When I was learning to ski as a child in Eastern Washington, my parents would put me in lessons so they could go ski more advanced terrain. Like anyone new to the sport, I fell a lot and struggled with the equipment, but I also made some core memories. I still remember the wooden cartoon animal signs along the trail and finding motivation in trying to spot all the critters as I weaved down the mountain. The feeling of being on the mountain, the independence I had, and how it felt to push my boundaries as an athlete still resonates today.  

Around the second grade, I was diagnosed with Becker muscular dystrophy, a degenerative condition that affects the muscles over time. While I had enjoyed a very active childhood, some of the activities I enjoyed were getting harder to do, including skiing. By age 10, I was having a harder and harder time skiing down the mountain. I’d fatigue earlier in the day and spend more time in the lodge. Even walking in snow with ski boots was becoming draining.  

Though this was an activity I did with my family, the frustration as my body changed started to take the joy and freedom of skiing away. Ultimately, I decided it was an activity I’d no longer be able to do. This was a feeling that I’ve felt many times since as my muscular dystrophy progressed — my outdoor passions felt out of reach and no longer for me. 

Not long after I stopped skiing, my brother signed up as a volunteer ski instructor with a Seattle-based adaptive sport organization called Outdoors for All. I imagine this was a nudge from my parents to continue skiing as my body changed. 

Struggling with my identity, I simultaneously had thoughts that I wasn’t disabled “enough” to fit into a program for people with disabilities and was “too” disabled to be an athlete. I remember having feelings of internalized guilt — that I wasn’t really disabled, was I? I could still walk and do a lot of things when I was younger. Could I really do sports and be active? I’ve since realized that there’s no one way to have a disability — everyone’s experience is unique and valid. The outdoors is for all of us, and disability just means we experience it in unique ways. 

Back on the Slopes 

I resisted the pull of skiing until my mid-20s. I felt that I didn’t know anyone “like me” who skied, so I kept telling myself it was no longer for me. My partner at the time, an avid skier and someone I credit for reigniting my love of the outdoors, suggested I give skiing a try. I finally registered for Outdoors for All at Snoqualmie Pass in Washington state in early January 2019. 

Turns out, I loved it. I didn’t quite have the right gear that first week to stay warm enough, but I was hooked quickly by sliding on snow. There are many different sit skis, but the mechanics are similar for all of them. I use a form-fitting seat, called a “bucket,” that keeps me very snug, with one ski (mono-ski) or two (bi-ski) underneath. It was amazing how the familiar sensation transported me back in time to when I was learning to ski, and the power I felt as I used my body again. 

I had worried for so long I wouldn’t have enough strength to ski, but now I realized how critical balance is. Being able to travel in a straight line and only needing to make small movements to influence the direction of the ski was surprising. A slight lean, a head tilt and some nuanced movements are all it takes. I’ve learned that skiing is more about efficiency and economy of movement than anything else, and the more I’ve refined my technique, the less fatigue I experience, even as my body changes. 

Having used a power wheelchair for many years, I’ve learned what terrain it works on, and more importantly where I’m not able to go. Snow was always one of those no-go areas. To be clear, my wheelchair is a tool that gives me freedom and independence; phrases like “wheelchair bound” always grated on me. It was hard for me to walk more than a few steps without getting tired; my wheelchair opened the world to me. It allowed me to live independently, travel, and quickly cover distances that I was no longer able to otherwise. But sit skiing showed me that by using a different tool, I could use my body to navigate the hill, even as my strength changed over time. I could be an athlete again. 

My goal as an athlete, especially with a degenerative disability, isn’t necessarily to ski independently. Instead, I simply want to ski. I want to push my boundaries within the constraints of my changing body. The creativity of trying new tools and methods is what inspires me. If having the support of a ski partner is what I need to push those limits and feel like an athlete, then it’s the right method for me.  

Instructor in Training 

The following season, I signed up again with Outdoors for All and continued developing as an athlete, growing my community and figuring out the methods that work best for me. Outdoors for All predominantly uses a method called “tethering,” where the adaptive skier is a few feet in front of but still attached to an instructor. I found that instructors assist with braking and turning, but also limit the terrain I’m able to ski.  

On trips to Whistler, British Columbia, skiing with Whistler Blackcomb Ski Resort’s adaptive program exposed me to a new method some adaptive programs call “piloting,” where an instructor holds onto a handle on the back of the ski. It opens a lot more terrain that’s either too narrow or too steep for tethering to be safe. It’s a unique partnership that requires constant communication and coordination as we navigate down the mountain. The exhilaration of initiating and leading the turns, and the trust it requires, is unlike any other experience I’ve had, and has enabled me to ski more advanced terrain than I did as a stand-up skier when I was younger. 

I’ve never thought that piloting was the right term to use. To me, it doesn’t reflect the athlete’s experience and there’s a perception among some in the adaptive sports community that it’s the instructor doing all the work. After all, who is the “pilot”? Adaptive skiing is and always should be centered on the athletes doing the sport in all aspects, including language. Instead of piloting, terms like “assisted sit skiing” better reflect the athlete’s ability to influence the sit ski. When I ski, I’m the one leading the way, but my ski partners are there to provide support when I need it. 

In early 2024, I spent as much time as I could up in Whistler, both honing my own skiing and pushing my limits, but also looking for new ways to develop. I joined an adaptive level 1 instructor training hosted by Whistler Adaptive. I realized how much potential there is for instructors to better understand the experiences of athletes with a disability. And, how much representation matters for helping others find adaptive sports — I would have tried sit skiing sooner had I seen instructors or other athletes with a similar lived experience. 

For example, I’m not able to independently transfer into my ski, and I am frequently coaching new ski partners on the best transfer technique. This is often someone’s first interaction with sit skiing, and if it’s an uncomfortable transfer, someone is less likely to enjoy the overall experience. Though someone without a disability can teach this, I feel that sharing my experience can help “ground” instructors in the potential impact of each of our actions. 

As my body continues to change, it’s gotten easier to reframe what I’ve previously considered a “loss” of ability, into an opportunity to be creative and adapt. Skiing has helped me shift my mindset and see my muscular dystrophy as a core part of who I am — though the degenerative nature of muscular dystrophy is uncertain, seeking out experiences that help me grow are what fulfills me. There is endless opportunity to evolve and keep discovering new ways to ski and experience the wonder of mountains.  

I’m encouraged by innovations like the TetraSki, a project run by the University of Utah, which uses a joystick or sip-and-puff device to enable athletes who may not have the strength or range of motion to use traditional methods to still ski. With equipment and technology continuing to advance, innovation and creativity mean that there is always a way for anyone, with or without a disability, to adventure outside.  

I’ve discovered my love of skiing, and I’d encourage anyone to take a similar leap and try something new. You never know how much joy and passion it could ignite, and how much it could change your life.