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If a tree grows and it is cut away from its roots, then that tree will die. This is something I really believe.
When I was sixteen, I won the gold medal in figure skating at the 1994 Olympic Winter Games in Lillehammer, Norway. I was the first Ukrainian gold medallist after the fall of the Soviet Union. I was a tree with branches growing tall and strong. I was on top of the world. Many people know this story. They know how I lost my mother to ovarian cancer when I was thirteen and how my father left us when I was two. They know how much determination it took me to get through those events, to go to America and train, and then finally, to get the gold.
What they don’t know is the story of how I became an adult, the story of how I developed a full life that wasn’t just about professional success, the story of how I grew my roots.
What do you do after you’re a gold medallist? You’re flying high, and then what? First I had to make the transition to professional skating — which was hard because it was more about performing and entertaining than about precision and technical skill. I was sixteen, and my body started changing shape, just as you might predict for a girl that age — but no one told me what to expect, or what I needed to eat to maintain fitness for my skating. And life in America, wow! There was low-carb this and low-fat that and sugar free this and a million options for everything you ever wanted to buy. I didn’t know what to do — so I entertained myself by buying and trying everything.
For years, it was just me and the entertaining, and there was no one else in my life. I’d go on tour with all the skaters, who were my friends, and then I’d come home, and it was just me, alone, in my apartment. I didn’t really trust a lot of people. There were always lots of people around, but they were being paid by me. I started drinking a lot. My doctor told me I had a problem with alcohol. Olympic champions don’t have any problems, you know? They’re just supposed to go out there and skate. At least that’s what the magazines tell you.
But then when I was about twenty-three, things started changing. I somehow knew I couldn’t spend the rest of my life concentrating only on the skating. There was more to being a person than that, and I had to be ready and willing to find it.
One day during the holiday season that year, a friend invited me to a Christmas party. I didn’t want to go, but she forced me to. And this guy, Gene, was there, and he was so fun to talk to, and so nice. . . .
We’re now married.
Being with Gene took a lot of my fear away. Creating a life with him gave me the opportunity to spread my wings outside the public eye, to take time off from touring, to enjoy small things, like going to the grocery store and cooking dinner, to relax and be myself. Before that, every time I went to a restaurant, all I could pay attention to was playing the part for people who asked me for autographs. Now, I have a personal life. I still talk to those fans, but I remember that I’m there to eat dinner, not put on a show.
• • •
But I’ve also managed to do something even riskier.
This past September, I turned to Gene and told him that I was ready to find my birth father — that I knew he was out there somewhere back in the Ukraine and that I was strong enough to find him. We tried everything — from Red Cross tracing services to the Ukrainian Federation — with no luck. Finally, I decided to just pick up the phone and dial my old skating rink in Dnipropetrovsk, the small town where I grew up. When someone answered on the other end, he identified himself as the director of the skating rink. I was so happy to hear his voice!
I began by introducing myself, “Hi, this is Oksana Baiul . . .”
He hung up on me immediately. I called back and he told me not to play practical jokes. I said, “I swear to you, this is Oksana Baiul.” And I started naming all the people I knew in town and what the rink looked like, and finally he believed me.
You would not believe what this guy did for us. He searched from door to door until finally he knocked on the right door, and my father answered. And when we got the news that he had found Sergei Baiul, Gene and I nervously bought tickets to head back to the Ukraine.
My father left my mother and me when I was two. He never remarried. And he still lived in the same house, on the same little quiet street, with my grandmother. Knocking on that door after all these years and seeing him answer was one of the most challenging things I’ve ever done.
I also went back to my mother’s grave for the first time since I was thirteen.
This was the hardest part for me: I was nervous. And I’d been through so much. And I missed her so much.
And then I went back to the skating rink where I had learned to skate. And there were tons of little kids there, surrounding me. They remembered me after all these years and looked up to me. And they grabbed my hands and said, “Oksana, Oksana, come, come, let me show you where we have your picture on the wall.” I had spent all those years in the United States feeling lonely, and the whole time there were all these kids who looked up to me. It really put things in perspective.
We’re planning to do a charity show for those kids at the skating rink next year. And just a few weeks ago, I got a phone call from my dad, who asked me for my address. I couldn’t figure out why he wouldn’t just email me a message or call, but then I got a birthday card in the mail from him — the first birthday card since I was two years old. I have my father back.
It’s been a roller coaster, but I’ve learned that no matter what happens, no matter what challenges life brings, you have to just take a few big breaths, believe in yourself, and pick yourself back up. If things are bad and it’s hard to be alive . . . well, things will get better. You really just have to believe it. That’s all. You have to believe.
There is a higher power, and you can ask for help to get through the tough moments. And most important, you can also reach out to those around you. Surrounding yourself with people whom you love, with a community, is so important. I would never in a million years give up that gold medal. But at the end of the day, our experiences mean so much more when we have people to share them with. For me, it’s Gene, it’s my father, and it’s the thought of those kids back at my old skating rink in the Ukraine.
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