Three Questions, One Hill, and a Whole Lot of Heart – GS kiddos on Beaver Mountain
A Favorite Number, and the Quiet Work of Courage
Today didn’t start smoothly. It was chaotic in the way mornings with kids often are — gear everywhere, emotions running high, and a troop of girl scouts carrying their own mix of excitement, fear, and uncertainty. With the neurodiversity in the group, and a few WTF questions from my wife, I recalibrated. The mountain wasn’t the goal. Mastery wasn’t the goal. What mattered was presence, connection, and giving each girl a first experience that felt safe enough to be her own.
So I focused on three simple questions:
- Are you having fun?
- Are you staying dry?
- Did you learn to stop?
Those became my compass for the day — a small act of temperance, narrowing the field to what actually matters.
Yes, my old instructor instincts surfaced — wedge, pizza, tips together, don’t cross — but those cues were too dense for the state they were in. Too many words. Too much demand on kids already working hard just to stay regulated. Technique wasn’t the answer. Temperance and kindness were.
So I reframed.
I began to really observe as each girl stepped through the snow. I watched their nervous systems shift: i observed the unspoken stories — the freeze in their shoulders, the quick glances at peers, the hesitant steps, the quiet why are we doing this that shows up in their eyes long before it reaches their words. Snow, cold, novelty, peers, and the pressure of trying something new in front of others — it was a full load for them to carry. And the early friction I felt felt dissolved once I slowed down enough to see and recognize what was happening – they weren’t resisting instruction; they were simply overwhelmed.
I switched the focus from me teaching – focusing on technique and concentrated on building connection. I asked each girl her age, where she went to school, and then — the key — her favorite number.
It seems small, but it changed everything.
Their favorite number became the shorthand for all the instructions they didn’t have the bandwidth to hold. Instead of “make a pizza,” I could say, “8, or 0, or 100, or 3,” and they knew what to do – “make a pizza” and gain control and slow or stop!. One number replaced a whole sentence. One number gave them control. One number helped them stop.
And something shifted. Their little capable bodies and brains aligned. They demonstrated behavioral literacy and learned the basics of skiing.
Even the most strong‑willed, demand‑avoidant girl — the one who needed the most space and the most patience — resonated with it. She came up afterward and thanked me. An eight‑ or nine‑year‑old, looking me in the eye and saying, “Thanks for being patient with me.” The younger ones — three five‑year‑olds and my own girls — answered the same three questions with smiles.
Nearby, the traditional ski‑school assembly line rolled on — equipment explanations, technical breakdowns, the familiar choreography of my past life on the mountain. I felt the camaraderie of my past life on the mountain fade away and the carousel of comfort shift! Today required something different.
Today required temperance — restraint from defaulting to old habits. It required courage — choosing connection over correctness. It required wisdom — reading the girls’ emotional landscapes and adjusting the teaching to match their nervous systems, not my old training.
And underneath all of it was gratitude.
Gratitude for the chance to support these girls. Gratitude for the trust they offered. Gratitude for the small moments — a smile, a number, a stop — that told me they felt safe enough to try, and ultimately, to learn.
What it taught me as a dad and caregiver?
Standing on that hill, I was reminded that caregiving isn’t about having “ALL: the right answers “ALL” the time— it’s about having the right posture. It’s about meeting kids where they are, not where systems or pressure says they should be. It’s about noticing the tremble in a voice, the hesitation in a stance, the way a child looks at the snow before she looks at you. It’s about remembering that courage isn’t loud; sometimes it’s a five‑year‑old whispering her favorite number and trusting you to guide her. It’s the paiing of my empathy providing them a plaatform for their courage to flourish and be cultivated through their actions, supported by mine!
Today reminded me that my job isn’t to push my girls — or any girl — up the mountain. My job is to walk beside them long enough for them to find their own footing. To offer steadiness without taking over. To create conditions where autonomy can grow.
Everyone is home now. Quiet. Tired. Content.
A day shaped by courage, tempered by patience, guided by wisdom, and held together by gratitude.
A win.
