Total pages in book: 145
Estimated words: 141425 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 707(@200wpm)___ 566(@250wpm)___ 471(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 141425 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 707(@200wpm)___ 566(@250wpm)___ 471(@300wpm)
Inside, the familiar blast of chilly air hits my cheeks, and I sigh happily. It’s like coming home. It never fails to invigorate me. All at once, I’m wide awake without a drop of caffeine.
My student—Jasmine Morales—won’t arrive for another twenty minutes. It’s just me, the ice, and the start of the day. I set my bag on the bleachers, slide off my sneakers, and lace up my skates.
After grabbing my travel action camera that Leighton gave me as a “business-warming” gift, I attach it to a stick, adjust some settings, then step onto the ice, holding it.
I don’t move right away. I breathe in, inhaling the cool, crisp scent, the bite in the air, the solitude.
When I first laced up at age four, skating was fun. It stayed that way for many years. But at some point, I chased excellence as much as joy. Maybe more. There’s nothing wrong with wanting to be tops at something. But it can obsess you. Addict you. Control you.
After I failed to make the Olympics in early college, I had to face some tough truths about myself. I was obsessed with skating, but also with the prep for skating. With the rules and guidelines about how to excel. With the climb up the mountain, and whether I was doing enough—lifting enough weights with enough frequency, skating enough programs with enough electricity.
And smiling through it all. Smiling even when it hurt.
It was a harsh reality, but I learned over time that it’s okay to have fun on the ice. I don’t have to obsess over every second, every routine, every workout.
Most of all, I learned I can skate for me.
I’m off, holding the stick with the camera at the end of it, then hitting the ice and flying. It’s always felt that way—like flying—even when it’s hard. And figure skating is often hard. It’s supposed to be hard. And terrifying. And beautiful. It’s all of those things. But it’s also like meditation as the blades cut into the ice while I skate backward, picking up the pace, arms out, crossing over again and again as I glide around the rink.
Music plays in my earbuds—a fast pop song that makes my pulse speed and my heart soar.
I spin—a scratch spin, with my legs crossed and arms briefly tucked in but still holding the camera, something I’ve done many times. I move out of it and glide forward, picking up speed again before shifting into a toe loop, landing cleanly, and circling the rink once more, the tiny camera capturing all my moves close up so the viewer feels like they’re moving with me.
In some ways, this impromptu routine feels like every morning of my life growing up, when I spent hours at the rink practicing, refining, and aiming for not only excellence, but perfection.
Sometimes reaching it. Always craving it.
Now, though, it feels like freedom. I barely think of the camera, but when I do, it doesn’t feel like a judge. It’s an outlet for me to express the joy I feel in sport and in movement.
A few more songs, and I’m breathless, exuberant, and ready to teach.
Good thing, because Jasmine and her mom have just arrived. I turn off the camera, then put it away in my bag. I’ll edit the video later and post it, and thanks to modern technology the stick won’t appear in the final clip. Yay software.
“Let’s do this,” I say enthusiastically to the twelve-year-old sporting braids, a beanie and a morning glow.
Then we work—but I try to make it feel like play.
“Yes! You got this,” I cheer every time she nails a move.
When she struggles, I help her break it down and find the joy in the sport too. That’s what I tried to recapture in college—after taking a year off to see a therapist, work at a coffee shop, and get my mind right again. It worked. I started skating for fun and, eventually, for performance. Turns out I like the performance side better than competition.
But I love teaching most of all. When we finish, Jasmine asks, “Do you think I can go to the Olympics? Or maybe the national championships? It would be so cool to be the first Black girl since Debi Thomas to win a medal.”
My chest swells with hope. But tightens, too, since I don’t want to say the wrong thing, especially since I love her dreams, and her pride in what they might mean. “I think anything is possible. But the most important thing is to keep showing up—if you love the sport.”
“I do love it,” she says, resolute and hopeful all at once.
“Then I’ll see you at our next lesson,” I say, naming the time and date. Tyler is heading out of town in two days, but Jasmine does afternoon lessons too, so I can make those before I pick up the kids.