When Your Body Changes The Plot: Grieving the Life You Thought You’d Have

This coming March, the season’s final cross-country skiing World Cup races conclude in Lake Placid, New York. I live in Maine, and when I was training for the Olympics, I stayed at the Lake Placid Olympic training facility many times. That course is my home course, and I know it like I know the wrinkles under my eyes. I have so many memories from training and racing in Lake Placid. 

As a young skier, I meticulously planned my future. I would train for the 2014 Winter Olympics and compete for 12 years, retiring after the upcoming 2026 Winter Olympics. I had no idea what I’d do after retirement, but that didn’t matter when I was 16 years old. 

But at the height of my skiing career, my body gave out, and I became chronically ill.

I’ve been ill for 17 years now. I used to be able to ski a little bit for fun, but now simply getting out of bed tires me. Going downstairs to visit with a friend uses a day’s worth of energy. I can’t even imagine how weak I’d feel on skis now. 

A few weeks ago, my former skiing coach reached out to me to ask if I planned to be a spectator at the World Cup. I asked my parents, who didn’t want to go. When I got sick, they stopped watching races because watching young skiers live my dream was too painful. Seeing Jessie Diggins, a friend of mine who’s an Olympic skier around my age, compete in Lake Placid would open old wounds.

I won’t lie — I’m proud of Jessie but still feel pain every time I open social media and see that she won another medal. She puts an impressive amount of effort, care, and discipline into the sport and always wins fair and square. Jessie Diggs is one of the best Nordic skiers in history. I just wish that I had the opportunity to compete alongside her. 

My caregiver agreed to drive me to Lake Placid so that I could watch my friend end her skiing career. I feel emotional thinking about how the two of us slept in the same bed at our Junior World races, before Jessie reached the height of her career. And now I get to watch her glide across that finish line in her final race. I’m honored to be part of Jessie’s journey. 

I know that I’ll wish that I were in that race. I’ll see a group of strong athletes who I thought would be my competitors. I will see my childhood ski coaches and former teammates who probably won’t even recognize me. I’ll get to hug my coach, who I adored as a junior athlete because he was patient, noticed my inclination to push too hard, and respectfully told me to slow down.

This could very well be the last time that I see my former coaches and competitors in person. 

I’ve mourned my Olympic skiing dreams for 17 years, but the grieving process hasn’t gotten any easier. I still cry daily because my life hasn’t been the smooth path that I expected. Instead, my life has felt like walking on a thin strip of burning coals above a crocodile-filled marsh. My heart is shattered, not for my former teammates, but for my 19-year-old self who didn’t know how much trauma lay ahead.

I had to rebuild my identity alone, locked away in a treatment center, without contact with loved ones. I’ve been hidden away this whole time. But I’ll no longer remain in hiding. Yes, I’m ashamed of how thin my body has become, and yes, I know that everyone will probably comment on my looks, but I need to go to the World Cup for myself — and for Jessie Diggins.

I want to come out of hiding and re-enter life. Just because I’m not an Olympian doesn’t mean that I should take up less space in this world or hide away from my former teammates and coaches.  That’s why I’ll travel to Lake Placid to cheer on Team USA, with rainbow hair and glitter-streaked cheeks. 

I wish I could say that I had a long Olympic ski career and planned to retire this year. Still, I want to support Jessie Diggins in her last race, even though I wish I were competing alongside her. She’s a legend ‘til the end, and I’ll be proud to watch her race.

Photo by Nicolai Berntsen on Unsplash