Yesterday I hit a ski lift pole. I don’t even know that I can say “hit”. It was more like trying to take it down while barreling at it full speed.

This was not on my first day of skiing. That would have made sense.
This was on my second.

Day one, I was steady. Cautious, yes, but steady. I made it down a real green run and went to bed excited, thinking, Okay! I can really do this!

Day two, first run of the morning, I wiped out on the bunny hill and slammed directly into the giant metal support beam holding up the lift.

Which… feels symbolic, but I’m trying not to overwork that.

I wasn’t hurt (more than one would expect turning into an accordion against a pole). But I was shaken in a way that had nothing to do with pain.

It’s strange how quickly confidence evaporates. Twenty-four hours earlier I was really proud of myself. And yet, in the span of one fall, my brain completely rewrote the story: See? You can’t do this. Yesterday was luck.

And so, I cried. Not dramatically. Just enough to get the adrenaline out. It wasn’t embarrassment as much as disorientation. I was shaken up and I don’t like when my internal narrative switches alliances on me.

But. I eventually got up, grabbed my skis and walked the rest of the way down (there was no freaking way I was skiing down after that knockout).

And then. I went back up.

The second run…was worse. Not physically — mentally. My body could do it. I just didn’t trust it. I made the instructor hold my hands the whole way down. We paused and took five deep breaths after every. Single. Turn.  I could feel how small that felt, and I couldn’t override it.

That part bothered me more than the pole. I mean, really bothered me.

So, I stopped trying to prove anything on the bunny hill and went back to the green run I’d skied the day before (fittingly named Bambi).

And it was fine. More than fine. In fact, it was my best run yet.

Calm(ish). Controlled. Uneventful.

Uneventful, it turns out, is underrated. “SHE’S COMING IN…warm”

What I learned, is that I don’t actually mind falling. I mind the moment where control disappears and my brain can’t catch up. I’m afraid of that split second where I learn just how fragile my confidence is when my nervous system decides something is a threat. So, what bothered me most wasn’t the impact. It was how small I felt afterward.

I had already decided I was “someone who can ski.”
The pole challenged that identity and that’s what shook me.

But here’s the data: I’m barely sore. My legs are fine. My balance is intact. The issue wasn’t strength, like I was most worried about. It was confidence interrupted.

That’s different. I can work with that.

I ended the day on that good run on purpose. I wanted the last imprint in my brain to be competence, not collision.

Because the truth is: I am strong enough to ski.

I just need more reps.
And maybe a wider berth from lift poles.

— Find me where intention meets whatever answers back.