Lena Hofbauer

The rush of the slope has always felt like home to me. Growing up in a village near Salzburg, Austria, my father taught my siblings and me to ski before we could even read. He was a passionate ski instructor, dedicated to turning each of us into champions. By the time I hit my teens, I'd won my first competitions, and before long, I was representing Austria on the Olympic stage. Winning that gold medal was surreal—everything I’d ever dreamed of since those early days, hurtling down the snowy mountainside.

At 34, I look back on those days as a different life. After years of injuries and the grind of rehab, I’d found a new path on social media. A few training videos turned into a platform, and soon, I was balancing my athletic career with a social media presence. Brands came knocking; the attention fed my drive for achievement in a new way. But it was also a different kind of exhaustion. When my father died unexpectedly, my world blurred into this tunnel of endless posts, partnerships, and public appearances. I kept moving, hoping activity would fill the empty spaces.

It all unraveled one day in a crowded supermarket aisle. My heart pounded like a drum, breath thin as alpine air. I ended up crouched on the floor, and my boyfriend had to come get me. Later, a doctor called it depressive exhaustion. Therapy became a lifeline, a place to let go of the need to constantly climb higher. I began to understand that I’m more than my achievements and that my father's pride didn’t depend on podiums or sponsorships.

There’s still a mountain to climb within me, but I’m learning to find peace in the pause. For the first time, I’m letting the world see me for who I am, not just what I accomplish. And slowly, I’m coming to believe I deserve to be loved for that person.