The Snow-Capped Silent Cheer Squad

A solo ski day and the kind of love that asks for nothing.

When Samantha flew in from Italy the other weekend, she said something that nestled itself quietly into my heart before I even had the words to respond.

“Hudson,” she said,

“being in public with you feels like being in the privacy of my room.”

She didn’t know how deeply that would land.

I once read something that said: I want to love people so well they feel safe enough to take off their armor.

That’s the kind of love I seek to give.

The kind that doesn’t demand, but gently invites.

That doesn’t overwhelm, but holds.

That doesn’t rush, but simply is—quiet, steady, safe.

And this past weekend, I realized—

I’m finally giving that kind of love to myself.

I went on a ski trip alone.

Not by design, just by the way things unfolded.

And somehow, it was exactly right.

A full day solo, in a foreign country, in between France and Spain—

snow-capped mountains rising around me like a silent cheer squad.

And not once did I feel lonely.

The day wasn’t smooth.

My backpack got caught in the door as I tried to leave my apartment—

so much for the graceful strut I had envisioned.

I face-planted on the metro while rearranging my bags;

a kind stranger caught my snowboard, but not me.

I was carrying more than I should have—physically, maybe even emotionally.

But all I could do was laugh.

One of my favorite moments?

Clearly demonstrating being lost and alone to the bus driver—he tried so hard to help.

He dropped me off at the ski-in/ski-out entrance—

a beautiful gesture, if only I hadn’t still been hauling all my luggage.

Perfect intention. Imperfect execution. Better laugh.

So I hiked—bags in tow—down to the ski village.

A detour, yes.

But it felt like an adventure unfolding in real time,

a memory I knew I’d be excited to tell later—

and even more grateful to live quietly in the moment.

There’s something about healing from something major in your body—

something that cracks you open,

rearranges the way you move through the world.

This was my first ski trip in the body I’ve spent months learning to trust again.

My surgery wiped out the last two seasons.

Before that, I’d never missed one—since I learned to ski at three years old.

It could’ve felt terrifying.

But instead—

I felt alive. Present. Trusting.

And what surprised me most is that it was effortless.

All this time spent wondering how it would feel to be back.

And it was just simply that—I am back.

And even better,

this time I was offering myself the kind of love I’ve always reserved for others.

In the unusual silence, I noticed something:

I didn’t form any of the deep, soul-sparking friendships I usually do when I travel.

I spent the entire day speaking only to people about lift tickets, directions, polite exchanges at restaurants—but nothing more.

No depth. No “instant connection” moments.

Just me.

Truly, a full day to myself.

And I didn’t even realize it until the end.

That’s when it hit me:

I was in public, in the privacy of my room.