Generally speaking, I am a cautious person. I like to take things slow, to know what I’m getting myself into before diving into a new situation. It makes sense, then, that Flying Squirrel would terrify me.

I’ve been skiing for as long as I’ve been walking, and even before that, my dad would bundle me into a baby backpack and we’d hit the slopes together. An intermediate run shouldn’t set my nerves on edge, but Flying Squirrel is different. Tucked into a corner of Idaho’s Bald Mountain, known for its long, challenging runs, Flying Squirrel is a steep and relentless downhill; once you start, there’s no slowing down. It gets little sunlight, so it’s often a sheet of ice, though the light is flat, so you won’t know that until you’re speeding down the run, your skis chattering beneath you.

And as with any run – and perhaps many other things in life – trying to tackle Flying Squirrel without confidence hurts. You sit back rather than lean in and your toes curl in your boots, causing your legs to burn and your feet to cramp. As someone who places a high value on personal comfort, this, too presents a problem.

Despite all of this, I actively pursued Flying Squirrel on family ski trips throughout my teen years and into early adulthood (when interstate ski trips gave way to work). I may be cautious, but I’m also driven by challenge.

Several years ago, in search of snow at the end of a lackluster season, I revisited Flying Squirrel after a seven-year hiatus. It was a beautiful day in late March, and as I rode the lift to the top of the mountain, I took photos of the exposed dirt below me and reapplied sunscreen – I had shed my jacket and was skiing in a tank top, relishing more sun than I’d seen in months. I reached the top – snow at last! – and made my way down and across the mountain to my old adversary, Flying Squirrel.

I paused at the top of the run, enjoying the warmth of the sun on my skin before dropping down into shadow. I didn’t bother trying to analyze the run – it would be steep, it would be icy, and it would be difficult to see the contours of the snow in front of me. By skiing alone, without my dad to coach me through my anxieties, I’d become more confident. I leaned into my boots, dropped down into the run, and felt the wind in my face as I sped down the hill. Everything in that moment felt right.

Recently, I was struggling with a big decision – whether to stay in my job, frustrated or burnt out, but ultimately safe, or to take a risk, quit, and take time off (a scary prospect for someone who likes to know what’s next). I thought about the “yes” moments in my life – those times I felt like I was exactly where I needed to be, and like all was right with the world. I thought about Flying Squirrel – it was scary, but when I went into it with confidence, it felt so good. I wanted more of that feeling in my life.

The thought of leaving my job gave me that feeling, and while it was nerve-wracking not knowing exactly what lay on the other side, I’m about halfway down the run and it feels like the best decision I’ve ever made.