I was 12 years old the first time I tried it. I continued doing it during high school and especially in college. My husband and I did it on our honeymoon, and it was his first time. Throughout my lifetime I’ve continued to do it as often as possible with friends and family members. Yes, I love to snow ski. In fact, this year marks the 40th anniversary of my first ski trip to Santa Fe, where I first learned to ski.

It’s hard for people who don’t love this sport to understand why I would return to the slopes exactly a year later to ski again after badly breaking my leg last year. Leading up to my trip back to Santa Fe, people would either tell me I was crazy or congratulate me. Here’s an exact transcript of a text exchange with two of my brothers and their responses.

Me: “Back at the exact spot.  Had a great day of skiing. Love my brothers and all your support.”

Oldest brother: “I guess you are crazy.”

Youngest brother: “You go girl!”

This girl did go but not without fear and hesitation. I had to prove to myself and to everyone who showered me with support during this past year that I could do this – that I could face my demons and that exact ski run again. Watching the Olympics before the trip was terrifying at first and then it began to give me hope. My doctor, Mark Moses, cleared me and said my knee was physically healed. The part of my body I wasn’t quite sure about was my head. Could I get off the chairlift and point those skis down the slope? I did it and that lump in my throat quickly turned into tears of joy as I made the first turn, then the second, and then courage filled my head and the fear and hesitation was gone.

I did it. It wasn’t easy. I am crazy. It was great!

Right after my accident last year my son Tyler said to me – “please tell me you’re not going to be one of those people who say they’ll never ski again because they had an accident. You love it Mom. You have to get back out there.”

What my sweet son was telling me is something I’ve known and lived for a long time – it was taught to me by my parents and now I know I’ve taught it to my children.

“Life should not be a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in a pretty and well preserved body, but rather to skid in broadside in a cloud of smoke, thoroughly used up, totally worn out, and loudly proclaiming “Wow! What a Ride!”

A special thank you to my sweet husband who has been with me every step of the way this past year, and the past 29 years. And to my dearest of friends – Tammy and Freed Toll – who went with us this year, just in case we needed some backup. Freed too had a hip surgery recently and he bounced back quite nicely, taking on some moguls!