Author's Note: I am not claiming to have come up with the concept for this article; nor am I claiming Article #13276, "Make It Happen - 1" by N00RA, as my own. Her Author's Note states that she placed a one in title in hopes that other people would share their stories of positive change, so here's mine.
I've always been someone that likes the feel of cold air blowing around them; I have always enjoyed, even loved, the sensation of moving so quickly that it's tantamount to unbelievable; I've always craved the knowledge that maybe, even as just another speck on our huge planet, I can amaze people with the things I'm capable of.
It makes sense, then, that the sport of figure skating consumed me whole when I was very young.
For a very long time, figure skating was my sport. Everything on Earth came second to skating - friends, family, schoolwork (which I still got done, don't you worry), and even material possessions. There was a long period of time where I was forced to choose between another session or a pair of shoes to replace the ones that had been duct taped together a hundred and one times, because money doesn't grow on trees but figure skating consumes it like a woodchipper. Every single time I chose to be on the ice, and luckily for me I didn't hit a growth spurt to grow me out of my third grade clothes until the sixth grade.
One day something in me clicked. Unfortunately, that something clicked off. Instead of a much-needed release, lacing up my skates and taking those first steps onto the ice became a chore. The cold was suddenly something I detested. At one point I actually started wearing sweatshirts again over my tank tops at practice, something I hadn't done since the age of four. In retrospect I now realize that a portion of that was due to my increasingly terrible eating habits, but I'd be lying if I said I didn't believe it was also due in part to the fact I just didn't like what I was doing. For a year and a half I faked sick every opportunity I got, never having the courage to admit to my parents that all the expenses of skating had been for naught.
Eventually, though, that had to be said; and for three years my skates sat in the back of my closet, lonely and broken down and silently wishing for somebody to use them again. I would look at them sometimes when I did trivial things like "Spring Cleaning" and sometimes they'd earn a tear or two from me. Despite the fact it'd been my choice to drop the lifestyle, and that I was at perfect liberty to do so, guilt tended to consume me whenever I saw those lonely skates. I missed my sport. I missed everything about skating and the friendships I'd garnered from it and the morals I'd discovered.
It took me all of those three years to realize I missed it enough to finally go back.
Two years ago, I pulled those skates out from under the leopard blanket I'd used to hide them from myself.
Two years ago, I stepped back onto the ice with a sweatshirt on and came off with it slung over my arm.
Two years ago, I somehow rediscovered my drive and my passion - and since then I've never looked back.
I'm proud of myself, honestly. I'm proud that I went back to something I was sure I hated because now I'd give anything to keep it with me forever. If I were to miss one of those five-to-nine sessions every weekday morning, I think I'd end up dragging myself down my street in my skates until I realized I was moving slower than I could walk and that my blades were being obliterated. If I didn't have my coach to hone in on my terrible mindset some days and assure me that everybody can't be happy all the time, I think I'd be sitting in my room feeling sorry for myself.
Skating has taught me a lot of things - things I don't want to forget and that I won't ever not remember. Indirectly, it's also taught me to give things a second chance.
Especially myself.
