The wind was sharp against my face as I glided down the slope, the snow sparkling under the fading light of the afternoon. It was a perfect day on the mountain—clear skies, fresh powder, and the kind of crisp air that makes your lungs feel alive. But that day, something was off. I couldn’t place it at first. Maybe it was the quiet that lingered in the air, the kind of stillness that settles in when you’re on the edge of something, teetering between joy and sorrow.
I had been skiing for years, a lover of the mountain since childhood. The rush of adrenaline, the feeling of carving down a steep run, the wind rushing past you as you’re suspended in time—all of it was a part of me. Skiing wasn’t just a sport; it was where I felt most free, where my mind could escape the mundane, the worries, the noise. But now, with each turn, each push against the cold, the mountain didn’t feel like home. It felt like a reminder.
It started with a small stumble, a slip that should have been nothing more than a blip on the radar. But it wasn’t just the fall that caught my attention; it was the weight of what came with it. I could almost hear her voice, that gentle, encouraging tone she always used when I struggled, when I doubted myself.
“You’re doing great,” she would say, her laughter ringing in my ears, “Just keep going, one turn at a time.”
She was always there, just a few steps behind me on the mountain, smiling as I tried to perfect my form, laughing when I tumbled. Skiing was something we did together, something we shared. It was our language, our connection to one another, even when words failed. I could still picture the way she looked—her bright, determined eyes, the way she made everything look so effortless as she sped down the slopes beside me.
But that was before the accident.
I hadn’t been able to bring myself back to the slopes since. The idea of skiing without her felt impossible, like it would break me in a way I couldn’t even explain. Yet, there I was, trying again, hoping that somehow, I could find the same thrill, the same joy, the same connection to the mountain that we once shared. But it was empty. The snow beneath me felt colder, more distant, as though it knew I was trying to fill a void that couldn’t be filled.
As I picked myself up from that fall, my legs shaky, my mind racing, I caught a glimpse of the other skiers around me—carefree, laughing, living in the moment. I was the only one who seemed to carry the weight of the past with me, like a shadow that followed me down the mountain, no matter how hard I tried to outrun it.
I paused at the top of the run, looking down at the wide expanse of white before me. My heart beat faster, not from excitement, but from fear. The fear that no matter how fast I went, no matter how well I skied, I would never feel the same joy again. That fear clawed at me, tightening in my chest as I stared into the distance.
I took a deep breath and pushed off, my skis carving into the snow with all the precision I had trained for. The wind whipped around me, and for a moment, I could almost pretend it was like before, when everything felt right. But as I sped down the slope, I realized the truth—I was skiing for the wrong reasons now. I wasn’t skiing for myself. I wasn’t skiing for the love of the sport or the thrill of the mountain. I was skiing to outrun grief, to escape the emptiness that consumed me when I wasn’t focused on the task at hand.
The pain that had been buried beneath the surface for so long began to rise up again, raw and unrelenting. I felt her absence in every movement, every breath, every beat of my heart. I wanted to scream, to let the frustration out, to let the mountain hear my sorrow. But the snow was silent, the trees were still, and I was alone with my thoughts.
I reached the bottom of the slope, my legs trembling, my chest tight. I stopped, my skis digging into the snow, the world around me suddenly too loud. My breath came in sharp gasps, and I realized I was shaking not just from the cold, but from the overwhelming weight of it all. The loss, the longing, the unbearable truth that no matter how many times I came back to the mountain, she wouldn’t be there beside me.
Skiing had always been a shared joy, a part of who we were. Now it was a reminder of what I had lost, of the bond that could never be replaced. The mountain felt like a cruel joke, its beauty taunting me, offering a fleeting sense of freedom that only made the ache deeper.
I pushed myself to the side of the trail, sitting down in the snow, tears stinging my eyes as I tried to breathe through the pain. There was no coming back from this, no way to undo what had happened. The mountain, once a place of escape and exhilaration, had become the stage for my heartache.
As I sat there, the snow falling softly around me, I realized something—skiing would never be the same again. But maybe that wasn’t the point. Maybe it wasn’t about chasing the past or trying to recreate what we had. Maybe it was about learning to move forward, to carry the love for the mountain, and for her, with me, even as I skied alone.
