The second phase of our honeymoon took us to Cusco and the Inca Trail. After the vibrant street life of Rio, we were eager to trade city energy for the raw, living ecosystem of the Andes during the rainy season. Guided and supported by G Adventures, we were ready for the trek—until my body had other plans.

Flying into Cusco, the city revealed itself as a labyrinth of terraced mountains and brick structures spilling across the valley. From above, it looked like a civilization bomb had exploded in the highlands, scattering history across the landscape. Sitting at over 11,000 feet, Cusco has been continuously inhabited since before the rise of the Incan Empire. Walking its streets, I was fascinated by the way they wove together, following ancient patterns of movement. The architecture felt organic, shaped by time rather than blueprints. I loved navigating Cusco—until I got sick.

There had been so much anticipation for the trek. Years of curiosity, the weight of its meaning. But as we wandered the city gathering last-minute supplies, the travel stomach issues from Rio finally caught up with me. My body wasn’t absorbing enough nutrients before flushing them out, steadily eroding my strength.

The altitude made it worse. Poor sleep compounded the problem, which in turn affected Sonya’s sleep. By the morning of the trek, we woke at 5 a.m. with the silent understanding that this might not go well. I was not doing well. Still, we pushed forward, enduring hours of backroad travel to the trailhead. And then, within the first hundred yards—up the first barely noticeable incline—my blood pressure crashed. My body sat down before I even realized what was happening.

The moment of fainting was more than just a physical collapse; it was a confrontation with a deeper philosophical question: does strength always mean pushing through? Or is true strength knowing when to pause, reassess, and try again later? As someone who has built an identity around resilience and health, I have never felt quite so embarrassed. And seeing the fear in Sonya’s face as I sat there, dazed, on our honeymoon—it broke me.

Luckily, I came back to myself quickly. My vision cleared. My thoughts steadied. And as we turned back, I accepted the answer that had been handed to me so clearly—and, in hindsight, mercifully early in the journey rather than somewhere more dangerous.

What followed was something unexpected: clarity, found through witnessing love in action. Sonya and I navigated the setback as a team—methodically, with mutual respect. The experience distilled a lesson I’ve been grappling with my whole life: persistence versus acceptance, and the evolving wisdom of knowing when each is necessary.