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Did you have any nicknames as a kid?  Maybe something endearing your parents called you, something sweet that warmed your heart?  My mom nicknamed me “Grace” because I was always running into things, uncoordinated, falling down, and super klutzy. 

Some people fall going down stairs.  I fall going up them. 

I can fall just thinking about stairs. 

And this is why going on a family ski trip was way out of my comfort zone.

I love a good adventure like the next girl but the thought of paying all that money just to break a bone wasn’t exciting to me.

The only time I actually got brave enough to attempt skiing was in third grade. My friend and I skied down her driveway.  It was anticlimactic.

But we were young, and to celebrate our accomplishment, we rode her great dane afterward.  (Kids, riding dogs is a bad idea, do not try this at home!)

At my school, only the cool kids The Really Cool Kids went skiing.  The rest of us went sledding and built massive snow forts on winter weekends. On Mondays, The Really Cool Kids would show up at recess with ski lift tags hanging on their coat zippers.  The cooler the kid, the more lift tickets. 

I always wanted one of those things.  But we didn’t have the money and I was more suited for riding dogs.

Enter my husband, years later. He loved skiing in college and often suggested we go.  I reminded him of my relationship with stairs. We didn’t go.

His neon pink and blue skinny 1980’s skis were cast aside like mall bangs and mullets from the same era.  (Here begins the search trend, “mall bangs”).

When our daughter & son were in elementary school, we started a yearly tradition of splitting up and taking one of them away for a weekend trip, while the other one was on a trip alone with the other parent.  We have made a ton of memories and the tradition continues into their young adult years.  I’ll share some of our ideas in another post. 

A couple of years ago, my husband’s need for speed kicked in and he – you guessed it – took our son skiing & snowboarding on their trip.  My son was hooked and my husband was ecstatic. 

You can only imagine what he planned the next year with our daughter.   She too, quickly fell in love with skiing, and I quickly became outnumbered.

Finally, because getting family time with busy, older kids is like receiving oxygen, I agreed to stretch my comfort zone in a massive way and go with them on a family ski trip. 

I will do just about anything to share an experience with my family – this is a major source of joy for me – even if it means careening full speed down a hill just before getting strapped to a stretcher.

We invited The Girlfriend and The Boyfriend (neither of whom had ever skied, YAY! Strength in numbers!) and took off on our first-ever Six-Pack Ski Trip.

The only goals I had were to make a bunch of memories with my family, to see God at work in some way, and to come home with all my parts intact. 

I did not expect to become an expert skier.

My husband was so excited, he planned the whole thing.  He made the reservations, sent out packing lists, and even made all the food.  Gosh, maybe I should have agreed to this years ago!

It just so happened that we were under advisory for a severe winter storm on the day we left. 

My husband carefully drove us 4 hours north through snow and freezing rain.  Our loved ones were lighting up our phones, checking to see if we were safe.  

We had to stop a couple of times just to scrape the ice off the windshield.

As we watched a car literally slide off the icy road in front of us, I wondered, have we lost our minds?  Are we going to ski in THIS? 

The answer to both was yes.

We checked into the ski lodge and signed the three newbs up for ski lessons.  After putting on our layers (so many layers! How are we supposed to function, bundled up like little kids at recess in January?) we picked up our rental skis and headed out into the storm. 

Side note:  No one in our group could believe I got the only pair of purple skis!  Purple fills me with crazy happiness.  Someday I will be one of those old ladies wearing purple outfits with red hats. 

For now, I was thrilled my favorite color was strapped to my feet. Maybe I can do this after all?!

After we learned the unique art of walking in ski boots, we went outside and managed to attach our skis. It was the strangest feeling to go from having little feet to what felt like feet the size of my wingspan.

While the experienced Six-Pack skiiers watched, the three first-timers got on “the magic carpet” conveyor belt (I loved that thing) and away we went, up the bunny hill.

It was interesting – and not remotely natural – to try and remain in an upright position on that tiny little hill.

Let’s just say that The Boyfriend and The Girlfriend were a lot more coordinated than The Blogger.  They quickly picked up skiing while I picked myself up off my rear end.

Again and again.

We all agreed to ski at our own pace and meet up for meals, so they happily took off with my kids to try a “real” hill while my husband was somewhere tearing down a black diamond run.

I was cool riding the magic carpet, trying to get comfortable on the bunny hill, and connecting with other new skiers, most of whom were in the single digit age category.

I tried to gain confidence but what I got was up close & personal with the little ice balls we were skiing on.  It was like skiing on frozen bean bag stuffing and my “graceful” self just couldn’t stay upright. 

I also got incredibly sore feet.  I neglected to mention that I have had a raging case of plantar fasciitis in both feet for 3 years, which makes doing this even more uncomfortable, in the literal sense.

But it was not going to stop me.

I took frequent feet breaks only to discover blisters on both feet.  No worries, I was armed with band-aids and ibuprofen, and I decided to get a different pair of boots (but I was not turning in those purple skis!).  This helped tremendously. 

Who knew that concrete-feeling boots could be more comfortable if they were the right size?

Fast forward.  We all had lunch together and swapped stories.  Everyone was having the best time on the big hills.  

It was so much fun hearing about their adventures on the slopes.

I didn’t have many stories to share, but I was choosing to have the best experience I could despite the circumstances by

• people watching (shouldn’t somebody teach these babies to crawl before they learn to snowboard?)
• dreaming of riding the ski lift all day
• and getting more experience on the bunny hill.

Everyone headed back out for more adventure.  My afternoon was filled with more of the same and I tried to make the best of it. Every now and then I would see someone from our group and it made me so happy!

Eventually we regrouped for dinner.  We were so thankful for the crock pot of hot soup that my husband made.

As we talked, I began to realize that I wasn’t reaching my goal of making a ton of memories with my family, and while the environment was enjoyable, I really hadn’t seen the hand of God at work, despite my positive attitude. 

I was having fun, but I was doing it in a comfortable way. 

I started thinking of how comfort seems like a good thing, but it is so closely tied to fear. I am generally not a fearful person, and yet I was allowing it to dictate my experience.  

I’ll say that again because it was a turning point and you might relate: 

I was allowing fear to dictate my experience.

Being honest with myself was so eye-opening.  There I was, a joy coach, wondering if choosing my comfort zone was keeping me trapped and forcing me to settle.

I knew I had a choice to make. 

The question was, did I want the joy of facing my fears and having a new experience more than I wanted the safety of comfort? 

It was getting dark and I knew that another snowstorm was rolling in, this one about to dump 8 inches in a matter of hours.  My daughter’s eyes twinkled as she described the thrill of skiing at night, under the lights.

I knew that I wanted that experience, even if I fell ten times on the way down. This was up to me!

I declared the time had come. 

My husband jumped to his feet, so thrilled I found the courage at last.  He had wanted to share this experience with me all day!

Heck, he had wanted to share this moment for 25 years!

For the first time, I got in line for the chairlift. 

THE CHAIRLIFT!

I was excited and scared and nervous and determined. 

After we sat down, my husband & I took a victorious selfie and the chair started rising higher. 

We rose above the trees, the trees that were covered in ice.

And then I saw it. 

I saw the hand of God at work. 

All day, I had been focusing on the ground, on my safe place covered with those cute little ice balls… but when I decided the experience was more important than the fear and got on the chairlift, I had a new perspective.

Not only did the lights illuminate the ground:  From up high, I could see how they made every inch of the trees sparkle and shine!

It was like the upper branches were wrapped in thick glittery glass, celebrating the wonder of winter. 

I could not believe how incredibly beautiful and moving it was.

Only God could make those brown, empty branches shout for joy, and I got to experience them!

At this point, I felt like the whole trip was worth it, and I hadn’t even tried to ski down the hill.

But, they don’t let you stay on the chairlift, no matter how nicely you ask. 

The time had come to try out my new skills and my new nickname (“Pocahontas,” not because of my legendary bravery, but courtesy of the chairlift operator who liked my braids).

I would like to say that I surprised my husband by effortlessly shushing down the mountain together, wearing matching outfits like we were in a movie. 

Instead, as he tried to help me maintain control by skiing from side to side, I whipped down the hill like a jackrabbit out of control in my little boy snowpants and sent him into the trees!  

In total, I fell three times, laughing and tumbling like a giraffe doing cartwheels, long limbs and purple skis flailing all over for the world to see. 

I even accidentally went up a snowboarding embankment and caught a little air.

I landed it!

But I made it down that mountain with all of my parts intact and I jumped up & down at the bottom like a kid on the last day of school.

After the rush of making it down that hill alive, jumping up & down on skis was the one natural thing that happened all day.

It was only one run. But it was such a win!

Because I told my comfort zone who was boss, I had the time of my life, bonding with my family and my Creator.  

It snowed all night and when we went back the next day, I didn’t go on the bunny hill once.

I tried a few different runs on that fluffy white powder and even made it a few times without falling or hurting anyone.

I got to ski with my husband and our kids and their sweethearts!

When we met up for lunch, I had actual stories to share. 

The greatest story was the joy of what I experienced on the chairlift, that first time.

Recently, my daughter and I got to go away together for our weekend trip. 

You know what we did?  Went skiing!

I bought my very own neon purple helmet so I can add stickers from all the ski resorts we visit, because there will be more ski trips.  So many more.

And you better believe I am saving my ski lift tickets! 

Maybe I will wear them to our next class reunion.

You’ve heard my story, now let’s turn to yours.

What small steps do you need to take to move out of your comfort zone? 

Something came to mind there… what was it? 

Is there something you need to face so that you can move forward?

What, for you, is more important than the fear?  

How are your comfort zones serving you?

Is it possible they are holding you back from the joy of living a life you’ll love?

If I can encourage you to do anything, it would be to get on the chairlift.

To learn how, set up a free 30-minute Breakthrough Session to chat with me at www.joytotheworldcoaching.com.

Until next time…