I used to stand there with the others, leaning on my poles, flexing side to side to cut each edge into the snow. I used to stop just at the crest of every headwall and look down over the edge, trying to see every contour of the trail and working up the nerve to put shin to boot and take off. Like a flock of worried birds we perched there together, caught in the firm grip of anxiety and self doubt. 

When I started hanging with really great skiers, I noticed that they didn’t stop, so I didn’t either, and I was surprised to find that it made me better. It eliminated the opportunity for doubt to speak and created space for mind and body to say to each other: I trust you. Practically, it made me more aggressive in my early turn initiation, which set me on a better line with better momentum. And it was way more fun.

Mountain biking has brought this thinking back into the forefront, especially because it is impractical to pause after every switchback or before every climb or at the top of every hill. There will be surprises on the trail. The trick is to see the obstacle, and then shift your focus beyond it. Just this week, my friend Adam coached me to keep my eyes up through a particularly challenging creekbed crossing and to trust the bike as it absorbs each impact. Trust the bike. What he didn’t say, but I believe would add, is trust yourself.

If you chose to give yourself the incredible gift of trusting your ability to navigate whatever comes and stopped pausing at the top of the ski hill, or before the rock garden, or in the car in the office parking lot, what might happen? You may find, as I have, that you are worthy of your own trust, and are far more capable of managing the unexpected challenges than you thought. As you build a new narrative, you might find yourself less afraid of the unknown, because you have faced and conquered it before. 

At the start of this decade of living I was very afraid of making the wrong move, and I wanted to plan the uncertainty out of my life. I felt that a step down any path would have an irrevocable (and likely negative) impact on my life’s trajectory. Of course it is easy to feel this in your early twenties when there is a concentration of major decisions about jobs and cities and graduate school and life partners. My mother, who is full of wisdom that I tried to hear but often couldn’t, tried to tell me that while every decision we make matters, time shows us that no one choice sets the plot, or derails the good plan, and that we never knew the whole plan anyway.

I share this because perfectionism and paralysis go well together, and it is easy to be so afraid of the wrong move or the hidden thing around the corner that you make no move at all, which is often the very worst choice. One of the things I’ve learned about mountain biking is that when you hit the breaks, you lose steering. Sure, coming into the corner can be scary, but if you white-knuckle the handlebars and lock up your tires, you’re going to have a really bad time. 

Growing up there was a poster in our house with a quote from Oliver Wendell Holmes Jr. that read “Greatness is not in where we stand but in what direction we are moving. We must sail sometimes with the wind and sometimes against it—but sail we must and not drift, nor lie at anchor.” My life experience has confirmed the sentiment. Though we might admit it grudgingly, the crazy teenagers in the bike park might be onto something when with joy and courage they tell each other to kick the dust and “send it.” You might wreck, but you also just might do something really amazing, and I can promise you’ll have a hell of a lot of fun. 

Ansley Kelly

Ansley Kelly (’16) makes her home in Rochester, NY, where she delights in short, sweet summers spent sailing and long winters spent skiing at her favorite mountain. Between outdoor adventures, you can find her buying books more quickly than she can read them and indulging in mid-morning naps. She works for Wegmans Food Markets where she finds purpose and joy in feeding her community and the wider world.