Courage on the Ice
Published April 24, 2005
My daughter had a life-changing experience recently. She’s only seven and she’ll probably forget it,
but it was life-changing nonetheless.
As a beginning ice skater she decided to “compete” (and I use the word loosely) at a local skating
show. Wisely, the skating coaches require that their little charges perform one exhibition prior to the big
event; a kind of dry-run. Smart idea. Because it turns out my daughter was scared to death.
As soon as we got to the rink for the exhibition and started lacing up the skates she looked worried.
“I’m not going to remember my routine,” she panicked.
“Think positively,” I reminded her, “and just take a deep breath and have fun.”
“I can’t have any fun if I don’t remember it and I’ll just be standing there with everyone staring at me.”
I picked her up gently and carried her out to the ice, where all the skaters were lined up, sequined
dresses billowing on top of their trembling limbs. I had a hint the shaking wasn’t just from the chilly arena.
Perhaps picking up on the energy of the other dozen or so terrified skaters, my daughter did something
very out of character. She cried. Not just a tear trickling down her cheek, but sobbing into my shoulder,
clinging to me for dear life and repeating over and over, “I can’t, I can’t. I can’t.”
Oh, the power of those words.
I flashed back to my own petrified self at her age, ready to turn tail and run when I thought there was
the slightest possibility that I might not be perfect. Or worse, that I might embarrass myself. Now, here
was my daughter, my beautiful little reflection of…me.
I didn’t know what to say to make it easier; but I knew one thing: she had to get on that ice.
“If you don’t skate tonight and you choose not to compete at all, you will always wonder how it might
have been. And you might forget your routine,” I added, trying to validate her feelings, “but you’ll never
know unless you start saying ‘I can.’”
I’d love to say my pep talk was enough to persuade her on to the ice, but the truth is this: her coach,
Teri, gently pried her legs from around my waist and her arms from my neck, smiled at me, and told me
to leave.
So I sat in the stands and cried. The frustration of not being able to bandage our child’s every pain is
sometimes heartbreaking. And always exactly what they need.
I watched the other skaters, scared but smiling, and second-guessed myself. Should I have told her it
was ok to drop out? That she didn’t have to go through with it if she didn’t really want it? In my heart,
though, I knew she had to do this, and the only person who could get her through it was herself. She
could decide later if she didn’t enjoy performing, but if she dropped out now she would never know.
Skater after skater took the ice and my heart sank, wondering if she was still crying on the bench.
Moments later, a grim-faced beautiful little blonde in a yellow sequined dress stepped onto the rink,
glided to the center, and struck a pose. I didn’t care how well she skated for the next 60 seconds, I knew
she had just won. She had faced her fear and stood waiting, statuesque, for the music to begin.
Afterward, I asked what was it that gave her the courage to finally perform.
“Teri pushed me on the ice,” she said with a smile.
Yet even with a nudge from her coach she still could have rushed back off the ice, or stood frozen
while the music played on and we all watched uncomfortably from the stands. But she didn’t. In the end
she summoned the courage and overcame her fear, something she will need to do many times in her
lifetime. In the end, she skated.