I Skate to Understand Myself

February 13, 2026

“ I skate to understand myself.” Yuzuru Hanyu

The phrase skate to understand yourself sounds simple. Almost poetic. But if you sit with it for a moment, it becomes something else entirely. It becomes uncomfortable. It becomes honest.

Most of us think we do things to win. To prove something. To be seen. To be validated. And sometimes that is true. I would be lying if I said winning did not matter to me. It does. I like to win. I like to succeed. I like to know the scoreboard tilted in my favor.

But at some point, if you stay in the game long enough, you realize the real contest is not against the other skaters on the ice. It is not against the clock. It is not against the judges.

It is against yourself.

When Hanyu says he skates to understand himself, he is admitting something that takes years to learn. The arena is just a mirror. The ice reflects who you are when the pressure is on. When your legs are tired. When the crowd is loud. When one mistake could cost everything.

What shows up then?

Do you tighten up?

Do you blame the ice?

Do you shrink?

Or do you lean in?

Sports just make it obvious. Most of us are skating in quieter ways. We skate in boardrooms. In marriages. In parenting. In creative work. In the daily grind that no one applauds.

We show up somewhere that demands effort. And in that effort, we meet ourselves.

I have learned more about who I am in moments of strain than in moments of comfort. Comfort hides things. Strain reveals them.

There is something clarifying about giving your full effort to something that matters. Not half effort. Not distracted effort. Not effort with one foot already stepping off the ice in case it does not work out.

Full effort.

You learn very quickly whether you are disciplined. Whether you are patient. Whether you are resilient. Whether you panic when things wobble.

You also learn what you truly care about.

Because if you do not care, you will not push. You will not sacrifice. You will not endure the soreness that comes with trying again.

At fifty years old, I have had enough wins and enough losses to know this much: winning feels good, but understanding yourself lasts longer.

Winning fades. The applause fades. The memory blurs.

But the knowledge that you stayed steady when it mattered? That you did not cut corners? That you kept your word to yourself?

That stays.

There were seasons of my life where I chased outcomes. I thought the result would tell me who I was. If I succeeded, I was worthy. If I failed, I was not.

That is exhausting math.

What if the real work is showing up fully, regardless of the outcome?

What if the point of skating is not the medal but the mirror?

When you give something your best, you strip away excuses. You remove the soft landing of “I could have tried harder.” You remove the comfort of “If I had really wanted to, I would have done better.”

Giving your best is vulnerable. It exposes you. If you still fall, you cannot hide behind potential. You have to face reality.

And strangely, that is freeing.

Because once you know what you are made of under pressure, you stop guessing. You stop performing for imaginary judges. You start building a quieter confidence.

You know you can endure.

You know you can focus.

You know you can stand back up.

Skating, writing, parenting, working, loving. These are not separate arenas. They are just different surfaces.

Each one gives you a chance to meet yourself.

So maybe the goal is not to win every time. Maybe the goal is to step onto the ice with intention. To take the jump knowing you might fall. To practice when no one is watching.

To use the work as a way of understanding who you are becoming.

Because in the end, the medal sits in a box.

But the person you become through the effort walks with you everywhere.

If I am honest, that matters more.

Not instead of winning.

But underneath it.