Sideways down the Mountain: What skiing has taught me about fear, falling and finding my way.

It’s been a big few months. A descent, really - into some of the deepest, darkest places I’ve visited in over a decade. Not gentle. Not graceful. But undeniably powerful. 

Old patterns, ancestral wounds, and long-buried parts of self have been surfacing with fire and force. Emotions amplified. Energy volatile. I’ve found myself cracking open in ways I didn’t expect - raw, reactive, face-to-face with shadow. There have been moments I’m not proud of, and others where I’ve witnessed myself with surprising compassion. 

I’ve been walking through a kind of inner winter, and struggling to find the rest and space that this season demands. Like lava from a volcano, massive eruptions of rage and tears - no longer able to be restrained - have been squeezed from the depths by the intense pressure of life itself.

In the midst of all this, I returned once again to the snow-covered mountains - a ritual that’s become part of our family's seasonal rhythm. 

And it offered a different kind of reflection this year. One I wasn’t expecting.

My partner and his children began this yearly expedition many years ago, and about ten years ago, they introduced me and my children to it too, as our separate family units were woven together as one.

I’d seen snow before. I even attempted to ski twice in my early 20s - with both hilarious and devastating outcomes for my ego. After those efforts, I decided I was never going to be a skier. 

Still, a part of me longed to glide elegantly and seamlessly down the mountain, like so many others seemed to do just naturally.

I’ve felt the same about playing the guitar - yearning to pick it up and just play. I’ve tried. It hurts my fingers, and I just can’t seem to get the rhythm going well enough to sing along. So I’ve given up - for now.

There’s a story in that: “If I can’t be good at it immediately, then there’s no point in doing it. Leave it to those who already can.” It’s an old story, written long ago.

Cognitively, I know that being good at anything requires curiosity, learning, and a whole lot of practice. It’s rare for someone to just “naturally” excel at something - there are a few exceptions, sure, but they’re the rarest gems. And even those cases tend to come with very specific, often invisible, circumstances.

But knowing this in theory and having the will and motivation to override the stories I tell myself - those are two very different things.

With skiing, another, even bigger, story was at play. A story of lack. Of not enough time, energy, money, worth. Of not being “good enough,” not being the “right” kind of person.

Until the invitation came - and I began to reframe the stories.

At first, it was an ego story being rewritten. Revised. Scrunched up and started again - many times.

I looked the part - I had the gear, the image. I blended in. I looked like I belonged.

I took the lessons. I learned the theory, the techniques. I knew what I should be doing to get myself down the slope. And yet everyone else in the lesson seemed to grasp it so easily, while I ended up in a tangled mess of skis and poles and snow - sliding down the hill on my bum, on the verge of tears, with a bruised body and a bruised ego.

That first year was rough. It wasn’t fun. But there was just enough pleasure in the experience - or perhaps just enough desire to fit in and not disappoint my partner and kids - that I was willing to return and try again the next year.

Another ski instructor. More bruises. And learning to laugh at myself.

Others weren’t immune to my learning curve either - like the entire ski school class I wiped out as I hurtled through them during one of my wild descents. Or the group I mowed down as I plowed straight through the mesh barrier dividing the learner slope from the bystanders on the “carpet” (that gentle, flat area where beginners find their feet). Or my own daughter who became sandwiched between my skis and legs as I, less than gracefully, collected her on the way down the hill.

And I’ve certainly not come away unscathed. I learned - rapidly - the importance of wearing a helmet, especially after coathangering myself on a rope at a lift line, falling backwards, and landing so hard on my head that I felt the rattling of brain against skull. The helmet saved me from serious injury that day.

Still, I’ve returned every year for almost ten years. Showing up. Giving it a go. Learning that I can go at my own pace. Letting go of ego, of image, of the need to “fit in.” Reframing what it means to be considered a “skier.”

Because here’s the thing: I don’t need anyone else to decide if I’m a skier. That’s up to me. And for me, a skier isn’t defined by skill level or achievement - a skier is simply someone who, every year, puts on skis and slides down the mountain - allowing gravity to guide the journey.

This year, as I met the mountain again, something shifted.

It just… clicked. My body moved in a natural rhythm without overthinking. I felt confident. Capable. I glided down the slopes smoothly. I didn’t fall.

I noticed the absence of fear. The absence of thought. A release of needing to know the exact line I’d take, and a surrender to navigating it as it happened. Full presence. My only intention: to arrive at the bottom of the lift again. How I got there didn’t matter.

I remembered one of my instructors telling me early on: “Speed is your friend.” I didn’t understand that at the time. It felt reckless, terrifying. But now, I do. Speed isn’t about losing control - it’s about trusting momentum. Trusting yourself. Letting go of resistance and riding with the force that’s already carrying you forward.

And it was FUN. Exhilarating and thrilling. I embraced the speed, the wind rushing past my face. I turned where I needed to, avoiding people, trees, and embracing the bumps that used to send me floundering. I didn’t freeze. I didn’t crash. I began to find control, calmness and an ability to slow down when I needed to.

With each run, my confidence grew. I stretched the edge of my comfort zone - tackling harder, steeper, more complicated runs. Trails through trees and rocks.

I did fall a few times - but it was different now. No shame. No failure. Just laughter. I could get up again easily - without even taking off my skis. There was learning in each fall. Even the BIG stack didn’t end as badly as I expected. It hurt, sure - barrelling through the air for four metres, consciously choosing to roll onto my shoulder instead of my face, tumbling another few metres after landing - that naturally hurts a bit. But I let myself recover. Got up slowly. Shook it off. Retrieved the ski I’d lost in the fall. And arrived at the bottom of the hill… grinning. With a new story in my heart: Even the big falls can be fun!

So many metaphors revealed themselves to me during this latest mountain journey.

Riding the T-bar alone versus with another - it matters who you ride with! 

Steering out of and away from the deep grooves carved by others' paths up the hill. 

Choosing, when needed, the rest offered by the chairlift over the effort of the T-bar. 

Finding the beauty of fresh, powdery, untouched snow on previously undiscovered trails - and the quiet empowerment in forging my own way. 

There’s a gentle excitement already stirring at the thought of challenging myself even more next year… and an eagerness to return, maybe even sooner, with a confidence I never imagined I’d find.

I usually come home from this snowy pilgrimage exhausted - physically, emotionally, energetically. If I'm completely honest, often quietly dread the return. It just feels hard.

But this year feels different.

I feel inspired. Energised. Grateful. Ready for the return - with a steadier heart and stronger legs beneath me.

And then I realise… The snow is just one of many landscapes I move through on this journey of a lifetime.

And, like skiing, I’m learning that - even in other terrains - I don’t have to take on the whole mountain at once. Just the next stretch. The next steep slope. And if that means sliding down sideways sometimes, that’s okay. Sometimes, that’s even the most joyful part.

Because there comes a moment - after all the years of discomfort and fear and falling - when the thing I’ve been learning suddenly becomes embodied. Natural. Like muscle memory. And I can recognise it, celebrate it, and say with quiet confidence: I’m actually pretty damn good at this now.

There’s comfort here. There’s ease. Space to rest. To take in the view.

Until I choose to take the next step.

To try the harder, more challenging run.

It takes time - not just on the mountain, but in everything. Even writing this piece has taken hours… days, really. Finding the words, shaping the story, editing and rewriting until it feels true. 

For a long time, I judged myself harshly for slowness. In a world that rewards speed and ease, being slow can feel like a flaw.

But I’m beginning to understand it differently. To see the value in slowness. The depth it brings. The way it allows for integration, for subtle awareness, for real transformation. 

I am learning to allow myself to move slowly, with care and conscientiousness. With integrity.

Maybe being slow isn’t something to overcome. Maybe it’s part of my gift.

And maybe that’s what skiing - and life - is really teaching me. That it’s okay to take the long way around. To find your rhythm in your own time. And to trust that, eventually, it will click.

Perhaps I'll even pick up that guitar again and just start 'playing'...

Falling, laughing, learning. Again and again. Because sometimes the messiest moments are the most honest ones.