Part 2- Winning
In my early 20’s, I had felt that I was living my life without purpose. Original, I know. A privileged 20-something white female with the world and opportunity at her finger tips is in an existential conflict with herself and her future. I think this is a common, privileged struggle of my generation. Maybe this will resonate with a few of you. According to Maslow’s hierarchy of needs, a basis of the human condition, I was looking to meet my esteem needs. Meaning, my physiological needs were met. I had food. I had shelter--and for the most part I had friends, family and a place I belonged. I had people that loved me. Searching for my esteem needs in my 20’s felt impossible, and I was desperate for a feeling of prestige and accomplishment. Up to this point, this need had yet to be fulfilled. Humor me here. This isn’t a research paper, clearly, but what’s wrong with a little research?
"It is quite true that man lives by bread alone — when there is no bread. But what happens to man’s desires when there is plenty of bread and when his belly is chronically filled?
At once other (and “higher”) needs emerge and these, rather than physiological hungers, dominate the organism. And when these in turn are satisfied, again new (and still “higher”) needs emerge and so on. This is what we mean by saying that the basic human needs are organized into a hierarchy of relative prepotency" (Maslow, 1943, p. 375).
I had no idea what I wanted to do in the days before I laced up my skates again.
That fire that coach Steve had lit for me, by me, gave my life direction—probably for the first time since I was a child. Do you know how good direction can feel after wandering aimlessly like a little sheep with little to no thoughts and goals of her own? Purpose is what keeps us going. And when we find that? It’s everything.
The best thing about a great coach is they see something in you that you can’t see yourself. They see ability, promise, potential- way beyond the student’s narrow perspective. Sometimes it takes a little nudge, sometimes it takes a big push, but the good ones can bring you to your potential and then go past it.
It’s not unheard of to have more than one coach. Steve was there to work with me on skating skills--everything that wasn’t a jump or a spin. His job was everything that happened “in between” all the tricks. My primary technical coach I had when I was little, Miss Deanne, passed away during my time away from the ice. Miss Deanne was like family, and she was my coach from the very beginning. Besides having Steve on my side, the loss of Miss Deanne felt jarring when I was navigating my first months back on the ice. It was jarring until Steve introduced me to Cindy.
Cindy is the technical goddess. Cindy is light, personified. She was a prodigy as a young skater who trained under Frank Carroll, Michelle Kwan’s coach, and was 1986 Junior World Champion. She was a success in her own career, but to me she was an even better coach. Cindy was able to ignore my “I hate jumping” dialogue, throw it in the trash, and show me that my weaknesses could become my strengths. Like Miss Deanne, Cindy was family. Cindy and I both shared a passion, obsession even, for the sport, and not a day goes by where I don’t miss her terribly.
With my A-team of coaches behind me, it was game on. I had tunnel vision. Blinders on. I wouldn’t stop until I was National Champion. I sacrificed everything I had to chase this dream. I embarrassingly lived with my parents so I could pay for ice time and coaching, and I worked 2 bartending jobs at night to make it work. I had really late nights at work and then woke up at 6 AM the next day with no hesitation to be on the ice. I had zero temptation the next morning to press my snooze button and skip getting to the rink. I would occasionally drive 2 hours in rush hour traffic before the sun was up to LA so I could train at Toyota Sports Center. I thrived being on the ice with Olympians and knew surrounding myself with skaters of that caliber would make me better. I cross trained at the gym and did yoga for flexibility. My coaches pushed me to my limit because I wanted them to. I can remember having one of the hardest lessons of my life with Steve, doing double run throughs and standing in the middle of the ice, short of breath, with tears in my eyes saying, “Steve, I can’t do it.” Steve would give me an eye and say “Yes you can!!” as he clapped his hands together and the other skaters on the boards watched and joined in. I adopted the principle of “do it until you get it right, and then do it until you can never get it wrong”. I didn’t second guess myself when I was tired. I was all in.
It took me two seasons of victories, failures, insane sacrifice and faith to become Gold Ladies National Champion.
To be honest, I just spent the last 15 minutes looking back at the video of my 2015 Nationals performance, the year I won Championship Gold Ladies. I didn’t watch the skating or the program-- I just kept repeating the end. The music has ended, but this is where the joy begins. The celebration. The unprecedented feeling of pride and accomplishment bursting at the seams. I wish everyone could experience that feeling, at least once. Amongst the pride and the smile that comes from re-living that moment—also comes sadness. I’m not sure if the feeling will ever come back, or if I’ll be able to experience it again. As I watched it for the 5th time, I had tears in my eyes seeing my megawatt smile and Miss-America crying of happy of tears. I can remember looking at the judges as I bowed towards them thinking, “Holy shit. You just did it.” I want to watch it forever, especially on the bad days where I have to remind myself that I did something realty cool at one time.
At one time.
I sometimes tear up when I talk about the ice and my skating—because it is something I love and feel deep down in my bones. Some days I’ll close my eyes and go through the motions of my warm up, a layback, my falling leaf, or even a jump. I’ll be driving, and a song comes on that pulls me in, and I’ll have a whole program choreographed in my head. On some days my heart aches for a sheet of ice to work through a bad day, because it had always been a part of my day. Any skater can describe that feeling of stepping on a fresh sheet of ice, the cold sensation seeping into our lungs as we take a deep breath in, squeeze our feet together and let the momentum glide us into our own form of paradise. The best of sounds is the ripping of my blade through the ice and the landing of a jump as it echoes through the cold. There is nothing that can compare to the sound of a powerful, yet graceful skater.
I was that powerful skater. I wince as I say “was” because it makes me feel washed up. Like a quitter. Like those stories grandma tells you about “when she was young.”
“When I was your age, I was a National Champion Figure Skater…”
…as my 80-year old self’s voice trails off 3 octaves lower than it is now from old age and weathered experience.
But I can’t skate right now.
The easy thing would be to end this right here and have a happily ever after. But the reason why I’m telling my story is to show what actually happened in those years when skating was my life. When we peel back the layers of the rhinestone dresses, smiling pictures, and perfect ballerina buns, a lot of times we find the things that hurt and feel and ache and break.
Just ask Gracie Gold.
Figure skating was the catalyst to not only spark a desperate need for accomplishment, but it was also the perfect petrie dish for my eating disorder. Just as I spoke about the pilot light of my competitive fire, there was also a pilot light on for my body issues. They had always been there, but something that just bubbled below the surface. Figure skating and my body as a woman provided the perfect formula for that fire to be lit.
I began to adopt the belief that my body wasn’t ideal for figure skating.
And with that, the downward spiral begins.