1. Describe the moment when you knew you had to tap into your inner courage and make changes in your life—the circumstances of the event.
I was lying in a hospital bed, staring at the ceiling, trying to process the words I’d just heard: “You have multiple brain aneurysms.” I hadn’t been in a crash or suffered an injury. I had walked into the hospital under my own power, and yet now I was facing something that felt more terrifying than any mountain I’d ever skied or storm I’d ever kited through.
The doctors told me they would go in through the femoral artery in my groin to reach my brain—a procedure I couldn't wrap my head around. I wasn’t afraid of pain. I was afraid of losing me. The adventurous, fearless, adrenaline-loving woman I had spent years becoming. What if I couldn’t do the things I loved again? What if this was the end of that version of me?
That moment forced me to stop and ask: If I can’t be who I was… who do I choose to become?
It was the moment I had to find a deeper kind of courage. Not the courage to drop off cliffs or ride through storms, but the courage to face the unknown, to let go of control, and to trust in a new path—one that would require me to be brave in a whole new way.
2. Walk us through the pivotal moment when you decided to act courageously. What was going through your mind? How did you feel at that moment?
The night before my brain surgery, the fear hit me like a tidal wave. I wasn’t calm or collected. I was angry—furious, actually. Fighting with the world, fighting with the unfairness of it all. Then I shifted into flight—I wanted to run, to disappear, to wake up and have it all be a bad dream. But I knew deep down there was no escaping this. Surgery was the only way to save my life.
Eventually, I crashed into freeze. I found myself curled up on the cold bathroom floor, lying in a puddle of my own tears. That’s when the what-ifs got loud:
What if I had a stroke? What if I needed full-time care? What if I could never do the things I loved again?
Every dark possibility swirled in my mind. I felt completely broken.
But then—something cracked open. In the stillness of that floor, I realized I had a choice. I could let the what-ifs control me, or I could focus on the facts. And the facts were:
I be brave. I be strong. I be lucky. I be loved. I be grateful. I AM the storm.
So I began to chant it—over and over, like a mantra, like armor. Those words carried me through the longest night of my life. I didn’t stop repeating them until the anesthesia finally pulled me under.
That was the moment I reclaimed my power. I wasn’t just preparing for surgery. I was stepping into a new story—one where fear didn’t get the final say.
3. What inspired or motivated you to take the courageous step you did? What were a few of the first steps you took? What major actions did you have to take?
What motivated me most was the deep knowing that I had more to do in this life. I wasn’t done living boldly. I wasn’t done helping others. I wasn’t done being me. Lying on that bathroom floor, I had a flash of clarity: If I make it through this, I’m going to use everything I’ve been through to help other women face their biggest fears too.
That thought lit a fire in me.
The first step I took was a mindset shift. I moved from fear to focus—anchoring myself in those affirmations: I be brave. I be strong. I be lucky. I be loved. I be grateful. I am the storm. I didn’t just think them—I embodied them. That was my fuel.
Next, I made a promise to myself: I would not let this be the end of my story. I would recover. I would rebuild. And I would find a way to pivot my passions—especially if I couldn’t return to the extreme sports that once defined me.
The major actions came after surgery. I had to slow down—a painful challenge for someone used to chasing adrenaline. I had to listen to my body, honor my limits, and completely redefine what courage looked like. I began writing. I started speaking. I opened up about my experience. And with every conversation, I realized this was my new mountain to climb—using my voice to spark bravery in others.
4. Paint a picture of what your life was like before you encountered the challenge that called for you to summon your courage.
Before the diagnosis, my life was full-throttle. I was a high-energy, big-mountain skier, a snowkiting and kitesurfing champion, always chasing the next adventure. Every year, I spent months living in an RV camper van in Alaska, guiding others into the wild, windy backcountry and coaching women to find their courage in extreme conditions. I was known as “AdrenaJen” (Adrenaline Jen)—fearless, bold, always in motion.
My identity was wrapped in movement, adrenaline, and independence. I felt powerful when I was charging down a mountain or flying a kite in stormy skies. I had built a life that aligned with my passions, and I believed I was living at my highest potential. I felt unstoppable. Invincible, even.
Off the mountain, I was running a business, running retreats, and mentoring women around the world. My days were filled with purpose and momentum. I was healthy, strong, and full of plans for the future—none of which included hospitals or surgeries.
I had no idea that a hidden storm was building inside my brain. No idea that everything I’d built would be tested by something I couldn’t outrun, out-train, or out-smart. The courage I’d been teaching others to find in the mountains… I was about to need in an entirely different way.
5. Were there any doubts or fears you had to overcome before taking action? How did you manage them?
Absolutely. But what caught me off guard was the grief. I had always thought grieving was something we did when someone we loved died. But now I know we also grieve the life we once had—the version of ourselves we fear we’re losing.
When I was diagnosed with multiple brain aneurysms, it felt like the storm inside me became a full-blown tornado. It tore through everything I had built—my adventurous life, my athletic identity, my dreams and goals, my sense of control. I wasn’t just afraid. I was grieving the loss of me—the fearless, capable, independent woman I had worked so hard to become.
And as the grief swirled, so did the fear. What if I couldn’t ski again? What if I couldn’t teach, couldn’t move, couldn’t live the life I loved?
So I went searching for hope. I needed to see a story that proved it was possible. For days and weeks, I scoured the internet, desperate to find someone—anyone—who had been through this and made it back to their sport. But I found nothing. It was like the silence echoed my worst fear: maybe no one ever did.
Then, finally, I stumbled across a blog from nearly 20 years ago. A man who, like me, loved to ski. A year after his aneurysm surgery, he hiked up his favorite mountain—and skied back down. That was it. That was the story I’d been searching for. That was my glimmer of hope. That was all I needed to believe I could do it too.
From that moment on, I leaned into the tools I knew as an athlete. I used visualization—not to see myself winning medals, but to see myself healing. I imagined the surgery going smoothly. I saw myself strong again, back on snow, smiling in the mountains. I repeated affirmations like a mantra:
I be brave. I be strong. I be lucky. I be loved. I be grateful. I am the storm.
That’s how I managed the fear. I gave it a place to exist—but I didn’t let it lead. I held onto that single story of hope, turned it into fuel, and decided that one day, my story could be that light for someone else.
6. What were some of the challenges or obstacles you faced during your journey to overcome this particular challenge?
One of the hardest challenges was slowing down. I had lived life in motion for so long—skiing big mountains, chasing wind with my kite, coaching others to be brave. Suddenly, I was forced to stop. I couldn’t train, couldn’t teach, couldn’t even trust my energy levels day to day.
My body was healing, but my mind still wanted to fly. That disconnection between who I was and what I could do was agonizing.
I struggled with identity. Who was I if I couldn’t be “AdrenaJen”? If I wasn’t charging peaks or guiding in Alaska, did I still matter? It felt like my value had been tied to my ability to push limits—and now, my limits were being redefined daily.
There were physical challenges too: brain fog, fatigue, and the emotional rollercoaster of recovery. Some days I felt hopeful, other days I felt lost. I couldn’t plan or predict how I’d feel from one week to the next, and for someone who’d built a career around forecasting the weather and reading mountain conditions, that uncertainty was brutal.
But one of the biggest obstacles was invisible: the pressure to bounce back. To be strong. To be positive. To act like I had it all together. But healing isn’t linear. It’s messy, slow, and often lonely. I had to learn to be gentle with myself and celebrate tiny wins—like taking a walk, finishing a sentence, or simply making it through the day without crying.
The real turning point came when I stopped trying to be who I was before—and started creating who I was becoming. I realized that courage wasn’t about pretending to be okay. It was about showing up anyway, being vulnerable, and staying committed to the comeback—even when I didn’t know what the finish line looked like.
7. Tell us about a memorable anecdote or turning point in your courageous journey.
One of the most unforgettable moments came months after surgery, when I stood on my skis at the top of a mountain again for the first time. It wasn’t a big peak or a bold line. It was just a gentle slope. But to me, it was Everest.
I had visualized this moment every day during my recovery—pictured myself gliding over snow, feeling the wind in my face, reconnecting with the version of me I thought I had lost. But when it actually happened, I was overwhelmed. My legs were shaking, my heart pounding—not from fear of falling, but from the sheer emotion of being there.
As I clicked into my bindings, I remembered the blog I had found—the one where a man skied his favorite mountain a year after brain aneurysm surgery. That story had lit a spark of hope in me when I was at my lowest. And now, here I was. Living proof that hope works.
I pointed my skis downhill and let gravity take over. The snow beneath me, the freedom in the motion, the tears freezing to my cheeks—it was pure magic. That run was short, but it marked a giant leap in my comeback. Not just physically, but spiritually. It was the moment I realized: I’m still me. Different, yes. But still brave. Still strong. Still here.
And that’s when I knew—I had a story to tell. A story of courage not just in the face of fear, but in the slow, gritty, powerful return to self.
8. What role models or sources of support helped you stay strong and resilient?
I’ve always believed that in both sport and life, we need coaches—people who can guide us, challenge us, and hold us accountable when the path gets tough. Just like an athlete needs a coach to reach their peak, I knew I needed someone to help keep my mindset strong. Thankfully, I already had that person in my corner—a therapist I had been working with before my diagnosis. She was more than a therapist to me; she was a mind coach, someone who understood the inner game of fear and resilience.
But just before everything unraveled, she canceled our session. Her mother had passed away suddenly. I was heartbroken for her—and then, a week later, I got my own devastating news: I had multiple brain aneurysms. I didn’t know what to do, but I knew I couldn’t do it alone. I left her a message, gently asking if she could refer me to someone else—I needed support more than ever.
She called back almost instantly.
With tears in her voice, she told me something that gave me goosebumps: her mother had died from a ruptured brain aneurysm. She said she had felt helpless—like maybe she could’ve done something to save her. But now, she told me, “I can’t help my mother. But I can help you. And maybe helping you will help me heal, too.”
That moment will stay with me forever.
She became my anchor. Through every storm of fear, every wave of grief, she helped me ground myself. She reminded me that healing isn’t just physical—it’s mental, emotional, and spiritual. Her support, especially knowing the personal weight it carried for her, gave me strength beyond what I thought was possible.
She wasn’t just a therapist. She was a guide who helped me walk the line between fear and hope—and reminded me that even in our darkest moments, we are never truly alone.
9. How did this experience change the way you see yourself, and what did it teach you about courage? How do you now define courage?
Before this experience, I saw myself as strong because of what I did—the mountains I skied, the storms I chased, the bold lines I dropped into. My courage was measured in adrenaline, speed, and how far I could push my limits. But brain surgery changed everything. It stripped away my physical strength, forced me into stillness, and challenged the very core of who I believed I was.
I had to face myself without the titles, the trophies, the movement. And what I discovered was this: I am still strong. Not because I was doing big things—but because I was doing the hard things. The invisible things. The quiet, inner work of healing, surrendering, and rebuilding.
This experience redefined courage for me.
Courage isn’t just charging down a mountain. It’s lying on the bathroom floor in tears and deciding to get up anyway. It’s asking for help when you’d rather be the one helping. It’s grieving the life you lost and still choosing to believe in the one ahead. It’s repeating, I be brave. I be strong. I am the storm, when your world feels like it’s falling apart.
Now, I see courage as a daily choice—not something loud and heroic, but something real and raw. Courage is showing up as you are, with what you have, and doing the next brave thing. No matter how small.
And that kind of courage? It’s the kind that changes lives.
10. What lessons or wisdom have you gained from this experience that you'd like to share with others?
This experience taught me that real courage isn’t about being fearless—it’s about being honest. Honest about the fear, the grief, the uncertainty… and still choosing to take one small step forward.
I learned that grief isn’t just for the loss of people—it’s also for the loss of dreams, identity, and the life you thought you’d have. And it’s okay to grieve that. It’s not weakness. It’s part of the healing.
I also learned that you don’t have to do it alone. You shouldn’t do it alone. We all need support—whether that’s a therapist, a coach, a friend, or even a stranger’s blog post that reminds you it’s possible. One story of hope can be a lifeline. That is the power of sharing your story.
Most of all, I’ve learned to meet myself with compassion. As an athlete and high achiever, I was so used to measuring progress in speed, strength, and results. But now I know that some of the greatest wins in life are invisible—the quiet moments of choosing to believe in yourself again, even when it’s hard.
If there’s one thing I want others to remember, it’s this:
Your storm doesn’t define you. Your courage in the storm does.
And even if your dream has to change course… it doesn’t mean the dream is over. You are still the author. You get to write the comeback.
11. What unexpected or positive outcomes emerged from your courageous actions?
I never expected to become an author. That was never part of the plan. But out of this storm, something beautiful was born. I’ve now written two children’s books about courage, become a co-author in three other books, and spoken on over 50 podcasts. I’ve even shared my story on stages around the world—including at Columbia University in New York.
This path wasn’t something I planned—it was a pivot born from pain, but guided by purpose. And for that, I’m deeply grateful.
The biggest gift has been the growth in my own mindset. I’ve developed tools I never knew I needed—tools for resilience, emotional strength, and self-leadership. And now, I get to share those with others. That’s the real reward.
One of the most meaningful outcomes has been hearing from people around the world who’ve read my story or heard me speak. They send messages saying things like, “Your words helped me face my fears,” or “I finally feel like I’m not alone.” That never gets old. It reminds me why I continue to tell my story—and why I encourage others to share theirs, too.
Because when we speak our truth, we create a ripple. And sometimes, that ripple becomes someone else’s lifeline.
12. In retrospect, do you have any regrets or things you would have done differently?
If I’m honest, I don’t regret the journey itself—it’s shaped who I am today. But there are moments I would have approached differently.
After about six months of recovery, I was starting to feel strong again—strong in my body and strong in my spirit. I missed the ocean, I missed the wind, and I missed the version of me who felt free and fearless. So I decided I was ready to try kitesurfing again—my favorite sport, my happy place. I wanted my comeback moment. I wanted to prove that it was possible to get back to the life I loved.
But a few weeks later, the headaches returned. Something felt off. After another angiogram, I got the news: the stent had moved. I would need another brain surgery to fix it. I was back to square one.
My doctor wasn’t happy with me—and, truthfully, I wasn’t happy with myself either. I had pushed too hard, too soon. I had wanted so badly to be the story of strength and recovery that I didn’t fully listen to what my body was still trying to tell me. And yes, I regret that decision.
That moment taught me one of the hardest lessons of all: just because you can doesn’t always mean you should. Healing isn’t just about being brave—sometimes it’s about being patient. Sometimes it’s about waiting a little longer, listening more closely, and honoring the slower timeline your body needs.
I also learned that self-compassion is just as important as self-discipline. I wish I had given myself more grace early on. I spent so much energy trying to stay strong that I didn’t let myself fully grieve, rest, or receive support. If I could go back, I’d be softer with myself, ask for help sooner, and trust that the comeback would still happen—in its own time.
So no, I don’t regret the path. But I’ve learned that even brave people need to pause. Even champions need to heal. And even setbacks can become part of a powerful story—if we choose to keep going.
13. What would you say to a woman who’s standing where you once stood—afraid, unsure, or facing a similar challenge?
I see you. I know the fear, the uncertainty, the weight of not knowing what’s next. Maybe you’re grieving the life you thought you’d have. Maybe you’re questioning your strength. Maybe you're just trying to make it through the day without falling apart. I’ve been there. And here’s what I want you to know:
You are not broken. You are becoming.
Fear doesn’t mean you’re weak—it means something important is on the line. It means you care. And courage? It’s not some giant leap. It’s choosing to take one small step forward, even while your hands are shaking.
You don’t have to be fearless to be brave. You just have to be willing.
You may not feel strong right now, but strength is already inside you. It shows up in the asking for help. In the getting out of bed. In the trying again. Even when it hurts.
I want you to know that the storm you’re in doesn’t get the final word—you do.
And if you can’t believe in yourself just yet, borrow my belief. I believe in you.
Because I made it through. And so can you.
You don’t have to know how it all ends. Just begin.
You be brave. You be strong. You be grateful. You be loved. You ARE the storm.
And one day soon, someone will find courage because of your story.
14. How are you celebrating the woman you’ve become?
I’m celebrating her by living fully—with gratitude, purpose, and courage.
I no longer chase adrenaline just to prove I’m brave. Now, I celebrate my courage in the quiet moments too—when I say no to something that doesn’t serve me, when I slow down without guilt, when I choose to rest instead of push. That’s growth.
I celebrate her by honoring my journey—by writing, speaking, coaching, and sharing the stories I once kept silent. I’ve turned pain into purpose, and fear into fuel. And that’s something worth celebrating every single day.
I celebrate her by continuing to dream, even when the path looks different than I imagined. I’ve created new goals, built new passions, and stepped into a new version of myself—one that’s softer and stronger, grounded and bold.
And most of all, I celebrate her by helping other women rise. Every time I share my story, every time someone says, “Because of you, I believe I can,” I know I’m exactly where I’m meant to be.
That’s the greatest celebration of all—becoming the woman I once needed, and now offering that strength to someone else.