Would You Like It a Little Higher?

Two unusual things happened that day. I was riding a ski lift, and a kid said something that stuck with me.

Despite growing up in Sweden, I didn’t learn how to ski until last winter. I was a Chinese immigrant, speaking English, trying to find my place in a Swedish school. Every winter, my classmates left for ski trips while I stayed behind.

As an adult, I’ve started going back for the things I missed. After the first heavy snowfall in November, I went to Åre, a ski resort in northern Sweden.

The chairlifts were shut down due to strong winds, and I ended up on a T-bar—something I hadn’t used before. You ride it standing, sharing a bar with another skier as it pulls you uphill, tucked under your hips. It works best if you’re about the same height.

A T-Bar lift in Åre.

A few runs in, I was paired with a young girl, no older than ten. The bar sat comfortably for her, but pressed low against my knees.

As we started moving, she turned to me and asked:

“Would you like it a little higher?”

It caught me off guard—coming from someone her age.

I told her it was fine, but that I appreciated her asking. We spoke a little on the way up. She started in English, then switched to Swedish when she realized I spoke it.

At the top, we went our separate ways. That was it.

On the train home, I thought about how much I had learned that week: how to turn more cleanly, how to control my speed, how my legs ached in ways they hadn’t before.

But I kept coming back to that moment on the lift.

It was a small thing. Almost nothing.

But she noticed—and said something when most people wouldn’t have.

I’ll keep skiing this winter. I want to get better. And maybe one day, I’ll teach my own kids, so they won’t feel like they missed out on something.

But more than that, I hope I can teach them to notice.

And to ask.