I went skiing for the first time at 28. It was humbling.
I’m uncharacteristically quiet on the drive to the mountain. I’m scared. I’m afraid of breaking my leg. Mostly, I’m afraid of looking foolish.
The plan: my boyfriend will give me a crash course in the morning while our friends ski the harder runs. After lunch, more practice. Then, a few easy green runs if I’m ready.
The ski boots are tight. The skis are cumbersome. Walking suddenly feels like a treacherous activity. Knowing my boyfriend slipped in his boots and broke his elbow a few years earlier doesn't help.
Stepping out into the learner area isn’t so bad. I am pleased to see other adults attempting to learn too.
I fall over for the first time 5 minutes in. I try to stand up. Can’t. I try to unclick my boots from the skis. Struggle. I spend most of the morning trying to maneuver from a lying down position back to an upright position.
Slowly though, slowly, I manage to stay upright and slide along for short periods. Ye olde “pizza, french fry, pizza, french fry” is working.
We move to a slightly steeper hill. Probably too soon. I still haven’t got over my fear of the speed. Or my fear of getting hurt. I also haven’t mastered breaking.
I career down the hill and fall on my back with a thud. You know when toddlers fall over and instantly burst into tears? I get it.
Lying on my side, I dig my poles into the ground with a frustrated grunt. My knee hurts from being twisted in an unnatural direction. My head hurts from hitting the ground.
I get back up.
I go down the run again and again. Speed, fear, panic, fall. Speed, fear, panic, fall.
Heaving your body into an upright position while small children whizz effortlessly around you is its own kind of humility. I watch a little girl in a puffy snowsuit laugh gleefully as she gathers speed down the hill, then takes a dive to the side. “Again!” She shouts.
It occurs to me that as you get older, life is filled with more thoughts of “Never again!” than “Again!”
Eventually, I get down the hill without falling. I’m not exactly in control of where I’m going, but I stay on my feet. I move to the steepest hill of my day. I fall again. But, the second and third times, I make it just fine.
As a kid, I thought skiing belonged in the realm of caviar and yachts and second houses. I had unapologetically written skiing off as something wealthy families do. I didn’t think skiing was meant for me because I lacked experience, skill, and money.
Skiing for the first time can just be skiing for the first time. Not everything is a metaphor for something else.
And yet, the process made me realize how deeply afraid I am to try something completely new.
This is where I make the comparison.
I want to see if becoming a freelance writer is viable for me. However, I perceive that path as not meant for me because I lack experience, skill, and money. But this belief is false.
I do have experience. I do have skill because I already earn a living by writing. And I do have at least enough money to support myself while I give it a go.
A layer deeper, it’s a fear of failure. I’m scared to try.
Now and again I get the momentum to bolster my blog or continue putting a plan together for a writing business. That process is similar to racing down that hill. Speed, fear, panic…Save as draft. Speed, fear, panic…I just can’t do this today. Sucking at skiing isn’t earth-shattering to my identity. But sucking at writing is.
I’m hardcore avoiding the ‘fall’ part of the process because I’m afraid. Fall = fail. Right? No. The fall part resets the cycle. It means you’re getting better. It signals to try it a different way. It encourages you to shout “Again!”
