I sat on the snowy ground and tried to regain my bearings.
I had just fallen for the umpteenth time while trying to grab onto a T-Bar ski lift. Frustration was mounting, and I needed a minute.
So, I sat there, staring out at what lay ahead.
It was late June. Back home, it was beach weather. But here on the border of Chile and Argentina, snowy peaks surrounded an alpine lake — their wintery reflection reflected immaculately in the frigid water.
This view, this place — it was any American skier’s dream. But not mine.
You see, I had never skied before. And I hadn’t harbored a strong desire to, either.
But I’d ventured to South America for a study abroad program. And my classmates — all avid skiers — had begged me to join them on a weekend excursion to the Andes.
So, here I was, giving this new experience a go. And struggling mightily.
Getting on the lift was just one issue. Making it down the bunny slope was another. And stopping my momentum before plunging into the lake was a third.
For much of the day, I was miserable. Not only was I flustered, but I was also terrified of injuring myself.
Finally, I started to make some progress. I stayed on my skis all the way down the slope, feeling the wind rush by my face. My form was still a work in progress, but the misery was gone.
Sadly, so was my energy — and daylight.
I made my way back to the lodge to turn in my rental skis. But I pledged to give it another go when I was back in the United States.
For a while, I made good on my promise. I’d hit the slopes about once a year. Despite some misadventures, I did get better at skiing. And I found the experience of gliding down a snowy slope uniquely exhilarating.
But eventually, I stopped trekking up to the mountains.
My demurral from skiing wasn’t driven by its costs or the travel distances to the slopes — although both were significant.
The cause? Risk reduction.
My family tree is marked by community influence.
Both my parents are educators. So too were my maternal grandparents.
My paternal grandfather is a doctor. My uncle is a renowned surgeon.
If there’s one commonality among my relatives, it’s a devotion to helping others be better, safer, and healthier. And that means reducing risks.
When I was growing up, my parents would encourage me not to make the same mistake twice. And my grandfather would often share the most basic doctorly advice in the book.
If it hurts to move your leg like that, don’t move your leg like that.
I was primed to steer clear of recklessness from the start. And I’ve followed that North Star into adulthood.
These days, I make a living in the insurance technology industry. So those risk reduction edicts have only further solidified.
Now, this hasn’t turned me into a frightened recluse. I don’t spend my days assuming everything will go wrong.
But I do imagine what could go sideways. And I try to avoid that outcome as much as possible.
This ethos has underpinned many of the choices I’ve made over the years. It spurred my decision to stop eating dairy and fast food. It led me to quit drinking alcohol.
And it led me to stop skiing.
You see, I was never fully in control on skis. I took turns too wide and still struggled to stop on a dime when I got into trouble. I feared that my shaky form would lead me directly into a tree — and a broken leg.
I’d also taken up running during this time — first for exercise and eventually as a competitive endeavor. As my devotion to running deepened, the costs of a ski run gone awry started to seem as steep as a Black Diamond slope. It just wasn’t worth trying.
Now, this decision was not exactly a prevalent one in the athletic community. I know of several runners who have won distance races weeks after a ski vacation.
But for me, the potential costs were too high. Getting to the starting line healthy was paramount. Nothing that could jeopardize that mission was worth engaging in.
This line of thought constitutes Risk Reduction 101. And it’s worked as expected for me.
Or has it?
As I write this, it’s been a decade since I went skiing. And it’s been four months since I went for a run.
A high-speed crash on a snowy slope hasn’t paused my running career. But I’ve come across some significant injuries, nonetheless.
There hasn’t been a single cause for these setbacks. Some were due to overtraining. Some were due to chronic physiological issues. Some were simply due to bad luck.
But regardless, I’ve paid the price.
I’ve lost four months of an activity I love. I’ve dropped out of five races, forfeiting hundreds of dollars in the process. I’ve gone through surgery and an arduous rehab process.
If I had a skiing mishap, I’d likely have missed about the same amount of time while healing. My rehab process would likely have been somewhat similar.
Taking all this into account, my decision to cut out skiing doesn’t look all that stellar. After all, those risks I was trying to avoid found me anyway.
I might as well have lived with reckless abandon. I might as well have let the chips fall where they may.
This is a tantalizing argument. Yet, I don’t buy it for a second.
Sure, I’ve encountered a bit of a rough patch lately. I’d even call it the nadir of my running career.
But such an outcome can’t be viewed in a vacuum.
The odds of what happened to me without skiing are lower than they would have been if I kept hitting the slopes.
No, I might not have avoided fate. But I didn’t actively invite it either.
This is an important distinction.
All too often, we view risk as binary. We either aim for total avoidance or throw caution to the wind.
Neither approach truly steels us for a bad outcome.
In one case, we’re forced to reckon with our recklessness in the most brutal of fashions. In another, we’re left wondering why we threw away the chance at adventure — only to encounter its bitter toll.
The best way around this is to take the middle path. To accept small risks and shun outsized ones.
This requires judgment without clear guardrails. It requires a feel for the odds. And it requires us to embrace the gray.
Put it all together, and we’re left with an incredibly high bar to clear.
But with some discipline and devotion, we can clear it. I am proof positive of that.
So, let’s take this journey together.
Let’s resolve to feel the rush of the wind without getting in over our skis. Let’s be mindful of risk, but not paralyzed by it.
We might not always win this way. But we’ll surely lose less.