When a person sees the words "figure skater" most people imagine the girls on TV in pretty dresses skating to some old classical piece. What most people fail to realize is the work that really goes in to competitive figure skating.

I skated competitively for half of my life in hopes that it would get me to the Winter Olympics. It started when I was around 4 years old, and I was watching the Winter Olympics on TV. I saw the pretty dresses on the pretty girls who did pretty spins (I was overly obsessed with being pretty back in the day), and knew this is what I wanted to do. My grandmother put me into one week crash course classes, and she says she knew from the moment I stepped on the ice I was meant to be there. For the rest of my life, I will forever be thankful to her for putting skates on my feet for the first time.

It began with one coach teaching a large class twice a week. You learned basic things like how to do a bunny jump, how to fall, and spinning on two feet. Then one coach sees something special in you, and they want to take you on as a student. My first personal skating coach was Pam, and she was as relaxed as skating coaches got. She never pushed anything on me, always had encouraging words, and was focused on other skaters instead of me. Pam pushed me in to multiple trio skates with two of the best friends I ever had, and we still keep in touch today. But I wasn't getting the attention a future Olympian needed (read: wanted).

As you get older your skills develop more, and you need to move on from your baby coach. Pam and I skated our separate ways, and I skated in to the hands of Dita, Jim, and Ginger. That's right, I had three coaches at one time. All of them had skated professionally and had placed at national competitions. I was honored they would work with me. And work I did - with them, I was required to do off ice training twice a week, ballet at least once a week, and I was put on an eating plan that Dita deemed necessary for me to get my jumps higher, my footwork harder, and my spins faster. Within months of working with them, I had jumped several levels in skating. I was going to more competitions, going through skates faster, and ruining my life faster.

Training with them meant having practice at 6 a.m., having to go to school for 8 hours, maintaining good grades, and not being able to hang out with my friends because I would have to be at the rink immediately after school. It meant that everything I ate was under observation. It meant watching some of my role models in skating develop eating disorders in order to be the BEST. Girls I knew were hospitalized. They cried if they gained a pound. They were scared to do weigh ins or get measured for costumes.

I stopped skating competitively for various reasons. I still love to step on the ice, and I keep my skates on the shelf in my closet for when I need them. But I could not be more thankful I stopped when I did. I was well on my way to an eating disorder, if I didn't already have a slight case of one. I was scared of what I loved. I thought that the only way to be the best was to kill myself trying. I won countless first place medals. I went to "master classes" with professional skaters. I skated in exhibition show, and I was even the lead in a show. If I could turn back time and tell my 13 year old self who was afraid to eat a french fry anything, I would remind myself that there is a shelf life on figure skating, and the Olympics aren't for everyone (even though I still wear my 2010 Vancouver Winter Olympics jacket religiously).