Face down in the snow, my legs twisted behind me, and nauseously contemplating the unnecessarily steep slope of ice is not how I expected my much anticipated skiing adventure to turn out. “I’m going to die,” I explained to myself. “My bulky gloves are going to lose their grip on the snow, and I’ll plummet, maybe for miles, before crashing into a tree.” A girl who cannot be more than eight years old speeds by me, effortlessly, on her small pink and blue skis. Was I ever that sure of myself? I wonder, before I slide a few more inches. I rely on the help of a stranger to get me on my ski weighted feet without crashing. Envious of her speed and ease, I painstakingly inch down the mountain, cutting halting zig zags in the trail. I fall more times than I can count. I long for the fearlessness I had felt just moments before as I ascended in the chariot of the ski lift. Collapsed once more in the snow, I think about how wrong I was about myself. Fear is stupid, and so is the steepness of this trail, I grumble.   

Hadn't I conquered my irrational fears already? It’s taken years- Thought I left them in my therapist's office each week: the numbing anxiety of a social setting, my disproportional anxious reactions to ordering at a restaurant, to speaking in class. Funny how my legs shake on the mountain the same way they do before public speaking. I had to admit these invisible fears to others: my therapist, counselors at my school, in order to accept that they were a part of me so I could face them head on instead of avoiding them. So I could work with myself instead of fighting against my feelings. I was forced to find compassion for myself to truly overcome them. And yet, even after these mental victories, the mountain was unmoved. The snow doesn’t care about my emotional progress. 

Later in the ski lodge, I muse. Is it the physical aspect of skiing that defeated me? I survived, after all, isn't that enough evidence that this, too, is another irrational fear? My parents and the ski instructor encourage, between sips of hot chocolate, “Come on, go up again! You won’t die.” My body does not believe them, refuses to try again, and it feels like failure and betrayal.   

The next day, my family and I drive to a new mountain. Though I’ve spent all of the previous evening hyping myself up, preparing to conquer my mental block, my stomach drops at the sight of the winding trails. Though as I stare down the icy maw of the slope, I gather my resolve and take the plunge. “If I don’t do this, then I lose,” I reason. I try not to think, and slice across the path. When I find myself losing control, just like last time, I force myself to fall. I’m unhurt, and I refuse to be shaken. Getting up again, I realize that coasting over the snow is actually… pleasant. I begin to drift with ease, release the pent up tension from my legs. I present my fear with further evidence of my survival, and when I reach the bottom, I want to do it again, because I’ve won. This is what victory feels like. So I ascend on the ski lift, and I take the plunge again. And again. And again. And this time, when I’m scared I don’t stop myself. I don’t hate the fear or loathe myself for having feelings. Practicing kindness and understanding to myself is the only thing that has ever allowed me to move forward. This time on the way down, I take an unfamiliar route, and finally, my body and my mind trust each other enough to work together, to let go of the fear without resistance, and side gracefully to the bottom of the slope.