Jennifer Kirk: I went skating and felt compelled to write about it
http://www.facebook.com/#!/notes/jennifer-kirk/i-went-skating-and-felt-compelled-to-write-about-it/10150156633478177
I went skating and felt compelled to write about it!
by Jennifer Kirk on Wednesday, March 30, 2011 at 10:00am
I’ve spent the past six years on an exhaustive search for home. I’ve searched for it in different people, different experiences, and different states. I’ve stumbled into relationships and dabbled in new careers, thinking they would be the thing that would finally give me that sense of security and safety I so deeply crave. But instead of making me feel complete and content, my search left me feeling restless and anxious. A few months ago, I finally resigned myself to the fact that I needed to get over it, suck it up, and learn to live with the emptiness.
This all changed last Saturday night. On a public skating session in suburban Detroit, surrounded by screaming high schoolers and adult hockey players, I found what I’ve been searching for: I found my home.
In August, 2005, I walked away from my skating career and vowed to never look back. I was done, finished. I was angry, and I was hurt-emotionally and physically. It was as if I were walking away from a torrid love affair. For years, skating had been my rock, my love. It didn’t matter where in the world I was; if I had ice, I was safe. But after my mom died, I felt like skating turned on me. I got caught up in the pressure that came from being near the top of such a public and transient career. Without my mom’s love to keep me grounded, I was swept up in the confusion and lived only to please those around me. The agents, the coaches, the expectations--it was all too much for my teenage self to handle. Old wounds came back to haunt me, and I started a downward spiral off the ice, blaming skating for my emotional and physical demise.
But it wasn’t skating’s fault.
I think it’s easy for former skaters to become bitter, to carry around a sense of hurt, to think that unreached dreams are a reflection of something deficient in you. These are lies. I've believed these lies for the past six years, and it’s led me on a never-ending search for comfort and has taken me away from the sport that shaped so much of who I am.
Most of us skaters grow up thinking that if we don’t achieve Olympic glory, there’s a part of us that is less-than. I now realize that ultimate goal has nothing to do with the beauty of skating or what the sport is really about. Rather than some end goal, our skating careers are defined by the daily obstacles we face, many of which appear to be quite mundane at the time but ultimately define our careers. Landing that last triple toe in your long program runthrough on a Wednesday afternoon, despite the fact that you’ve already skated two sessions, your lungs are screaming, and you are sure you have nothing left in you--that shows you what you're made of. These moments, they shape us, and these are the victories that can never be taken away from us.
What happens when a skater quits the sport-no matter what level they achieved-is that he or she is thrust into a world filled of uncertainty. A once structured life, mapped out by daily training sessions and upcoming competitions, is suddenly gone. There is no one telling you what to do; there is no event to train for. Days are void of excitement, and without the ice, it’s so easy to lose a part of yourself. It can be so easy to become bitter; to think only of the disappointments; to feel lost, confused, and to go through a sort of mid-life crisis in your teens or early twenties.
If I could give skaters--retired or those still competing--any advice it would be to stop focusing on the end result or what hasn’t gone your way. You are bound to face disappointment in your career, but please don’t blame the sport. And, as hard as it may be, embrace the struggles-both on and off the ice. These struggles shape us and show us our strength.
Skating is a beautiful sport, filled with grace, athleticism, and power. Unfortunately, the sport can also bring with it some less-than-wonderful side effects. The challenge is to embrace the love and joy without attaching yourself to the disappointment or what others put on you during your career. Getting back on the ice has helped to remind me of the love. And for that, I am so grateful.
I’m lucky in a sense, because it doesn’t matter where in the world I am-Idaho; a pond in Waterford, Michigan; or Gangneung, Korea-I now know I can seek out a sheet of ice and immediately be home.
I went skating and felt compelled to write about it!
by Jennifer Kirk on Wednesday, March 30, 2011 at 10:00am
I’ve spent the past six years on an exhaustive search for home. I’ve searched for it in different people, different experiences, and different states. I’ve stumbled into relationships and dabbled in new careers, thinking they would be the thing that would finally give me that sense of security and safety I so deeply crave. But instead of making me feel complete and content, my search left me feeling restless and anxious. A few months ago, I finally resigned myself to the fact that I needed to get over it, suck it up, and learn to live with the emptiness.
This all changed last Saturday night. On a public skating session in suburban Detroit, surrounded by screaming high schoolers and adult hockey players, I found what I’ve been searching for: I found my home.
In August, 2005, I walked away from my skating career and vowed to never look back. I was done, finished. I was angry, and I was hurt-emotionally and physically. It was as if I were walking away from a torrid love affair. For years, skating had been my rock, my love. It didn’t matter where in the world I was; if I had ice, I was safe. But after my mom died, I felt like skating turned on me. I got caught up in the pressure that came from being near the top of such a public and transient career. Without my mom’s love to keep me grounded, I was swept up in the confusion and lived only to please those around me. The agents, the coaches, the expectations--it was all too much for my teenage self to handle. Old wounds came back to haunt me, and I started a downward spiral off the ice, blaming skating for my emotional and physical demise.
But it wasn’t skating’s fault.
I think it’s easy for former skaters to become bitter, to carry around a sense of hurt, to think that unreached dreams are a reflection of something deficient in you. These are lies. I've believed these lies for the past six years, and it’s led me on a never-ending search for comfort and has taken me away from the sport that shaped so much of who I am.
Most of us skaters grow up thinking that if we don’t achieve Olympic glory, there’s a part of us that is less-than. I now realize that ultimate goal has nothing to do with the beauty of skating or what the sport is really about. Rather than some end goal, our skating careers are defined by the daily obstacles we face, many of which appear to be quite mundane at the time but ultimately define our careers. Landing that last triple toe in your long program runthrough on a Wednesday afternoon, despite the fact that you’ve already skated two sessions, your lungs are screaming, and you are sure you have nothing left in you--that shows you what you're made of. These moments, they shape us, and these are the victories that can never be taken away from us.
What happens when a skater quits the sport-no matter what level they achieved-is that he or she is thrust into a world filled of uncertainty. A once structured life, mapped out by daily training sessions and upcoming competitions, is suddenly gone. There is no one telling you what to do; there is no event to train for. Days are void of excitement, and without the ice, it’s so easy to lose a part of yourself. It can be so easy to become bitter; to think only of the disappointments; to feel lost, confused, and to go through a sort of mid-life crisis in your teens or early twenties.
If I could give skaters--retired or those still competing--any advice it would be to stop focusing on the end result or what hasn’t gone your way. You are bound to face disappointment in your career, but please don’t blame the sport. And, as hard as it may be, embrace the struggles-both on and off the ice. These struggles shape us and show us our strength.
Skating is a beautiful sport, filled with grace, athleticism, and power. Unfortunately, the sport can also bring with it some less-than-wonderful side effects. The challenge is to embrace the love and joy without attaching yourself to the disappointment or what others put on you during your career. Getting back on the ice has helped to remind me of the love. And for that, I am so grateful.
I’m lucky in a sense, because it doesn’t matter where in the world I am-Idaho; a pond in Waterford, Michigan; or Gangneung, Korea-I now know I can seek out a sheet of ice and immediately be home.