During the Summer I took a trip to Whistler with my family. Whistler is a town north of Vancouver, British Columbia, that’s home to Whistler Blackcomb, one of the largest ski resorts in North America. People go there to ski in the Winter, and they go there for adventure biking in the Summer. There is a cable-car (gondola) that takes you up Whistler Mountain. Additionally, there is another gondola that takes you between the two peaks of Whistler Mountain and Blackcomb Mountain. This is called the Peak-to-Peak gondola and is an epic ride up the mountain.
Once you are half-way up Whistler Mountain, there is an option to take an open chairlift to the peak of Whistler Mountain. The Peak Express chairlift is your access to the Top of the World Summit, Cloudraker Skybridge and Raven’s Eye Lookout. This chairlift ride is an exhilarating experience that takes you over top of an ancient glacier while cresting over a 100-foot vertical cliff at the top.
I have a morbid fear of falling – not heights, I’m pretty ok with being high up. I’m terrified of falling though, so I don’t like feeling like I might fall. So, going up the mountain in an open chairlift was not an option I was even considering. It was clear in my mind that that was something I could not do.
My husband and son chose to go up to the peak of Whistler Mountain with the open chairlift. My daughter had listened intently to our conversation and decided that she didn’t want to go up to the peak in the chairlift. However, while sitting at the base of the chairlift watching my husband and son go up, we talked about whether we would be missing out on something by not going and I asked my daughter if she thought she would have regrets afterwards. She said she believed she might.
Once they were up the mountain, I phoned my husband to inquire about the ride in the chairlift to the top. He shared that it was fun and easy and that “if a 5-year-old could do it, then surely you can too.” This was not helpful. It did not alleviate my fears. Instead, it increased my anxiety, because I wasn’t feeling heard, and it felt like perhaps my fears were being dismissed as “silly” or “ridiculous”?
My husband eventually convinced us to get on the chairlift and join them at the top of the mountain…
It wasn’t until I was on the chairlift climbing towards the peak of Whistler Mountain, that I realized that I had made a terrible mistake. The ride up the mountain peak in an open chairlift was too much for my nervous system to handle. I was terrified.
There was no way to fake my way through it, or pretend that everything was fine for my daughter’s sake. I recognized immediately that I was completely outside my window of tolerance and overtaken by a primal fear. It was so instinctual. I started crying and I apologized to my daughter all the way to the top of the mountain. I shared that I was terrified, and that I was sorry that I couldn’t be stronger and/or calmer for her in that moment.
My daughter ended up being the calm one on the ride to the top. She held my hand and told me that we would be ok. I got off the gondola on wobbly legs, still sobbing. And I felt angry – angry at my husband for minimizing my fears, angry at myself for not listening to my own instincts. And I felt shame. So much shame at not being able to “hold it together” and for crying like a baby on that chairlift. (To give some context, it’s so quiet when you are that high up, that your ears start to hurt from the quiet stillness of nothing. And my cries pierced the quiet. My husband heard me crying as we came up the mountain. It was truly not my finest moment.)
I got off that chairlift and said, “I told you I can’t do this. I should have trusted myself.” I was already planning my hike down the mountain – completely unwilling to take the chairlift down again. My husband pointed out that it was a 45-minute hike down through snow and that my in-laws were waiting for us at the base of the mountain. He said, “We don’t have time to wait for you to hike down.”
So, for a second time that day, I had to face, what felt to me, like mortal danger. I had to get back onto what I considered a death-trap. I paced up and down considering my options. Then I made some choices in self-care. I went to the washroom to empty my bladder (always a good idea in situations where I might wet myself in fear…) I requested that we all go down together, so that my daughter and I would not be going down by ourselves again. This ensured additional support for her too, given that I would not have capacity to support her on the downward journey. And lastly, I decided that I would keep my eyes closed for most of the trip down, and I asked my daughter to let me know when it was ok to open my eyes and look down. I trusted her to let me know at a height that I could handle.
I made it down that mountain, vowing to never go up there again. And I walked away with some remnants of shame and judgment about not being brave enough and crying all the way up the mountain. I also felt proud of being able to share my fear openly with my daughter with no pretense. There was no way I could have faked it anyway, so my only option was to be real and authentic about how scared I felt.
It wasn’t until I spoke to my coach that she pointed out a false narrative that I was holding on to about the experience. I said something like, “I regret not listening to myself, because I knew I couldn’t do it.” And she said, “But you did do it. Did you not? You went up the mountain. So, it’s not true that you couldn’t do it.”
At that moment, it hit me like a glacier coming off the mountain, I was judging HOW I had gone up and come down. In my mind I was telling myself that I should have been able to go up and be calm, relaxed, happy – joyful even. I shouldn’t have cried. I should have been unafraid. I should have comforted my daughter. I should have been the adult in the situation. I should have been stronger for her. I shouldn’t have let her comfort me.
I was shoulding all over myself like a little puppy who isn’t house-trained yet. I was making my whole experience wrong, and completely ignoring the fact that I did actually go up and down that mountain peak. Because the experience wasn’t smooth, graceful, “brave” (read “fearless”), I was making it all wrong. I was dismissing my own courage and vulnerability in that moment. I was ignoring the learning my daughter received that day. She learnt that she is incredibly brave. She learnt that she is compassionate, and able to meet people in their fear. She learnt that she could do challenging things, and that she can do them scared, and that’s ok. She learnt that it’s ok to be real, and vulnerable, and that true courage is the willingness to admit that you are scared, and to not let the fear stop you. She learnt that it’s ok for things to be messy. They don’t have to be perfect.
It was only upon reflection of the experience in conversation with my coach, that I recognized the gift I gave my daughter that day. I modeled to her what it looked like to do things messy, and to let it be imperfect. I modeled to her what it looked like to be real and vulnerable. I modeled to her how you can take care of yourself through a challenging experience by making requests about what you need, and by being willing to ask for support. I modeled to her that she doesn’t need to dismiss her own feelings or fears, that she doesn’t have to do things alone, and that she doesn’t need to be perfect.
It’s sad to admit that often what is being modeled to her, is the expectation of perfection, of stoic dismissal of her real feelings and fears. My husband and I both come from families who model needing to be “right” and “perfect” over needing to be “real” and “vulnerable”. If I had not plucked up the courage to go up that mountain, I would have maintained the façade of being calm, relaxed, happy, and I would have modeled to her that when things feel scary, we just back off and don’t do them. By choosing to go up that mountain, I provided her with a powerful learning opportunity that ended up teaching both of us profound life lessons.
So, dear reader, where in your life are you judging yourself for the way you are doing something? Where are you not seeing your own progress, because you are holding yourself against an expectation of perfection that doesn’t acknowledge the real fear and courage it takes to tackle the thing in front of you?
Or where are you not stepping into the ring of life, because of fear? Where are you choosing to stay on the side-lines instead of engaging directly with life, because it’s safe on the sidelines and you don’t have to face your own insecurities and/or the possibility of failure? Where are you choosing to look good over growing, learning, expanding, and reaching for something you truly want? Where are you shutting down your own feelings, or letting your feelings decide whether you will do something or not?