There's always something left hanging in the air after profound experiences—wisps of moments not fully captured, conversations half-remembered, feelings too complex to pin down with words. Our six weeks worldschooling in Bulgaria came and went before I could grasp it fully, before I could document all the richness it contained.
Time in the mountains has its own rhythm. We rushed through activities, then held space for quietude. We built friendships that felt both brand new and somehow ancient. I found myself in that delicate dance of giving—offering myself generously to others—while simultaneously discovering the power in boundaries. This duality created something magical: a safe space where I could unfold more authentically toward the world.
I exist in this beautiful contradiction—exactly the same person who arrived six weeks ago, yet profoundly transformed. How mesmerizing to hold these truths simultaneously, to feel both constancy and change coursing through me.
The mountain became our family's centerpiece. Skiing together through powder and sunlight, we gathered not just as my immediate family but within a wider circle of kindred spirits. I remember standing at the summit years ago, discovering a blog by another mountain mother writing about transformation at altitude. Now I understand what she meant.
What has the mountain taught me? Bravery. To trust my body's intuition. To inhabit the present moment—something simultaneously fragile and concrete. When I ask what lessons the peaks have imparted, I find myself watching my children through the mountain's perspective: their high-speed determination, their calculated risk-taking, their faces flushed with adrenaline and wonder.
There was one day that crystallized everything the mountain had been teaching me. We ascended with Lorien, Jeremy, and William through thickening clouds, snowflakes dancing around us like restless spirits. The higher we climbed, the more the world disappeared—visibility shrinking until I could see barely a meter ahead.
I felt contradictory sensations rippling through me: profound calmness alongside fluttering panic. My heartbeat quickened as we reached the summit, where nothing existed except mountain and snow, everything beyond obscured by swirling white.
Standing there, the five of us huddled together against the elements, I asked myself a question that echoed through my being: Do I want to do this? It felt like stepping into the unknown carrying all the fear I could possibly imagine—yet something deeper within me answered with certainty: Yes.
I trusted that inner voice despite my trembling body. As we began our descent, moving cautiously through the blinding conditions, something remarkable happened. With each turn, each traverse across the mountain face, a new rhythm emerged within me. For every curve successfully navigated, safety grew inside me—not from the mountain becoming less dangerous, but from discovering my own capacity to move through fear.
What fascinated me most was observing these opposing forces—terror and courage—coexisting in my heart simultaneously. A profound calmness gradually filled me with each completed turn, until suddenly I found myself at the bottom, precisely where I needed to be.
The victory sparked hunger for more. I turned my gaze toward a slope I'd avoided for years—not the highest peak, but steep enough for sledding, deep enough to have intimidated me before. With my people gathered around me, their faces bright with encouragement, energy vibrating between us, I surrendered to something new.
In that moment, I discovered the joy of release—of giving myself fully to fear and all its teachings. I understood then what the mountain had been showing me all along: willingness isn't the absence of fear, but rather dancing with it, allowing it to guide you toward your own strength.
Above everything, I've learned that my people are here with me. My immediate family forms my core, but our circle of connection grows ever wider. This gives me a profound sense of contentment and—perhaps most preciously—safety.
These six weeks weren't merely enjoyable; they were generative. We created something together. We shared from places deep within our hearts. Spaces opened within me that I couldn't have anticipated. I witnessed my children's growth—their curiosity blossoming, their social skills expanding, their unique personalities shining through in new environments.
While adventure filled our days, the moments I treasure most were quieter ones: a thoughtful conversation shared without hurry, belly laughter over something only we found funny, witnessing my child touched by someone else's words in a way that expanded their confidence.
In the end, what remains is love—more willingness, more openness, more connection. The mountain taught us to stand tall together, even as we prepare to journey onward, carrying these crystalline moments within us, forever part of who we've become.
I enjoyed reading how you learned to dance/ski with your fear on the mountain. The experience of having your people around you and feeling like those weeks were generating sounds like a true gift. Thank you for putting it into words.