and in purple, leads us closer to purpose.
