off, and put on again. Pockets are stuffed with lip balm, tissues, snacks and more snacks. We hand Veya over to her instructor, both relieved to be able to ski on our own, and wondering how long our ski grom will last without melting down or quitting altogether. We watch from a distance until we feel comfortable leaving her to enjoy the snow for ourselves. I don’t mind taking my first turns on the easy greens. It gives my muscles time to remember the feeling of being on skis. My body feels comfortable here, without pushing myself to get back to my previous skill level. The tongue of my ski boot presses into the bolts in my ankle—just enough to feel them, but not enough to hurt. When it’s time to move away from the ski- school runs, I hesitate. The easy pitch of green runs isn’t challenging, but this is one of the first times I truly don’t want a challenge. I’m too nervous to push myself until I feel a little more confident. The problem is, I’m not sure when that time will come. Today? Tomorrow? This season? Ever? Every time we ride a lift, I look across at the terrain of other trails. Leaning out from the chair, I watch where a blue run disappears and realize it doesn’t look as scary as it did earlier in the morning. I’m not the kind of person who can resist pushing myself, even just a little. “That doesn’t look too bad,” I say to Doug, as I
Watching her embrace a new sport with
enthusiasm and 6-year-old courage is like medicine for me. Tiny newbie skiers like her, playing games and bombing down beginner hils, bring
back the thril from the times I couldn’t wait to get off the lif.
point at the non-offending run. “You’re doing really well today,” he replies.
“Take it slow at first. But you can do it, easily.” My stomach twists in knots. Now that I’m this
close, I return to doubting my body. I can’t leave the green trails just yet. Maybe I need more time to sharpen my skills. Perhaps an entire day of zipping down easy terrain will prepare me for moving up the mountain. Or a week. I might need more time. But after lunch, I find myself pulled to the
blue squares again. Am I ready? I’ll never know unless I try. My first attempt is agonizing. I return to snowplow turns when the terrain feels too steep and stare at the few feet ahead of my ski tips, as if the mountain will fall away in front of me. Doug tries to get me to loosen up; my arms and shoulders are locked into a steely stiffness. Sometimes, I remember to breathe. I loosen up for a turn and then return to stress breathing: heavy, long draws in and out. My concentration is so focused that I don’t realize I’m smiling when I skid to a stop at the bottom. “See?” Doug says. “You can do it. You need to
relax a little, but you’re fine. How did it feel?” “A little scary,” I reply. “I can’t speed up yet because I’m so nervous.” I still have memories of how it felt to have my leg in pieces. A little while later, I’m starting to loosen up, but true comfort won’t yet happen until mid season. I’m too focused on every little bump on the mountain and how it affects my control— still carrying myself so tightly that I haven’t yet allowed a fall.
Later in the afternoon, we find Veya in her last 30 minutes of class and shadow her on a few runs until she finally sees us. “I fell a bunch of times!” she declares, turning her head to watch us instead of where she’s going, and she (no surprise) falls again. When her instruction ends, she shows us her
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