EMILY TRAN

My life is like a movie.  

If Alysa Liu’s teenage career were to be categorised as a movie genre, it would be the classic coming-of-age film. The opening credits roll; a Star-Spangled banner hangs above a lit-up stadium; the camera flashes; a montage of a promising figure skater who leaps from the ice rink to the Tonight Show plays on screen; snapshots of a small, yet mighty champion being pulled up to the first-place podium by her competitors is captured by broadcasting channels. The television headline echoes in red, white, and blue: The U.S Junior champion in 2018, and a two-time Junior Grand Prix champion. A highly probable favourite of the next Winter Olympics.  

But the immortality of youth is a fable, and soon the veil of glory peels away, revealing the aches and scars of a life that must be left behind.  

Now, Alysa looks back at her adolescence, reflecting on the palimpsest of her past life, narrated and documented by sports journalists and photographers across the country. Her career was once shaped and defined by the adults in her life: her father, a carousel of figure skating coaches, and sport agents. But to what point can Alysa continue to live by the rulebook for success without knowing what joys exist beyond those margins? 

When COVID hit, Alysa understood what a life outside of skating was like for the first time. Before the intersection of 18th Street and San Pablo Avenue was eerily quiet, Alysa never had to think twice about what her passion was or what she aspired to do. Her life was confined to a rotation of strict 7 AM to 7 PM training schedules, long road trips to competitions at places with names that all blurred into a mass of anonymity, and online school assignments.  

Perfection was the subliminal message echoed in every training session.  

Warm up.  

Jump rope.  

Skates on.  

Rehearse jumps.  

Please land.  

Don’t fall.  

Repeat.  

As the Oakland Ice Center was shutting down, a day off appeared to be the antidote to Alysa’s rigid training days. The possibilities of doing nothing and everything stalled at her feet, revealing an alternate lifestyle that opposed the mechanical rigidity of her usual training routines.  

Once the pandemic slowed down, a few ice rinks were secretly opening. Figure skaters would drive across states, carrying luggage, with masks covering their faces. Alysa’s schedule was—prima facie—no different. Her dad would drive her from Oakland to Delaware, drop her off at the ice rink, drive back to their Airbnb home, and work remotely on his laptop. However, unbeknownst to her father, Alysa had her own plans once she stepped onto the rink in solitude. She lay on the ice for hours, blasting music to the highest volume. This was one of the rare times when the ice was completely pure and untouched. The only lines marked on the ice were from her own skates, which can be traced from the exit gate to the centre of the ice rank. And how good life was—she can lie here forever as if adults’ expectations from the outside can never infiltrate these soundproof walls.   

I think the weight of “world champion” is non-existent… 

It’s fake.  

Dread followed Alysa in every training session leading up to the 2022 Olympics at the San Francisco rink. As she watched other skaters jump, the monotony of the routine, the endless muscle aches, the dull sound of the rope brushing against the wooden gym floor compounded into a vision of nightmare. She finally held the hands of the jump rope. The momentum of her hands and feet were absorbed by the repetitive crisscrossing and uncrossing of the rope; a continuous motion of rapid lines lashed across the ceiling.  

After Alysa tightened her skates, she moved her shoulders back and her head tilted up as she shuffled to the ice rink. Skaters were gliding through the ice in their black tights, creating friction between their hands, and exhaling deep breaths of steam. The two coaches entered the arena, their bodies engulfed in over-sized puffer jackets. Before Alysa’s eyes, the rink turned into a blur of glaring pale lights and dark shadows. As hot tears streamed down Alysa’s cheeks, she looked up at her coaches and shook her head: 

I can’t do this.  

I don’t want to be here.  

I don’t want to skate.  

Without needing to look at each other, her coaches knew the training session was over. Instead of a full day spent on the ice rink, the remaining hours were spent out in the noon sun, surrounded by the tranquil valleys, and sloping hills of California.  

They sat down on a bench, watching the sun merge with the trees, creating an illusion of five circles linked together to form unison. In the distance, the Golden Gate Bridge stood immortal, bold red, and suspended in thin air, clouds, and misty blues. After a few minutes of silence, one of her coaches turned to her and said: 

It’s okay. You can quit.  

You can quit today if you want.  

There’s so much more in life than the sport.  

When the Olympics came to an end, Alysa announced her retirement on Instagram. The post revealed her standing on the ice rink; her arms were stretched wide on either side, and a black mask covered the lower half of her face. The picture was followed by a lengthy caption, announcing her decision to step off the ice.  

With a simple swipe, all her past achievements and glories vanished on social media. The only remaining post online was of a former athlete with her arms embraced towards the unknown. Her account was analogous to a Gen Z pop star launching their latest album; all reminders of the past were archived, leaving behind a blank canvas to post new aesthetic boards and encourage the fans to guess the context of it all. Close-ups of sneakers, snaps of a volleyball game, anime displayed on an iPad screen, a bottle of Mogu Mogu poured into a bowl of swarming red jellies, all encapsulated the chaos of her teen life. The ice princess with bows pinned to her bun, morphed into a young adult in a graphic tee, baggy jeans, and Vans. With her wavy hair down to her shoulders in her pics, Alysa embodied the disposition of a snowboarder: relaxed, but with a streak of devil-may-care rebellion running through her veins. 

Let’s go down the Black Diamond.  

Alysa, her four siblings, and her best friend decided to ski for the first time in early January 2024.  

From the summit of Heavenly, the peripheral borders of Lake Tahoe were visible, bleeding a deep blue. The wind howled, an animated spirit of the wild. Tree branches from either side of the mountain inherited the sounds of aching limbs and grinding teeth. A steady pulse from the mountains summoned the other skiers to hurl down the elusive slopes.  

Bewitched, Alysa decided to follow them.  

And… she was possessed by the compulsion, the need, the need for it.  

She felt it.  

It was inexplicably familiar. It was the moment when—with immediate conviction on the ice— she initiated an outside edge takeoff, revolved in midair, and her coach grinned as they gripped the radar gun with affirmative belief. It was the completion of a program with a satisfying Bielmann spin, arched back, head up, and the ceiling above swum clockwise in a blur of blinding lights. It was the display of a layback spin, chest pointed to the sky, and the commentators exclaimed: Phenomenal! This is a performance of pure artistry… 

The snow began to whittle down to hard ice and residues of rocks. Alysa’s knees started to bend more, giving way to the increasing steepness of nature. The wind transformed into a wolf racing alongside her as she accelerated down the slopes. Her line of vision was the bright torchlight at the end of the tunnel of trees. This source of light appeared to be minuscule at first glance; the size of a bud, tight-lipped, yet anticipating its fruitful state. As Alysa’s stance grew narrower, the tunnel of evergreen trees widened, and this bright circle kept growing, larger and larger. Soon enough, the circle revealed its true self: a full golden sun sitting above a row of cabin lodges.  

Alysa reached the base of the mountain, fully basked in golden light. She turned to her best friend. Her cheeks were flushed, and she was out of breath: 

I’m going to skate again.  

Starting from tomorrow.