this month deserves a Yelp review ⭐⭐⭐☆☆

(For best results, read this with the soundtrack of a disaster movie. Or, alternatively, the Chick-fil-A drive-thru hold music—the official anthem of quiet surrender.)

, let me set the scene.

February 1st. Vermont. Ski lodge. A bold start.

I woke up delusional.

Not “new month, new me” delusional.

Full-blown, power-walking-in-slow-motion, inspirational-movie-montage, training-for-the-big-moment delusional.

"This is MY month."

A new month. A Saturday.

The stars had aligned. My final form was imminent.

The rebrand was happening.

And I had a plan.

1️⃣ Dominate my 30-Day Toned AF Challenge like an athlete with actual sponsorships on the line.
2️⃣ Hit the slopes and give full Aspen Heiress Energy™.
3️⃣ Maintain unshakeable discipline like a woman who has never once, at 11PM, stood in front of her fridge with a spoon and a jar of peanut butter.

By 8:30 AM?

While Danny and the rest of my friends were still under blankets, pretending to debate whether it was too early for mimosas, I was already live on Instagram, coaching Day 1 of the challenge like I was auditioning for a Nike ad.

(Yes, actually live. If you missed it, the replays are up—come watch me make overconfident promises my future self will ghost ➝ HERE)

And then—because I apparently believe in stacking unnecessary challenges for sport—I got ready to hit the slopes.

Don’t get me wrong, skiing was always part of the plan.

I’d built it up in my mind—sipping hot cocoa (spiked, obiv 😏) by the fire, effortlessly gliding down the slopes—the human embodiment of a Sundance film.

I was ready.

I mean, sure, I hadn’t skied in… a while.

And technically, my athletic background was mostly Pilates and questionable life choices.

But confidence? Unshakable. ✊

What I had not planned for?

Physics.

For most of the day, I was thriving.

❄️ The air? Crisp.
⛰ The elevation? High.
😌 The vibes? Higher.

I had that post-workout glow.

That effortlessly-wellness-yet-slightly-unhinged energy.

That look at me, I am disciplined but also moments away from chaos delusion.

And then—because the universe loves a humbling moment—I made a suggestion.

"Let’s try a new run."

So we did. Of course. Why wouldn’t we?

Everything was fine at first, but then I saw the hill.

Immediate, full-body, existential panic.

I scanned my surroundings for an escape route.

There wasn’t one.

🚨 Skiers. Snowboarders. Literal children. 🚨

Flying past me with zero hesitation.

A kid in a neon snowsuit came barreling down the hill at full speed—knees bent, eyes locked in, like he was personally sponsored by Red Bull.

A walking REI ad.

He was probably… seven?

And he was thriving.

I adjusted my goggles. Gripped my poles.

And sent it.

For three whole seconds, I was living my best life.

Graceful. Powerful. Limitless.

Then—immediately—everything went to hell.

My skis wobbled.

My body tensed.

Physics betrayed me.

One ski caught an edge.

I lost ALL control.

And suddenly—

I was airborne.

⏳ Time slowed.
👐 Limbs flailed.
☁️ My soul left my body.
🎻 Somewhere in the distance, I swear I heard violin music.

Then—impact.

❄️ Skis detached. Poles flew. Snow exploded.
😵 Dignity? Missing. Presumed dead.

Silence.

A concerned dad in a Patagonia jacket whispered, "Oh, that looked bad."

A child pointed and laughed.

And then—Elena, my ski goddess.

She had already made it down the hill but was now skiing back up toward me.

"You good?" she asked, offering me a hand.

I nodded. Mostly because my pride hurt more than my ankle.

"Yeah… I just—" I paused, still processing.

"That was REALLY steep."

I’d love to say I powered through, finished strong, and ended the day with a victory lap.

That I dusted myself off, skied into the sunset, and was immediately recruited for the U.S. Olympic team.

But what actually happened?

I hobbled back to the car, collapsed into the passenger seat like a fallen war hero, and self-diagnosed via Google.

According to WebMD, I had anywhere from:
✅ A mild sprain.
✅ A torn ligament.
✅ A rare, undiagnosed condition that would require immediate amputation.

So that was fun.

The recovery plan?
🧊 Ice.
💊 Advil.
🧘 Sheer, delusional determination.

And possibly rewriting my will.

But here’s the problem.

I had already committed.

There were witnesses. I had gone LIVE. People had seen me declare my dedication to the challenge.

There was no backing out now.

Sunday was Day 2 of the Challenge.

I was supposed to go live on IG again and increase to 13 reps.

Instead, I woke up sore, limping, and questioning all my life choices.

Google said “elevate and rest.”

My ankle said “please, for the love of God, no.”

My ego said “get up, quitter, we have reps to do.”

So I showed up.

I went live anyway.

I did the reps anyway.

Was my form questionable? Yes.

Did I grunt like an 80-year-old man getting out of a recliner? Every part of my being. You already know.

But I did it.

And then I did it again on Day 3. And Day 4.

For the past 21 days, we’ve been showing up together.

And today?

We finished Day 21.

✅ 32 reps.
🔥 Squats. Fire hydrants. Lunges. Heel kicks. Glute bridges.
💀 Ankle? Screaming.
💪 Me? Unstoppable.

And somewhere between the pain and the mild absurdity of it all, I thought:

This entire month deserves a Yelp review.

📌 February Highlights & Lowlight Reel:
✅ Ski trip? Fun, until I made full-body contact with the mountain.
✅ Going live on IG every morning? Good for accountability, terrible for my sleep schedule.
✅ Spending time with an 8-week-old black lab puppy? Immediate emotional support benefits.
✅ Hearing my nephew giggle while saying my name? Unmatched serotonin.
✅ Chick-fil-A order that was entirely unnecessary but felt correct in the moment? Priceless.

(See receipt below for my inevitable downfall.)

And now, we’re heading into March.

A month that, quite frankly, feels like a big deal.

There’s a lot happening behind the scenes right now. Some big things. Some exciting things. Things I wish I could spill right now—but you’ll just have to stick around to see for yourself.

Trust me, you’ll want to be here for this one.

, here’s the thing.

For all its chaos, February was proof of something.

That showing up—even when it’s inconvenient, even when it’s messy, even when you’d rather be horizontal with a Chick-fil-A bag—is always worth it.

Because it would’ve been easy to write the whole month off.

To say, “Forget it, I’ll start fresh in March.”

But I didn’t.

I showed up.

Even when my body (and WebMD) begged me not to.

Even when I was sore, tired, and questioning my life choices.

Even when my ankle had a personal vendetta against me.

And honestly? That’s kind of the whole point.

So if you needed a sign to keep going—even when it’s ridiculous, even when you’d rather opt out—this is it.

Show up anyway. Even if you grunt like an 80-year-old man doing squats.

, tell me: If this month had a Yelp review, what would yours say?
⭐ 5 stars? A disaster? Just a detailed breakdown of your latest DoorDash order?

Hit reply and let me know—I need to know I’m not the only one rating my month like it’s a questionable Airbnb stay.

Currently accepting Yelp reviews for my life choices,

– Genta 💛

P.S. Last week’s newsletter had my inbox FLOODED, and honestly? It made my entire day. If this one made you laugh, cringe, or rethink all your life choices—hit reply and tell me. Let’s keep this a two-way street.