What does a programme look like from a trainer’s perspective?
We talk about it a lot ourselves, reflect on it, and learn from it — but this side of the experience is rarely visible to those who are not there. Gyöngyösi Krisztina, and our former professional lead, now opens this window through reflections inspired by the ReConnection training implemented together with our partners at TANDEM, n. o.
“The moment is still vivid in me when this autumn I found myself in the absurd situation, as a trainer, of sitting on a 30 x 40 centimetre platform seven metres above the ground. The safety rope is attached to my back, but there is nothing to hold onto, and the pole beneath me is swaying. I know what the task is: somehow turn around, stand up, and then jump into nothingness — or rather into the safety system above — but at this point, even breathing steadily feels difficult.
It can’t be that hard — I reassure myself. I’ve done this before, and before me, all the participants, my dear participants, managed to do it too. They struggled, sure, but they did it.
How did I even end up here? … flashes through my mind. I didn’t have to climb up here. I’m the trainer. But the encouragement of the group, the fact that we still had just enough time, and the curiosity awakening inside me led me here, and now there’s no way back.
I’m sweating. Somewhere in the background, I hear a chainsaw, and immediately my brain imagines them cutting down the pole beneath me. “Jesus!” I shout out loud.
The people below laugh, and I realise I am safe. I cannot fall. I’m literally in my colleague’s hands — I can trust him. The laughter and connection help me pull myself together a little. Seven metres is high! Especially without anything to hold onto. And if I stand up, that’s almost nine metres. I have to stand up — everyone before me did it!! My heart is pounding.
I know the others below are cheering for me. I can barely hear their voices. I don’t know if it’s because everyone is holding their breath or because the adrenaline rushing through my ears has made me temporarily deaf. Slowly, I begin to turn around. Once I’m facing the right direction, it crosses my mind that I could just let myself fall. Jácint said that if someone can’t stand up, they can simply lean into the belay.
Oh, the glorious easier option! Damn it, I can’t do that! I have to stand up. Everyone stood up. The pressure to perform weighs heavily on me. Then suddenly, almost like a message from somewhere deeper, a few things come to mind:
- I am safe. They’ve got me. The situation is scary, but not dangerous.
- I have to stand up for myself. Not as the trainer who would feel embarrassed not to, but for myself, so I can discover what is inside me, what I’m capable of.
At this point, Judit comes to mind — a participant whose story has followed me throughout my career, a story about being allowed to say no. Of course, that insight comes a little late now.
Years ago, right here in Galyatető, Judit said no. She refused to step onto the low ropes course with the others. Fear was written across her face; the light in her eyes was dim. She was afraid. We invited her gently a few times, without pressure. She didn’t come. She just stood there, frozen. We continued facilitating the process, but now and then we checked in with her, trying to care for her while respecting her decision.
The next morning, Judit told us she hadn’t slept. Something inside her was deeply stirred. Physically, she was with us, but emotionally and mentally, she was somewhere far away, immersed in thoughts and feelings. She barely ate, barely slept, barely spoke. She simply asked us to leave her alone — something important was happening inside her.
The second part of the training took place a few months later in Sovata. I wasn’t there, but my colleagues later told me that Judit took part in every challenge. She volunteered first every time, embraced every task, and played freely and wholeheartedly. During one reflection circle, she tearfully shared that what she had learned in Galyatető was that she was allowed to say no.
For the first time in her life, she experienced saying no — and having that accepted by others. She realised she was someone whose voice mattered, someone who could make decisions, who could say yes or no.
The thought struck her that perhaps she could always have made choices in her life — she had simply never dared to.
I love this story because the learning was not in convincing her to do the challenge, but in allowing her to choose whether she wanted to do it at all.
This story helps me a lot when I work in camps with children in state care.
They say trauma is invisible — and I can confirm that it truly is. You never know what will trigger someone, what touch, sentence or word will suddenly shift their behaviour in an unexpected direction. A touch may cause withdrawal; a missed moment may end in a fight. These children need to learn and experience safety — to discover that they don’t always have to defend themselves or stay in attack mode. This story taught me to accept saying no and staying on the sidelines.
And yet, how beautiful it is when they choose to accept the challenge.
Like last year at the BASE!Camp, when 11-year-old Nóri — who lives without parents and dreams of becoming a doctor — climbed up onto the high ropes course. I know about her dream because she had written it down on a piece of paper tucked into her pocket before the exercise, and she showed it to me. So there she was, this little girl who wants to become a doctor, climbing with trembling legs onto the “monkey bridge” — a rope stretched between two trees, 6–7 metres high and around 10–12 metres long, with another rope above to hold onto.
Tears are streaming down Nóri’s face. She fights for every step — but her dream is in her pocket, and she cannot give up.
Down below, cheering her on, is every camp facilitator’s nightmare: 18-year-old Márk, a lanky teenager who normally tells me exactly where to go if he doesn’t like what I say. I’m only saying this so you can picture the atmosphere.
So there is Márk, walking beneath Nóri, breathing with her. He’s not flirting now. He’s helping. Breathing with her. “Come on little girl, come on… just one more step.” And she takes one more step.
Nóri looks down with her huge, tear-filled eyes straight into Márk’s eyes, and she steps again. The two of them move together like this. None of us is breathing.
A miracle is unfolding before us. Two neglected souls with difficult lives, holding onto each other. Márk experiences what it feels like to truly help. Nóri trusts and keeps stepping forward. She can do it. Her dream is in her pocket. She will make it. She cannot give up.
At the end we celebrate in tears, the whole small group embracing each other.
But back to the platform.
I’ve turned around. I decide I’m not going to fall into the rope system — I’m going to try. My palms are sweating. I remind myself that I’m doing this for me, that I don’t need to prove anything to anyone. That failure is also a valuable experience. That I’m allowed to be vulnerable. That I simply want to know whether I can do it.
I remind myself that I am unbelievably strong — something I occasionally surprise myself with at the gym too. I won’t say out loud what I’m shouting internally, but trust me, I’m swearing like a sailor. There’s no way back now. I have to stand up.
Then I hear the voices cheering: ‘Come on Gigi!!!!’
And suddenly I’m standing. I honestly don’t even understand how. Just moments ago, it seemed impossible. Somehow I tucked one leg under myself and then, in some strange one-legged squat-like movement — something I’m usually terrible at — I stood up.
Past the hardest part, all that remained was to jump into the air… and what’s that to me? Nothing…
It was a miracle.
Even weeks later, I can still feel in every part of my body how many barriers broke inside me that day. I am grateful to the participants for cheering me up there too, and grateful to myself for daring to say yes.
I hope I managed to give you at least a glimpse of what these ropes high above the ground can truly offer.”
Would you dare to find out what it feels like to stand 7 metres above the ground?
If you’re ready to grow through nature, challenges, and meaningful connections, keep an eye on our newsletter! Subscribe to be among the first to hear about upcoming opportunities.