Reflections: A Letter to Amanda, the Athlete

A new series I'm working on - letters to myself at various ages and stages, surrounding important moments or seasons in my life. Entries will be written and published in no specific order.

When I was in the 4th grade, I began to suffer from debilitating migraines. I remember laying in the dark on the cold tile bathroom floor as the world spun around me. I saw doctors, had my eyesight checked, my brain MRI’ed, was tested for just about anything and everything, and nothing worked.

One weekend, I dragged myself out of the house to attend a classmates birthday party - which was hosted at one of our local Ice Rinks. I’d never skated before, so I was excited about this particular adventure.

That afternoon, the strangest thing happened.

There was no migraine.

The following weekend, my dad drove me back to that rink for open “public” skating hours - and the same thing happened. There was no migraine.

The more we repeated this, the more we saw results, and within a few months, the headaches stopped entirely. The explanation we received? Something about the combination of the cold air and the endorphins impacted and reduced the pressure in my brain - to be honest, the specifics weren’t important to me at the time. I just knew I’d found something I loved, and my body happened to love it too. What a thing - them agreeing. Them working together. That was truly a lifetime ago.

My parents offered to sign me up for lessons, just so I could learn a few things and maybe feel more confident on the ice. What they didn’t know is they were about to make one of the best parenting decisions of their lives.

At my first lesson, the director of the skating school came over to me and told me that the $99 skates we’d purchased at “Play It Again Sports” did not have adequate ankle support, and that I’d need to wear those ugly brown rentals until I had a better option. Don’t worry - a better option was secured the following day.

I was 10 years old when I started taking ice skating classes - far older than the average athlete begins to train for this sport, but it didn’t matter. I fell in love with every aspect of being on the ice. From the feeling of gliding across the pristine glass like surface to the sound they made when I would come to a complete stop.

I quickly soared through the basic class levels:

Alpha, Beta, Gamma and Delta (originally named using the Greek alphabet and later renamed Basic 1-6), and when I reached Freestyle 1, the entrance of two foot spins and half rotation jobs swept me off my feet. During that time, my class teacher recommended to my parents that I begin taking private lessons - I was mature enough and dedicated enough to really advance, if I wanted to put in the work.

The next four years are a blur in the best way. I would take one or two private lessons a week, along with a regular level class, an off ice dance class, and a strength and conditioning class and as much practice time as I could squeeze in. During competition season I’d enter anything that was drivable, and I’d work my tail off preparing to wow the judges (and my parents and teammates too). Some mornings I was at the rink at 5:50am before school, other nights I’d not get home until it was well past dark. Then, there was ice show season. The rink I skated it was infamous for their incredible shows, and we spent months properly preparing routines, choreography, getting fit for and designing costumes, etc.

Personally, I was thriving. I’d probably never been happier in my life.

As someone who was bullied a lot in my younger years, the ice was the leveling of the playing field. It brought out the best in me, including my tenacity, my determination, my grit, my grace, and my believe in myself. The ice taught me to work with my body, not against it. Overtime my wins felt bigger and my losses felt smaller - I was learning and soaring and living this whole separate life that very few people at school knew about, and it felt like having this really amazing secret that I got to keep. The ice was my favorite place to be.

By the time I entered high school, I was excused from gym class and study hall each day in order to spend my afternoons on the ice. Many skaters pick a favorite part of the sport to hone in on - there were the dancers, best with creative and impromptu choreography, the spinners, always making their on ice loops tight and succinct, and then there were the jumpers - like me - who felt in many ways that leaving the ice like that felt like flying.

At the top of my game, I had mastered several of the double jumps - each of them differing slightly based off of the takeoff and landing position, the use of the inside or the outside edge of the blade, and what your body needed to do in the air.

My favorite part of learning new jumps was a device called the harness. My coach would strap me in around my waist, and hold the opposite end of the cord which was wrapped high above on a tethered pulley. As soon as I’d take off into the air, my coach would tug just enough that it bought me 3-5 extra seconds in the air, in which I’d quickly check in with my body position, and prepare to land on just one foot, rather than crashing to my bottom time and time again. It really shortened the learning process, and I imagine it saved a lot of injuries too.

I loved it.

I worked with a variety of coaches over the years, each one with different styles, specializing in different things, and I had nothing but respect for each of them. This rink, these people, they had long ago become my tribe. They knew before any of my school friends when things started changing at home, and when nothing and nowhere felt right, I knew I had a home and a family in the rink, including a coach who not only mentored me, but served as a father figure to me as well. He was insightful and intuitive, raising two young daughters of his own, he was the first adult to ever help me understand that my brain and my body had to work as one to be safe (and successful) on the ice, and in life. He’d call me out, from across the rink, when I’d start a pattern of circling, or when I’d take fall after fall after fall. He knew I had to get out of my own way. We had a code phrase, and as silly as I thought it was at the time, every time he used it I knew what it meant. Exhale. Breathe. Pause. Center myself. Wait. Then start again.

When I was 15, he had a massive heart attack and died in his sleep. He was only 49. I’d never lost anyone I’d been so close to before. His death changed me, and changed the way I looked at life. The rink became even more critical to me then. Those people, the people surrounding me on a daily basis, they were the only ones who felt the same loss I did. They were the only ones who understood that the world was a little darker without Cal in it anymore.

The following year, some ice rink politics pushed me away from my second home and my second family, and in retrospect I know I never had the chance to grieve that loss in the way it deserved. For a little while, I packed away my skates and everything that went with them, until I went off to college, where I found a passion for coaching everyone - from toddlers to adults, from learn to skate to the highest levels - and I spent six years of weekends back in a place that felt to me reminiscent of my first rink’s home.

If I could talk with the girl I just shared with you, I’d write a letter addressed to her childhood home, and have it delivered a few months after she let go of her competitive skating career.

Here’s what I’d say to her today.

December 2001

A -

I’m sorry. I’m so so sorry. I know your heart is broken right now. It’s okay to say your heart is broken. You just lost the place that you loved more than anything in the world. I promise you this isn’t the end of your days on the ice. I think you need to hear that the most right now. You made the right decision to walk away. There will be comebacks (twice), there will be coaching (on and off for years), there will be a partner who as an adult, reminds you to lace up your skates and get on the ice every time you feel like you’re losing yourself. Just know that you’ll keep these skates for the next 23 years (no, I’m not joking), and you’ll replace them only so that you can teach your daughter about the sport that stole your heart.

I want you to know more than anything that you did good.

You did so good. From something that started out as an accident and became a hobby, your competitive determination brought out the best in you, and it helped you thrive when all you knew was how to survive. Turn around, and look at how far you’ve come. Really look. Look at your favorite moments. The wins. The first time you landed a clean axel. The first flying camel spin. The way it felt when you soared through the air. The amazing things your body did for and with you. Please, hold onto those moments. Please try to remember them as vividly as possible. You’re going to need to pull from those memories one day. Your body’s going to dramatically change in every way possible a little bit down the road. You’re going to be scared and it’s going to change your life entirely, but it wont erase your past. Don’t let anything erase these parts of your life especially. They’re too special, Amanda.

They gave you life.

Think about the people who have surrounded you during the years that you skated. The friends you made. The people who mentored you. Who loved you. Who cheered you on. Your teammates. Your friends. Your coaches. From Joan to Stephanie and Matt, to Debbie and Cal to Diana - never forget the lessons each of them taught you, both on and off the ice. Return to Thin Ice when you need a reminder of who you were, how you grew, and who you became. Remember how safe you felt at that rink. And remember how you kept you body and your mind in shape, and together, in order to succeed. You set so many lofty goals in this chapter, Amanda, and you never fell short of any of them. Except at that competition in Rockford. I still grimace at that one. But it’s okay. Everyone has the one they wish they could redo. But this sport, this place, these people, they have brought out the best in you. Harness that. Hold tightly. You’re going to need those feelings, those skills, and those memories.

Spend extra time and energy at ice show rehearsals, especially the late nite finale choreography sessions. Those will be some of your favorite moments with your favorite people, and they’ll be the way you hold onto Cal’s memory decades later. I’d tell you to remember the music too, but you do - don’t worry. “Mambo #5”and “Party like its 1999” will always bring you right back to those moments. Speaking of music - you should buy an extra copy of the Tarzan CD because you’re going to scratch yours in replaying “Strangers Like Me” as the last program Cal choreographed for competition season and “You’ll be in my Heart” as the song you played four hundred thousand times after he died. Oh, and the night of the holiday recital last year, the night that Cal died, when you skated his program to “Last Christmas” - the Savage Garden version. It’ll remain ingrained in your heart forever, along with the purple dress with the heart cut out of the side. It’s okay to remember the things that ache right now. Today, I feel a little bit of sadness thinking about them, but I mostly feel grateful for the memories, and proud of the moments.

Not being chosen for Icettes hurt in a way you didn’t see coming. I still think you made the right decision by choosing to leave the rink after that. I also still wish that phone call hadn’t happened. I will always wish it had played out differently. But, it’s critical that you know now, today, that you’re not done with the ice.

You’ll never be done with the ice.

Please continue to believe in yourself. I know you think you can only live your truth inside the walls of that rink, but it’s not true. If you hold on tight enough, it’ll carry you through. You’re just a few years away from college, from changing places and faces and challenges and changes - and what you learned on the ice prepared you for all of this. I promise.

Your going to need the determination, and tenacity, and grit a lot as you grow. Life throws too much at you, and you question your ability to survive often, but the more you hold onto the confidence and independence you gained on the ice, the easier it’ll be to re-locate the foundation you once stood solidly upon.

There’s so much else I want to say, but it’ll come in time. Today, I want you to know that you’re going to be okay - even when you don’t think there’s any way you can be. You’re going to find guardrails in friends and in places, and you’ll find your way back to yourself over and over again, even when you’re afraid you’re lost for good.

Skating gave you that.

Skating gave you every gift it had.

Skating will always be something sacred to you.

I promise.

You’re going to be back.

Remember that.

It’s not over yet.

Always,

A

December 2024