There are a few things that will always crack me open emotionally: a good cup of coffee, a dramatic orchestral swell, and a pair of skates carving clean lines into fresh ice.
Lately, I’ve been glued to the Winter Olympics—not just for figure skating (though, obviously), but for everything. I am a schedule girl. If there’s a heat, a final, a qualifier at an unholy hour? I’m there. Wrapped in a blanket. Snacks within reach. Living my best spectator life.
But figure skating is the heart of it all. It always has been.
I was telling Hector the other night about when I first fell hard for the sport—back when Meryl Davis and Charlie White were everything to me. I loved them so much it actually felt unfair when they retired. And yes, I know, they retired in their early 30s, which is completely reasonable and healthy and adult. But teenage-me (and honestly current-me) wanted more. More programs. More chemistry. More moments that made you sit forward on the couch like, don’t blink or you’ll miss it.
That kind of love doesn’t really go away. It just… waits.
Watching the Olympics this year brought that feeling roaring back. I didn’t even realize how deep I was until I caught myself planning my days around events. And it’s not just nostalgia—this era of skating is unreal. Watching the 2025 Cup of China is how I was introduced to Shun Sato, who’s now repping Japan at the Olympics. When he skates, it looks like he’s floating. Like the ice is optional. Effortless in a way that makes you forget how technically impossible it all is.
And yet—despite how much I love watching him—I have to support American chaos king Ilia Malinin. I mean… come on. The man beat his own world record at the 2025 Grand Prix Final. That’s not confidence, that’s GOAT energy. Watching him skate feels like witnessing the sport actively evolve in real time, and it’s wild to be alive for it.
I think part of why skating lives so deep in me is that it’s been threaded through my life forever. I was the kid who watched Ice Castles (both versions, thank you very much), The Cutting Edge, Ice Princess. If there was an ice rink nearby, I wanted to be on it. Not because I was Michelle Kwan (I was not), but because it felt like flying in a very specific, very cinematic way.
And honestly? I got that love from my mom. She grew up watching Tonya Harding—watching skating as something powerful and gritty and complicated. Not just pretty. That got passed down to me, whether she realized it or not.
Last year, I tried to go skating again, thinking it would feel the same. Spoiler alert: it did not.
I’m heavier now. Less balanced. My body moves differently. I stepped onto the ice and immediately felt like a baby deer who had made a terrible life choice. I felt clumsy. Slow. Like gravity had a personal vendetta against me. There’s a very noticeable difference between skating at 120 pounds and skating closer to 200, and my hips were not subtle about letting me know.
It was humbling. And frustrating. And weirdly emotional.
But here’s the thing—watching the Olympics this year reminded me that my love for skating was never about being perfect at it. It was about the feeling. The drama. The music. The way a good program can make your chest ache a little. I don’t have to be the one on the ice to still belong to it.
There’s also a very real, very practical reason this feels like it’s coming back into my life right now: I live near a skating rink. Like… dangerously near. Close enough that I don’t really have an excuse anymore.
It’s $18 total to skate—$15 for the session and $3 to rent the skates. That’s less than a lot of my impulse coffees. Less than most forms of “I should really be moving my body” motivation. And honestly? I need to start losing weight. Not in a punishing way, not in a shame spiral way—but in a I want to feel steadier, stronger, more at home in my body again way.
So I’ve decided I’m going to force myself to go more often. I’m going to force myself to get comfortable again. Not Olympic-good. Not Michelle Kwan-good. Just… me good.
I was never a jumper. I was never doing choreographed routines or chasing spins that made people stop and stare. What I had was comfort. I knew how to move on the ice without thinking. I trusted it. And that comfort is what led me to roller skating, and eventually roller derby—because once you understand balance and edges and momentum, it follows you.
So I’ll keep watching. I’ll keep cheering. I’ll keep romanticizing the glide, even if my own attempts are a little more Bambi on ice than Olympic podium.
Some loves don’t fade. They just change shape.
