I suffer from a mild form of Raynaud's, a circulatory condition that causes my extremities to feel numb or sting when exposed to the cold for too long. To manage it, I wear a full-body thermal core undergarment beneath my clothing or skate costume. The thin, high-tech fabric traps body heat like a second layer of skin. It keeps my temperature steady and eases my discomfort when the cold settles in too deeply.
The rhythm of my movements is a release as my body and mind coalesce, and I feel as though I'm soaring. It's nearly a transcendental, almost spiritual experience. Every glide, jump, and spin carries me further away from the noise of my life. The ice is my freedom. Here, I'm not Jaxson's wife, not a placeholder or an afterthought. I'm alive, my body strong, capable of things no one even realizes. Just for this brief moment in time, I'm in control of my life, and I don't have to apologize for who I am or what I want.
I know this rink intimately, having spent hundreds of hours here. I lean into a flip and lunge into a flying camel spin that flows into a smooth spiral where my body stretches to its limits. The arc I carve makes me feel fluid, seamless, a part of the glistening expanse beneath my blades. A thrill washes over me as I slow into a glide, leaving silver trails behind me.
Eyes closed, relying only on muscle memory, I imagine myself back in Nice, France, at theInvitational des Étoiles de Glace, or the Stars of Ice Invitational. It was the first competition of the ISU Challenger Series, which began in August. If I want to go to the Olympics in February, I have to keep proving myself, and this is part of my final push.
[Flashback]
The rink is silent, as if the crowd is holding its collective breath.
Even though I never stopped competing, this is the first time since the Olympics that people have really started to notice me again.
I'm not nervous.
I'm confident.
I close my eyes.
Not to escape.
To hold this moment for me.
This isn't a comeback,
I've been coming back every day, every grueling practice, every early morning, every taped ankle, and every under-the-radar event.
No cameras, no fans, no paparazzi or newspapers.
Just hard work.
Sweat.
And a long, punishing road.
“Now… on ze ice, eez Mademoiselle Amelia Smeeth, representing Canada,” the announcer begins, his smooth French accent curling around each word.
His partner joins in, her voice lilting and bubbly, “Ah, oui… she was… ow do you say… ze golden prodigy, non? Ze Olympic dream at sixteen years old, and zen… trah-jeh-dee, no? She was injured!”
“But now, she returns! Quietly, but becoming louder,” he says, chuckling.
The woman purrs, “And zat dress, mon Dieu! Blazing red, over a full thermal suit. Très Canadienne. But she has Raynaud's and needs eet to keep warm. C'est la vie.”
“So mystique! She looks like fire,” the man adds. “Ze Phoenix from ze ashes.”
“Oui! Oui! Maybe eet ez still to be,” she replies, breathlessly.
“Ze Rising Phoenix!” he declares.
I giggle.
And then I let go.
I surrender myself to the music…
…to the ice,
…to the serenity.
