Learning to Glide in the Dark

A few days before I ever clicked into a pair of cross-country skis, I was walking through fresh snow with a friend, our laughter drifting softly through the trees. It was just after a new snowfall, the woods felt hushed and almost holy, like the world had been gently reset. We moved steadily along the trail in our snowshoes, the rhythmic crunch beneath our feet both grounding and familiar.

I had gone snowshoeing in the past. In fact, I had loved it enough to buy my own pair. There’s something deeply reassuring about choosing to buy your own, claiming it as yours. I knew how snowshoeing would feel in my body. I knew the pace. I knew the quiet of the winter woods. Walking beside my friend, I felt relaxed, confident, present. There was no question of whether I could do it. I already knew I could.

And maybe that’s why it stayed with me. Because just three days later, I found myself standing at the edge of a different winter experience entirely of cross-country skiing for the first time, on lantern-lit trails.

This was not familiar.

This was not purchased confidence hanging in my garage.

This was new.

As I clipped into the skis, there was a flicker of uncertainty I hadn’t felt on the snowshoe trail. Can I actually do this? What if I can’t figure it out? What if I spend the whole night falling? It’s funny how quickly the mind fills in gaps when we step into something new or unfamiliar.

And, as it turned out, I did fall. Five times!!!!! 😂

Not subtle little stumbles either. Full on snow landings. Each one humbling in its own way. Yet each time, I got back up, skis still attached, dignity slightly rearranged but spirit intact.

What struck me most was how different the two experiences felt not just physically, but emotionally.

Snowshoeing carried the energy of trust already earned. I had evidence. I had memory in my muscles. I knew what the rhythm would be. There is a kind of calm that comes from having walked a path before.

Cross-country skiing was something else entirely. It asked for trust before proof. It asked me to lean into movement I didn’t yet understand (I after only have one ski on I questioned if I could even stand upright to get the second one on!!) And every time I fell, I could feel exactly why. I was trying to control it, trying to anticipate every curve in the dark or trying to see too far ahead instead of feeling what was directly beneath me. The more I thought about it, the more unstable I got.

Eventually, I softened and let my knees bend a bit more, my shoulders dropped a wee bit and I stopped attempting to "dominate" the trail and instead listened to it. I focused on the simple sensation of the skis sliding over snow. I will add that first downhill was pure joy, somehow I was so much better at simply gliding with the speed than actually managing the glide with the forward motion of the poles. But eventually, something shifted, where the wobbling lessened and the gliding lengthened, AWWW. Nothing about the trail had changed. The snow was the same. The lanterns were the same. What changed was my relationship to the uncertainty.

Walking through fresh snow with my friend in snowshoes reminded me what it feels like to move from embodied knowing. Cross-country skiing under lantern light reminded me what it feels like to build that knowing in real time. Both are forms of trust.

Sometimes we are walking in snowshoes we’ve already broken in, confident in the rhythm, grounded in experience. Other times we are clicking into something entirely new, unsure whether we’ll glide or fall. In both moments, the invitation is the same: stay present, soften your grip, let the body learn.

I realized that trust isn’t about never feeling uncertain. It’s about allowing uncertainty without making it mean you are incapable. It’s about understanding that falling is part of integration. It’s about remembering that confidence often comes after the wobble, not before it.

If you are in a season that feels like snowshoeing (steady, familiar, supported) savor it. Let yourself enjoy the evidence of how far you’ve come. And if you are in a season that feels more like first-time cross-county skiing under dim light (uncertain, humbling, stretching you in ways you didn’t anticipate) breathe……you are not behind. You are learning!!

Trust is not built by seeing the entire trail. It is built by taking the next step, or glide, and meeting whatever happens with a willingness to rise again. And sometimes, five falls later, you discover you were capable all along. ✨