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What My Dad Never Taught Me
When I was 12, my Dad put me in his cross country skis and gave me a push.
Down a sledding hill.
I crashed into a small tree and cut my eyebrow. I’ve still got a scar.
And a great photo where I clearly know my Dad is going to be in BIG TROUBLE with my Mom. My expression in that photo is priceless.
Speed through the years to 2015, when I took my first alpine ski lesson.
The instructor taught us how to “pizza” — make slow, long turns back and forth across the mountain. And then he taught us how that same move could be used to stop.
I turned to Scott and said, “I’ve known how to ski for 25 years. But this is the first time I’ve learned how to stop.”
That moment stays with me because it’s a lesson — for not just me, but you too.
It didn’t occur to my Dad to teach me how to stop.
I would either learn to slow myself down gradually or I would crash.
And if I did end up in a snowbank or slamming into a tree, so what?
I’m convinced my Dad never thought I would actually hurt myself that badly.
And I didn’t. Instead, I learned.
