If you haven't read part one, I would suggest you check it out HERE.
You're back! Well it turns out, so was I.
Let's jump right in...15 years and three injuries to the same knee later....
Getting back on skis after wrecking your knee a few too many times is not like riding a bike. It’s more like getting back on a bike that’s slightly on fire, in a snowstorm, while your kids are effortlessly carving turns down the hill yelling “C’mon, Mum! Why are you slow?” with the energy of a caffeinated goat who has never contemplated the possibility of their own mortality.
I only started skiing again because of my daughter. All that follows is indirectly her fault, for better or worse.
Our local middle school hosts ski trips for the students each year, and my darling child, who knew nothing of my love/hate relationship with skiing, insisted I be a parent helper. The first day out with the school class was equal parts heartwarming and deeply humbling. There I was, bundled like a chilled sloth, feeling every past injury twinge with judgment as I tried to remember how to not snow plough my way down a green run.
It’s wild how your brain remembers the rhythm, the lean, the edge control—but your body just... doesn’t? I used to love the feeling of flying down the hill, but after a long break (and a very dodgy knee), I found myself staring down the bunny run like it was the final boss in a video game. Every turn felt like a negotiation with fate. Begging every deity I could name for grace and stability, and for a swift end to the day. But then I’d catch a glimpse of my daughter ahead—laughing, totally in her element—and something inside me unfurled. Maybe it was pride. Maybe it was stubbornness. Maybe it was just that weird ski-boot circulation thing. Either way, I kept going.
And it was definitely stubbornness. Frankly, if you know me at all, it's usually stubbornness.
By the third run, something changed. I wasn’t gliding, exactly, but I wasn’t panicking either. The cold air felt less like a slap and more like a wake-up call. My knee, traitorous little goblin that it is, didn’t scream quite as loudly. I finally remembered why I loved this—being outside, being alive, being just the tiniest bit reckless. Skiing with a gaggle of twelve-year-olds might not have been how I imagined my triumphant return to the slopes, but it was exactly what I needed: messy, chaotic, full of joy. I’ll take it.
And I didn't fall. I also didn't go fast, or look good doing it those first few days (seasons?), but I didn't fall. And then, with every day out, I kept not falling. Over that first season back, we got the whole family into skiing and it became our go-to activity in the winter. And I still didn't fall. Everyone else did, but I did not, and from one season to the next, it just became a thing that I didn't do. Ever.
There’s a certain pride that comes from staying upright on skis. You start to wear your fall-free streak like a badge of honor. Oh, you fell on that blue run? Aren't you precious; I haven’t fallen since 2013. I became That Person. The one who’d say, casually and with a dash of false modesty, “I don’t usually fall,” right before launching into a steep descent like I had something to prove to gravity. And I did...gravity is a bit of an ass.
But then last year, something shifted.
Maybe it was the snow. Maybe it was me. Maybe it was the fact that the mountain doesn’t care about your streaks or your pride or how many overpriced protein bars you packed in your jacket.
Actually it was none of those things - it was a fucking twig.
The offending branch rose up out of the snow like a submarine periscope auditioning for a part in The Hunt for Red October; like some kind of sentient winter gremlin summoned just to trip me. The offending twig jammed itself snuggly and completely unseen against the side of ski when I came to a stop sideways on the slope.
I started to point my skis downhill to make my next turn and instead of both skis turning, only one did. The other one held fast, perpendicular to my chosen direction. It was one of those slow-motion topples where you have a full five seconds while you superman through the air to reflect on your decisions before your body hits the snow. A very thoughtful fall, really. Very reflective. Namaste in motion.
Despite the steep terrain, the torqueing of the same knee I always injure (because why would we ever try to balance out the injuries?), and dramatic sail through the air, by some miracle I came out of the situation mostly undamaged. I chalk this up to keeping my skis set to release at the slightest hint of pressure, much like you'd set a child's skis, and I was pleasantly surprised at the results.
The kids thought this was the single funniest thing they'd ever seen, and immediately pointed out how my no-fall streak was over. Happily however, no lasting damage was done, and eventually the curtain fell on another ski season, albeit one that had broken my otherwise fall-free streak.
Falls two and—regrettably—three found me this year. The snow gods, having indulged my overconfidence long enough, decided it was time I firmly reacquainted myself with gravity.
I was on a tree run — you know, those narrow, winding paths through dense forest that make you feel like an action hero until they suddenly remind you that you are a soft-bodied meat sack with limited reflexes. I turned sharply, maybe too sharply, and a tree — the kind that has definitely been rooted in place for decades — appeared right in front of me. I didn’t crash into it so much as hurl myself to the side and ricochet off it. Politely. Like I was trying to greet it. Hello, yes, sorry, didn’t see you there.
I got stuck, laying uphill on my stomach with my skis dug in a V shape stuck right into the snow bank. I tried to maintain some shred of dignity while trying to get myself out but there was no hope. I did not have anything close to enough leverage to get either ski out of the snow while I was still attached to it, and laying there in the splits did not offer any feasible way to release the bindings so I could get up. My lovely family spent no small amount of time watching me flop around like a grounded manatee before deciding to finally help a girl out.
On what thankfully became the final fall of the season, and happily not the last run of the season, I was carving down the slope with all the confidence of someone who had no idea what was about to happen. The snow was perfect, the sun was shining, and I was, for once, not immediately regretting my life choices, despite this being the same run on which I had superman-ed down the hill last season. Then, out of nowhere, a rogue branch—clearly harboring a personal vendetta, possibly in solidarity with the last branch that took me out—lunged at my ski with all the grace and subtlety of a bear trap. My ski caught, I didn’t. Physics took over from there, and I launched into what can best be described as a slow-motion interpretive dance of regret.
I continued skiing forward while simultaneously noticing a disturbing lightness on one foot. My ski, loyal companion that it was, had chosen to detach itself mid-chaos and make its own way in life—disappearing into the powder like it had been drafted into witness protection. I spent the next ten minutes crawling around the hill like a lost seal, digging through the snow and questioning all of my recent decisions.
Eventually, after what was quickly becoming a concerning amount of time, I found the ski buried like a time capsule from a better era, and reattached it with the help of my daughter, who decided that if we were ever going to get moving again, assistance was needed.
Falling, it turns out, didn’t break me like I expected it would. It didn't mean that I was bad at skiing, just that branches are asinine snow goblins dressed up in bark and there's nothing you can do about that. It meant... I was skiing. I was trying. I was in motion. I was letting the mountain do what mountains do — humble you, challenge you, remind you that control is always a little bit of an illusion.
I used to think staying upright meant I was strong. But maybe falling and getting back up — awkwardly, with snow in my gloves and a bruised ego among other things — means I’m stronger now.
So in the end, I didn’t just fall—I graduated, with honors, from the University of Gravity, where my thesis was titled: “Twigs Are Bastards: Hard Truths I Learned While Face-Down in the Snow”.
