Last year, with a few weeks’ notice and a borrowed backpack, I set off on the Otter Trail.

It’s a five-day hike, covering 45km of rugged terrain in the Garden Route National Park. I was not prepared.

To be clear, if there is a bar called “this is how physically, mentally and practically prepared you need to be to do the Otter Trail”, then I am the one clinging to it by my fingernails. Sarah Rice is the bottom of the bar.

And yet I loved it. It was one of the hardest physical things I have done, and I am beyond grateful that I did it.

My strategy for doing new and hard things is to not give myself too much information.

If I had done any research at all, beyond watching endless “Roughing it with Ruth” Youtube videos on what to pack for a five-day hike, I wouldn’t have even considered saying Yes.

There are some parts of the trail, that unless you are an experienced hiker (which I am not) or a rock climber (definitely not), are difficult and scary.

There was one point where I was wet from the river crossing, clinging to the side of a rock while balancing a 13kg backpack, and trying to figure out how to take the next step.

I looked at my very patient friend, Helen, and asked “Can I do this?” She said “Yes.” And so I did.

It wasn’t elegant or glamorous and there was some choice language, but I did it.

I didn’t take the exit routes, as tempting as they were. I got to the end and into the warm embrace of a hot shower and a burger.

Had I known how gruelling the hike would be, I would never have taken the first step. I didn’t know that I was physically capable of it.

My mind would have stopped me from taking the risk, and my life would be poorer for it.

I am not quite the same person I was when I started the Otter Trail. Something subtle but fundamental changed over the five days.

It might have been the dolphins or the stars or even the otter we saw. Or maybe it was the silence. Whatever it was, it was important, and it changed me.

I know that some people prepare for hard things by doing tons of research, talking to people, and prepping.

I do it by doing as little investigation as possible. I just show up, hoping for the best, because otherwise, I wouldn’t do the hard things at all.

For me, the best way to manage uncertainty isn’t with information. It’s with the confidence of other people.

More information gives me more reason to doubt myself. If other people think I can do it, well then it must be true, right?

I do this at work too. My CEO seems to have a much better handle on what I am capable of than I do.

I come in uncertain and fearful and he tells me all the reasons I am going to be fine and then helps me think it through the action.

I outsource my confidence to him. If Sam thinks I can do it, then I probably can. And then I do.

Some people need data when they are uncertain. I need the belief of others. I need to protect my neurotic brain from knowing too much about the things that might go wrong.

If I am pointedly not researching something I am about to do, then I am a) probably going to do it and b) probably going to come out alive.

I am paragliding for my 50th birthday next month. I know I will do this, because I am pointedly not reading or researching anything about it, and because Amanda said I would be fine.