American audiences watched with bated breath earlier this year as 20-year-old US figure skater Alysa Liu took to the ice. Donning a sparkling gold dress, she glided along to Donna Summer’s “MacArthur Park Suite,” twirling and jumping with finesse, joy, and unbelievable grace. Her performance earned her a gold medal, ending a 24-year drought for the US women. Meanwhile, I was in Houston’s Aerodrome Ice Skating Complex, busting my butt on the ice—stumbling, without knowing it, back into girlhood.

In January, I had signed up for classes at the Aerodrome, one of Houston’s few independent rinks. As a clumsy, not super-athletic 20-something, I wasn’t particularly confident in my abilities, but I had been pushing myself to take more risks. The only “sports” I did as a kid were youth gymnastics, which has grown considerably more popular in recent years (thank you, Simone Biles, Suni Lee, and Jordan Chiles). I adore gymnastics, but ice-skating seemed to be something faraway and unattainable, especially in a city like Houston, where endless summers of triple-digit temperatures just aren’t built for winter sports. Who in Houston ice-skates? I remembered thinking. There were no Michelle Kwans or Alysa Lius here. To Houstonians, figure skating was something done at the Galleria or Memorial City Mall in between shopping trips or during elementary school birthday parties.

And yet, the allure of skating had endless appeal. Professionals like Kwan, Yuna Kim, and Kaori Sakamoto were marvels. When the Disney movie Ice Princess, starring Michelle Trachtenberg, debuted in 2005, I replayed it on an endless loop. There was something so relatable about the coming-of-age story of an awkward girl (me) who finds solace while gliding on ice. Ice Princess was a far cry from the skating I saw on TV—the movie showed endless practices, fights with coaches, and an (unrealistic) skyrocketing career in a span of months. There were also catty fights and an amazing routine to “Toxic” by Britney Spears, by an alt-girl skater (played by IRL skater Juliana Cannarozzo). To me, the movie was the epitome of girlhood. Yes, the costumes were pretty and glittery, but beyond that, the skating teenagers were tough. Each character demanded their own excellence while navigating the nuances of complex relationships with mothers, other women, and even themselves. It holds a moral: The hard road of adolescence begins with self-discovery. Ice-skating became a girlhood fantasy I couldn’t shake, but skating in real life felt very different.

A grade school event held at the Aerodrome put my classmates and me in ugly brown rental skates. Clutching onto the wall, I stumbled and fell. I was uncoordinated, too scared—everything that figure skaters weren’t. Ice Princess and Michelle Kwan’s actual skating in the film look effortless, and I at least believed I could go forward easily, with some grace. Everyone else seemed to take right to it, and I became even more convinced that I was, for some reason, just really bad at it.

As I grew older, I avoided the rink altogether. I sat on the bleachers and watched from the wings, only attempting to skate one more time in my teens (it didn’t go well). For young Erica, ice-skating was just unattainable. The girl who had watched Ice Princess on loop had quietly given up.

Adult Erica, however, thinks differently. In my twenties, I’ve learned to take risks. As a college kid, I got an undercut, studied in Taiwan, and moved to Boston for grad school in international affairs. I found a stable job as a security intelligence analyst at American International Group (AIG), writing white papers and arranging evacuations from around the globe. After two years, I pivoted hard. I blew up my growing career as an analyst for a job as a food reporter—my so-called “quarter-life crisis,” but I didn’t regret it. Close friends knew that asking me for advice would result in two consistent mantras: “Blow up your life, girl!” and “Just quit!” When 2026, the final year of my twenties, rolled around, I figured it was high time I tried something new.

During my very first class at the Aerodrome, I was shocked to find that nearly a dozen students had enrolled. I guess people in Houston like to ice-skate, I thought. The students—all women, ranging in age from their early twenties to their forties—came from all walks of life. Some were university students looking for a hobby, while others had careers and families. “I’ve always wanted to do this,” said one. “I watched Ice Princess as a kid, and I loved it!” The comment landed like a little shock of recognition. A mother and executive said she needed an outlet strictly for herself, not for her work or family. One classmate talked about how she took up skating to find herself again after an ex-boyfriend forbade her from attending. Another cited her interest in watching figure skating on TV. Despite our differences in age and life experiences, something was pulling each of us toward the same ice.

After lacing up our skates, we stumbled into the rink. I felt myself thinking about young Erica again—so scared, so unconfident, and so certain she didn’t belong here. I scooted forward, arms outstretched, trying to find my balance. Our coaches, Jason and Margaux, began by teaching us to march on the ice, then transition into a glide. Almost immediately, I fell. I felt my legs shake as I struggled to get up. Everyone else, despite their novice status, was marching along successfully. The 30-minute lesson felt like hours. I so badly wanted to rip the skates off and go home. “Am I the worst one?” I asked aloud, after falling for the umpteenth time. The coaches chuckled and reassured me. “Don’t worry,” Margaux said. “I was the worst in my class, too.”

When the class ended, the women gathered, chatting as we swapped our skates for sneakers. We commiserated over sore legs, fears of falling, and general uncertainty on the ice. Suddenly, I didn’t feel so alone. Everyone had their own weaknesses.

And just as fast as the complaints came, compliments followed.

“OMG, how did you do that?”

“Wow, that’s so cool!”

“We’re doing a great job! It’s just the first lesson!”

And, my personal favorite: “Erica, you fall so gracefully!”

As we left the parking lot that day, something felt different. There was no pressure to be amazing. Ice-skating was just fun. We were all learning new skills at our own pace, finding joy in accomplishing basic tricks. And as we worked toward the same goals, we became our own cheerleaders. Among my fellow “ice princesses,” everything—even falling on your butt—just felt lighter. Here, we didn’t need to worry about work or family or what the world had in store for us; we just needed to skate.

A week later, I returned to the rink, excited for another round. Time passed, and these lessons became the highlight of my week. I yearned to be back on the ice, squeezing in practices at odd hours.

My classmates went from strangers to friends. On the ice, we’d cheer each other on, yelling affirmations whenever someone landed a trick, flashing thumbs up and bright smiles. Outside the rink, we built bonds: We’d schedule times for combined practices and traded tips and trips. Eventually, we organized a giant group chat, where we’d laugh about trendy TV shows like Heated Rivalry and The Pitt, swap restaurant recommendations and Amazon links for cute skating accessories, and compliment each other’s outfits.

In a highly competitive sport like figure skating, a healthy environment isn’t exactly the first thought that comes to mind. The pressure to stay perfect has plagued nearly every figure skating story, pitting women against each other, from the infamous (and violent) real-life Nancy Kerrigan–Tonya Harding rivalry to even something as innocent as Ice Princess (one skater’s mom sabotages the performance of another competitor).

But when the 2026 Winter Olympics began, the world was captivated by a refreshing development. In place of rivalry came sisterhood: Team USA’s “Blade Angels”—Alysa Liu, Amber Glenn, and Isabeau Levito—quickly became the “besties” of figure skating, known for their camaraderie and supportive attitudes amid nerve-wracking competition. Many credited them for bringing a fresh, healthier take to the sport, even during devastating losses. And when they skated, it was on their own terms, in their own unapologetic style, often with a message: Levito’s skating style notably took inspiration from her ballet background; Glenn amplified her advocacy for LGBTQ+ groups and criticism of the Trump administration; and Liu famously vowed to return from her 2022 retirement and skate with less pressure and more joy. Her approach earned her a gold medal.

As the Olympics and my lessons came to an end, I realized I had found my own version of the Blade Angels. After earning our congratulatory patches, we celebrated with lunch. When I finally bought my own skates, my classmates squealed and gave me tips on how to best care for my new treasures.

I realized shortly after we all signed up for the second round of classes that I had found something that I didn’t know I was searching for. In my burgeoning adulthood, I missed doing things “just for fun.” Allowing young Erica to try the sport was healing. Stumbling upon other women who did the same felt like fate. And somewhere between the falls and the group chat and the squealing over new skates, I found what I’d lost: girlhood—uncomplicated, uncompetitive, and completely worth the bruises.