My only comprehensible thought was filtered through a gray-white veneer of fear, or rather the fogged up screen of ski goggles. Everything appeared clouded, both my mind and sight, but one feeling cried out to me: the desirable warmth of a mug of hot cocoa garnished with Jet-Puffed marshmallows. The imaginative sensation of a warm drink was relief for my nearly frostbitten fingers; even two pairs of fleece-lined gloves could not battle the winter wonderland of Lake Tahoe. My hands struggled to grasp the fallen ski only a few meters away, but my height of five-feet-seven was still not enough to reach the equipment. One foot was buried beneath the powdery layer of snow, fresh from the blizzard last night. The other leg, however, was finally intact with the remaining ski, and I couldn’t risk taking it off to trudge to its counterpart. With a faint-hearted sigh, my upper body collapsed in the snow. The goggles were still not clearing, and nor was my brain. Unclasping the strap from my helmet, I yanked off the frustrating eyewear and furiously scraped the screen with the frost-tinted leather outside of my gloves. As the layer of condensation dissipated, I noticed the striking pain under my nose: my ski mask was frozen. The inevitable fear of loneliness and hopelessness finally registered in my thoughts: how was I ever to leave this place?

I was always a white-Christmas-enthusiast. Who didn’t like the feeling of snuggling with piles of fuzzy blankets next the crackling burning of pine woods? I could not miss the opportunity to experience fresh snow and unscathed Christmas trees; I needed to ski. For a month, I prayed for late November snow. What was the purpose, if we arrived at South Lake Tahoe with closed ski slopes and disheartening dry weather? After a week of daily checking Weather.com, I gleamed with hope, like the twinkling Christmas lights enhancing my yard, as three days of snowflakes replaced cloudy symbols. Hotels were booked, and family friends were invited.

Aunty Amelia and Jason travelled from New York; my sister and I chorused to “Do you want to build a snowman?” for a fleeting six-hour car ride; and my mother rented boots and skis and bought exorbitantly-priced gondola tickets. My dream vacation was following along the right path, until, three words, “no instructors available”, affixed to the oak-framed lodge door haunted the rest of the week. At first thought, no shivers erupted along my spine, and no sweat plastered over my hands; I was only fixed on fulfilling my Thanksgiving break aspiration. It was not until trekking through deep snow when I realized that two thirteen-year-olds, Jason and I, one barely an intermediate and another a snowboarder but first-time skier, skiing alone was an ominous disaster. Undergoing the sizable price tags and constant worrying, I could not admit failure. I had to prove my ability and worth.

“You know, we can find flatter sections to ski down,” Jason said, as we hoisted up the metal bar of the ski lift.

There was a fresh layer of frost coated all over the seats; we were the one of the first skiers for this season. The pine trees that scattered the mountain were painted with unwilted snow; a scenery that seemed to spring right out of Disney’s Frozen. It was unchallenging to suppress nervous jitters of skiing unassisted from the mesmerizing white palettes of nature’s fine art. There were a few more meters until the stop. Straightening my legs for the lift’s finish line, I felt the quickening of my heartbeat and the rock in my throat. I remembered piercing small holes into the icing ground, breathing in deeply the biting air, and losing sight of Jason’s neon yellow and green Colombia coat; nevertheless, I could not recollect my uncontrollable speeding down the mountain.

Professional skiers zoomed down the slope casually as if they were walking down the street. My eyes flitted at them and to my mediocre, rented, snow-engulfed ski, pondering whether to ask for help. My mouth opened, preparing to shout, but I shut them right away. You’re not a child anymore. They will laugh at you, I thought. I needed to show my independence.

Minutes passed, and an increased number of families and occasional skiers emerged on the mountain. These people seem nicer; they wouldn’t mock me, I thought, as a way to fool myself into speaking. I composed a mature and civilized speech in my head but could not voice it out loud. I stared hopelessly at my ski, still lodged in the same space, cursing my stubbornness to show vulnerability.

I tallied the passing minutes and the number of hot-pink-coated athletes as a method of relaxation. Noticing people’s stares, I pretended to be resting and admiring the falling snow. My parents were undoubtedly worried; an hour must have passed. My heart ached for causing my family pain. You need to suck it up and fight this strong-willed mind, I screamed internally.

I stomped on the protruding black harness of my intact ski to release my left leg. Trudging through the knee-deep snow, I waved and yelled at a man dressed in blue, “I’m really stuck here and don’t know what to do. Can you help me?”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

“Honey,” my mom said in Chinese, handing me the yearned steaming cup of hot chocolate. “I’m so worried. You can never again ski without a jiao lian!”

I smiled at my mother, emotionally stinging with regret and self-agitation. The faint indents lining her forehead clearly uncovered the depth of her distress, a concern indescribable by her simple words. Sipping the sweet and sugary drink, I awakened with a feeling of warmth and empowerment that surged through my body. Even though I eventually grazed the snow with my skis flat on the ground, I was inconsiderate to my mother by wasting time and causing worry. A presumed mental self-battle could impact families and friends, and I learned to show my fallibility for a greater good. Maybe a jiao lian, or ski instructor, was all that was needed to avoid the troubles. Sitting in a winter wonderland in solitude was an unconventional way of welcoming me to real life, where perfection and fearlessness does not exist, and stubbornness will never help in succeeding.