Patti M. Walsh

By Kathleen M. Yengst, Guest Contributor

Come to think of it,
What if nothing is permanent?

American dictionaries lack words to adequately describe Antarctica. It must be experienced.

When I booked my trip in May 2024, I knew it was a pilgrimage I needed to do alone. It was meant to be a celebration of life, an exclamation point to end the shitshow my 40s turned out to be.

For months I waited—excited, yet full of trepidation that my Henoch-Schonlein might return, or another mental-health break might occur. Either would prevent me from going. But nothing is permanent, everything changes. I was able to make my pilgrimage in February 2025.

I witnessed the complete cycle of life in Antarctica—from seeing a baby penguin emerge from its cracked-open shell, to watching a mother penguin feed her chick, to watching a juvenile penguin going through its awkward molting phase, to watching adult penguins play and have fun and hunt, to watching a leopard seal kill and eat a penguin.

Nothing is permanent, everything changes.

I was immersed in indescribable beauty and magical moments: towering mountains covered by glaciers; moraines that went on for miles; whales, seals, penguins, various sea birds; and the Antarctic Circle, midnight sun, and Southern Cross. I was also surrounded with the death of animals who had succumbed to avian influenza.

Nothing is permanent, everything changes.

We had beautiful weather; we had wretched weather. As I originally wrote this, our passage back to Argentina via the treacherous Drake Passage was blocked by ice. We waited out the slow-moving iceberg and went on our way.

Nothing is permanent, everything changes.

What I do know is that I don’t know much of anything. What I am certain of, however, is that the Kathleen who left Roanoke, Virginia, on February 9, 2025, is not the Kathleen who returned on February 23.

Nothing is permanent, everything changes.

What I also know for certain is that my love for each of my friends and family has not changed and will not change. Love is one thing that is eternal.

Antarctica has been a sacred experience, and that will not change either.

As I write this, I’ve received the unfortunate news that my Henoch-Schonlein has indeed returned and my remission is over. But I’m confident my health will return one day. Nothing is permanent, everything changes.

Be gentle with yourselves and others, dear friends, because nothing is permanent, everything changes.

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