I’ve been skiing with the boys all week and I’d like to formally acknowledge that I am no longer 22. My legs have submitted evidence. But somewhere between the soreness, the altitude, and the quiet luxury of the mountain, I remembered something important.
I used to be this girl.
In high school and college I was in ski club, then the club team. We had a condo in Mammoth growing up, and I’ve been on skis since I was three — which means I learned to walk and fall at roughly the same time. Inevitably, I outpaced most of the girls ability-wise. I’d room with them, sure. But when the lifts opened, I disappeared into the trees with the guys.
We spent our days launching ourselves off anything that could reasonably be justified as a jump, shredding moguls, and racing straight down runs that required both skill and questionable judgment. It was the freest I’ve ever felt in my life. The beauty. The speed. That thin line between control and flight where your mind goes quiet and your body takes over. Almost flying.
The boys never gossiped. No post-run dissections of who said what and what it meant. I earned my respect the simplest way possible — by keeping up. By sending it. By wiping out, laughing, and going again. Were they immature? Deeply. But it was clean. Easy. The mountain didn’t care about feelings. It cared if you could ski.
This trip felt like opening a door I hadn’t walked through in years.
It was an executive retreat hosted by my boyfriend — four brilliant men who also happen to be exceptional skiers, plus one snowboarder who may legitimately be the best I’ve ever seen. Watching him ride was like watching physics take the day off. Effortless. Precise. Calm.
That first day, we covered 32 miles of terrain. Thirty-two. We stacked more double blacks in one day than I’ve done in the last 15 years combined. It was intense and technical and humbling and exhilarating in the way only real challenge can be. There were moments I questioned my life choices — and then pointed my skis anyway.
The gauntlet was high. And I stepped up.
We scaled it back the following days because we’re adults with calendars and responsibilities and bodies that now require recovery. But that one day stood apart. It reminded me that growth lives just outside comfort. That living sometimes means choosing the harder line — doing the thing that scares you because it calls you back to yourself.
At this stage of my life, I’m intentional about the women I surround myself with — women who build instead of compare, who move instead of measure, who understand that becoming is far more interesting than performing. That lesson didn’t come from a podcast or a caption. It came years ago, from ski guys who showed me that respect is earned through action and joy is found in forward motion.
I’m heading home today exhausted. Sore. Slightly offended by stairs.
And completely full.
My body is tired.
My spirit is soaring.
Turns out the version of me who flies down double blacks never left. She was just waiting for an invitation.
I did something hard.
And she showed up.
What a gift. I’m taking her with me.
