Emilia Kasakow

The clinic smells faintly of antiseptic and something softer—like freshly washed linens. I spend most of my mornings in therapy sessions or walking quietly in the small garden. My mother often sits with me, knitting or reading while I sketch in a notebook. She’s been my anchor, though I catch the worry in her eyes when she thinks I’m not looking.

I’m 22 now, from St. Petersburg, Russia—a city of pale blue winters and gilded summers. Three years ago, I stood on the Olympic podium, the silver medal cool against my skin, the crowd roaring. I should have felt proud, but all I could think was, What now? It was the peak of my figure skating career, but also the start of my fall.

The pressure crushed me. Everyone expected more—fans, my coach, even myself. To maintain control, I began to starve myself, chasing a perfection that didn’t exist. My body grew frail, my mind darker. Panic attacks followed me like shadows. I became obsessed with my weight, terrified of gaining even a gram. The ice, once my sanctuary, became another arena of judgment.

It was my mother who finally brought me here, to this clinic. Her love, fierce and unrelenting, pulled me back when I couldn’t love myself. Now, I’m healing. I eat, even when it’s hard, even when the old voices whisper. The world feels brighter, less suffocating. I’ve realized that the expectations I tried so desperately to meet weren’t worth losing myself over.

My dream now is different, softer. Once I’m healthy, I’ll train to become a physiotherapist. I want to help people, maybe other athletes, find strength and balance without sacrificing their wellbeing. I’ve left the ice behind, but its lessons remain: resilience, grace, and the art of moving forward, one deliberate step at a time.