I had done this before. So why was I struggling so much to even get on the lift? 

It was New Year’s Day. My friend from high school and her boyfriend had picked me up from my grandparents house in Boston, where I was living at the time. Then we drove up to New Hampshire to go skiing for the afternoon. 

The previous spring I had graduated from college, and now I was working in a university bookstore in the city. My friends were scattered around the country, and my life was not going to plan. So having my friend home for the Holiday break was a gift. And skiing felt like just the adventure I needed.

Having my friend home for the Holiday break was a gift. And skiing felt like just the adventure I needed.

Only, when we got to the lodge and rented our equipment, I began to get nervous. I had been on two ski trips before—one, where I skied down the bunny slope the entire time. And the other, where my sister’s boyfriend spent two days trying to teach us how to snowboard. “Trying” being the operative word. Yet for some reason, I thought I could snowboard. Until, we strapped in. 

My friends clicked into their skis, and I strapped one boot into my snowboard. It was in that moment things began to go south, literally. As soon as I had one foot attached, my snowboard started sliding down the very small slope of snow toward the ski lift, taking me with it. 

As I went down, my friend’s boyfriend grabbed my arm and helped me find my footing. But just the sensation of the ground moving out from under me, put me in a panic. The words, “I don’t know if I can do this,” ran through my brain and sent fear through my body. In that moment I realized snowboarding is not like riding a bike, at least not for me. 

Thoughts, terribly fearful thoughts, spun around in my head. I pictured myself falling off the ski lift at the top of the mountain. Then, walking all the way back down to the lodge because I couldn’t actually snowboard. I had told my friends I could do this.

Why did I tell my friends I could do this? 

Suddenly, skiing felt like a much better idea. I remembered that when I was on the bunny slope, I had picked up skiing much quicker. So, rather than face the embarrassment of falling all the way down the mountain, I came up with a quick plan. 

I told my friends, I wasn’t so sure I could snowboard that day. One of them suggested I take a lesson, but my pride was too strong. Instead, I told them, I would see if I could switch out my rental for skis. That they should go up for a run without me, and I would meet up with them. 

Only, I never did.

Truthfully, the lodge did let me switch out my snowboard for skis. But when I put them on I felt even less confident. I was so afraid of falling and being bad in front of my friends, I stayed in the lodge the entire afternoon, waiting for them to finish. 

I was so afraid of falling and being bad in front of my friends, I stayed in the lodge the entire afternoon, waiting for them to finish.

When failure seems imminent, for many of us our flight response kicks in. Mine was on full alert that day. In those situations, taking a chance feels impossible—and in some cases, even stupid. Yet the fear of the very thing that had me sitting on a cold wooden bench for hours while my friends skied, is the thing that now years later, I am starting to realize I need. 

I know it sounds crazy, but I am beginning to see that failure can be very good for us. Failure has the ability to be a great and powerful teacher. And many of our most important dreams can’t be reached without taking the risk that we may fail. Perhaps even, embarrassingly so. 

Looking back on that ski trip, I wish I had been less afraid of what other people thought and valued more what I could learn from all the falls I would have taken. I also wish my pride hadn’t kept me from taking a lesson. Sadly, I have never skied again since. But still being in touch with that same friend, and knowing what I know of her now—failing on the slopes that day wouldn’t have changed our friendship. 

For most of my life, failure has been something to avoid at all costs. But I wonder what I would have learned, and where I would be today, if I had been just a bit braver, and a little less afraid to fail.

Where has the threat of failure kept you from doing something hard?

Where is life calling you to take a chance that could involve failing? 

 

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