Since I was five years old, my second home was the ice rink. The adrenaline of performing on a thin blade exhilarated me; however, many harsh realities hide behind the sparkly costumes.
Competitive skating is both beautiful and cruel. Growing up in a freezing cold ice rink, my coaches stressed training as my top priority. I had to sacrifice a normal childhood, a social life, and my sleep schedule. Even though skating demanded perfection, I enjoyed this difficult challenge to continuously improve myself. I centered my identity around figure skating since that was all I knew.
One central concept to figure skating is power. Figure skaters not only must execute complicated elements with grace but also with speed and strength. However, the concept of what “power” truly meant always confused me. In skating, it meant pushing really hard and skating super-fast. In physics, it was work divided by time.
My coach taught power classes on the ice every Saturday. I would brace myself, knowing the exhaustion and sweat that was ultimately inevitable. Every week, I was pushed beyond my limits, relentlessly shedding my blood, sweat, and tears. In one excruciating exercise, we had to skate down the rink as fast as we could and touch every line. I was required to complete it under a minute, or I would have to do it again. The clock’s red glare read 6 AM as the sharp wind cut my face. No matter how hard I tried, I just couldn’t do it fast enough. Even through my tears, I was not allowed to stop. I had no power.
Since that day, I always lacked power. I couldn’t skate fast enough, push hard enough, or produce enough work in a short amount of time. When I was thirteen, I missed the national team by 0.5 points. Even though I gave it my all, skated a flawless program, and trained for months before the Sectional Qualifier, I did not have any power over the judges. I was just a puppet, a lifeless doll limping across the ice.
Shortly after that, the pandemic hit, and I had to find other activities to fill my time during lockdown. Gradually, I poured my energy into other extracurriculars, explored other interests, focused even more on school, and built a life for myself outside of figure skating. I took pride in my activities because they became part of who I was. I no longer solely categorized myself as an athlete, but also as a scholar, dancer, diplomat, teacher, musician, friend, and sister.
Going back to the rink was difficult. I no longer enjoyed an intense skating challenge, and pushing myself beyond my limits became a burden rather than a choice. Leaving competitive skating was a hard decision and a slow process. I began to resent the rink because I was trapped: my coaches and parents did not want me to focus on other things, especially since I had already dedicated so much time to this sport. However, I refused to remain a puppet and asserted that skating was no longer providing me joy. As I slowly leaned away from skating and matured, I realized that real power is not pushing hard nor is it a simple equation. Real power is being able to decide your own path and learning when it is time to let go.
Competitive skating is both beautiful and cruel. Growing up in a freezing cold ice rink, my coaches stressed training as my top priority. I had to sacrifice a normal childhood, a social life, and my sleep schedule. Even though skating demanded perfection, I enjoyed this difficult challenge to continuously improve myself. I centered my identity around figure skating since that was all I knew.
One central concept to figure skating is power. Figure skaters not only must execute complicated elements with grace but also with speed and strength. However, the concept of what “power” truly meant always confused me. In skating, it meant pushing really hard and skating super-fast. In physics, it was work divided by time.
My coach taught power classes on the ice every Saturday. I would brace myself, knowing the exhaustion and sweat that was ultimately inevitable. Every week, I was pushed beyond my limits, relentlessly shedding my blood, sweat, and tears. In one excruciating exercise, we had to skate down the rink as fast as we could and touch every line. I was required to complete it under a minute, or I would have to do it again. The clock’s red glare read 6 AM as the sharp wind cut my face. No matter how hard I tried, I just couldn’t do it fast enough. Even through my tears, I was not allowed to stop. I had no power.
Since that day, I always lacked power. I couldn’t skate fast enough, push hard enough, or produce enough work in a short amount of time. When I was thirteen, I missed the national team by 0.5 points. Even though I gave it my all, skated a flawless program, and trained for months before the Sectional Qualifier, I did not have any power over the judges. I was just a puppet, a lifeless doll limping across the ice.
Shortly after that, the pandemic hit, and I had to find other activities to fill my time during lockdown. Gradually, I poured my energy into other extracurriculars, explored other interests, focused even more on school, and built a life for myself outside of figure skating. I took pride in my activities because they became part of who I was. I no longer solely categorized myself as an athlete, but also as a scholar, dancer, diplomat, teacher, musician, friend, and sister.
Going back to the rink was difficult. I no longer enjoyed an intense skating challenge, and pushing myself beyond my limits became a burden rather than a choice. Leaving competitive skating was a hard decision and a slow process. I began to resent the rink because I was trapped: my coaches and parents did not want me to focus on other things, especially since I had already dedicated so much time to this sport. However, I refused to remain a puppet and asserted that skating was no longer providing me joy. As I slowly leaned away from skating and matured, I realized that real power is not pushing hard nor is it a simple equation. Real power is being able to decide your own path and learning when it is time to let go.
