I’m skiing a black diamond, one that I’m not nearly skilled enough to be on, and I ended up here quite by accident, actually. I mean, I’d been practicing, but I was expecting to practice up on another blue, when boom–here I am. I find myself caught on the icy edge. I’ve slowed down so I’m barely moving, calculating each inch I’m sliding over so carefully that I can hear every flake of snow I glide over shatter into pieces until finally the tips of my skis are there, to that pivotal precipice between quiet still and disorienting momentum. I can see over, but just barely and all I can see as I lean a little further is vast, steep, brutal terrain. Terrain that I know I shouldn’t logically be trying to navigate–I haven’t been doing this that long, you see, and I’m not as experienced as the rest of them and frankly, I’m a little fucking scared. Of missing a turn, forgetting what I know, falling, breaking. It dawns on me that I have no choice, as if I intend to get off this mountain, I need to catch my cloudy breath and go. Take a risk. Take a chance. Grab the anxiety that is attempting to paralyze me and scoop it into a big hug–comfort it in hopes that it will, in return, comfort me back.
Because that’s what this is about, right? Scaring ourselves, taking chances, getting to the bottom. For even if not gracefully, we’ve made our way down, and we’re stronger for it.