For years, I’ve avoided doing things that scare me. And when I say scared, I mean terrified. Heights? Absolutely not. Stairs you can see through? Who invented those torture devices. Ladders? No thank you. Bridges? Only if I can close my eyes and pretend I’m teleporting. Looking out the window of a plane? Pure chaos.

Heights and I? Not friends. Not even acquaintances.

But little old me decided 2026 would be the year of Bold Choices. The year of facing fears. The year of asking, “But what if it’s not actually scary?” (It is. FYI. It’s very scary.)

Enter: skiing.

Now, when you hear “skiing,” you might picture cozy chalet vibes, Après-Ski hot chocolate, and bright rosy cheeks.

I pictured myself high up on a snowy mountain looking down and whispering “What’s wrong with me?” into the void. (Answer: many things, but that’s beside the point.)

Almost 30 and suddenly deciding gravity might be fun — questionable at best.

After signing waivers (always a great confidence boost), and being asked a concerning number of liability questions by far smarter people than I, I waddled away with rental gear in hand, headed toward the “bunny hill.” Though personally, I’d like to rename it the “Scary Hill,” regardless of size or the fact that six-year-olds were shredding it like Olympic athletes.

With skis on my feet, I felt like a duck wearing stilettos — zero balance, zero grace, zero dignity. Walking suddenly became the most advanced sport on the planet. Whoever decided skis should have no grip whatsoever should be tried in the international court of justice.

Then came the magic carpet. My instructor glided onto it effortlessly, naturally, like a gazelle in snow pants. I, on the other hand, attempted to copy them and immediately fell. Hard. Right at the start. On my ego. Which was already fragile, thank you very much. There I lay, flat, limbs in directions unknown, with a lineup of tiny fearless children behind me waiting to get on. How fun.

By the time I finally reached the top of Scary Hill, I realized a crucial detail: I had to get down. Somehow. Preferably without dying or causing an international skiing incident.

“Pizza!” my instructor yelled. “French fry!” they demonstrated. Don’t cross your skis. Don’t rely on the poles. Don’t panic. (I did all of these things.)

Small children flew past me like caffeinated squirrels while I tried to process the fact that moving faster than 3 km/h would surely result in my demise. I stopped fourteen times, maybe more, convinced I was about to cause a collision on the hill. And yes, it took me forty-five whole minutes to make it to the bottom.

Did I feel like I was going to die? Absolutely.

Did I have fun? That’s subjective.

Did I do it? I sure did.

And here’s the wild part — I kind of want to try again. Not because I suddenly love skiing. Not because I felt remotely cool. But because how can you know after just one time? What if I do end up loving it? What if I become a full-on chalet girlie, sipping hot chocolate and wearing impractical retro ski suits?

Regardless of the outcome, this is my year of trying scary things. Of testing the limits. Of stepping outside my comfort zone and proving to myself that maybe the things that seem terrifying aren’t actually as terrifying as they appear. Sometimes you have to fall on a magic carpet to find that out.

So what about you?

What fear are you avoiding?

I dare you — try it. Do the thing. Even if you’re shaky and dramatic and moving at the pace of a 200-year-old turtle.

Because courage isn’t the absence of fear.

It’s doing the thing anyway.