Free Falling

The lessons you can learn by letting go of fear.

Last Winter, at the age of 40, I decided it was finally time to learn to downhill ski. Like any beginner, my instructor started me on the bunny hill. I screamed “pizza,” willing my skis to wedge together and brake, the entire way down my first few runs. My body was stiff with fear as visions of falls and torn ACLs flashed through my mind. We reloaded the magic carpet and as we glided upward, I smiled at a pint-sized skier wearing a glittery pink helmet topped with a unicorn horn. The cuteness distracted me from my terror. When the little girl shrieked with amusement and yelled, “mommy, look, that old lady is on the magic carpet, too and she looks scared,” it took me a moment to realize she was pointing at me.

This little kid had not only called me old but she was also laughing at my fright. At first, I was furious, then embarrassed and then I let out a laugh of my own. Little kids had been fearlessly whizzing past me all morning. What was I so scared of? When we reached the top of the hill, I told my instructor I wanted to do the one thing I’d desperately been avoiding: I wanted to fall. This did not take much effort, and when it happened, I laid on the snowy ground for a moment only to realize, I was fine. Having gotten the tumble out of the way, I could finally relax. By the end of the day I ditched the pizza technique and was making parallel turns down blue runs. Yes, there was a yard sale—skis flying—but even the best skiers in the world crash.

As a perfectionist, I don’t like failing, and so for most of my life, I gravitated to things I was good at. A few years ago, my personal trainer suggested I embrace more things I was bad at or that scared me—not just physically, but also mentally, professionally, emotionally. The suggestion sounded ludicrous. But as I started to take her advice, I realized my fear of failure was holding me back from growth. Getting up on stage in front of one hundred peers with a shaky voices is better than not speaking at all. And taking diggers on a mountain bike as a novice rider certainly hurt, but the thrill I got from my first single-track descent was worth the temporary pain. There is nothing more satisfying than putting in the work and accomplishing a goal you once thought impossible. Every stumble and fall along the journey is a chance to learn and improve. When we’re babies, we fall and get back up again and again until we start walking. At some point in adulthood the excuse, “I’m too old” starts to hold us back. Now in my 40s, I’m taking gymnastics lessons, going on heli-snowboard trips and learning to wing-foil. I fall regularly, but even after the worst spills I vow to keep that fearless mentality of getting back up and trying again.

– Jen Murphy, writer and editor