Learning to fall

There's no reason to join a children's skating club (but also no reason not to)

Hey friend,

The sound of my blades scraping against ice echoes through the arena. My knuckles are white from gripping the wall. Holding on to anything, really. Three feet away, a four-year-old in a pink snowsuit executes a perfect spin, her giggles floating upward to where parents clutch coffee cups in the stands.

"Where's your child?" Susan asks, clipboard pressed against her chest, eyes scanning the crowd behind me.

"It's me," I say, feeling heat rise to my cheeks. "I'm the child."

Her eyes widen. I can almost see the liability waiver flashing through her mind.

Remember that Mars retrograde I mentioned last month? Well, it started rolling through my houses of assets and self while I was planning that Costa Rica surfing jungle expedition. One November morning, my body felt like lead in my San Francisco apartment. I canceled everything – no backup plan, no safety net.

Now I'm in Wolfville, Nova Scotia. Population: small enough that the cashier at the farmers market already knows I like the sourdough with seeds.

Late in December, I found myself staring at a skating club signup form asking for "parent/guardian information." My email to them was painfully awkward: "Just to clarify... I'm an adult. Can I still join?"

Their response: "We've never had this happen, but there's no age limit, so... sure?"

Then: "You can stand up on skates, right?"

---

The plastic sides of my rental hockey skates cut into my ankles. They're comically stiff – two plastic shells connected by shoelaces that seem woefully inadequate for the task. Around me, parents kneel on rubber mats, expertly yanking children's laces tight with practiced fingers.

My first step onto the ice sends shock waves up my legs. Every muscle tenses. A symphony of tiny adjustments just to remain vertical.

A middle-schooler named Francis glides toward me, her movements so fluid she might as well be walking on solid ground. She offers her hand – small, in a purple mitten with a snowflake pattern.

"Put your ankles together and take very small steps," she whispers, like she's sharing a secret. "Once you get that gliding feeling, everything's gonna be fine."

My breath creates small clouds that dissipate between us as we inch forward. The cold kisses my cheeks. Sweat forms under my layers despite the frigid air. My thighs burn from muscles I didn't know existed.

Francis delivers me to the first station where purple chalk outlines a serpentine path on the ice. A teenager demonstrates, weaving effortlessly between imaginary obstacles.

I wobble through the course, arms extended like airplane wings. Halfway through, a three-year-old zips past me, barely taller than my knees, completely fearless.

At the second station, an instructor with a polar fleece headband studies my awkward approach.

"OK, now can you fall down for me?" she asks, as casually as if she'd asked me to tie my shoe.

"What?"

"I need to see you fall down. It's part of the curriculum."

My stomach tightens. I look at the ice, suddenly very aware of its hardness, its cold. The children around me have been falling and bouncing back up like rubber balls. Their small bodies seem designed for resilience, for learning this way.

I bend my knees, lean forward, and let myself drop. The impact is less jarring than I expected – my palms and forearms take the brunt. Cold seeps through my sleeves. For a second, I just stay there, face inches from the surface, noticing the tiny grooves left by countless blades.

"Good!" she says, making a check mark on her clipboard. "Now get up and keep going."

---

By the final station, something has shifted. My shoulders have dropped two inches. I'm looking forward instead of down at my feet. I'm still terrible, but the terror has subsided.

I follow the purple markings to where large letters are drawn on the ice: "SKATE AS FAST AS YOU CAN" with an arrow pointing to a box labeled "WIPE OUT."

The children ahead of me build up speed, then throw themselves onto the ice, spinning and sliding with unbridled glee, their laughter echoing off the high ceiling.

I push off once, twice, three times. Wind against my face. The scrape of metal on ice grows quieter as I pick up speed. At the designated spot, I let my feet slide out from under me.

For a suspended moment, I'm falling. Then my body connects with the ice. I spin across the cold surface, ice shavings gathering against my coat. The world blurs. Cold seeps through my jeans.

And then – a laugh bursts out of me. Not a nervous titter, but a full-bodied sound that springs from somewhere primal. I'm sprawled on ice in a children's skating class in Nova Scotia, and I'm laughing.

Dragging myself up, I skate – actually skate – back to the line, impatient for another turn. I can’t wait to wipe out again.

---

Walking home under streetlights, snow crunching beneath my boots, my body aches in unfamiliar places. My jeans have dark wet patches at the knees. Tomorrow, I'll find bruises blooming there – watercolor swirls of purple and blue I'll study in the shower.

The keypad to my rented room feels clumsy with my cold fingers. Inside, I peel off layers, make tea, and sit by the window. Snowflakes swirl in the yellow glow of the street lamp.

I think about trying to explain this day. How would I describe the moment when falling became something to seek rather than avoid? How do I explain that an instructor drawing "WIPE OUT" in purple chalk somehow shifted something fundamental in my approach?

How long has it been since I gave myself permission to be terrible at something? To fall down – literally – and laugh about it? To enjoy it. How afraid are we of making mistakes? How often do we lose that beginner's mind as we get older?

What would change if we approached our growth with the fearlessness of a three-year-old on ice? If we saw falling not as failure but as data, as fun, as part of the curriculum?

I watch the snow gather on the windowsill. Next Saturday, the skating club meets again. And next Sunday, I'll fall even better.

Sending you love,

Lara

P.S. This is my sunday soundtrack — recently discovered Zoe on BBC and fell in love.