Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

That’s what I remember about the day it happened. I know it was December 31, 2009 — I will never forget that — but as far as the details surrounding the snowboarding accident that forever altered the course of my life, there is nothing but blankness.

Even now, when I see video of the training crash, it’s almost as if I am watching someone else’s bad fortune. I don’t feel pain. I don’t experience fear or anxiety. I simply have a hard time connecting what my eyes are telling me, but my memory cannot confirm.

The only thing I can recall is the night before that fateful Thursday morning in Park City, Utah. We had been out for a friend’s 21st birthday, and I distinctly remember not drinking a thing. I was incredibly focused on the task at hand — qualifying for the impending 2010 Winter Olympics in Vancouver — and I wasn’t about to let anything or anyone get in my way.

Anyone, of course, was Shaun White, the greatest talent our sport had ever seen. They called him “The Flying Tomato” (for his big-air style and bright red hair), and he was the odds-on favorite to defend his 2006 Olympic title in the halfpipe. I had different ideas, of course, but more on that later.

I first started riding when I was around 4 years old. I grew up in a small town in Vermont, about 90 minutes from Stratton Mountain, and it was clear from the very beginning that nothing would ever bring me as much joy as strapping on my board and blasting down a mountainside could.

That isn’t to say I was especially talented, at least not at first. Back then, no one looked at me and said, “Wow, that kid is incredible!” For me and my older brother Adam, snowboarding was just something we did on the weekend, when we spent every moment, from fresh tracks to sundown, riding.

Early on, I certainly didn’t view snowboarding as a competitive endeavor. It was fun and (mostly) effortless, and, more importantly, it wasn’t school. When it came to education, whatever the teachers said made no sense to me. It was like I was in a perpetual Charlie Brown cartoon. I just couldn’t concentrate. I had no ability to focus. I distinctly remember being in class, staring aimlessly out the windows, and all I could think about was being on the mountain. Even back then, it was the only thing I wanted to do.

I entered my first event at age 11, but it took me almost two years to win in competition. Thankfully, despite my complete lack of interest in academics, my parents were extremely supportive of my passion. My brother had already left to attend snowboarding school — yes, that’s really a thing in Vermont — and they allowed me to join him there to start the eighth grade.

Still, even then, it wasn’t like I had any idea of what the future would hold. In reality, even though I knew I had potential, I wasn’t really confident in my abilities. I didn’t have that singular focus that every elite athlete must have in order to achieve the impossible.

That all changed in January 2005.

The U.S. Grand Prix was held that year at Mount Bachelor in Oregon, and I took first place in Slopestyle. With the win came $2,000, which, at the time, was pretty much all the money in the world to a high school sophomore. I was beside myself. To imagine I could actually get paid, and make a living doing the thing I loved most in the world? Winning that competition meant that I wouldn’t have to jump through anyone else’s hoops; I didn’t have to play by “their” rules.

The victory also gave me the confidence I had been lacking. It proved to me that I had what it took to go up against the best riders in the world — and beat them.

After my win at Mount Bachelor, I became completely focused. I moved to Mammoth in California with Adam and [my/his] best friend Tyler, and home-schooled all summer so that my winters would be completely dedicated to riding. Snowboarding wasn’t going to be a hobby, anymore, it was going to be my profession — and I was going to do whatever was required to be (and beat) the best.

Two years later, my ascent was very real. I started making the podium with regularity and really was making a name for myself. Significant money was coming in — sponsorships, attention; it was like a dream. Again, people were paying me and plying me with schwag to do something I gladly would have done for free. It felt unnatural in a way, but I can’t deny what a thrill it was.

Things reached a head when I finally beat our sport’s greatest competitor in the 2008 European Open in Laax, Switzerland. “Shaun [White] has never been in a position where he does the perfect run and doesn’t win,” I said back then. “That was the first time.”

I first met Shaun White when I was about eight or nine years old. He is about a year older than I am, and by the time our paths crossed as children, his exploits already were legendary. (I mean, he was sponsored at age 7!)

To say that I idolized him would be putting it lightly. For me, Shaun was this unreachable, untouchable, bright shining star that was so far away, I could scarcely imagine ever even orbiting him.

We rode together a lot when we were kids, usually him doing backside 540s while I was trying to avoid face-planting into the notoriously icy Vermont snow while attempting the easiest of jumps. Never once back in those days did I ever think about reaching his level or becoming his equal. To put things into perspective, imagine yourself playing pickup with Michael Jordan. Now imagine beating him. Exactly. Not going to happen; not ever.

But then it did.

Now, what you need to understand about Shaun is that the greatest athletes all share a certain mindset. To them, losing just isn’t an option. They know they are going to win before they step onto the court, lace up the gloves, or strap onto their boards. It’s what makes them so great, and, more often than not, it’s what makes them act like an [insert your favorite expletive here] from time to time.

Shaun was no different, and from the moment I first beat him in competition, the friction became immediate and palpable. The professional snowboarding community is small and tight-knit, and he and I traveled in the same circles, with many friends in common. We all figured he wouldn’t take kindly to losing — many of us had seen firsthand evidence of Shaun’s competitive nature before — so his attitude wasn’t a total shock. That didn’t make it sting any less.

In retrospect, that period of my life represented a significant missed opportunity — one that I was blind to at the time. Winning, by its nature, is addictive, but when an athlete feels like he or she is being disrespected, the fire burns just a bit hotter. And for me, the realization that my friendship with Shaun had been discarded on account of my success on the slopes only motivated me to pour more of myself into my craft.

In other words, I became borderline obsessive about “what comes next,” and in the process, lost sight of “the now.”

This is why my competitiveness with Shaun drove me to put everything I had into beating him in Vancouver in 2010. At the time, I could only think of the future, and being the best — that was all I could focus on. I knew Shaun was more talented than I was, but I also knew that I was capable of winning the gold medal if I was at my best.

The one problem? Shaun had his tricks much more dialed in, including the oft-discussed cab double cork.

Back then, the cab double cork was the scariest trick a rider could have attempted on a snowboard. (The envelope has been pushed forward since then.) It defies the laws of gravity, and it tests every ounce of your fortitude. And I believed it to be one of the tricks absolutely necessary for me to pull off in order to have any chance of beating Shaun in the Olympics. I knew it, he knew it, and every single fan of the sport knew it.

About ten days before my accident, I sustained a bad concussion while trying to land the cab double cork. (For the record, I never once successfully landed it.) I didn’t feel right after that, but I wasn’t aware of the danger of potentially hitting my head again so soon after legitimately injuring my brain. I wouldn’t have listened, anyway. I was that confident. I was that stupid.

Looking back on it now — and I talk about this all time as a philanthropist and motivational speaker — my brain was broken before I dropped into the pipe in Park City that morning. I just didn’t know it at the time; I guess I didn’t want to know.

I can’t prove that the concussion I suffered before Park City ultimately caused my accident, but it certainly didn’t help matters. When I under-rotated that morning, and slammed my head on the bottom of the pipe just above my left eye, my brain suffered a massive trauma, and the swelling almost killed me.

Had I paid attention to the warning signs; had I been living in the present, everything that happened to me might have been avoided.

When I woke up in the hospital, the first thing I remember is hearing my mother’s voice.

“Mom, I gotta get out of here,” I said to her. “Seriously, I need to qualify for the Olympics. I haven’t qualified yet.” Only, no words came out. Other than the ability to squeeze her hand, I was completely incapable of communicating.

Even then, though — as I lay there immobilized — my brain was lying to me, trying its best to convince me that I was just fine; that my chance at Olympic glory was still very much still in the cards.

That delusion didn’t fully end until two years later, in Vail, Colorado, when I finally got back on my board for the first time. There was a small group of us — my brother Adam, my mentor (the legendary Jake Burton), and the Frends crew (Danny Davis, Jack and Luke Mitrani, Mason Aguirre and Scotty Lago). I was surrounded by those who stood by my side through the entire ordeal surrounding my injury.

Amazingly, everything came right back to me almost immediately; it felt like I had never been away from the sport. For a brief instant, I felt a rush of excitement, my brain telling me that everyone’s worries and fears and their management of my expectations had been misguided.

Only, something was very different.

While in motion on the board, I could barely see. It turns out, something called a “vestibulo ocular reflex” helps keep your eyes aligned in changing conditions, and mine was (and still is) broken.

The dream was finally, vividly … over.

Nowadays, I lead a pretty normal life. I will never snowboard competitively again, and I am okay with that. I’ve learned not to lament the past or focus on the future, but to live and love in the now. I treat each day as a gift, and try to take advantage of all the amazing opportunities life affords us.

I don’t see Shaun much anymore. We’ve crossed paths at some professional events in recent years, but there is no relationship to speak of anymore. Personally, I will always appreciate Shaun for what he is: one of the greatest talents and competitors any of us has ever seen, and for what he once was — one of my best friends and the person who pushed me to be the best I could possibly be.

Without snowboarding, I would never be in the position I am in now; making a difference in the lives of others. And given how much I owe to the sport, I am so excited to see the next generation of young stars push the limits of what’s possible.

It may sound clichéd, but everything that happens to each of us does happen for a reason. The key to happiness is accepting what you can’t control, living without regret, and looking at each challenge as a new opportunity to encourage that better self inside of you.

Cover video by Bob O’Connor
Illustrations by Thoka Maer