The Gravity on Ice
The Art of balancing mind, body, patience, and control.
People always told my mother that I was a natural Grace on ice. There was nothing more satisfying than the moment I stepped onto a rink, freshly kissed by the Zamboni. The sound, crisp, as blades kissed glass. Everything in the world went quiet. So quiet that all of my thoughts would clear. It was just me, my breath, my balance, and my grace.
“Push! This will help your axel. You need more power!” My coach instructed.
I remember going in circles; crossovers were a simple exercise. One of the first skills taught is to get comfortable with shifting weight and maintaining balance on the outer edges of razor-thin blades. It was rudimentary at my level, mechanical, and hollow as muscle memory and instinct kicked in. The purpose that day wasn’t technique or precision—it was power. While I may have been gifted with grace and enthusiasm, I seemed to always lack power.
“MOVE! WITH! PURPOSE!” She punctuated each word with a thundering clap, loud enough to hear through her gloves. Her voice echoed through the rink.
She’d said it a million times. But for the first time, at the age of eleven, I was faced with a physical manifestation of what I’d been quietly grappling with. Purpose. What if I didn’t have a purpose? The thought broke through the ice. I could be as graceful and gifted as everyone claimed I was, but if I didn’t have purpose, I would never have power. But how much grace would I have to sacrifice to achieve it?
I felt my toe-pick catch. When chasing perfection, the smallest mistakes hurt the most. I felt my breath hitch as the world tilted and I completely spun out, narrowly avoiding the cold, unforgiving ice. Reminding me that I was a master and a prisoner to gravity at once.
It was a world where spotlights made our glitter and rhinestones sparkle, outfits were chosen to accentuate all of our lines, presentation mattered as much as practicality, and girls aged out early. Most of us would never make it to the Olympics. Being a figure skater could be lonely. All of the girls around the rink were friends, but most of the time it was just you, your coach, and the ice.
I’d failed to master mind over matter.
The forty-five-minute drive to and from the rink grew quieter and angrier between me and my mother, who sacrificed her time to help me pursue my passion. Her patience for my slowly growing melancholy and attitude had worn thin, as I felt my internal turmoil was something she did not understand.
So at thirteen, I quit. Resigned to be a prisoner of gravity, as all mortals were.
A Love Letter by Michelle Lee
Written with Honey
