And I’m not really a snow girl.
Or at least, that’s what I’ve always told myself.
Stepping gingerly through frosty terrain brings back the feelings of awkwardness from middle school. I’m Bambi on ice: uncoordinated, insecure, and hyper-aware of my every move. Add the layers of clothing required to keep my reptilian bones warm, and I feel strangely out of place in my own body.
It’s a sensation that I fought for years to overcome—that feeling of being an imposter in my own life. Oddly enough, those adolescent memories can make trips to the slopes slightly triggering.
As hesitant as I am to bind myself to skis, I love my early mornings on the mountain. I feel delightfully invisible as I watch the world wake. Everything moves in slow motion. The flakes drift downward. The branches bow ever so slightly under the added weight.
I’m not really a snow girl. And yet, I find myself craving this mountain solitude.
There is a comforting stillness that blankets the earth along with the snow. I can compare myself to nothing. And with that comes a sense of peace, reminding me that I am enough, just as I am.