What a ski instructor knew about my life that I didn't

It wasn't really about snowboarding

I once learned a critical life lesson from a snowboarding instructor known as the Snow Whisperer.

It was April, and I’d been asked to fill in as a chaperone for the final week of the skiing and snowboarding program at the high school where I was teaching, serving underserved youth.

Problem was, all of the students had been learning to carve down Mt. Hood on their skis and snowboards for weeks, and I — a girl raised on the Great Plains — had never once strapped my feet into a snowboard.

While the other students had long graduated to the real slopes, I was still struggling to figure out how to stay upright on the bunny hill.

One of the program instructors took pity on me and called over his colleague to help. “He’s the Snow Whisperer. You’re in good hands now.”

And so, I found myself getting an hours-long, free, private lesson from the Snow Whisperer.

Snowboarding was a far cry from my usual day-to-day — teaching at a high school job I disliked, taking care of my toddler, and sobbing on the couch, convinced that my career was over, that I had irreparably blown my life, that I would never be happy again.

The year before, I’d spent five days in a psych hospital with postpartum psychosis. I'd been so anxious about failing as a mother — convinced I was screwing up my baby and damaging her developing psyche — that I hadn't been able to sleep. I’d paced the living room at two in the morning so often that my vision—and my mind—became blurry and smeared.

“You’re trying to rush it,” the Snow Whisperer said, demonstrating how I was tipping forward over my board.

He was a squat, middle-aged man with sun-tanned skin and a broad smile, who quickly diagnosed my problem. “You gotta relax.” He leaned back into an easy pose.

I tried to adjust my posture, doing what he said.

“Okay, but if you try to control it too much, you’re gonna fall,” the Snow Whisperer said. He encouraged me to shake loose, breathe, and start again. “Let the mountain come to you.”

I gave him a wry smile. If he only knew.

Over the course of the next few hours, I took the Snow Whisperer’s advice.

I breathed. I loosened. I trusted that the mountain would come to me.

By the end of the day, not only was I off the bunny hill and cutting my way down the mountain, but there was a lightness in my chest I had not felt in months.

There’s a real value in not getting up over our skis—or snowboards, as it were—and trusting that we can actually be more successful if we can just relax and receive.

In what ways could you let the mountain come to you? Just hit reply to this email, and let me know, and I—a real live human—will read it!