How the Mountains Carried Me Through My Miscarriage
The sun breaks over the mountain crests in Revelstoke’s backcountry, turning the snow beneath my skis into a field of glittering crystals. Golden light spills across the untouched powder, warming my cold cheeks. The only sounds are the crunch of snow and the steady rhythm of my breath. Somewhere behind me, my guide calls out, “Are you good back there?” For the first time in months, I can honestly say yes.
That guide is Greg Hill—one of the fastest backcountry skiers in the world. Hill has set records for climbing and skiing 50,000 vertical feet in 24 hours and completed the Spearhead Traverse in Whistler in just over four hours, a record he held for more than a decade. I, on the other hand, am still learning to perfect my kick turns. I’m also four months pregnant, after losing a baby just five months ago.
So what’s a pregnant, relatively novice backcountry skier doing trying to keep up with Greg Hill? To answer that, let’s go back five months to when my world came crumbling down.
October 2023: I was in Revelstoke for a work assignment, just days after sharing news of my pregnancy with family over Thanksgiving dinner. Two days later, on Friday the 13th, I woke up and knew right away something was wrong. I was bleeding. In that moment, I knew I was losing the baby. I was thousands of kilometres away from family, friends and any sort of comfort. I was alone and terrified. I called my husband and mom, and as much as they tried to calm me down, all I really needed was a hug. There’s no handbook for miscarriage, so I did what I imagine many women do: I wiped my tears, swallowed my grief and went to work.
That day, I had already set up a segment to film with Parks Canada in Mount Revelstoke National Park. I was surrounded by one of the most beautiful landscapes on Earth, yet my mind was a million miles away. My brain raced through every possible reason for the loss—too much coffee, travel stress, something I did wrong? The guilt was all-consuming.
Back home, the sadness deepened. Friends tried to comfort me, but their words only stung and made me angry. None of them had experienced the loss of a pregnancy, so how could they understand my pain? Trying to escape the torment of everyday life, I turned to the same place that I always had: the mountains.
Since moving to British Columbia in 2017, the mountains have been my refuge. Science says nature reduces cortisol and eases anxiety, but for me, it’s simpler than that. The silence, the vastness—it gives me perspective. The weight of the world lifts as the noise fades, until all that’s left is the sound of my heartbeat echoing against the peaks. Over time, I have learned the mountains can’t offer answers, but they always listen.
They’ve listened before—after my husband spent 10 days in the ICU following a mountain bike crash, and later, when I felt lost and overwhelmed after the birth of our first son. I would always turn to the mountains. Now, I needed them to listen again.
A month later, I found out I was pregnant again. But pregnancy after loss isn’t the same. The excitement was gone, replaced by anxiety. Every day felt like waiting for bad news.
So when the chance came to interview Greg Hill about his “Green Ski Vacation” initiative in Revelstoke—his push to reduce the environmental footprint of ski travel—I saw it as more than an assignment. It was a way to reconnect with the mountains and, hopefully, with myself.
Still, I wasn’t prepared for the online backlash. Strangers left comments on Instagram posts of me skiing, saying things like, “You shouldn’t be skiing pregnant,” and “Do you want to lose another baby?” Their words hit hard and I questioned my decision to go on this trip.
But the moment I clipped into my bindings and took that first uphill step, the noise disappeared. It’s just me, the howl of the wind and the steadiness of my breath. I’m not defined by fear or by other people’s judgments. I’m simply moving forward. As I put one ski in front of the other, inching towards jagged snow-covered peaks, I realize I need to move forward in life as well. I have so much to live for: my sweet three-year-old, full of wander and imagination, and this new baby we are bringing into the world.
The climb reminds me of life’s valleys and peaks, both physical and emotional. As we reach the ridgeline, Hill stops to take in the view—an endless sea of white peaks rolling along the horizon. He smiles. “This place is magical,” he says. He’s right. The mountains once again give me space to breathe, to feel small and to start over.
Dropping into my first turn, the snow billows around me like clouds. I’m no longer thinking about loss, fear or judgment. Just the movement and the feeling of being alive.
In the silence of Revelstoke’s backcountry, I find what I’ve been missing: not closure, but acceptance. A reminder that healing, like skiing through fresh powder, means trusting yourself enough to let go—and carve new tracks through what’s left behind.
