The Moment Everything Fell Apart
There’s a reason people warn you about Banff in winter. The snow is gorgeous, sure, but if you’re not careful, it can take you out—and by you, I mean your sense of self, dignity, and sometimes even your entire relationship. But let me back up.
The toughest moment of my life wasn’t a heartbreak or a career flop, though I’ve known both. It was a scene straight out of a rom-com gone terribly, terribly wrong: a “bonding” ski trip with my partner that left us stranded, freezing, and questioning everything. What followed was an emotional excavation so raw it made the Grand Canyon look like a kiddie sandbox and, yes, a single argument over snack bars that somehow unraveled three years’ worth of unresolved feelings.
The Setup: Snow, Snacks, and High Stakes
It all started with me eagerly agreeing to something no Santa Fe native had any business signing up for: a Canadian skiing holiday. Spoiler alert: I’m more familiar with dusty red mesas than icy blue slopes. My then-boyfriend Josh had grown up in Vermont, shredding through snow like an REI poster boy. Me? Well, let’s just say my snow experience topped out at making fridge-burnt tamales last through the occasional Santa Fe cold snap.
Josh assured me this trip would be “fun.” That it would “push me a little.” That we’d share these “epic memories.” And honestly, I believed him, because how bad could it possibly get? Cue foreshadowing.
The Tumble That Took Us Both Out
Day Two, Banff. I should’ve known it was all downhill—literally and metaphorically—when Josh confidently led us to a slope labeled blue, which, for the uninitiated, is skiing code for “still scary enough to knock you out.” I should also mention that my skiing ability lies somewhere between a baby giraffe’s first steps and Bambi on ice.
About twenty panicked seconds into that slope, I lost it. Totally. Arms flailing, legs braced for oblivion, I careened into Josh like a poorly directed stunt scene. I blacked out for a second, woke up on my back in a flurry of snow, and immediately started bawling.
Josh, resilient and covered in bruises thanks to me, tried to be supportive—until my weeping turned into yelling. “You said I could DO THIS!” I hollered so loud I think the peaks echoed. “Not everyone grew up skiing, JOSH.” Have you ever heard a grown woman yell a man’s name like it’s a curse word? It wasn’t my proudest hour.
The Stranded Hour
That argument segued beautifully into what I now call “The Long March.” We were alone, no cell service, and had to hike back to base camp—not because it was sexy or romantic, but because I had completely unstrapped my skis mid-slope and refused to put them back on. Picture it: two exhausted people dragging themselves through shin-deep snow, hurling petty criticisms at each other with all the ferocity of an over-dramatic reality TV cast.
Me: “Where’s all the fun you promised, huh, REI guy?”
Josh: “We’re stranded in Banff, LILA. I didn’t sabotage the snow!”
There we were, two stubborn planets on an uncomfortably close collision course. Did we snap at each other over which direction the parking lot was? Sure. Did we also fight about the last granola bar (Josh ate it while I quietly fantasized about pelting him with the wrapper)? Absolutely. I look back on that afternoon and wince—not because of the misery, but because we made every small irritation worse by cracking open years’ worth of unresolved relationship tension.
When Nature Forces You to Have The Big Talk
It’s eerie how quietly the woods can strip away all your pretense. After the initial arguing (and a long moment of sitting on a log in cold silence, contemplating if we’d kill each other before a search party found us), we started talking for real.
Why did I feel like I couldn’t trust him to slow down for me—both literally and emotionally? Why was he always pushing goals he thought I should want, rather than just meeting me where I was? Why was I silently burying my resentment under layers of passive-aggressive commentary during heated snack-related disputes?
And Josh had questions, too. Questions like, did I ever communicate what I needed? Why did I clam up rather than telling him I was scared? Why didn’t I prioritize the relationship as much as my sense of pride? We were mutually flawed—two imperfect people, slipping all over our proverbial ice, figuring out how much emotional bruising a relationship could take.
Actionable Tips for When Everything Feels Impossible
Look, you might not be crying into the snow while interrogating your partner any time soon, but big relationship hurdles sneak up on everyone like phantom ski injuries. Here’s what I learned the hard way:
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Name What You’re Feeling (Before Eruption):
The moment you feel resentment (or panic) building, call it out. Don’t plaster on a smile and insist you’re fine. “Fine” is often code for, “I will later destroy you emotionally over oatmeal bars.” -
Create Safety Before Criticism:
If someone thinks you’re gearing up to yell, they stop listening. Josh and I learned that five minutes of honest, calm reflection does more than an hour of hurling insults on ice. -
Remember Your Partner Isn’t a Mind Reader:
This is relationship gold. No one—not even someone you’ve been with for years—knows what’s swirling in your head unless you let them in. My fear of failure wasn’t just my demon; it was ours, but we had to share it to fight it together. -
Sometimes Humor Saves Everything:
Somewhere between my crying and Josh’s defensiveness, we started laughing at how ridiculous we looked. That one shared laugh—choking, freezing, limbs covered in bruises—absolutely changed the mood.
The Band-Aid Moment and What Came Next
We eventually made it back, frozen but weirdly lighter. There’s no triumphant Hollywood ending to this story—just two humans deciding to forgive each other for being messy, flawed, and flawed together.
That night, I ate my body weight in poutine (because priorities) and apologized. So did Josh. Over Canadian fries, we started stitching up the small rips in our relationship, one honest sentence at a time. We didn’t come home from Banff perfect, but we came back having survived the kind of vulnerability no ski lodge romanticizes: real, raw emotional grit.
Empowerment from Disaster: You’ve Got This
Flaws leak into even the strongest relationships—and honestly, that’s okay. If two stubborn people can grow through an epic Canada breakdown (with cracked egos and a missing granola bar, no less), then whatever tests your bond tomorrow won't seem nearly so insurmountable.
So embrace the mess of it all. Sure, you’ll fall flat on your face sometimes—possibly in snow—but every tumble teaches you something. Sometimes, it even sets the stage for bigger triumphs. Just don’t forget snacks.
