How to Cry in the Mountains
Let’s say for a moment that you’re an adult. A full-fledged, no doubt about it, grey hairs sprouting on your visible hairline adult.
Let’s say that as this adult you decide to revisit an activity you only did a few times as a child. It’s physical and requires some subtleties of balance and you spend a lot of time teaching yourself. Then, you move to a state where everyone does this activity. So, you need to improve. You sign up for several weeks of lessons.
You’re a little nervous which is normal before interacting with people you don’t know. But you’re pretty confident because you’ve been practicing and you feel good when you’re on the mountain. On the first day, you make the requisite small talk with a touch too much volume. History says you’ll calm down shortly.
“You scatter pieces of your confidence over the slopes, tucking them between trees and underneath the pillowy white powder. Everything you’ve worked so hard to believe about yourself is flaking off and settling on the side of the mountain. ”
Then you’re off on the first run where you fall and lose your skis twice. You laugh loud enough that everyone will know you’re not taking it too seriously. Haha! you exclaim as the snow cascades down the back of your jacket. Inside, you whisper to yourself not to worry, it’s just nerves.
The instructor gives everyone else three or four things to work on but you receive only piece of advice which is the same nugget you heard given to a child just yesterday. You thought you practiced and perfected the basics but the last several hundred feet have made one thing clear: you are an illusion.
It does not get better. With each fall – and there are two to three per slope – you lose confidence. By the time you’ve lost your skis for the sixth time and wrestled to put them back on in the loose powder that supports neither your physical weight nor the burden of your insecurities, you are close to tears. It is not because there is a sad movie in your thoughts, nor (for the first time since they were born) does it have anything to do with your children.
It’s about shame. You are someone for whom confidence is hard fought. You are careful not to give yourself credit for talent in any area, mostly to make sure that this very circumstance doesn’t occur. You would rather beat everyone to the punch in judging you unworthy. I’m not great, you say, I’m slow. I’m unskilled. So, because you had a bit of ego about this, the familiar descent into insecurity is much sharper.
This is not a situation unique to you. Everyone feels this and that makes it worse because all your careful protection against this exact thing has been for naught. Your self-construction is revealed to be fragile enough to break apart in the gentlest of alpine winds.
Your group waits patiently at the bottom of the slope. Not only does the falling cause a delay but the new techniques you’re trying to employ mean unfamiliar muscles are scrambling to keep you upright. You are burning in parts of your body you never once felt before. Fearing you will not be able to halt your downward progress, you have to stop and rest. Not only are you lacking skill, you are also lacking strength and endurance which are two more things you believed you possessed before arriving on the mountain today.
Over the course of the next few hours, you force the smiles, you make fun of yourself (but not too much because that’s both annoying and transparent). You scatter pieces of your confidence over the slopes, tucking them between trees and underneath the pillowy white powder. Everything you’ve worked so hard to believe about yourself is flaking off and settling on the mountain.
Everyone in the group is nice, so very nice. They are encouraging. The instructor compliments you every time you make it down the mountain. This ends up being some version of – I see you’re trying so hard. It is this more than anything that makes the tears rise. You don’t show them, oh goodness no you don’t. Cry in front of a group of people? Heavens no.
So you say thank you. Sorry for the wait. Where to next? As if you aren’t dreading it. You catch your breath while praying your legs won’t give out between here and there.
“It’s impossible to hold the porcelain of your feelings from the day and a logical explanation in your hands. You’ll drop one or both.”
You consider bailing. Just - nevermind about all this. The only thing that keeps you there is the additional shame of giving up. If you leave you won’t be able to look them in the eye when you come back (if ever) because then not only are you unskilled and weak but also a coward. The latter rounds out the triumvirate of traits you despise in others.
After a break, you stuff your swollen toes back in the boots that will make them grow in size even more. You say yeah, let’s do it, when the instructor suggests a steep and bumpy run that will mean you have rest even more.
You wonder what makes you care so much these strangers’ opinions because they are the only reason you’re still here. On the other hand, you have, in fact, stayed. You’ve opened yourself to whatever you end up being at the end of this day. You’ve been the actual worst. You’ve fallen and you’ve struggled while other people watched. But you’re still on the damn slope.
You make it through the day. On the drive home, your husband sees how wrecked you are, and you agree: I’m tired, you say. It is neither a lie nor the whole truth. Then he asks which runs you did and you can’t hold back anymore. You sob. He looks at you askance; you are not a crier. Counted on hands, those instances.
They moved me, you say.
Up or down a group? He replies.
Down.
You’re sad because you weren’t good?
To this, you don’t know what to say. It’s impossible to hold the porcelain of your feelings and a logical explanation in your hands. You’ll drop one or both and they will certainly shatter.
Just hold on until you get home, you say to yourself for the tenth time. But by the time you’re in the shower you can’t bring the tears even though you know a purge will help. Your body sees fit to betray you for the umpteenth time.
With wet hair, you lay down on the bed and curl into yourself. You try and remind yourself of all the good things you are. This one day and this one thing does not define you, you whisper to the wall. It doesn’t work. You try to stay with your breath. This doesn’t work either.
One thing creeps in as you’re looking out at the mountains you moved here to be near and that you hated today. You remember: you will be able to tell yourself the story of breaking down. You will be able to say that it was terrible and that you learned something even though it won’t be what you expected.
The wisdom isn’t there in that moment. But it will arrive eventually and when it does, you’ll stand on sore legs and hurting feet and build another version of yourself. It won’t be the first or the last time but you will know with certainty that it can be done.
Inspired by events in Park City, Utah
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