Jungle Roads & Rooftop Wine: What Ecuador Taught Me About Courage

Some memories don't just live in your mind—they live in your bones. They're the ones that change your rhythm, expand your edges, and remind you who you really are. Ecuador was that kind of memory for me.

It was my first solo trip. My first dance with South America. I had a tightly packed duffle backpack, a strict budget, and a heart brimming with something that felt like both fear and freedom. I planned it all meticulously—a month of movement, uncertainty, and growth, with my 30th birthday waiting somewhere in the middle like a whispered promise: You’re becoming someone new.

I didn’t want a party. I didn’t want noise. I wanted the world. I wanted silence that echoed with answers.

Rooftop Wine & Liberation

Quito greeted me with old-world charm and soft golden skies. That first night, I hired a driver from my little bed-and-breakfast to take me out to explore. He dropped me at a rooftop restaurant that looked like it had been dipped in candlelight.

I ordered a glass of wine and lingered. No phone in hand. No one to talk to. Just me and the sound of laughter echoing across the rooftops. I watched tourists mingle with locals, the glow of the city breathing around me. And in that stillness, I felt the kind of peace that wraps around your spine and says, See? You are safe here.

I wasn’t lonely. I wasn’t afraid. I was fully, absolutely, blissfully alive.

The Road That Vanished

The next morning, I boarded a big tour bus to begin the 8-hour trek to a lodge deep in the Amazon jungle. I was booked to stay in a shared female dorm for three nights. Basic. Rustic. Pure. I had heard about landslides, collapsing bridges, and accidents. But I brushed them off. Worry is a thief. And I refused to let fear steal this from me.

But hours into our journey, the bus stopped.

The road ahead had vanished—literally. Torrential rains had torn it apart. Rumors buzzed: another tour bus had fallen through a collapsed bridge. Everyone lost. I swallowed hard.

At first, returning was an option. But by the time I voiced it, the path back was gone.

“No problem,” they said. “We’ll rebuild the road.”

What?

Long planks of wood appeared. They were laid across the broken earth, stretching over a deep, black void below. One wrong step, and you were gone.

I had no one to lean on. No one to laugh off the fear with. I was the only solo traveler. I took a breath, locked eyes with my courage, and stepped onto that wood. My heart pounded. My clothes clung to me in the rain. But I made it across.

We waited, soaked and shivering, for nearly two hours until a new bus came to retrieve us. And somehow, that muddy, terrifying, rain-soaked moment became a badge of honor. A reminder: You don’t need certainty to move forward. You only need to keep stepping.

Alone in the Jungle

The lodge was everything and nothing like I imagined. No hot water. No WiFi. Just mosquito nets, cots, and the hum of a living, breathing rainforest.

The women I was supposed to room with never arrived—their flights canceled. I had the dorm to myself, and with it, every creak, shadow, and crawling creature that came with the night.

We were given rubber boots and told we’d be going on a night hike through the jungle to observe spiders, insects, and possibly snakes. On the boat ride to the trail, we were told to keep an eye out for anacondas in the trees.

Excuse me?

No anacondas were spotted (praise be), and when we arrived at the swimming hole known as “black water,” I was the last one to jump in. Not out of fear of swimming—but because I needed to know no one else was getting pulled under by something monstrous. Once I jumped, the water greeted me like an initiation. Cold, exhilarating, and wildly alive.

But the adventure didn’t stop there.

That night, we hiked through thick rainforest, knee-deep in mud, flashlights bobbing like fireflies. At one fork, our guide hesitated. Something felt off. He picked a direction, then changed his mind and turned us around.

We walked across a slippery log that stretched over dark, swampy water. One by one, people started to slip in. I was among them.

Panic fluttered up my spine. I didn’t have the strength to climb out alone, but a stranger helped me. That moment—being pulled out of mud in the middle of the Amazon by someone I didn’t know—felt holy.

The cold shower that followed? Less holy. But deeply humbling.

What the Jungle Gave Me

By the time we flew back to Quito, I felt different. Quieter. Stronger. Not because everything had gone perfectly, but because it hadn’t.

It was wet. Wild. Inconvenient. Uncomfortable. And absolutely unforgettable.

This trip wasn’t about proving anything to anyone. It was about showing myself what I was made of.

That I can sit alone at a rooftop dinner and not feel lonely. That I can cross a broken road with trembling legs and still move forward. That I can fall, and be helped, and keep going.

Because real courage isn’t loud. It’s quiet. It shows up in the moments no one sees.

Reflect:

Have you ever done something that scared you, but gave you a deeper knowing of who you are? What did that moment teach you about yourself?

Your story doesn’t have to start with a passport stamp. Sometimes the real journey begins with a question:

What would I do if I stopped waiting for permission?