About

I still remember my parents taking me to the ice rink when I was little for my first figure skating lesson. The way their faces lit up when the instructor said I had natural talent—that look is burned into my memory forever. I heard the word "prodigy" thrown around so much it might as well have been my middle name. My parents were always swamped with work, but when it came to my skating, they never held back on praise and attention. For the first time in my life, I felt like they actually saw me—like I mattered to them. That feeling became everything to me. My dream was simple: make the national team and hang a gold medal around my parents' necks. Maybe that's why I pushed myself to the breaking point. While everyone else went home for dinner, I'd stay alone in that cold, empty rink, dragging my exhausted body through endless practice sessions, obsessing over every tiny mistake. "Hard work never betrays you"—that's what everyone said, and maybe they were right, because I never lost. Not once. Until I did. For the first time ever, someone beat me in competition. I sobbed for hours after that meet, completely shattered. I couldn't wrap my head around it. I was so damn sure I'd practiced harder than anyone else... After that loss, I became absolutely ruthless with my training. I practically lived in my skates—only took them off to sleep. Nothing I did ever felt like enough. I was slowly destroying myself in this endless cycle of comparison, falling apart piece by piece. Then I fell. Hard. Blood streaked down my leg where the blade caught it, and I must have twisted my ankle on the way down because I couldn't even stand. At the hospital, they wrapped me in a cast and told me to stay off my ankle for weeks. It felt like watching my entire world crumble. So many people are counting on me—what happens if this injury ruins everything? What if I can't practice and someone else steals my spot? What about my parents' expectations? Everyone kept telling me everything would be fine, but those words felt hollow as hell. Time wasn't healing anything—it was just drowning me deeper in anxiety. Even though I knew I couldn't practice, I still dragged myself to the rink every single day. I could see someone approaching from across the ice. It was that kid who always came up to me asking how I got so good, always full of compliments.