Ski Like A Girl: Why Women’s Ski Groups Matter
When I returned to the slopes after a fifteen-year hiatus, "Ski Like a Girl" merch was everywhere—on corduroy hats, stickers on helmets, and t-shirts worn by dude instructors who proudly proclaimed themselves "girl dads." Given that I’m a feminist who attended an all-women’s college and spent a decade in a woman-dominated industry (fashion), you’d think I’d be all in. But I wasn’t.
I grew up in the era of self-proclaimed "girl power," the rah-rah ‘90s. Looking back, the overenthusiasm for all things hot pink felt like an insecure reaction to the maleness that permeated everything—including ski culture. When I came of age, skiing like a girl wasn’t cool. Skiing like one of the boys was. And though my views evolved in so many ways over the years, when it came to gender equity on snow, I calcified.
The cherry-red gondola at Stowe holds eight. Seven of us female ski instructors piled in, led by a newly minted PSIA National Team Member. A lone fifty-something bro hopped on from the singles line. We ignored him. He eyed us nervously and turned to watch the dozens of women carving crisp, round turns on Main Street below.
“Um,” he finally ventured, “why are there so many good women skiers here today? Is there like a convention or something?”
It was my second year teaching, and I was at the PSIA Women’s Summit. Despite skiing for over 30 years, it was the first time I’d ever been in an all-women’s group. As a little girl, I chased after my dad and his guy friends, begging for a pole on the flats. In high school, our ski team was co-ed. Sure, I had my girl bestie who could rip, but the rest of our crew were boys. And we liked it that way.
But when I entered the industry as an instructor, something felt off. It wasn’t just me who had congealed when it came to gender and skiing—it was the entire industry. The signs were subtle at first. Being assigned screaming four-year-olds while my male colleagues, whom I could carve circles around, got older kids eager to tackle blacks. Then came the teasing—"the queen of the criers"—and the comments about how I’d ski “prettier” if I “smiled more.” The worst part? Our lesson assignments came from a female manager. So, I figured it couldn’t be sexism. It must just be me.
As time passed, the locker-room banter got harder to ignore. Chairlift whispers from other women instructors hinted at a pattern. I decided to attend the Women’s Summit to see if my experience was unique.
It wasn’t.
Women from resorts across the country shared eerily similar stories. And in that space—surrounded by badass skiers—I found something I didn’t realize I’d been missing: the ability to focus on my own skiing without feeling like I had to prove anything. No pressure to send harder, faster, or show a male trainer I was good enough to be there.
I hadn’t realized how deeply ingrained that dynamic was until it simply wasn’t there.
When I started leading women’s ski groups at Breckenridge, the magic of that summit at Stowe reappeared—except this time, I was the coach.
My first group of ladies arrived on day one, declaring they didn’t do high alpine or double blacks. They all ticked the survey box for wanting more “confidence.” Over three days, they apologized constantly—for falling, for skiing a little slower, for needing a bathroom break. Also, none of them wanted to go first. Ever.
“Enough!” I finally declared. “Whoever apologizes when they’ve done nothing wrong has to drop in first.”
They agreed. And with that, the rule was set. They checked their apology autopilot. They started dropping in without hesitation. They wore brighter colors. They took up more space on the hill.
This season, I’m sitting out the women’s camps due to surgery. My ladies from that first session are still skiing together, guided by an incredible instructor. And I feel no FOMO. Because the magic of skiing like a girl isn’t about me—it’s about us. About being visible. Unapologetic.
My surgery has added another layer of wisdom to this journey. As I shared with other women why I’d been away, I was met with an extraordinary outpouring of kindness, understanding, and support. So many had been through something similar—or knew someone who had. And yet, we rarely talk about commonplace stuff like women’s health.
That silence isn’t an accident. It’s the same conditioning that makes us apologize for merging into a lift line or needing to go pee. The same conditioning that triggered the hot pink backlash of ‘90s girl power. But now, I notice something more sustainable and mature settling in.
Women’s groups aren’t just about banding together for the sake of numbers or making the mountains more accessible (though that’s important, too). For me, they’re about creating a space where we can ski free of the constraints of men’s ideas about how we should be. Where we can share openly about and normalize the stuff we go through—cramps that slow us down, bodies changed by childbirth, and skiing in t-shirts in a blizzard. The hope is that we then take this normalized energy back out into the world and stop apologizing for taking up space at work, at home, on the highway, or wherever! We get better at going first and giving fewer fucks.
Women’s ski groups exist to remind us that we don’t have to prove a damn thing. And that’s what it really means to ski like a girl.