I spent 57 days skiing alone to the South Pole — it messes with your head

Completely alone, in the middle of nowhere in the Antarctica, I felt broken.

It was day 45 of my epic challenge, to become the first American woman to ski solo to the South Pole.

But I had been battered by a relentless run of bad weather with whiteouts and extreme winds — and my route cut straight through endless snow ridges, many of them taller than my 5ft 5in frame.

Every time I stopped for a break, I cried in frustration.

But in conditions like that, with temperatures plunging below -20°C, there’s not much time to stop and sob. Standing still can be dangerous — linger too long and you risk severe frostbite or worse.

So despite everything — made infinitely worse by extreme chafing in my crotch and period-stained underwear — I kept moving, hauling my 250lb sled behind me, step by brutal step.

‘Fear wasn’t a good enough excuse’

You might think I’m experienced on the slopes, with countless ski seasons under my belt. But the truth is, just three years prior to my expedition, I could barely ski.

I had never skied cross country or done anything on this scale before. I’m not an Arctic explorer, who often ditches their daily life for far-flung destinations. I’m a single 36-year-old, living in leafy Massachusetts, USA.

The idea to ski to the South Pole actually first took root when I read about Preet Chandi becoming the first woman of colour to ski solo and unsupported to the South Pole. 

What struck me wasn’t just the scale of her achievement, but the fact that she didn’t even know how to ski when she committed to it. At the time, neither did I. And I couldn’t stop wondering: if she could learn, why couldn’t I?

I realised it wasn’t a lack of skill holding me back, but fear — fear of failing, of committing to something so vast I might not survive it. That didn’t feel like a good enough excuse. So I decided to try.

Like any sensible would-be polar explorer, I began by Googling ‘polar expedition training’. That search led me to Polar Explorers, a US-based company, and onto one of their training trips. 

I nervously told the guides I was maybe thinking about skiing solo to the South Pole, half-expecting laughter. Instead, they said: ‘You can absolutely do it. You’ll have to train for it — but you can do it.’ At that point, I had no choice but to go all in.

When I told my family and friends, the goal seemed so unimaginable and far away that they weren’t so worried.

But as it got closer, they began to understand the magnitude of what I was taking on, they were both very proud — and very scared. 

‘The biggest hurdle wasn’t physical’

From a wild idea to actually standing on Antarctic ice took about three years.

Physically, I trained five to six days a week for more than two years. Running, lifting, and dragging two massive tyres across beaches and forests to simulate pulling a sled — sometimes for up to five hours at a time.

I used the same harness I’d wear in Antarctica, forcing my body to adapt early. My coach, Jon Fearne of E3 Coach, specialises in endurance training and drilled consistency into me above all else: show up, even when you don’t know if you’ll succeed.

Training took me to Nepal, Massachusetts, Greenland, Norway — and Minnesota, where I fell through the ice.

It was terrifying, but it taught me something crucial: the thing you fear most can happen – and you can survive it.

In the year leading up to Antarctica, I intentionally gained around 11kg (25lb), building muscle and fat to survive the inevitable calorie deficit. On the expedition, I ate about 5,000 calories a day but burned closer to 7,000.

I finished 11kg lighter but still healthy, which I believe played a huge role in how well my body held up.

But the biggest hurdle wasn’t physical — it was financial.

The training and expedition cost over $120,000 (£95,000). I didn’t land a major sponsor, which made the final months intensely stressful.

I drained my savings and once had a full-blown panic attack on my brother’s kitchen floor over food, weights, and logistics. Very glamorous explorer energy.

‘I came on my period — and I’d packed just two pairs of pants’

Finally, in November 2025, I flew down to the Union Glacier in Antarctica,around 700 miles from the South Pole.

I tearily left the calm of the camp on a 20 minute stomach-dropping flight to the middle of nowhere (technically the edge of the continental land mass).

It was there, in the bracing wind, that I watched the plane take off, leaving me alone on the ice. I waited for a wave of fear and anxiety — but it never came.

And so it began. I sent daily messages to my family and friends on my Garmin, and my mum wrote me handwritten letters that I carried the entire way. Knowing people were following along kept me going.

Within the first week, I celebrated Thanksgiving with one of my many dehydrated meals. All of my food (along with the rest of my equipment) was pulled in a sled behind me, and I melted snow on a small camping stove for water and cooking.

I even named my sleds after the meal I couldn’t stop fantasising about: Roast Chicken and Green Beans. Somehow, that ridiculous detail helped pull me forward.

To pass the time, I’d talk aloud to ‘Auntie Arctica’ — e.g. to the vast emptiness around me. One day, I spent a solid five hours going through my entire relationship history in great detail, starting out with my grade six boyfriend.

Within two weeks, I’d also developed ‘polar thigh’, a type of cold injury that occurs when your legs get too cold. It begins as a rash but can lead to lesions and even the need for a skin graft. It’s pretty common — and thankfully I was prepared, with dressings and clothing options to keep my legs warm.

Every week, I also had a phone call with a doctor, who was able to advise me on the best cause of action for any ailments.

Days 20 — which also happened to be my birthday — to 30 were the hardest mentally. There were endless whiteouts, no horizon, skiing all day without being able to see more than a few centimetres ahead.

My morale plummeted. I started forcing myself to include one positive thing in my daily updates so I wouldn’t worry my mum, and unexpectedly, it lifted my own spirits too.

I was also on my period out there — on a two-month expedition with only two pairs of underwear.

When it happened, it became a polar version of Would You Rather. I could either wear bloody underwear for 30 days, or put back on dirty underwear worn for a month? I chose the bloody ones.

I used a menstrual cup, changing it once a day in the vestibule of my tent, with everything freezing solid by morning. Not glamorous, but effective.

Out in the snowy wilderness, everything you bring matters, because every ounce is one you have to pull. If I had to choose one essential item, it would be my sleeping bag — a cocoon of warmth and safety in an otherwise hostile world.

The highest moments came near the end. In the final week, I swear I could feel people thinking about me — friends, family, my expedition team, and thousands of strangers following along online. 

And in the hours before reaching the Pole, there’s a unique, intoxicating feeling: knowing you’re about to succeed, but not quite there yet. That suspended moment of still striving is something I wish I could bottle.

‘Without question, the hardest thing I’ve ever done’

Was it the hardest thing I’ve ever done? Without question.

Physically and mentally. Skiing every day for nearly two months messes with your head. You don’t get to quit — you just keep putting one ski in front of the other, even while crying.

What I learned is that there’s a well of strength inside me that I still haven’t found the bottom of. I’m not a professional athlete. I didn’t look like an explorer. I just started — imperfectly, scared, one step at a time.

Now writing a book about the experience — and somehow, it all began with not knowing how to ski, and deciding that fear wasn’t a good enough reason not to try.

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Get in touch by emailing MetroLifestyleTeam@Metro.co.uk.

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