Stronger than I was 400 days ago
"Next up, Sophie!"
A hush fell over the crowd. The only sounds I could hear were my own breathing and the scraping of my blades.
I'd never felt so small. Upon the spotlights, my shadow stretched long across the glittering ice, making me seem tinier in the enormous rink. My only company was soft classical music. The spectators’ expectant gazes were silent judges, their intense scrutiny anvils threatening to crush my body and mind.
Skating wasn't always this stressful. My first year, I skated for sheer pleasure. I never felt more alive than when gliding on fresh ice, breathing in crisp air. (And admittedly, seven-year-old me couldn't wait for the girly competition outfits!) I picked up the basics quickly, and because of my physique, my coaches all said I was made for the sport.
But as I geared up for competitive skating the following year, skating began to take over and everything started to change. Before I knew, I traded in hangouts for hours of training. Sleeping in on weekends became a luxurious memory, as mornings started at 5 sharp. No more sleepovers. No more last-minute plans. No more food-court binges. With each season, I gave up more, and soon the bulk of my existence was devoted to skating.
Despite winning large-scale competitions like the renowned West Coast Challenge, I was consumed by overwhelming stress and loneliness. The constant focus on my own performance and achievement left little room for companionship, as my teammates were often my competition rivals. It was difficult to make friends with so much tension between us. School wasn't any easier. How could I make and keep friends when I was constantly being pulled out for training?
Every day, my unhappiness gnawed at me. I schemed for solutions, but leaving the rink seemed the only plausible option. I knew its hyper-competitive environment was toxic. I also knew I alone was responsible for my happiness. In tenth grade, I bit the bullet and joined a synchronized skating team, hoping that a more relaxed environment—one where athletes join forces toward a shared artistic vision—could reignite my long-lost passion.
From day one, I was welcomed with smiles and friendly chatter, something I hadn’t experienced in a long time. I still remember the Olympic Challenge, where we had to team-up to compete for the ultimate prize: a bag of Sour Patches. I set my mind on a double axel and a level 3 turn, earning us 20 points. As I sped up to execute my moves, something struck me: I wasn't focused on avoiding mistakes or fearing blame. Instead, I felt more motivated to try new, challenging jumps since we were all cheering for each other. I was skating with others, not against them.
This unconditional support enabled me to skate at a gentler place, helping me to rediscover the rhythm of each turn during trickier jumps. The rink, once a battlefield, felt more like a theme park. To my surprise, I found myself looking forward to practicing!
Synchronized skating was a different ballgame. My teammates weren't enemies trying to outmaneuver me, and I wasn't constantly trying to prove my worth. We were there for each other, wins and losses alike. Together, we won regionals, dominated the provincial finals, and finally competed in nationals. What I gained from these competitions went beyond the medals; it was my rekindled passion and fresh perspectives.
Today, I still skate solo, carrying the team spirit that I gained from synchro. Where I once saw rivalry, I now see a supportive community that pushes each other to do better. I'd never expected my skating to flourish in a less competitive environment, but it's getting better every day. I'm no longer pushing for perfection but focusing on progress—on skating for myself again. No longer feeling small beneath the spotlight, I’m confident in my ability to uplift others and contribute to a nurturing environment.
