Linn Carlsen

Last winter, I needed a break. Work at the bank had been relentless, and the grey Copenhagen, Denmark, days felt endless. Lars, my husband, saw how drained I was and suggested I take a trip alone. A family holiday sounded nice, but it’s hard to unwind with two kids in tow. So, I booked a solo trip to Gran Canaria, hoping for some sun and peace.

The first few days were relaxing, but I quickly grew restless. I decided to head to La Gomera for some hiking. The island was known for its trails, and I was eager to clear my head with a long walk. The morning started off beautifully—the weather was perfect, and the scenery was stunning. For a while, I felt truly free.

But then, I made a mistake. I wandered off the marked path, lost in thought, and didn’t see the crevice until I stumbled into it. I fell several meters, landing hard on my ankle. The pain shot up my leg, and I knew right away it was broken. My phone was dead, and there wasn’t a single person in sight.

Night was approaching, and I had no choice but to wait for morning. At dawn, I managed to pull myself out of the crevice, but I couldn’t find my way back to the trail. My ankle throbbed, and I could barely move. I was alone, with only a few berries for food and a nearly empty water bottle.

By the third day, I was losing hope. I spotted a helicopter in the distance and tried to signal, but it was no use. It wasn’t until the fifth day that I was finally rescued. Dehydrated and weak, I was taken to a hospital, relieved beyond words. Lars and the kids flew out to see me immediately.

It took six weeks to recover fully, during which I had plenty of time to think. At 42, I realized that sometimes we need a wake-up call to appreciate what we have. I came back more relaxed, grateful for my life and family. Maybe, in a strange way, getting lost helped me find what truly matters.