By the time I made it to Val Thorens, France for the second freeride world tour stop, it had been exactly a week since I dislocated my shoulder in Spain. I was told to stay in the sling for 3 weeks, but I knew that if I wanted to ski and compete, I would need to be able to function without the sling, so I ditched it.

My parents had planned to come to watch the France stop, and I called them a few days before and told them they didn’t have to come. I felt this guilt that if I decided not to compete and they came, that they would have spent all this time and money for nothing, so I gave them the out. Of course they scoffed at that and said they were coming to support me either way. My mom brought me a shoulder brace, or as Taylor and I call it, a restriction machine. That brace was my saving grace. Whether it was a false sense of security or not, it gave me a sense of stability that I absolutely needed at that time.

A big storm came in at the beginning of the weather window, so I had a few days to get my feet under me before the comp. The snow was insane- some of the deepest, softest turns I’ve had in my life. Skiing Val Thorens in conditions like that is pretty unmatchable & I can’t wait to go back when I’m healthy.

In those few days before the comp, I was in a constant state of conflict. I looked around, and saw some of the most massive, jaw-droppingly beautiful mountains I’ve ever seen, a group of cool-ass, inspirational skiers, and conditions one could only dream of. And yet, I couldn’t shake the anxiety that lingered. I knew that I should be enjoying every moment, and I was frustrated at myself for not being able to. It’s like, I know how lucky I am to live this beautiful, wild, strange lifestyle- and I should always be grateful, joyous, and free flowing- but the reality is that sometimes it’s difficult & painful & isolating. I’ve come to realize it can be all of those things all at once, and that’s okay.

My shoulder was still newly injured, and when I tried to hit cliffs, the impact of the landings sent a jolt of pain through my upper body. The day before the comp, I had one flat landing in particular that re-aggravated my patellar tendonitis which opened up a whole new can of worms and a season long struggle. I found out in May that I had a small tear in my tendon, which I think happened that day in France.

I woke up on comp morning and could barely walk. All the sudden, my shoulder felt irrelevant, and all I could focus on was my knee. I didn’t want to verbalize what was happening to me because first off, I had already decided I was going to compete and complaining wasn’t going to change that, and secondly, jesus fucking christ Britta pick a struggle. Everyone was already concerned enough with my shoulder and the last thing I wanted to do was announce this new injury. I told Lily and Taylor, then I kinda shut the f up about it, and pretended it was a non issue. I’ve dealt with knee shit since I was 17, so if there’s one thing I know, it’s that I can push it aside and ski a goddamn comp run.

“I was panicking internally, but the alps floating in the pink & purple sky gifted me temporary relief, reminding me I was floating with them.”

It was still dark when we put on our skis on comp morning. It had snowed about 10 inches the night before and everyone skied quietly to the gondola in the darkness, each person in their own little world. We got to watch the sun rise as we made our way up to the venue. I was panicking internally, but the alps floating in the pink & purple sky gifted me temporary relief, reminding me I was floating with them. It was the most stunning of sights. One I will never ever forget.

Right before I went up for my run, Hadley told me to put both my hands over my eyes to create complete blackness. Once I found that blackness, she advised me to find my breath. To find your breath and settle into it, is to realize that you are alive, stable, and able. To realize that the pain you’re experiencing is largely mental and that your body is a vessel capable of doing impossible things. It was a pain management technique that she had used over the years and passed on to me.

Once I got to the top of the venue, I felt this odd sense of relief and serenity. I chose a really mellow line that I knew I could enjoy. I saw how soft the snow looked and realized how hyped I was to ski pow. It kind of hit me that I was a tiny human on a giant mountain and that I had one body, one mind, and lots of days to be had. My body was screaming at me to not do some dumb shit, and finally, I listened.

I put both my hands over my eyes, found the blackness, found my breath, and floated down the mountain just how I like to.

Just looking at a video of my run, it wasn’t anything special. For a while there, it was actually hard for me to watch because I know I’m capable of so much more, especially in the conditions we had. I was almost embarrassed by it as questions flew at me: What if people didn’t know I was injured? Could I have done more? Did I make the right decision to compete that day?

The reality is that no one actually cares what you do, at least not as much as you think they do. No one will think any less of my skiing after that run in Val Thorens, let alone remember it at all.

But I will remember that I am capable of hard things. Getting down that venue in France was a lot more than a comp run for me. It was a moment in time where I overcame something I definitely didn’t think I could, and I will carry that with me for the rest of my life.

Pain Management & High-stakes

Traveling & Existing with the Certainty of Nothing