Fall, Rise, Repeat

Because trying is its own kind of triumph.

Dear Friends,

Greetings from Colorado!

The snow gods have been dumping fresh powder since we arrived. Kiernan and Mark, our snowboarding instructors, thanked us for bringing the great weather. It’s the first big storm to hit Aspen in a handful of weeks. “Free refills” Kiernan says, referring to how fast and heavy the snow is falling and filling the freshly grooved ski and snowboard tracks. The conditions couldn’t be much more ideal.

Today we are at Buttermilk, the smallest of the four ridges around us. The chairlift up the mountain moves swiftly as we climb 9,900 feet. Complete winter white with the exception of the green fur of the Lodge Pole pines and creamy bark of the leafless Aspen trees that line the runs. The frigid snow and wind stings my nose and cheeks. I keep adjusting my mask to cover my face better but finally succumb. It’s no use. My mittens are not maneuverable enough to proficiently secure the edge of my mask under my goggles. About ten minutes later, as it’s time to glide off the Summit Express, the crevices of our jackets and pants have accumulated mounds of fallen snow.

This winter my family and I have been learning to snowboard. Stringing together progressive steps. Spreading the snow as we slide on our heels and sit back into an imaginary chair. Leaning, knees bent, our shins pressing into our boots while extending our hips forward, we ride toe side of the board. Pointing with our shoulder and looking in the direction we want to go in order to steer our board, linking turns across and down the slope.

We split up at the top of the mountain. My husband and son head with Mark to a blue run to warm up before moving on to the black diamonds they started venturing down the day prior. Mark is the perfect instructor for my guys. He has a warm and easy way about him. Game for the adventure ahead. In addition to instruction, Mark gives them a lot of latitude, perfect for their appetite and skill level.

My daughter and I follow Kiernan to a mellow green run. Kiernan, like Mark, is a world class instructor. Kind, patient, and encouraging, I feel safe and looked after with Kiernan. His eyes and smile are nurturing and his mannerisms put me at ease. Intuitively, he understands and meets me exactly where I am at.

I am slowing my daughter down for sure. She easily handles blue runs with confidence. We promise her that we will make our way to some more difficult terrain by the end of the day.

Having been an accomplished athlete my whole life, I really value mastering technique and solid mechanics over speed of progression. But even more so, my painstakingly slow advancement learning to snowboard has to do with my fear and lack of confidence. Fear of falling. Fear of not being able to control my descent down the mountain. Fear of getting hurt.

On our last day before heading back home to Los Angeles, serendipitously we all meet up part way down the mountain. I see the excitement and thrill on my son’s face as he is advancing at lightening speed, now doing Ollie jumps. I see my husband smiling and happy, gliding smoothly and confidently, having a blast. I have watched my daughter fearlessly and effortlessly make her way down every run regardless of the steepness. But I am still just trying to figure it all out.

Even though I know better, I can’t help but compare myself to all of them. My spirits plummet.

This is so hard for me.

I try not to cry. I look for comfort and a place to hide my emotions that are now betraying me as my eyes well up with tears. I find this place in the crook of my daughter’s neck while I give her a big hug.

Later that night I remember that at the very least, I am in the arena.

You know, in the arena Brené Brown drew attention to in her wildly powerful TED talk on vulnerability. The same arena President Theodore Roosevelt put on the map in his intensely inspiring speech delivered in 1910 at the Sorbonne in Paris.

Infinitely timeless and relevant, it is this famous passage that has shaped so much of how I look at growth and achievement.

It is this passage that I have shared with my children countless times over the years. In times of triumph, but especially in times of disappointment or defeat.

“It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat.”

And so at the end of the day, nowhere near having achieved what my family members have already, I call to mind that great passage and acknowledge silently to myself that I am in the arena, striving valiantly, instead of sitting on the sidelines too afraid to even try. And for this I am grateful, hopeful, and (somewhat) content.

Sending love and encouragement to step into whatever arena you may be hesitant to enter. It’s worth it!

Xoxo,

Francesca