Winter has melted into muddy runoff and blooming flowers. As the season changes from winter to some warmer weather, this season has been a season of starting something new and yet I was still intimidated. I wasn’t just pushed from my skiing ability (beginner), but I had to then take what I knew of how to ski, and teach younglings.

Have you ever had a job that just made you realize every day there was something new to learn? Ever changing?

For the past couple of months, I have worked as a children’s ski instructor. I have learned so much. But this isn’t to promote myself as if I had the perfect social media “ski bum” lifestyle. I experienced days of frustration, exhaustion, and disappointment. But I also experienced days of pure joy, excitement, and pride. I write this with the goal of closing this chapter myself, but also to inspire.

The Hard Days

The hard days are always different for everyone. As a first year coach, my thoughts have changed over the season as what is a hard day.

At the beginning of the season, I had mini reds almost every day.

Mini Reds – our Ski School’s terminology for the youngest first-time skiers, usually between the ages of two and five years old.

Within the first month of having mini reds, I understood why mini reds could be considered a hard day. As a first year ski instructor, it’s typical to be given mini reds as well. It’s my first season, everyone has done it. They’re young – they don’t exactly understand what is happening and what they are being told to do. I’m a new coach, I don’t exactly understand what is happening either. Parents drop off their kids for ski school and then go out and most of the time, go skiing and enjoy the mountain.

I used to dread “mini red” days – the younglings in stiff boots, crying for their mother or father, unsure why strangers in bright red coats keep asking them to “pizza”.

That was such a terrible mindset for me to have. I started to learn things, how to teach younger kids. That these kids just need someone to have the patience, love, and compassion for them. I fell in love with teaching younger kids.

My hard days became a blur, meshing into one because I was feeling some of the same things these kids were feeling – confusion and overwhelming number of emotions. Looking back, those meltdowns the kids and I both experienced weren’t signs of failure. Just growing pains of learning how to be present for both the kids and for myself.

That being said, it still wasn’t easy. The crying and breakdowns, the constant need for attention, and the lack of independence these kids had still weighed on me.

What suprised me was how much those kids were teaching me. They didn’t need me to be the best skier. They needed me to be patient, warm, and imaginative. Slowly, I stopped seeing these days as hard days. I started seeing them as chances to connect with children who wanted someone to believe in them, when they didn’t yet believe in themselves.

The Good Days

My good days didn’t come from not having a day of mini reds. My good day was a blend of love that these kids showed for me. That I showed for them.

It took me a while to realize that my biggest strength wasn’t skiing. If you know me personally, that last sentence is intended as humorous (I have only been skiing for less than a year). It was the way the kids naturally trusted me. I don’t say this to brag. In fact, it suprised me. Kids have always kind of stared at me or gravitated to where I was standing, but I didn’t realize why that was until I was in the middle of my teaching season. Kids look for warmth in other people, I believe. I believe they look for a spark. They want to be accepted, they want to be loved, they want to laugh, and they want to have fun. I believe I have that charm, that warmth is an important skill.

My good days, when I reflect over the winter season of coaching have come from kids coming to me to have fun. Like I stated earlier, I learned how to coach younger kids pretty early on. It was from a repeat of finding what works and what doesn’t. My group lessons of two to five year olds most of the time, learned how to ski. But what they didn’t realize is that they were actually learning how to ski from the games, from the fantasy world that I had created. The “trick, so to say, was to teach them without them realizing that you are teaching them.

But they also looked to me to give them encouragement. To give them warmth. To teach them something that they aren’t comfortable with but in a way that they aren’t defeated when they fail the first time. Because that is going to happen. My good days were days that the kids remembered who I am. Ran up to me with hugs or jumped on my legs because I was significant enough to create a positive experience.

My ski lessons slowly shifted into a story. We were in a far away land, and some of us had powers. Those powers only worked when we were pointing our skis in a pizza form. Or when we are turning our skis to make turns, we actually are airplanes preparing for take off!

One little boy whose family frequently visited the resort, would recognize me and scream “Coach Robot!”, and run up to me to tap my hand to power on the ski instructor robot. Now, mind you, I did this little bit once, during one full day lesson and he not only remembered that I was the robot coach, but also recognized me. I made a positive impact.

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Closing the season

Maybe I will return to coaching next winter. Or maybe life will take me somewhere new. Either way, I will carry this season with me – the snow angels, building “Elsa’s castle”, the snack breaks, becoming Coach Robot, and the quiet pride of watching these tiny skiers be in control of their own skis.

Sometimes we teach and then sometimes we are taught. This season, I got to be both.