Unleashing my identity through figure skating
Most months of the year, most weeks of the month, and most hours of the day, I am a sixteen-year old high schooler. I go to a high school with a student body of over four thousand. I walk from class-to-class with my peers. I am an ordinary student at high school fascinated by bursting my newest intellectual curiosities.
When I am not spending my time learning about the fundamentals of macroeconomics or uncovering how to effectively write a rhetorical analysis in English, I am a figure skater.
When I step through the doors of my skating rink, I am immersed into a different reality — an unparalleled reality of complete liberation from the stresses of school. Before every skating session, I ease the tension in my muscles, I erase memories of my last eight hours spent at school, and I become a figure skater. As I lace up my black, size 280 edea skates, I am electrified by the tantalizing possibility of conquering the unknown: would I endlessly fall or would I acquire a new jump? I would only know after two-hours skating alone on the ice.
I brace my mind for what is to come: a two-hour skating session of hundreds of jumps and countless spins. I put my lime green and fluorescent orange guards on my quarter-inch metal blade, I zip up my North Face jacket, stand up, walk to the doors of the blue rink, and take a glide onto the 200 feet by 85 feet sheet of ice. I am jolted by the sudden sensation of skating on frozen water — with blades that are slightly thicker and sturdier than string. As I set my belongings on the boards, I immediately feel the cold, bitter air pushing against my face. I connect my phone to the bluetooth speaker, turn on my “skating” playlist, and skate away.
As I skate from end-to-end and corner-to-corner, I become unshakable at the possible hardships I may endure for the next two-hours. I barrel down and across the rink. I feel my blades rip through the ice, while experiencing the air resistance dispersing across my hand and face as I set up for a double axel. I spring off my left foot, vault into the air, and rotate two-and-a-half times. A mere two seconds later, I fall. I endure the stinging impact of my left hip hitting the rock-solid ice. I quickly push myself off the ice, get a sip of water, and I tell myself to land the next attempt. But again, I fall. I maintain a resolute mindset. I tell myself to land the next attempt — but I fall again, and again. For twenty minutes, all I hear is thud after thud. With my pants soaked, my gloves wet, and my body aching, I am deluged and consumed by frustration. I place both hands on my head, lean my body back, look up towards the ceiling of the rink, close my eyes, and visualize my next attempt that would follow. I pictured a double axel jumped with ease and — hopefully — perfection.
I begin to make another strive to land the double axel again. I accelerate from the boards to charge across the ice, feeling the frigid breeze spread through my hair. I set up for the jump. I tell myself you can do it — I knew I could. I took my time, relaxed and pressed my shoulders down, inhaled, drew my arms into my body, and thrusted myself into the air. It felt like an eternity during the moment I was in the air: my left boot foot over my right, my legs and thighs squeezed together, my elbows tight against my body, my head to the right, every vertabrae in my back and neck as straight as a stick, and my determined mindset to finally land the jump. Half a second later, my blade strikes the ice, and I successfully land the jump — finally, I thought.
I recognized the validation of my success, but I had to hit ten more. I could not walk through the doors of the rink just landing one double axel. My two-hour session was spent falling on hundreds of double axels and landing ten. My two-hour session was spent perfecting and refining my three-minute long program for competition. The two-hour session I meticulously anticipated would be over in a blink of an eye. I would be propelled back into a reality without skating.
All of the strenuous work I chose to expose myself to is because of skating. My desire is to find my self on top of the podium. My desire is to skate a program that I can be proud of. My desire is to land a new jump or unveil a new spin. Whether I achieve my goal by praying to the heavenly angels at 11:11 or skate an hour more, I dedicate everything that is mine to sacrifice and to secure my goal in skating. This is my purpose. Skating is my purpose. In every two-hour session on the ice, I discover more about myself than any other activity could elicit out of me.
I could spend two hours of my time doing homework, eating food, or catching up on the latest “Madam Secretary” episode on CBS. But I spend my time at an ice rink. During the one-hundred-twenty-minutes being alone on the ice, seeking to achieve my goal, I reveal and mold an identity — my identity. I shape an identity that dismisses failure by promoting determination and tenacity during hardships. I create an identity where I fight steadfast for the things I seek to accomplish — everything from grasping an “A” in high school to fighting about political issues I yearn to advocate for. The identity I have shaped during my countless hours at the rink, is an identity that I could have only acquired through figure skating. And I would not trade my time on the ice for anything.
