falling forward / #10
on the absence of failure and measuring what matters
“I didn’t fall today!” I hear another skier exclaim proudly to their party, on an impromptu ski trip I find myself on last week. It gets me thinking:
Is progress really just the absence of failure? It feels incomplete.
Instead, I’m thinking it could be these:
How much time you're willing to spend in that shaky, uncomfortable zone
The confidence you wield after the attempts
Your fear to fun ratio while doing it
These reflections felt good. Wise, even, like I’m embodying the growth mindset I want to cultivate in all the stacks of my life.
I swing my feet from the chairlift, as the cold mountain air fill my lungs, blissfully unaware that my questioning definition of progress is about to be tested.
It's a beautiful day on the mountain. The sun is shining, the snow is glistening, and we’ve been on the pow (as the experts would say) since the morning, with only a break for lunch.
We hear that tonight is the last night skiing session of the season, so we decide to take my nephews out on the slopes. They’re miles ahead of me in ski progress and will, no doubt, put my lack of athleticism to shame.
Now, I'm picking up speed on a steeper slope than I'm ready for, but I think I’m okay. The instructor we’d been with the entire day seemed fairly confident that we would survive, at least.
I attempt a wedge turn (that reliable "pizza" formation that had served me well on gentler terrain), my legs trembling across the diagonal of the slope.
But physics had other plans.
The pizza that worked so well on easier slopes suddenly became useless against the increased gradient and speed, and—
One moment I'm skiing.
The next, the world tilts. I’m weightless, gravity takes over, and I fly at an alarming speed (editor’s note: it’s still just a green slope…). I crash — hard.
I feel my heel hit violently against the back of the boot as I landed in the most ungracious way.
Then, one of my skis, tired of my amateur handling, decides to detach and continue the journey without me, a few feet down the slope.
One of the first things they teach in beginner classes is, naturally, how to attach your boots on the skis.
Here’s the problem: It’s an incline, and I can’t clip my boot in. No matter which leg I tried, the position of my boot, or just the sheer frustration in my action.
My sister arrives where I’ve fallen, cycling through every suggestion she can think of: angle your boot this way, press down harder, try the other ski first, sit down.
But she has bad knees, and I can’t lean on her for balance without risking both of us tumbling all the way down.
So my brain just helpfully screams DANGER! every time I try to shift my weight away from the mountain to get to the right angle — Never has the phrase “the spirit is willing but the flesh is weak” felt more personal.
I learn later, in the comfort of my ergonomic chair at home, that I’m supposed to be an acrobat and cross my leg over the other in order to get to a more negotiable angle.
I still only have the body strength and agility of a particularly unmotivated panda who’s decided today is not the day, so… yeah.
What follows is 20 minutes – though it feels like an eternity – of increasingly desperate attempts, while my sister skis down to get help.
Enter my brother-in-law, arriving after my prolonged solo struggle. He positions himself as a human kickstand, a stable support I can lean against.
In that moment, his presence transforms the impossible into the manageable.
The mountain itself doesn't change, but now I have what I need: not just physical support, but the psychological safety of knowing I'm not alone in this struggle.
Click.
Thank god.
But the day isn’t done with me yet.
As daylight fades and the slopes empty after the last chairlift run of the day, my brother-in-law patiently teaches me a brand new skill: how to parallel slide down a slope that leads us back to our resort.
Or attempts to teach me, at least.
Instead, the moment my ears hear the approaching engine of the ski patrol vehicle, I feel myself sliding… not parallel, but backward — a last act of defiance from my exhausted muscles.
I find myself once again belly flopped on the snow.
“Can I help you?” The ski patroller asked in Japanese — a language I barely understand, but in a universal tone that I couldn’t misplace.
Is there any answer besides "yes" when you're sprawled in the snow as darkness falls, the last person on the mountain?
Minutes later, I’m safely ensconced at the restaurant, with a big dinner that I’m convinced that I’ve earned.
Eight months until the next fall.
I mean, the next ski trip. 😂
Eight months to transform, or at least be a little more prepared for the grueling conditions up there.
The plan is simple, but not easy:
Strengthen my core
Address hip flexors
Improve ankle mobility
Will I succeed? The odds are… moderate at best, considering these are things that I’ve been trying to improve for the past few years.
But that's not really the point, is it?
The point is returning to that uncomfortable zone, where growth happens, and where you're not quite sure if you're going to succeed, but you're willing to try anyway.
So, is progress just the absence of failure?
For me, from theory to practice: it’s learning to sit in that shaky, uncomfortable zone, the confidence you carry after the attempts, the shifting ratio of fear to fun.
And sometimes, progress is lying face-first in the snow, accepting help from ski patrol, and knowing you'll be back in eight months to do it all over again.
And probably with more fall stories to tell.
Other things
I have been told it’s a rite of passage to get rescued by ski patrol, so I will celebrate it 😅
Will be spending the next week and a half in Chengdu, where I will hopefully get to hang out with pandas!
This week marks one official month of not having a corporate job, the end of my teaching gig for the semester, and the last of my design-ish work engagements — which also means the end of any income for the year
I’m terrified, like the italics will suggest, but I’m working on pushing through the fear, and we’ll see how I fare in a bit.
Until next time,
J