In February 2022, just a few short weeks after my beautiful wedding to Luke, when the confetti had settled, the dress was boxed up, and I had finally stopped introducing him as “my fiancé”. I decided I needed a hobby – as you do!
Not a couple’s hobby. Not something wholesome and productive like learning a new language together. Not even something sensible like yoga, Pilates, or a book club.
I wanted something that was just for me. Something fun. Something active. Something that would get me out of the house in the dark winter evenings. So naturally, as any perfectly rational adult would I signed up for ice skating lessons. Yes. Ice skating.
Not a gentle couch-to-5K plan. Not a cooking class where I’d master sourdough. No. I chose to strap sharp blades to my feet and attempt to glide across frozen water with grace.
And here’s the thing: I had never had lessons as a child. This was not a triumphant return to a former skating prodigy era. There were no childhood competitions. No glittery dresses stored in my mum’s loft. No dramatic backstory. It was entirely on a whim.
One minute I was scrolling. The next minute I was booked in for lessons. There was no overthinking. No group chat consultation. I didn’t even ask Luke if he fancied becoming one half of the next Torvill and Dean (his loss, honestly). I just did it.
For context, I was a very active child. My weekly schedule was honestly more intense than my current calendar.
Fridays were tap and ballet from the age of four, complete with exams and neatly pinned buns. Wednesdays were gymnastics (Levels 1–4, bronze and silver, thank you very much). Saturdays were horse riding. Sundays were trampolining (again, bronze and silver, clearly I thrived in mid-tier medal categories). Thursdays were modern dance. Tuesdays were drama classes.
I was booked and busy before it was trendy and I loved it. I loved moving. I loved learning routines. I loved working towards grades and levels and tiny certificates that felt like huge achievements. I was basically an energetic whirlwind in a leotard.
But then life happened. And I was suddenly an adult in an adult world! Evenings were for food shopping instead of leotards and lesson plans. All those hobbies quietly slipped away. So when I found myself wanting to try something new, I surprised myself. Even more surprising? That ice skating was the thing calling to me.
I still remember that first evening at the rink. The cold hit my face instantly. The sound of blades carving across the ice echoed around the arena. People glided past with effortless elegance (well most people did) while I stood there in rented blue plastic uncomfortable I’m getting a blister skates, questioning every decision I had ever made.
There is nothing, and I mean nothing, more humbling than stepping onto the ice for the first time as an adult beginner.
Within seconds, you understand two very important things:
1. You are not Olympic standard.
2. You will never be Olympic standard.
And that’s okay.
But in that moment, half holding onto the barrier but trying to stay composed, it did not feel okay.
I shuffled. I wobbled. I stiffened every muscle in my body. My knees locked in pure survival mode. Meanwhile, eight-year-olds whizzed past me backwards. Backwards.
But I kept going back.
Week after week.
Slowly, I became less dependent on the barrier. I learned how to stop without looking like I was attempting emergency braking in a car. I learned how to glide. Then crossovers. Then turns.
And something unexpected happened.
I made friends.
Real, lovely, encouraging rink friends. There’s something about repeatedly falling over in front of the same people and wobbling through spins together that bonds you for life. We cheer each other on, laugh at each other’s dramatic falls, and celebrate every tiny win like it’s the Winter Olympics.
It became more than just a class. It became a little community.
And I progressed (slowly)
I worked my way through Grades 1 to 8, each one feeling like a proper milestone. There’s something so satisfying about structured learning as an adult. Passing a grade felt just as exciting as those childhood exam days in ballet, except this time with slightly more muscle ache.
Every badge represented practice, determination, and the occasional dramatic fall.
Now I even have private lessons.
Private lessons! Who allowed this?!
They are intense. Focused. Slightly terrifying. My coach (who is lovely) will say things like, “Just commit to it,” and “lift your hip” which sounds simple until you realise committing involves temporarily defying gravity on a blade.
Some days I feel strong and capable and almost graceful.
Other days I step onto the ice and instantly feel like Bambi.
It is the most deeply humbling sport I have ever done. You cannot fake skating. The ice tells the truth immediately. If your weight is wrong, if your timing is off, if your confidence wavers, everyone knows. Including you.
And yet… I love it.
I love the discipline.
I love learning something completely new as an adult.
I love that I am not naturally brilliant at it.
I love that it challenges me.
There is something incredibly freeing about being a beginner again. About not needing to be perfect. About doing something purely for the joy of it.
Do I still fall? Yes. Regularly.
Does it still frighten me? Absolutely. That split second where you realise you are going down and there is nothing you can do about it never gets old. But I get back up. A little slower sometimes. A little more cautious. But I get back up.
Ice skating has given me more than just a hobby. It’s given me confidence. It’s reminded me that it’s okay to start from scratch. That growth doesn’t stop in childhood. That you can reinvent yourself at any age, even if that reinvention involves thermals and slightly numb toes.
I am not heading to the Olympics.
I am not performing triple jumps under glittering lights.
But I am showing up. I am learning. I am improving.
And most importantly, I am loving every second of it.
It may not be Pilates.
But it is mine.
