Even since a young age, my family has been fortunate enough to head west each winter for a Christmastime ski trip. Jake and I had been skiing since we could walk, but this was only our fourth year on snowboards. We were enjoying Aspen, Colorado for the first time, and as much as I hated to admit it, Jake was putting me to shame. Although we had progressed similarly during the first two years on boards, his expertise had recently soared off the charts while mine had continued on only a steady, laborious climb. For the majority of this trip, I had watched him from far behind, or from a snowy heap on the ground as he glided effortlessly down the mountainous terrain.

Being the patient, loving brother that he is, he continued to encourage me. On the third day of the trip, Jake convinced me to take the afternoon to ride with him down some of the most intimidating slopes in the park. Wanting to spend time with him, and to learn, I consented and prepared my courage for a true test.

As children, whenever we had been presented with challenging, mogul-studded trails, my dad would always chuckle and say, “Man guys, those look like Volkswagens!” Then he would give us a hearty shove in the right direction.

So, there we sat, at the top of Wildcat, staring at what appeared to be full-blown tractor-trailer sized mounds of snow. I was frozen with fear and tried to persuade my brother to take an alternate route down. Jake rested quietly for a moment, examining the foreboding terrain ahead. Then, with wisdom beyond his eighteen years, he looked me in the eye and calmly declared, “You know what, Savannah? Sometimes life gives you moguls and when it does, you know what you gotta do? Just get through ‘em.” And with that, he pushed himself off the ground, dusted the snow from his pants, and carved up that black diamond like a chef would a Thanksgiving turkey.