When the school ski trip costs more than your average family holiday

Flicking through the glossy dream

I was flicking through a glossy lifestyle magazine, the kind where every page smells faintly sublime and promises perfect winter mornings, cosy chalets, and hot chocolate delivered before you even realise you’re cold. It’s nostalgic and reminds me of sledging as a child, and curling up in front of a fire. There’s something about those pages that makes me ache slightly for slow, indulgent mornings. I lingered on the pictures of mountains, and I almost forgot that reality tends to have a very different kind of sparkle.

If only…

If only the reality of winter could look like that. French Alps, Grenoble to Alpe d’Huez, effortless transfers, vin chaud at hand… a real luxury escape. But that’s not our life this week. Reality tapped me on the shoulder just as the school ski trip letter landed, perfectly timed with Christmas creeping closer and our bank account looking decidedly frosty. I could almost hear H’s voice in my head, reminding me to be sensible. 

The ski trip dilemma

The letters went out, the WhatsApp group lit up, and suddenly everyone was asking if their child had been selected, while I had a lump in my throat reading the texts, I quietly calculated how many tins of beans we’d need to live on to make it happen. My mind pinged between imagining him with friends in snow-dusted chalets and the stark reality of December bills, a kind of emotional ping-pong that parenting does so well.

The truth is simple. The price of the trip is the same as a family summer holiday for us, and right now memories with our son matter more than sending him off to a glacier with his peers. We said no. Politely, firmly, and with that sinking feeling only parents of young children understand, the one where you’re convinced your child will remember this moment forever and tell everyone they meet the story in 20 years. I could see him shrug, pretending not to care, but I know he will. He’s already storing it up somewhere, alongside all the other tiny disappointments and delights that make up a childhood.

Childhood echoes

It hit harder because my own parents couldn’t afford to send me on my state school school ski trip either. I remember the disappointment like it is stitched into my teenage years, right alongside the bad fringe and that PE kit gym skirt and shorts *shudder*. I promised myself Cyrus would have more. But here we are, still living within our means because older parents don’t magically sprout extra cash just because society says we should by now. We really struggle. Honestly, most of us do. We’re just too polite to say it out loud.

The modern parent guilt trip

And yet, while I feel that familiar twinge of guilt, I know I shouldn’t. Why is there so much pressure on parents today to give everything, do everything, and be everywhere at once? Social media tells us every outing should be a mini adventure, every school trip a golden opportunity, every Christmas card a perfectly curated masterpiece. We are measured by what we give materially, while the truth is that the emotional, everyday stuff, the laughter at breakfast, the bedtime stories, the little things that make a child feel safe and loved counts infinitely more than any ski lift ticket ever could.

Midlife perspective

Still, if there is one thing midlife teaches you, it is that love isn’t measured in ski lift passes. So instead of spiralling, I reminded myself what we can give him. Time. Attention. Holidays where we are actually together. A childhood that includes us, not receipts. And sometimes, just sometimes, that feels more luxurious than any vin chaud, any chalet, or any magazine-perfect mountain morning could ever be.

This week has made me think a lot about what we really value as a family. It isn’t Instagrammable photos or packed schedules, it’s shared experiences that leave space for laughter, conversation, and even the occasional argument that resolves with a hug. I want Cyrus to remember the sound of snow crunching under our boots, the quiet mornings before everyone else wakes, the way the world seems to slow down when you’re all together. That’s the kind of luxury I want him to carry with him, not the fleeting thrill of a ski lift or the prestige of being picked for a school trip.

Finding quiet luxury

It’s tempting to compare ourselves to other parents, especially when the school ski trip conversation pops up in playgrounds and WhatsApp groups. But comparison is the thief of contentment, and I’ve learned that midlife comes with a slightly harder-earned sense of perspective. We have to remind ourselves that every family has different circumstances, and financial limitations are not a reflection of love or commitment. If anything, learning to live within our means and prioritise what truly matters is a lesson worth modelling. My gran tried to drum that into me.

There’s also something quietly powerful about imagining the luxury we cannot always afford. Flicking through those magazine pages isn’t just escapism; it’s inspiration. It reminds me of what I love about winter, the crisp air, the hot drinks, the quiet moments, and it keeps me thinking about the kind of family holidays we can create, ones that are real and meaningful. There’s no shame in dreaming; the trick is to balance that with reality without letting guilt take up residence.

Saying yes to what matters

So yes, we said no to the school ski trip. And yes, part of me felt the familiar pang of guilt, a shadow of disappointment I know too well from my own childhood. But in saying no, I also said yes to the things that matter most: love.

And when snow falls outside, turning streets and rooftops white in the North East of England, I will allow myself a tiny, indulgent daydream. I will picture a chalet somewhere in the Alps, the kind where every morning is a gift and every evening smells faintly of chocolate and pine. And then I step back into my kitchen, pour another cup of coffee, and look at Cyrus. Because while we may not have that magazine-perfect escape, we have our own winter magic, his smile, and that is more than enough.