“Rachel, give me a little more effortless. We’re on winter vacation, not competing in the Olympics. Why the fierce brow?” the photographer shouts over at me. I try to laugh at his joke and loosen up, but my Robot Rachel smile has also turned my legs into two tons of metal. I’ve been trying to balance while facing Carly, keeping all of my weight on the inner part of my right ski so I don’t go sliding out of place… trying to hold everything so it’s perfectly still, so he can capture the best shot. Only “still” is apparently looking more like “miserably stiff.” This is all starting to feel like some sort of really bad metaphor about balance.

“Let’s feel the fresh mountain air. This is relax time, this is—Rachel?”

In the middle of the word “relax,” my right ski has given out. I try frantically to straighten myself—I’m actually a pretty decent skier, usually, so that shouldn’t be tough—but I’m so caught off guard that instead my legs start speeding away from me in two directions and I go down hard, wrenching my right boot out of the ski.

When I try to collect myself, burning from the mortification, I realize I twisted the ankle harder than I thought—it twinges when I stand back up. It’s not bad enough to need medical attention, but all of a sudden, the entire crew is surrounding me, making sure I’m okay. “It’s fine, it’s no big deal,” I repeat to them all—in several different languages—but everyone’s treating me like I’m made of glass, and two of the men actually pick me up to carry me indoors, with Carly following behind and Jongseok offering to get an ice pack from the concierge.

I am half-tempted to ask for a second one to hide my beet-red face in for the rest of my entire lifetime. If things go well, we could plan an event with you! Cynthia had said. Well, I think I can kiss that solo fan meeting goodbye, because things are clearly not going well. Carly, who I so wanted to impress, is being extremely patient, but we all know I’ve basically ruined the shoot, and it’s all I can do to keep from crumpling into a ball and weeping. I’m so tired—the weeks of not sleeping must have gotten to my legs. Maybe this really is burnout. Maybe, I think again, the girls were right, and if I keep trying to have it all, I am just going to fail at everything.

Maybe that’s already starting to happen.