Did you know I’ve been writing a memoir? Probably not—because I’ve kept it under wraps.
My confidence in writing? Pretty much nilch.
I’ve been working on this dumb thing for five years. And yes, I’m calling it “dumb” so you understand just how frustrating, personal, and exposing the process has been.
See, I like to look ahead—with exciting action.
That’s probably why I love loading the dishwasher—but not unloading it.
I’d rather buy something than plug numbers into a spreadsheet.
I’ll start laundry all day long, but folding it? Nope. I crave momentum. Action. The next step.
Maybe that’s why snowboarding always made sense to me—there was always a new trick, a new mountain, a new challenge.
But writing a memoir? That’s the opposite.
It’s stopping. Sitting. Digging. Remembering.
It’s going back to the beginning to understand the middle—and maybe rewrite the meaning of it all by the end.
And honestly? It’s been hard.
Like fold-the-laundry, input-the-data… boring.
And pull-your-heartstrings, emotional kind of hard.
But it’s also been cathartic.
Because all those things—the frustration, the emotion, the mundane—make it that much more meaningful.
Buried in the mess are the moments that shaped me.
And sometimes, if you dig long enough,
you find gold in what—
in my case—was actually just a bronze.
The Avalanche of Emotion
Writing this memoir cracked me open. I thought it would just be storytelling—but it turned into grief, laughter, regret, no regret, and joy all at the same time.
Some memories blast like a powder day to the face. Others? Like digging out from under the snow.
Spoiler: I didn’t expect to cry over my failures. But I did.
Remembering the Parts I Forgot (or Tried To)
Sometimes I’d hit a wall—not because I had nothing to say, but because I didn’t want to go there.
The injuries. The pressure. The loneliness that crept in between contests.
But also: the wild, sweet stuff I hadn’t thought about in years.
Basement prom dresses.
Road trip car singing.
The perfectly timed circumstances that changed everything.
What I Learned (That Has Nothing to Do With Snowboarding)
Memoir writing taught me patience. Compassion. And that my story doesn’t have to be perfect to be powerful.
It reminded me that I’m still evolving.
That bronze moment I carried for years with a mix of pride and pain?
I see the gold in it now.
Why I’m Sharing This Now
Because stories matter. Especially the imperfect ones.
Because someone out there might need to hear how hard it was—and how worth it it still is.
Because if we don’t tell our stories, someone else will… and they’ll never quite get it right.
Tell Your Own Story
Thinking about telling your own story? Do it. Even if it takes a lifetime.
Tell it for your own processing, or for those who never knew they needed to hear it.
Even if it’s hard, lonely, and seemingly not as world-changing as Mother Teresa.
Because buried under all the messy parts is something very important—
and someone out there needs to hear it.
Stay tuned for my book coming out this fall.
You’ll understand that no one is full of failures more than me.
