Wipeouts, Risk, and Why Growth Requires Falling

I’ll spare you the details, but you can imagine what happens when you’re prone to carsickness and traveling up a long, winding mountain road in the backseat of a car heading toward a New York ski resort. The short version? A few unplanned stops on the side of the road. What my 12-year-old self didn’t realize was that this wasn’t just carsickness—it was also anxiety and fear.

A little about me: I love doing things I’m good at, and I hate failing. That mindset has shaped so much of my journey—not just in skiing, but also in relationships and work. Early on in my life, I resisted spaces where I wasn’t instantly competent. Now, as I spend a week in one of my happiest places—the ski slopes of Colorado—I can’t help but recall a time when sliding down a mountain brought anything but happiness. That experience, in many ways, mirrors my evolving relationship with risk, failure, and what it means to live a full life.

Growing up just an hour from what was once an Olympic Training Center, trying skiing seemed like a no-brainer. So when my parents suggested hitting the slopes over my 6th-grade Christmas break, I gave an adolescent version of a “hell yeah.” How hard could it be? People made it look effortless on TV. As a fairly athletic kid, I assumed this would be my next great adventure. (I’m sure you’re not picking up on any foreshadowing here.)

Fast forward to my first trip down the bunny slope—or, actually, my first attempt at using the rope-style lift (IYKYK). You know, the one where you awkwardly straddle a round seat attached to a rope, hoping it gently pulls you up the hill? I mean, really, who needs lessons for that? Well, apparently, I did. Attempting to get my adolescent legs around the seat while balancing on skis, I looked like Bambi learning to walk. It was mortifying. A line of 3- and 4-year-olds—accompanied by their effortlessly stylish ski parents—watched on, probably whispering, “Bless his heart.”

Somehow, I made it to the top. Just in time to slide down on my stomach, backside, knees, and face—all in front of what I could only assume were millions of eyes watching my humiliation unfold. But I’m resilient, so I tried again. And again. Same result. So I did what any strong, capable 12-year-old would do: I ran into the lodge, red-faced and nearly in tears, declaring to my mom, “I’m done.” And that was that—my failed attempt at what would later become one of my greatest joys.

I wish I could tell you I shook it off, got a pep talk, and went back out. Instead, I watched from the lodge window as my family kept at it, falling fewer times with each run, eventually disappearing onto bigger slopes. Relief and jealousy. I was safe from failure, yet quietly regretting that I wasn’t out there improving with them. But at that moment, relief was the stronger drug—because I hated failure.

Perfectionism is the thief of joy. In my effort to avoid discomfort and failure, I missed out on the opportunity to embrace growth. If I hadn’t expected to be a younger version of Bode Miller my first time on skis, I could have laughed along with the toddlers. I might have celebrated falling three times instead of four. Maybe I would have found joy in the two seconds of pure bliss when my skis actually went in the right direction. Borrowing from Brené Brown, perhaps I could have seen the gifts in the imperfections.

I’m incredibly grateful I eventually found my way back to the slopes. Skiing no longer represents inevitable failure—it represents joy, freedom, measured risk-taking, and legacy. Each time I clip into my skis, I’m reminded of the beauty of creation, the gift of a strong body, and the privilege of sharing this experience with loved ones. It’s a reflection of what I believe is essential for a fulfilling life—embracing discomfort and finding joy in the journey. Trusting that good character is being shaped even when life feels messy allows us to grow in ways we never expected. Growth isn’t about avoiding failure; it’s about leaning into it, learning from it, and allowing it to shape us into stronger, more resilient versions of ourselves. Now, I get to pass this lesson on to my kids—not just the how of skiing, but the why of risk-taking and resilience.

Failure sucks. Taking risks does hurt sometimes. But learning to sit with discomfort, rather than avoiding it, is essential for growth. Just like in mental and spiritual health, facing challenges head-on allows us to build resilience, confidence, and a deeper understanding of ourselves and others. In my counseling work, I see this every day—growth happens when we acknowledge discomfort, challenge limiting beliefs, and allow ourselves to step into the uncertainty. Whether on the slopes or in life, embracing difficulty is what leads to true transformation. Avoiding those places of pain only limits us. The best things in life? They often come with a little bit of struggle.

Oh, and one more thing: go to ski school.