The Gangsta Lean
Leaning into our fears & intensity of life
February 22, 2026 . Adelboden, Switzerland.
A Blank Page of Snow
Do you believe mountains inhabit an innate spirit inside of them? I do.
In the alpine village of Adelboden there’s a village mythology surrounding the consciousness of the land—the Bärggeischt. Driving into Adelboden I could feel time suspended through the air as if you go into another portal where the ancient alps humble arrogance and reward those who learn to navigate the terrain with reverence.
I hadn’t planned to visit to arrive in Switzerland in peak snow season. Yet there I was, stepping into a world swallowed in white. Snow layered every rooftop, every pine branch, every ridge-line. It felt like I had walked inside a blank canvas. I had asked for a fresh page this year, a clean beginning, and the mountains handed it to me in the form of endless expansive white.
What I didn’t expect was that the first sentence on that page would be confronting fear.
Confronting Old Trauma
Eighteen years ago, I had a ski accident that carved itself into my nervous system. I told myself I was “over it,” but bodies never lies. The Body always remembers. Day One of Swiss Ski school: the first time I clipped into my skis on the mountain, I was shaking in my boots. My breath was heavy. Tears begin to well up as I tried to make the simplest movement — pizza slices. My body remembered the trauma, the impact, the loss of control, the sharp rupture of trust I had in my own ability to navigate on long slippery parallel lines. Standing there on that slope, I wasn’t an adult traveler in the Alps. I was a child again, bracing for the pain. My body pushed through breathe by breathe, leaning into the fear, leaning into the mountain. Slowly I re-learned how to turn and navigate the slope and eventually felt more confident to command my skis. I’ll be honest, skiing terrifies me on all the levels. Not sure I even like going that fast, but I overcome the initial fear. Luckily I had a sweet ski instructor name Chantal wearing head to toe Swiss red and white, smiling and holding my hand through the waves. She kept reminding me that I was brave to clip back in.
The Gangsta Lean
There’s a ski swag if you haven’t noticed—it’s more than just the clothes or the gear—there’s a Gangsta Lean that comes from edging the intensity of life. The Gangsta Lean for me is all about leaning into those edgy fears and not letting the mental constructs of your mind shrink you into despair or annoyance but confronting head on the fears and leaning into the curves of the path we are navigating whether that’s on foot, skis, or sailboats.
Something a lot of people don’t know about me is that I grew up on sailboats. My grandfather was a sailor. My father was a sailor. And I have been riding wind and water for as long as I can remember. I often see life as a fractal of lessons learned on top of mountains or at sea level. Because the fire, earth, wind and water elemental forces are unpredictable. You can check the forecast all you want, but the moment you push off, you are in relationship with forces far greater than you. That relationship to these forces beyond your control forever changes you.
We (my siblings & I) grew up on Hobie Cats, which are basically a mast strapped to two narrow hulls stretched over trampoline canvas. Minimal, fast & exposed to the elements. There’s no cozy cabin. No hiding below deck. Just you, the sail, the wind, and the water. My sister and I used to ride the bows, the very front of the sailboat, which meant getting absolutely drenched and occasionally getting rocket launched straight into the lake when a wowie gust of wind comes out of nowhere. And honestly, I loved it when I was thrown off. It felt exhilarating to swim hard and climb back onto the boat. Even then, my nervous system loved the edge. There’s something about being thrown into the water that teaches you quickly that you are not in control of everything, however you are responsible for how you respond. Obviously this stressed our mother out to no end and she enrolled us kids in rigorous swim lessons and swim team so we had the skills to stay afloat and swim in choppy waters.
Recently I went out sailing with my dad and a few friends. The wind was stronger than we expected; not dangerous, but punchy. Enough to make the boat keel hard from side to side as we tacked across the lake. If you’ve never sailed in real wind, it can feel electric and terrifying. The boat tips dramatically. Water rushes toward the edge. The mast angles sharply. Your body instinctively wants to panic. One of our friends had only sailed in mild conditions before. I watched her nervous system spike. She thought we were going to flip. And I kept saying:
“Don’t fall forward. Put your foot down. Lean into it.”
Because here’s the thing about a sailboat: When it keels, you don’t curl up. You don’t collapse. You don’t throw yourself into the water preemptively. You counterbalance. You lean back. You shift your weight in direct response to the force that’s trying to tip you. It’s called hiking out — extending your body over the edge to stabilize the boat. And when you do it right, something magical happens. The same wind that felt terrifying becomes the very thing that makes you go faster.
I jokingly call it the “Gangster Lean.”
When life tilts hard to one side, you don’t panic. You plant your foot. You lean back. You command the ship. And once my friend started leaning instead of resisting, everything changed. We weren’t fighting the wind anymore. We were riding it.
There’s a moment in sailing when the boat is nearly perpendicular to the water, hull lifted, spray flying, speed building, and you feel like you’re at the mercy of everything. And yet… you’re not. You’re in partnership with it.
One of my favorite memories with my dad was racing Hobie Cats across Lake Cheney in Kansas flying at nearly 40 miles per hour. The boat was singing and moaning loudly. If we had capsized, the mast could have snapped in half, and we could had to swim a long way back to shore. Luckily that didn’t happen and we rode the intensity out having a blast in the process.
It was wild! When we finally got to shore, my Dad admitted to me that he was, “scared shitless the whole time.” I replied, “That was the best sail of my life.” Same moment. Different orientation to fear.
So much of adulthood is unlearning the instinct to collapse when things tilt. When visas don’t get approved. When business feels uncertain. When relationships stretch you. When your art demands more of you. When life curveballs fly towards you. When the year accelerates faster than you anticipated.
Life will keel. It always does.
The question is not: “How do I avoid intensity?”
The question is: “How can I lean into it skillfully?”
How can I trust my footing?
How can I extend myself instead of shrinking?
How can I let the very force that terrifies me become the jet fuel for my expansion?
Because the wind is not your enemy. It is neutral power. Your posture determines whether it capsizes you or carries you.
There are years of drifting at sea. And then there are years of wind and fire. This year feels like a year of wind and fire. Momentum. Acceleration. Charge. The kind of current that can make you feel slightly out of control — but deeply alive. And I don’t want to live a life that avoids the tilt. I want the wild sails. The spray in my face. The near-perpendicular moments. The edge that makes my nervous system expand. If I get smacked in the face by a fish along the way? So be it. Adventure is worth the risk.
Command Your Ship
Here’s what sailing and skiing have taught me:
You cannot command the wind. You cannot command the water. You cannot command the mountain. But you can command your body. Your posture. Your response. You can plant your foot. You can lean back. You can hold steady while everything tilts. And when you do — when you stop fighting the force and start riding it — the boat doesn’t sink. It flies. Find your gangster lean. Lean into the keel, and enjoy the ride. It’s okay to be scared.
It’s like leaning into the wounds and trauma of our past to no longer disempower us in the weakness of fear and empower us back into our courage to lean in to the pain.
It’s all in your mind.
And you have to mind the fuck out of your mind,
otherwise your mind will royally fuck you like a bitch over and over again!
Command your life and lean into the fear with courage with that Gangsta Lean.
The Wounded Healer, Eir
The Wounded Healer is the white phoenix who has walked through fire, who has faced the sharp edges of life and returned with hands and heart wide open. They know fear intimately, yet do not hide from it — they lean into it, transform it, and turn it into medicine for themselves and others. Their power is born from vulnerability; their wisdom flows from wounds that once threatened to break them. Whether in moments of physical danger, emotional upheaval, or the quiet inner storms of the nervous system, the Wounded Healer shows us that true strength is not invulnerability, but the courage to meet life fully, to stand in the tilt, and to guide others safely through the chaos we all must navigate.
Naturally as we lean in we may find that Eir got our backs.
Recently the Norse goddess Eir has felt really alive for me, especially in the mountain air brushing up against the edge of life and death. In Norse mythology Eir represents the medicine woman, the wounded healer who guides the wounded, healer of the living, mediator between life and death. She’s that precise calm restorative force that is present in times of crisis or emergency. Her name means Mercy and Healing, and she is revered for her deep compassion and mastery of the healing arts. Known as the chief physician and herbalist of the gods, she dwells upon the mountain of Lyfia — a place of magical restoration. She offers both physical and spiritual healing, tending body and soul alike, and is the matron of healers, midwives, and all who serve in sacred care. The herbs sacred to her —comfrey, angelica, yarrow, and bistort growin her medicine garden.
Eir, her holy hands heal all wounds.
At the crest of the alpine mountain, I felt myself dancing with Eir’s spirit — the air thin, the world hushed, life and death brushing close like mist against the skin. When we descended into the small village of Adelboden, Switzerland, the sun broke through after five days of snow and white silence. It poured gold light across the peaks, illuminating the heavens so brilliantly that the church bells in the heart of the village began to ring, as if the sky itself were rejoicing. I was sitting at my desk when I caught light of the tremendous sunset, and shrieked like a drill sergeant, “Get outside now!” as if this moment was the most crucial phenomenon to witness.
Moments after that radiant sunset, an crucial phenomenon—an emergency call came in—news that my friend’s grandmother was passing away. My friend fell to her knees and exclaimed, “I need to go home NOW.” And just like that, the mountain released us. We packed in the dark and like proper witches, departed Adelboden exactly at 3 a.m., the witching hour, driving through the night toward München (Munich) to catch our morning flight out of Germany. We barely made it to that flight and at the eleventh hour flew across the ocean back towards Atlanta, GA.
From the chaos of the Atlanta airport we went straight to the hospital, where her family gathered around her grandmother’s bedside and held vigil through her final night alive. At 7:20 a.m. the next day, Betty Jean slipped gently into the arms of the Great Creator. That day I played old gospel hymns and the Enya soundtrack from Lord of the Rings, imagining her being born into the life everlasting, free from pain, free from suffering. I dressed in my Sri Lankan white threads in her honor, and I have not taken them off since. That grandmother Betty Jean was so gangsta, adventurous, and strong like an ox. Heaven gained another beautiful soul and I like to imagine her there, vibing with Tupac, leaning back with that same fearless, unstoppable energy she carried in life.
She’s winking back, Don’t eva forget.
Gangsta Lean 4 life.
—LadyWisdom
