Learning to Ski for the First Time in the Swiss Alps

There is something slightly unhinged about deciding to learn a completely new, high-risk sport as an adult, particularly one that takes place on a mountain, involves speed, and assumes you have a basic relationship with snow. I did not have that relationship. I had never seen snow fall from the sky, never walked on it, never considered how hard it might be to get back up once you hit the ground.

And yet, somewhere in the middle of a European winter, I found myself strapping skis to my feet and hoping for the best.

I learned to ski in Arosa, Switzerland, a place that feels wildly ambitious for a beginner who had never seen snow. I signed myself up for two private lessons, taught by a 20-year-old instructor who had been skiing since he could walk and very gently informed me that he had never taught an adult before, only small children.

He was patient, encouraging, and found my frequent falls objectively funny, which I appreciated.

Seeing snow for the first time was genuinely magical. It was bright and so clean it almost hurt your eyes. When it started falling from the sky, I had to stop mid-lesson to film it because I couldn’t quite believe it was happening. Snow is soft but icy and makes a satisfying crunching sound when you walk on it.

Learning to ski in the Swiss Alps felt like an honour. Learning to ski while constantly being introduced to the ground felt less cinematic but equally memorable.

I had built skiing up in my head as both glamorous and terrifying, which turned out to be entirely accurate. There is something very chic about standing at the top of a mountain in full ski gear. There is something deeply humbling about realising you don’t yet know how to stop. The fear of falling was real, but the fear of getting back up as an adult felt worse. After each day, my legs ached in places I didn’t know existed, and I became acutely aware that my body no longer bounced the way it once did.

Yes, I fell. Repeatedly. During my first t-bar experience, the learner in front of me panicked and started sliding backwards, collecting me along the way. We both drifted down the beginner slope in slow-motion chaos while everyone else watched. I laughed the entire time, partly because it was funny and partly because panic felt unnecessary.

Later, I had a bigger stack and slid down an entire slope on my back with my skis tangled, nearly collecting a few more people before I finally stopped. There was no fear, no swearing, just laughter and a vague awareness that this was now a story.

What surprised me most was how calm I felt about being bad at it. There was no embarrassment, no ego, just acceptance.

Watching fearless 4-year-olds zip past me while their parents barely looked up was humbling in the best way. They trusted their bodies without thinking. I trusted mine cautiously, with a running risk assessment in my head at all times.

By day three, this whole skiing thing was starting to feel like fun. It was my last day on the slopes, and after two lessons, I decided to stop being afraid and start enjoying it.

I went faster, trusted my turns, and finally stopped thinking about falling every second. Finding the bar halfway down the slope may have played a small role in this newfound confidence, but I finished the day exhausted, proud, and already thinking about when I might do it again.

Learning to ski as an adult reminded me that trying new things later in life is rarely graceful, often uncomfortable, and deeply rewarding. 

You fall, you laugh, you get back up, and eventually you surprise yourself. I survived, barely, and left with sore legs and a quiet confidence that I’ll keep saying yes to unfamiliar things, even if they involve sliding backwards down a mountain first.

M x