Chatter Marks: Healing Old Wounds, One Turn at a Time

How pain, self-compassion, and the people who ski beside me are reshaping the neural pathways carved by trauma.

In alpine skiing, chatter marks are the jagged grooves that show up in hard-packed snow after racers scrape their edges through sharp, high-speed turns. As the soft stuff gets pushed away, what’s left is rutted, icy, and just… brutal.

If you’re going fast enough, you have to fall into those grooves just to stay upright—because trying to glide in the fluffy stuff might yank your skis out and send you flying.

That metaphor’s basically tattooed on my nervous system.

Recovering from ankle surgery has been its own kind of downhill sprint. The pain? Constant. Sharp. But honestly, it’s not even the physical stuff that hits the hardest. It’s the deeper pain that sneaks in when I’m laid out and raw.

The voice that pops up, smug as hell, and whispers: Who do you think you are?

That voice? Yeah. Chatter mark.

It’s one of those mental ruts carved early—by shame, by criticism, by the kind of emotional debris you don’t even realize you’re skiing over until you’re flat on your back again. I’ve done years of work—good work. Therapy. Self-compassion. Rewiring the whole damn system. But when the pain spiked so bad I couldn’t stand, I still fell right back into that groove: What’s wrong with you? Why can’t you tough it out? Why do you always need so much?

But here’s what actually happened: I went to the hospital. Because something was off. Turns out, the splint hadn’t dried correctly and was pressing directly into the wound. And when I asked for help? I got it. The doctor and nurses were kind. They didn’t shame me. They didn’t make me explain or justify or pretend I was fine. They treated me like someone who mattered.

And it hit me: This is what it’s supposed to feel like. This is care.

Still, those old ruts have a gravity to them. Maybe it’s the Catholic guilt still muttering that suffering is holy. Maybe it’s the old family soundtrack: keep pushing, keep smiling, don’t be a burden. Or maybe—it’s just fucking chatter marks.

And here’s the part that hurts in a different way: realizing the people who should’ve been pointing out the ruts, teaching me to steer clear, were actually the ones already down in them—waving me in, yelling for me to hurry the hell up. Coaching me into pain they never figured out how to step out of.

But you know what? I don’t ski ten miles of bad road anymore. These days, it’s more like five. I’ve learned how to slow down, ask for help, and surround myself with people who don’t need me to suffer to prove anything. People who ski beside me, not ahead of me. Not shouting advice from the sidelines. Just there. Steady. Snacks in one pocket, a flask in the other, and a look that says, You’re doing great, kid.

And in those moments, I actually feel it:

The sting of cold air on my face, like a bracing little wake-up slap.

Sunlight slipping through tree branches, making everything look golden and quieter.

The shush-shush of skis on powder, like the trail itself is trying to soothe me.

Laughter—real, belly-deep, someone-forgot-their-filter kind of laughter.

The glint of a frozen stream way down the slope, just winking like, you’re doing alright, buddy.

My breath, visible. Slow. Honest.

The warmth of being with people who love you even when your form’s a mess and your jacket’s unzipped. Maybe because of that.

That’s when the chatter marks go quiet. The noise drops off, and something softer takes its place.

That’s when I remember: I’m not racing. I’m not proving anything. I’m just out here—skis on, heart cracked open, moving forward with people I trust.

And in that moment—I exhale.

Might even let out a weird little snort. Because healing? It’s awkward. It’s sacred. It’s not on schedule. And it’s mine.