This is one in a series of column by members of the Mayor’s Youth Advisory Committee.
As many might recall, the city experienced a fierce snowstorm on Jan. 13. Daily commutes that morning were difficult, and many were concerned, myself included.
I am a member of the city’s Mayor’s Youth Advisory Committee, and we had arranged for a discounted teen skating event to take place that evening. I worried the sudden snow would discourage people from attending. Luckily, by the time of the event, the roads had been neatly cleared and everything seemed to be perfect.
It wasn’t until I actually got to the arena that I realized there was still a problem: after six years of not being on ice, I couldn’t skate. Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that I was afraid to.
I’ve always been afraid of the sensation of falling, the weightlessness you experience as gravity pulls you down without mercy. The reason that I stopped skating six years ago was that gliding on ice, quite frankly, made me insecure and fearful. Before coming to the arena I’d convinced myself that after six years I’d changed. But quickly I was proven wrong.
After 10 minutes of clinging onto the ledge desperately and dragging myself along, watching others soar around me with grace and ease, I stepped off the ice. I simply couldn’t do it. Also, I was freezing. But the only thing one can expect from life is the unexpected.
My friends, who did not tell me they were attending, arrived. So, it was under the influence of peer pressure that I, again, went onto the ice — I am sure that many have been talked into doing things by their friends that they themselves were not especially fond of.
At first it was fairly horrible. My friends would take hold of my hands, one on each side, and drag me along. I felt like the world was spinning around me, even though they claimed we were “barely moving.” I was shivering. My legs were locked; and I had no sense of balance. At one point someone pushed me from behind, causing me to burst into tears.
It was embarrassing, but I couldn’t stop. I felt awful. I knew my friends were just trying to show me how fun skating was, but I was legitimately petrified. I didn’t want them wasting their evening with someone as hopeless as me.
But they didn’t give up on me, no matter how unwilling I was, nor how high pitched my screams were. They stayed by my side and led me on with great patience. As I was crying, they huddled around me until I was ready to skate again. And bit by bit, I started lifting my skates, gaining balance and warming up. The hardest part was letting go of them, but they stayed by my side throughout all of it — one on the left, one on the right, and even one behind me so I wouldn’t get pushed again. They took away my insecurity.
By the end of the event, I was skating on my own and I was even enjoying it. I no longer felt cold, either. Miraculously, I didn’t even fall once — every time that I was in danger of it, they caught me. Every time.
So I want to thank all my friends for what they did for me. I want to thank them for supporting me, protecting me and being there for me. I want them to know that they didn’t simply teach me how to skate — they taught me how friendship can warm up even the coldest and darkest times.
I hope this column brings a smile to everyone’s face, and a memory to everyone’s heart. That night down at the rink is one I’ll treasure forever.

