I first learned of Aundi Kolber’s work shortly after her first book was published in 2020: Try Softer: A Fresh Approach to Move Us out of Anxiety, Stress, and Survival Mode--and into a Life of Connection and Joy. Since then, her expertise as a trauma therapist, and her personal insights as a trauma survivor, have been a significant source of encouragement and reflection for me. 

In her recent book, Strong Like Water: Finding the Freedom, Safety, and Compassion to Move through Hard Things—and Experience True Flourishing, Kolber offers a timely and compelling reframing of what it means to be strong in a society that often equates strength with enduring pain and pushing through it alone (which can leave us exhausted and disconnected). She invites us to consider strength as a balanced, dynamic force, like the tide: soft yet bold, fierce yet gentle. The book offers insights into how our nervous system shapes our experiences, practices for navigating challenges with compassion, and tools to cultivate resilience through connection, love, and safety. 

I’m delighted to share her work with you and to feature this excerpt, thoughtfully framed by her own introduction below.

Enjoy,

Annie

“But while we have no control over time itself, we do have a choice in how we orient to it, how we inhabit the moment, how we own the past and open to the future - a choice that shapes our entire experience of life, that ossuary of time. And just as it bears remembering that there are infinitely many kinds of beautiful lives, it bears remembering that there are infinitely many ways of being in time.” - Maria Popova, The Marginalian 

‍Change of environment

I put on my ski gear, and pull my boot bag up on my back. Covered head to toe, I step outside. My skis are perched on my left shoulder, and my poles are in my right hand. I walk carefully down the snowy path and up through the village to the lift. It’s a sacred ten minutes of meditative rhythmic walking to warm me up for the day ahead. 

New snow has fallen – about twenty centimetres. The snow cats have groomed the mountain during the night. It’s early and I'll be on the first lift up to the slopes. 

This is the change of environment I crave the most at this time in my life. The movement from posed stability to energetic vulnerability, from the familiar to the serendipitous unknown, from the routine to the spontaneous. Here on the mountain I feel like I live life to its fullest. I feel more alive here than anywhere else. Curiosity is my catalyst — I could rest today, I could contemplate other days gone by, but I'm curious:  What will the snow be like? What will my balance and form be like? What shapes of clouds will appear? What breeze will freeze my nose? Where will the trail take me? It is ski season; adventurous, mysterious and invigorating. It provides another form of lifestyle filled with the sort of vulnerability I love.

Of course everyone knows that change is constant, but there is nowhere else in the world where I see, feel, hear, touch and taste this truth more clearly than here on the side of my favourite mountain.

This magic mountain that I've skied for years and years changes all the time. It's ironic really, as it is made of stone and rock, ice and dirt  - elements so strong and stable, so unmoving and unbudgeable, so unforgiving and invincible, yet it is forever changing. Of course everyone knows that change is constant, but there is nowhere else in the world where I see, feel, hear, touch and taste this truth more clearly than here on the side of my favourite mountain. Such a curious phenomenon — this alpine environment that moves and changes constantly, just like me. The weather forecast looks good today, colder than yesterday, but mostly sunny in the morning with the wind rising in the afternoon. Of course, this could change too.

‍Letting change flow

Arriving at the base of the mountain, I put on my ski boots, tuck my shoes away for the day, and once again perch my skis on my shoulder. I use my poles to help me navigate the steps up to the gates; it’s the beginning of the season and this morning routine of getting to the lifts still has me feeling a bit winded as I get used to the altitude. My friend is waiting for me. She and I smile brightly at each other and, seconds later, the buzzer goes off and the gates are activated. We are the first ones through, proud of ourselves for our early rising and excited to experience the thrill of another ski day together. We banter about the beautiful day ahead, our slight aches and pains and need for some stretching.

My friend is confident and bold — an expert skier. Me, I am not as confident and I am no expert. But I am bold, and she inspires me. Most of all, I am grateful for the change of scenery, communing with nature and the joy of being together again on the mountain.

Tensing up in anticipation of a coming bump or turn will surely cause a fall. The key to serenity on skis is letting change flow, becoming one with the change, and then being the change.

As we descend each run at our own pace, our skis pushing us beyond our unique comfort zones, we each experience individualized moments in the quiet rhythm of skiing. Every day on the slope is different, every turn of every carve into the snow is different, at times smooth and other times choppy. At all times, our minds must stay connected to our bodies. It is invigorating and mystifying, as we must disconnect from all worries and all other actions and stay absolutely present. Tensing up in anticipation of a coming bump or turn will surely cause a fall. The key to serenity on skis is letting change flow, becoming one with the change, and then being the change. 

After a few hours of skiing our favourite trails, I tell my friend I want to stop at a lookout spot, not because I’m tired but because I want to breathe in my surroundings. She says she’ll let me have a bit of alone time and we decide she’ll do another run and meet me back here. The sky is vast and filled with a multitude of blue hues, the clouds are fantastical and bright white. The fresh cold air is thinner up here; it smells minty as it passes through my nostrils and it tastes minerally as it drips down my throat. The steam rises from my scarf as I breathe in and out, feeling the warmth of my body. This change of environment is essential to my well-being. It’s not just any change of environment though. 

‍Chrono-diversity

It’s being up at altitude that thrills me most. The physicist Carlo Rovelli in his book “The Order of Time” captures the essence of my pause at the lookout spot. He writes, 

“I stop and do nothing. Nothing happens. I am thinking about nothing. I listen to the passing of time. This is time, familiar and intimate. We are taken by it…. Our being is being in time.”

I lived and worked in this village just below the slopes for ten years, all through my thirties, and now that I am retired, I return here as much as possible. Initially when I moved away, down to sea level and no longer at altitude, it took me a long time to adjust and to adapt to being in a different time zone, but not just a different chronometric time zone, but a different “chrono-atmospheric” time zone. 

I am fascinated by the way Rovelli explains how altitude changes time. He writes, “Let’s begin with a simple fact: time passes faster in the mountains than it does at sea level…

I am fascinated by the way Rovelli explains how altitude changes time. He writes, “Let’s begin with a simple fact: time passes faster in the mountains than it does at sea level… This slowing down can be detected between levels just a few centimetres apart: a clock placed on the floor runs a little more slowly than one on a table. It is not just the clocks that slow down: lower down, all processes are slower.” 

When I read this, I started to understand and accept why I had found it so challenging to transition from life up on the mountain to life in the valley. All of my processes had to become slower; my mental and physical, even spiritual relationships towards time had to change in order for me to adapt and to adjust to my new surroundings. It was a very unnerving time at first, and I found myself longing to return to the mountains. Despite the fact that I enjoyed my new job, raising my children and making new friends in a different culture, my personal processes, like my coping mechanisms, had slowed down and I needed to give myself time to accept the newness of this “chrono-diversity” at sea level.  

Some consider winter a time to slow down and rest, imitating elements of nature that hibernate and tuck in to escape the cold. But for me, it is this change of environment, this other way of being in time, this speeding up and expanding of time, that I long for in the winter months.

During those years, my friend stayed in the mountains; she never returned to life in the valley. And I believe this makes us different in the way we now measure time. Maybe her time does actually pass more quickly than mine? She is a speed queen and can get a million things done in one day. She thinks faster than I think, and certainly skis faster than I ski. 

Some consider winter a time to slow down and rest, imitating elements of nature that hibernate and tuck in to escape the cold. But for me, it is this change of environment, this other way of being in time, this speeding up and expanding of time, that I long for in the winter months. It’s the rigour and rhythm of mountain time. Rovelli writes, 

‍“Two friends separate, with one of them living in the plains and the other going to live in the mountains. They meet up again years later: the one who has stayed down has lived less, aged less, the mechanism of his cuckoo clock has oscillated fewer times. He has had less time to do things, his plants have grown less, his thoughts have had less time to unfold ... Lower down, there is simply less time than at altitude.” 

I guess the proof is “in the physics.” As I’ve learned, it is the changeability of time in the mountains that keeps me skiing through life. Even if it seems a bit ironic and mysterious to me, I imagine I will always feel this type of change to be constant in my life. Though I suppose, that could change too.

Embodied Experiences of Compassionate With-ness

That day in my old house, I had an embodied experience: I was fully present to my suffering, and I also experienced connection to Brendan’s profound support. When we feel safe enough in our bodies to actually be present in and to them, moment to moment, our systems are fully “online” and we have the capacity to live in our God-given bodies, wholly and fully. 

Maybe it seems like I’m splitting hairs here; after all, it seems obvious that humans are embodied (or, to put it another way, we always seem to be in body). But the truth is, there’s a pretty big difference. Think how often we go on autopilot or get “stuck in our head” as we examine an idea. Consider how many of us have been taught it’s better to stick with the “facts” whenever a situation brings up emotion. We live in a culture that frequently objectifies, commodifies, and quantifies bodies. When we treat ourselves and others like we are static objects—machines relying solely on rational thought—rather than image bearers with actual bodies and emotions, we don’t have capacity to truly connect with what’s happening in and through us. We learn to disconnect from our bodies as a default way to be in the world. 

This is a particular danger for trauma survivors. Because our bodies are the physical location where the trauma is held, we may find it necessary to remain disconnected from them simply so we can function from day to day. That makes total sense, and we can honor that part of us that has had to work so hard to survive. 

At the same time, as we do the sacred work of healing and experience more and more moments of true embodiment—of security and hope—it begins to change us. As I packed up my childhood home with Brendan’s help, it felt extremely familiar to me to be in pain; it felt normal to feel as if I would have to figure out everything on my own and to stuff my feelings. What didn’t feel natural was to sense deep validation and companionship in the midst of my pain; to have someone with me. 

Now, let me be clear: The gift of presence that Brendan gave me earlier in our marriage was not based on his ability to save me. Frankly, he can’t and he couldn’t. I love him dearly, but he is just a person with limits and wounds himself. 

What he could offer, though, was what I’ve come to call “compassionate with-ness,” a posture through which others convey that they are attuned to us—that they resonate with, understand, and share our feelings—and that we can attune to them and to others. Hopefully this makes it possible for us to begin to learn to attune to ourselves as well. In Latin, the word compassion means to “suffer with.” Suffering with someone while being attuned to them is powerful; it conveys a sacred solidarity. This with-ness also speaks to the way our nervous systems and bodies are created to sync with each other as we experience co-regulation. 

This is the key difference between the idea of a “witness” and “with-ness”: A witness can observe what has happened—which certainly matters. But “with-ness” implies that the person has resolved to be in it with us, right down in the dirt and mire of whatever we’re going through. This is what Brendan did for me as I sat and cried on my parents’ old couch. He was with me. Not just physically, but emotionally. He himself was embodied as he tuned in to my suffering, and he cared about it. Critically, he was also grounded himself, which enabled him to be calm, curious, and kind with me. And his tiny offering became the fertile ground for me to learn to become strong in new and unfamiliar ways. 

Those moments of deep safety and co-regulation began to shift my internal narratives, sensations, and experiences in ways I could never have believed. They began to show me there was a different way I could live, a different way to be strong.

While I know not every person will have my story or experience—it’s my great hope that each of us come to experience even tiny glimmers of safety, care, and with-ness that allow us to know ourselves, God, and others more deeply and fully. Remembering, again and again, it’s not pain or shame that makes us most truly strong, but love. 

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