A Sunset (a beginning & ending)

Coming back to Bellingham for the summer, I’m reminded of the incredible natural beauty prevalent here in the Pacific Northwest. The rainy climate all year pays off, with vibrant greenery adding color to our summer days. Mountains surround us, whether on the horizon or rising above the lake, and water is basically impossible to ignore; try choosing between an ocean bay, multiple local lakes, and a waterfall park.

But as most locals know, the Bellingham sunsets are the true glory of the town. Waterfront park Boulevard is a popular hangout at any time, but nothing brings locals out of the woodwork like the promise of a sunset over the water. I’m fortunate enough to live a few blocks up from the water, and can step out onto my deck for an almost panoramic view of the water (and yes, the sunset).

While it seems obvious to state that everyone enjoys a good sunset, the uniqueness of Bellingham sunsets is how common and easy it is to witness a beautiful one. In other towns, you might have to find just the right place to see the sunset, like in Toronto, where I can spot hints of sunset in the sky, but the buildings obscure the real view. Here, the sky is clear and the views are hard to miss. Thus, you can resign yourself to a barrage of sunset snapchats and picnic requests from any Bellingham locals you may know.

Watching the sunset tonight, I am struck by the color painted across the sky as the sun kisses the ocean. Another weekend has come to a close, and the sunset seems to mark the brightness of the occasion. Because as much as the sunset signals the ending of a day, it’s also a mark of the start of something else: the night.

So many things in life hold both endings and beginnings in that way. It’s easy to focus on the end of an experience or the tearful goodbyes, and we often forget that the change also means a beginning, full of potential and possibility. Whether it is a graduation, filled with excitement, nostalgia, and fears, or a change in our relationships from a breakup to a marriage, or a change of path, in career, major of study, or passions, these changes seem to be surrounding me right now.

My own life has been full of sunsets lately, both metaphorically and literally. I watched close friends graduate high school and said goodbye to my first year friends, dorm room, and experience. As excited as I am for next year, a part of me wants to hold onto the incredible year I had this year, not wanting to give up a shred of laughter, friendship, and learning. But most significantly, I began the sunset of my competitive figure skating career.

I’ve had a complicated relationship with skating for my whole life. It has always been my second home and an undoubtable passion, but it is also the type of home you are not sure you want to return to. The home that has such a deep impact on you that you know it would be less painful and scary to never return, but your heart is too interwoven with it to stay away for long.

After an intense year of skating, I’ve enjoyed the past month or so without much time spent at the rink. It’s all too easy to stay home and live a “normal” life without blades strapped to your feet. But as always when I stay away from the ice for too long, I feel an uncomfortable sense of relief and guilt. Relief, especially after this year, that I can trust that I won’t be yelled at or corrected in a way that brings tears to my eyes and makes me bite my tongue not to cry or scream. Relief that I won’t feel the agonizing ache in my legs after hours of practice, or cramps in my feet for spending too long in stiff skating boots, or back pain from lifting people above my head and trying to maintain the perfect, ballerina-like posture. And above all, the relief that the paralyzing stress has finally been let off my back. Stress that no matter what I do, I will never be good enough or be accepted or prove myself on the ice. Stress that I will embarrass myself, be a failure, let my teammates down, make a fatal mistake at practice or (most fearfully) a competition. Stress that all of this pain, hard work, sacrificed time and missed events, blood/tears/sweat will amount to nothing.

Skating has made me stronger. I can thank my years of skating for preparing me to excel in many areas of my life by teaching me discipline, coachability, professionalism, poise, toughness, and an ability to accept criticism, even when it is painfully harsh. But it’s also hurt my body, my feelings, and my sense of trust too many times to count. Physical injuries aside, I can feel the weight of skating expectations even at work or school or hanging out with my friends. Slouching over my computer, I’m suddenly incredibly aware of my hunched back and relaxed stomach, and I straighten up in the straight-backed posture of a skater again. Watching a sporting event, I criticize their hair, outfits, or behavior before I remember those things don’t matter in most sports. A friend follows my example in school or an activity, and I’m instantly suspicious of them taking my place. I have to stop myself before I turn competitive, as most worlds aren’t limited to one person’s success. Most friends don’t steal the opportunities or success of others. But I’m always on guard, always careful about telling people too much about what I’m doing.

Despite all of this, a piece of my heart remains on the ice. Lacing up my skates and gliding on the ice is as natural to me as walking, and I doubt I will be able to let that go. So among the relief, I feel guilt for neglecting that part of myself. I miss the music, and the sensation of flying, and I wonder if I am betraying my years of hard work by taking time off.

Choosing to move on with my life, freeing myself from the time and mental commitment to competitive skating, was one of the most challenging decisions I made, but also one of the most simple. Deep down, I knew it was the right time. But knowing is so much different than accepting.

I finally accepted it when I came home and spent time with my family and friends here, and was faced with the choice between new opportunities like a marketing internship at Faithlife, a local tech company or another year of skating. I was faced with the stark choice to choose the type of person I was becoming. Did I still want to be defined solely by my skating accomplishments? Or was it time for growth in other areas? Time to discover what other potential and passions I have?

I’ve decided to use this year as the beginning of something new. I am not trapped forever in my decision not to skate, and can compete again if I want to, but I am allowing myself to explore other areas of myself. To learn in completely new ways and challenge myself in other areas. As the sun sets on my competitive career, it is a bittersweet goodbye and ending. However, the sun sets and the moon rises, and something else is beginning. And I can’t wait to see what’s ahead.

xx, Abby