Reflections On Fear: Kimmy Fasani On Staying Present and Pushing Herself

A beautifully articulated look at the idea of fear that all action sports athletes are faced with, as well as a look into some of Kimmy’s experiences that have shaped her. Originally appearing in print Volume 19, issue 2. 

words: Kimmy Fasani, photos: Blatt

I’m holding my mom’s hand. It’s limp and still warm. This is the hand that has held mine through most of life’s challenging moments–learning to ride a bike, losing my father, navigating extensive injuries–and now I’m holding hers as she takes her last breaths. 

It’s January 28, 2017. Around 10pm. Elena Hight just won an X Games gold medal. My mom loved watching X Games and she was a huge supporter of all the competitors. She chose to be in control of how she died, and she planned this night to be her last, thanks to the End of Life Option Act in California. 

I was afraid of what life without her was going to feel like, but holding her hand was the best way I could support her through her transition. I was there with her in the present moment, and didn’t let fear rob me of my last days with her. She had lived an incredible life, and she had provided a beautiful life for me to chase my biggest dreams. She had always encouraged me to be authentic and progressive. Now, it was her choice to go this way, and it was my turn to be there for her. 

A month and a half earlier, she had been diagnosed with a very aggressive Large B-Cell lymphoma. It was not curable and she was given about three months to live. She had been a nurse and had seen what chemotherapy did to older patients, including my dad when he died. She chose to live her last days on her terms, courageously choosing not to go through with the chemotherapy plan that her doctors proposed. She was not afraid of dying. 

Standing at the top of the tallest peaks and finding a unique line down also takes a deep amount of courage. I take deep breaths, harness my mind, listen to my heart, and trust my inner dialogue. I have developed a relationship with these gigantic powerful mountains, and I do not fear them. They have brought me comfort and peace after hardships. I have learned to take calculated risks, choosing to control the things I can–my turns, my speed, my line choice, and my avalanche awareness–but then letting the flow of life take the reins on what ultimately happens. We will all die one day–and I want to be doing what I love until then, controlling my decisions to stay safe and at the same time, progressive. Fear is an idea to me. It’s a thought process–not a reality. I view fear as a projection of the future, or attachment to a past experience. To me, when I’m present in the current moment, fear does not exist. 

Every time I step on my snowboard, I am making choices that can ultimately risk my life, but I chose to see my approach to snowboarding as living life to the fullest. I love the feeling of pushing myself. Progression is addicting. Being at the edge of my comfort zone makes my heart pound. Those palpitations are what make me feel alive, in tune, and flowing rhythmically to the heartbeat of the natural elements surrounding me–captivating, intense, and peaceful all at the same time. I feel most alive when I can control my attachment to fears, anxieties, and expectations by living in the present moment. 

Flash forward almost five years from that January night holding my mom’s hand. It’s November 2021. I was diagnosed with a very aggressive, stage 3 inflammatory breast cancer. Fear overwhelmed me. My life quickly flashed before my eyes as my doctors told me that an aggressive treatment protocol–chemotherapy, double mastectomy surgery, and 30 rounds of radiation–was the only way for me to survive. I have two little kids and so much life to live. I was faced with the same choice as my mom, but I was not ready to die. I was afraid of what my family would go through by losing me. I had also lost two parents to cancer. The word “cancer” signified death to me. I was scared. 

After some deep breaths and lots of tears, I decided to face this life experience the same way I do when I am choosing a line down a mountain. Controlling the things I could–like my mentality–and choosing to pull focus on my thought patterns to this diagnosis. Anchoring my mind to the present moment. Trusting my doctors and medicine. Metaphorically, the mountains were now holding my hand and comforting me as I visualized each turn and obstacle–one step at a time.