by Karen Chen
So, two years later, in early 2013, when I had to find a new full-time coach, Tammy was the logical choice. But even though Tammy wasn’t a complete stranger to me, the whole thing was still scary. I was leaving home for this new place, and every part of it was unfamiliar—the rink, the locker room, the benches where I’d sit and change into and out of my skates, where I’d keep my bag. Everything would be new—including me. It was weird. Which made having Jeffrey by my side even more meaningful. When my parents and I met with Tammy to agree on our coaching plan, Jeffrey was just hanging there in the background until I told Tammy that he was also a skater. “Oh my gosh, he skates!” Tammy said, before asking Jeffrey to pose for a picture. She sent it to her coaching friends all over the country with the message, Look who arrived with Karen Chen: the cutest little boy with a huge smile!
For the first few months as we transitioned to Riverside, Mom, Jeffrey, and I lived out of a hotel. We wanted to make sure I fit in with my new training environment before committing to a house or an apartment. We had our little hotel room during the week, and after training on Friday, we’d pack up, drive six hours north back home to Fremont, and spend the weekends with my dad. We had a difficult time being away from him, and I know he had a difficult time being away from us. I was constantly aware what my whole family was sacrificing to help me achieve my dream, and never for one second did I take it for granted.
Moving my training to Riverside was a slow, careful transition for me. Not unlike, I imagine, how many teenage girls feel when they move up into high school. At my rink in Fremont, everyone had known me and I had know them; they made signs and cheered for me at competitions. Plus, I was one of the best skaters: big fish, little pond. But in Riverside, I was this small, shy girl surrounded by colorless walls and strange faces. There was no place to hide. It was a competitive environment, and I had to figure out who my friends were and not get caught up in drama or gossip.
Most days, Mom, Jeffrey, and I went to the rink, practiced with Tammy, and barely socialized. Jeffrey and I pretty much talked exclusively to each other, and when it was time to take a training break, we went outside together, sat on the sidewalk, and ate our snacks. I usually packed fruit and yogurt, and mostly he did, too, but he also ate plenty of junk food, including his favorite, hot Cheetos.
Because I felt that skating was my job, I didn’t see my new situation as a sacrifice on my part. It was simply something I had to deal with, and make the best of, in order to reach my ultimate goal. It was one more step on my journey.
In April 2013, Tammy traveled with me to my first international competition, the Gardena Spring Trophy in Italy. I won the novice division, which was, in itself, very exciting! Maybe even more exciting was when Tammy took my photo with Italian skater Carolina Kostner, the World champion and Olympic medalist.
Later that summer, I was invited to compete on the international Grand Prix circuit as a junior. The circuit is based on your place and your points—how you finish one competition determines whether you qualify for later ones. My second international competition ever was in Latvia, and I definitely did not skate my best. I was still figuring out the rhythm and flow of international competition: I was competing on a more intense stage, plus I was jet-lagged the entire time. I took the bronze medal in Latvia, so in order to make the Junior Grand Prix Final, I knew I had to win my next event, which was only two weeks later. As soon as I got home from Latvia and shook off the jet lag, I was on a plane again, this time headed to Kosice, Slovakia. I knew I had to win, and I also knew that I was capable of winning as long as I skated clean. I was way more prepared for this second Junior Grand Prix (JGP) competition compared to the messy one in Latvia. The key was to block out the doubts in my head and allow my body to execute each jump the way I do the majority of the time in practice.
At the competition in Slovakia, I knew what to expect, and I had a better sense of exactly what I wanted to accomplish and how I would do it. I succeeded in skating two clean programs and I won the 2013 JGP Kosice!
The victory also qualified me for the Junior Grand Prix Final, which was being held in Japan, where the fans go crazy. They appreciate quality skating, and as a competitive skater, you dream about those kinds of stages. I desperately wanted to skate well for this Japanese audience.
Settling in for the plane trip from Slovakia back to California, I was finally able to take in the enormity of the moment. I was proud of my victory and excited for the opportunity ahead of me.
“You know what, I’m going to make sure I skate really well at this competition,” I promised my mother before we even landed back home in the United States. “I’m going to be in my best shape ever.”
Little did I know that was one promise I couldn’t keep.
CHAPTER 12
FIGHTING BACK
ONE THING ABOUT THE ICE HAS ALWAYS PERplexed me. I spend enough time on it that it’s practically my second home, and truthfully, it’s where I do feel at home. It’s where I’m my best self, where I gain speed, find power, and take flight. And yet the ice is also where I can feel the most alone. When those big stages appear, and it’s only me in the spotlight and everyone watching and waiting, I am isolated and alone. No one can help me. When I feel that way, I reach up and touch my jade necklace. My mom said it would protect me. But there have been times when my jade necklace wasn’t enough.
I poured everything into my training when I returned home at the end of the summer from the 2013 Junior Grand Prix circuit. Basically it was a countdown until the final in Japan, which started the first week of December, and I had to buckle down and streamline my schedule, eliminating distractions like mindless YouTube surfing.
The triple toe loop can give me fits, especially as part of a jump combination. It was the only technical aspect of my program that needed attention and polish. Tammy was the coach and the expert, but her advice wasn’t clicking with me on this move. I had trouble understanding the concept—how Tammy was teaching and instructing me through the jump phases, how to approach and prepare for takeoff. The technique felt awkward, like I was writing with the wrong hand. My body simply didn’t want to be put in that position.
I was faced with a dilemma, and I didn’t know what to do. Tammy’s approach to teaching skaters how to execute the triple toes had worked for everyone else, it seemed, and I didn’t feel I could question her. With my past coaches, whatever they told me to do, I skated off and did it. In the van driving to the rink, I expressed my concern to my mom. “She’s the coach. Maybe I’m wrong, but something doesn’t feel right.” I was grateful to have my mom there to nod and listen, a protective presence like the necklace I wore.
Everything came to a head on a Friday. It was the end of a long, tiring training week, and it was my mom’s birthday, the twenty-seventh of September. The Grand Prix Final was in sixty-nine days. I was expecting it to be a good day: I was breaking in new skates, and I’m great in new skates because I prefer that stiffer boot. It was going to be ideal for my jumping lesson with Tammy as we worked through the new combinations.
Often on the strange new circle of ice in Riverside, I would feel for my necklace, the two tiny green beads knotted below the quarter-size piece of jade. The soft red string on my lucky jade necklace was wearing thin. After all, I’d worn it ever since my mom put it around my neck when I was nine. That particular Friday I grasped for the beads, only to feel them slip between my fingers and roll away on the ice. I held on to the jade stone, before it, too, slipped away and shattered.
I had been telling myself for weeks, Find some new red thread, Mommy can fix it. But I kept forgetting and never bothered to do anything about it. Now I was paying the price. I had broken what was there to protect me. Keep going anyway. Keep pushing, I told myself.
The thing was, deep down I knew something was truly wrong, something bigger than the necklace. I had been having some ankle issues and was experiencing random pain. But I was trying to prove myself in this still-foreign practice setting, trying to learn Ta
mmy’s style and build our trust. The last thing I felt I could do was say no or take a break. Not to mention that the countdown to competition was on, and there was no time to waste or wallow. I had to keep jumping. Even if it felt weird. Even if my good-luck charm was lost on the surface of the rink. Even if I was tired.
The lutz is the first jump in the combination and my favorite jump of them all. I tap my toe and dig the toe pick into the ice for the lift I need into the air. This time, I tapped weird, and my ankle twisted underneath me. Instead of flying through the air, I found myself sitting on the ice as a warm, sharp pain boiled down in my foot and erupted up through my right leg.
Tammy skated over to me. I was still sitting there. I didn’t understand what was happening. Normally, I can talk through the pain until it goes away. I’m fine, I’m fine. Everything is fine.
“Give me a second. I’ll get back up,” I told Tammy. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t get up off the ice. She squatted down, supported me under my shoulders, and skated me to the boards. My right side crumpled if I tried to put any weight on it.
We unlaced my right skate, and I took my foot out. I figured if I could just stretch it, move it around, the pain would subside. But when I tried to put my boot back on, my right side recoiled, a natural reflex, almost a defense mechanism. Despite what I was telling myself—I am fine, this is normal—my body said differently. It was too painful to lace up my boot. That’s when I knew: I am not okay.
My mom celebrated her birthday by driving us back home to Fremont. What was normally a six-hour drive took nine hours because we had to keep stopping to refill the bucket of ice that held my aching right foot. I breathed shallowly in and out, trying to avoid a full-blown panic attack. I was terrified. Today is the worst day ever.
An X-ray and MRI revealed the worst possible news: a tibial growth plate fracture. I was hoping I would only have to wear a boot so that I could remove the foot and treat the painful swelling with occasional acupuncture. But my doctor said that was too risky and a cast was necessary—which meant no skating for two months.
My mom was distraught. “I can’t believe this is happening. Now you can’t go to the final in Japan!” she kept saying. Inside, I was very sad, but outside, I leaned on my usual response: This is going to be fine. And, not surprisingly, I already had a plan. I was going to work ahead on my schoolwork and get assignments done early so that as soon as I could skate again, I wouldn’t have that stress. And I decided to do physical therapy and a Pilates program to maintain as much strength as I could. I did that every single day. And every night, before I went to bed, I’d lie there in my quiet, dark room and visualize my jumps.
Everything is fine.
Perhaps the most unusual thing—and the hardest thing—was all the extra time I had on my hands. Regardless of all the rehabilitation work, or the special focus on getting ahead in my online studies, nothing managed to replace what I ultimately missed the most: being on the ice. When I skate, I come alive. The motion, the energy that burns my muscles, flushes my cheeks, and sears my lungs also ignites my soul. On the ice, I am purposeful, because on the ice, I find my purpose. It’s not merely hour after hour of edge work or seeing how high I can jump. When I’m skating, I’m telling a story, I’m creating a feeling, I’m painting a picture.
During this difficult time, one lifesaving thing was art class. My parents had signed Jeffrey and me up for a local art class when I was seven, and we’d gone pretty much every week ever since, even when I was in the middle of training. This was not your usual art class. We were not instructed to draw exactly what we saw, nor were we instructed to use specific techniques. This class was more abstract. We would be given a topic or prompt, and then we were free to express ourselves through the work. For instance, maybe the subject was a rabbit. The teacher would show us the key elements for drawing a rabbit—the nose had to be in a specific place in relationship to the eyes so it looks like a bunny—but otherwise we were free to experiment and explore.
The creative energy I typically let out through skating found a release through my art. It’s not that I expected the painting or drawing or sculpting would help me be a stronger skater when I finally got out of my itchy, tight cast. But all that time in front of the canvas did allow me moments to understand and explore who I truly was as a skater. And I started pushing the boundaries of my art in ways I never had before. I remember painting on wallpaper one time, because I wanted to see how the texture would reveal itself in the image. For another assignment, I painted my mom’s favorite flowers, calla lilies, which are usually white, but for her, I painted them blue; I really liked that piece.
Then there was the day we were instructed to draw a tiger. Strong, fierce, and powerful: that’s how I think of a tiger. All that aggressive energy bound up in the tiger is released on its prey when the moment is right. A tiger sees something and then pounces. No hesitation; the tiger goes for it. But in my painting, I camouflaged the tiger’s intensity. I painted a purple tiger. I love that color, especially its variations like lavender or lilac; to me, it’s a soothing color. A purple tiger is calm and collected on the outside, yet fierce inside. The eyes are the key: while soft and gentle on the edges, they are focused and intense in the center. As a skater, I connected to that concept. In fact, you might say that the purple tiger is my skating soul animal.
On December 10, 2013, almost three months after my right ankle broke, my doctor gave me the go-ahead to start skating again. Finally! I could get back to doing what I knew best.
But I quickly had to acknowledge that everything wasn’t fine. I knew it as soon as the cast was removed. My calf was shriveled and shapeless. I was weak. I was wobbly. I had grown up on the ice, I had spent so much of my lifetime on the ice, but in that one moment, when I stepped back out there again, it was like I’d forgotten how to skate.
Since I had to miss the Junior Grand Prix Final in Japan, I wanted to get my form back in time for the 2014 US junior nationals in Boston, which were only three weeks away. I had to relearn everything, almost like I was doing it for the first time. My jumps, spins, stamina—everything had been lost. It was a struggle. I wasn’t the skater who’d won an overseas competition just a few months before.
When the first week of January arrived, I hastily made the decision to travel to Boston and compete. I ideally wanted to be somewhat presentable, but in my heart I knew I didn’t have enough practices under my belt to have the necessary confidence to skate to win.
I was in fifth place out of thirteen competitors after skating the short program, which was no small feat considering my program’s music, “Esperanza,” was built on layers of beautiful Spanish guitar—and to skate that music properly, I had to be nimble, light, airy, and easy on my feet. During the whole routine, my coordination was off. I felt clunky, and I was in some pain. I ultimately decided to withdraw from the competition before the long program. My nature is to keep pushing, but deep down, I knew I didn’t need to be skating. And once she saw my pain after the short program, Tammy all but insisted I withdraw. “We’re not doing this,” she said.
My season had ended in disaster, and the thought of returning to that rink in Riverside, to fully rehab and relearn how to skate, made me queasy. I didn’t want to step back on that ice until I was fully recovered. I liked being coached by Tammy, but the environment was something else, like a high school clique no one had invited me into. At that point in my life, I didn’t need the added stress of social drama. I told my mom, “I can’t go back until I’m ready, mentally and physically.” Maybe it would be a good idea to go see Gilley, we decided together. “It’s not mind over matter,” he’d always said, “it’s the mind that matters.” I needed my mind in the right place, and I needed to connect again to the basics of skating, the fundamentals and techniques I’d honed at my rink in Fremont. Gilley was the one who could help me do that.
CHAPTER 13
MAKING MY MARK
I WAS BRIEF AND TO THE POINT WHEN REPORTERS in Greensboro, North Caro
lina, asked me about my goals for that week’s 2015 US Figure Skating Championships. It was going to be my senior-level debut, one year after withdrawing from the junior competition.
“The podium,” I said.
Everyone probably thought I was insane, or delusional, or a naive little kid. But I was ready to let myself skate and see what happened. My words were true because I really believed a top-three finish was possible, never mind what the past year had wrought. Yes, I’d had to recover from a devastating injury. And yes, to build my muscle back, clear my head, and focus my intention, I’d decided to return to my home rink in Fremont for a while. You have to do what you need to in order to get your mind right.
I suppose I can understand everyone’s skepticism, because it’s not like they had X-ray vision; they couldn’t see the fierce competitor inside me. And my results throughout 2014, as I’d worked my way back from the broken foot, hadn’t demonstrated that I was ready to win. I’d had silver- and bronze-medal skates during the Junior Grand Prix circuit, but since I hadn’t qualified for the Grand Prix Final, I didn’t earn an automatic bye into the national championships. I had entered and won the Pacific Coast Sectional—my lone victory of 2014—to qualify.
In my mind, I was using those 2014 competitions as tune-ups. I hadn’t skated my best, but I’d skated pretty well as the season grew longer and I grew healthier. What no one could have known was how much confidence I gained with every skate. I loved skating both my short and long programs, and the music moved and motivated me every time. I understood the depths from which I had to climb, and I was ready to climb them. And if I skated my short program at nationals the way I’d visualized it, the way I felt the music moving through me on the ice, it would be a worthy senior-stage debut. My music choice, “Requiem for a Tower,” mirrored my emotional state from the past year. Foreboding, it begins, almost like the ticking clock of a bomb. Then the strings kick in, slowly but steadily gaining power and strength. Then the restless opening gives way to a triumphant close. My footwork, jumps, and spins would harness all my energy to embody that final fearlessness and fight. With every cut of my blade, each turn on my edge, each spiral and rotation, I would skate to overwhelm the cacophony of naysayers and doubters. On the ice, with this music, my spirit would surge. I would soar.