I've learned a certain kind of accountability in the mountains. It’s not self-blame or just admitting you made a mistake. It’s the willingness to face conditions as they are, own what's yours, and make the next decision before life makes it for you.
In Mongolia, accountability hit home more profoundly than it ever had before.
After nearly two years of planning, I led a Mongolian logistics team into the Altai in winter to support my attempt at a series of solo first ascents. I eventually set a world record for the most first ascents in the country’s history.
But the number of summits is not what stays with me.
I remember the cold.
Temperatures dropped below -30°F. There were avalanches, snowstorms, and blinding winds that knocked me off my feet. I developed hypothermia and suffered frostbite. Some of my fingertips turned black, and the extreme cold left my skin cracked and raw. At one point, I broke through the ice into a freezing river. By the time I freed my boots and snowshoes, it was no longer about discomfort, but rather a race against time.
In those moments, the responsibility was mine. I had conceived the expedition, secured the sponsors, organized the base-camp team and logistics, and chosen to push the challenge further by climbing in winter. My team provided operational support from base camp. The decisions on the mountain were mine to make.
When the weather allowed, the days I spent climbing were filled with self-interrogation: Was I dressed appropriately? Was I reading the terrain correctly? Had I pushed myself too far? I knew no one was coming to save me if I made a mistake.
Experience in the mountains had taught me that debating about a problem, the terrain, or the weather wouldn’t change anything. I had to assess the situation, acknowledge what was going wrong, recognize my own mistakes, and make decisions based on reality, rather than the plan I’d committed to. If I was getting too cold, slowing down, or facing worsening conditions, I had to factor that into my choices. In mountaineering, refusing to acknowledge a problem can cost you your life. Continuing simply because I’d committed to a plan wouldn’t have been courageous. It would have been reckless.
I have since come to believe there’s a question you must ask yourself in every difficult situation, whether at work, at home, in a relationship, or in a predicament you happen to be in: “What part of this is mine?”
I think self-criticism is easily confused with self-accountability. Beating yourself up after something goes wrong, whether it’s your fault or not, doesn't necessarily make you better at handling what comes next.
Accountability begins before the crisis. It means recognizing the signals you can't afford to ignore, preparing for what you can, and accepting your part when things don't go as planned. You may not be responsible for the problem, but you're still responsible for your next move.
That’s why I keep returning to expeditions and challenges in nature. The mountains don’t let you hide behind good intentions, blame, or a plan that no longer fits the conditions. They force you to confront reality, identify what’s yours to own, and act before hesitation becomes a greater threat than the original problem.
Life is hardly a clean slate. Relationships, careers, finances, health, and loss do not offer the simple choices of routes on a map. But the fundamental question remains: What part of this is mine? The answer begins with seeing a situation for what it is, recognizing where you have influence, and taking action where it matters.
Mongolia taught me that accountability does not make hard circumstances disappear. It does something more useful: It keeps you engaged with the part of your life that is still yours to lead.