Picture a 5’2 nine year old streaking across a mountain, ski poles lost and about to fall off the edge of a 3,000 foot mountain. She suddenly rams into a pole with her left arm out. This horrible, and terrifying moment was what most people would call a colossal failure, but what I would call a victory. To many people’s disbeliefs, including my own, I was able to recover and get back out onto the snow.

My journey to the skiing haven of Lake Tahoe began years before when my sister and I decided seeing snow was on going to be at the top of our bucket list. After what seemed like a lifetime of consideration, my parents finally decided that we should go experience what cold weather would feel like. Any weather less than 100 degrees is considered nice for us Houstonians.

Our first day on the slopes was spent well, we got up bright and early and signed up for some beginner classes. My sister, Anika, and I excelled and were both taken to the bunny slopes for a trial run where we learned to slow ourselves down and stop ourselves in case of an emergency. We both ended the day with a bang, and made the brave choice to go on our first green level slope. I think after that, I got the wrong idea that I was some sort of Olympic skier. The first day also ended up being everything that we had imagined. Skiing through the soft, fluffy, white snow, and then going and drinking a nice cup of hot cocoa.

The next day started out just as eventful as the first. We decided that our family was at the point where we needed our own private coach. We hit the easier slopes for warm up and slowly worked our way back up the green slopes that we had originally been on. Many hot cocoa breaks later, our instructor decided that we could possibly be ready for a blue slope. Anika and I agreed instantaneously. We were ready for the challenge. My parents were both slightly unsure about going, and even about us trying the harder slopes. After lots of begging, they finally agreed and Anika, the instructor and I head up to the slope on the ski lift. After getting to the top, I felt like I was on top of the world. We were on one of the highest slopes in the resort. We slowly started skiing down, curving at every point to make sure that we did not go racing down. After I saw several people pass by me, I decided that if others could do it, I could too. This was the attitude that I had toward everything back in those days. I started going faster and faster until I realized that there was no stopping. As I raced to the edge of the cliff toward the fences I noticed a pole. I decided skiing into a pole was smarter than falling off the edge of a cliff. And in that split moment, I stuck out my left arm. The last thing I remember was our instructor coming to me and asking if I was okay.

Ultimately, I ended up being alright, even though I had banged my arm and head up pretty badly. After getting back home, I recalled this story to several people, who would all respond with the question “Well, will you ever get back on the slopes again?” At the time, my answer was no, but when we went back to Utah a few years later, I ended up giving skiing another shot, keeping in mind that taking it slow was the way to go.