Who Did You Take From?

Who Did You Take From?

I noticed something recently while talking with a few “old skaters.” Amongst us, there’s a phrase that comes up almost instinctively, as if it’s part of our shared vocabulary:
“Who did you take from?”

When we talk about past skating champions, we don’t just mention their medals or their style—we mention their lineage.
“He took from Bob in California.”
“That’s the year she started taking from Peggy.”

It’s a curious phrase when you stop and really look at it.

So… what are we taking?

Of course, we’re talking about teachers and coaches. But the word take implies something more intimate than just instruction. It suggests transmission. Inheritance. The passing of something living from one person to another.

And that got me thinking.

I’ve been a giver all my life. Most of the time, I’m a pleaser. My identity—whether by nature or by habit—has often revolved around what I can offer: to my family, to my friends, to my skating students, and to the world at large. That thread runs through nearly every chapter of my life.

And you know what? I’m actually okay with that.

So when a student says, “I take from Linda,” I feel something warm and grounding. Pride, yes—but also gratitude. Gratitude that I have something worth taking. That the years I spent practicing, studying, failing, returning, and beginning again didn’t just disappear into time, but became something transferable. Useful. Alive.

When we say we “take from” a teacher, what we really mean is this:
We are the recipients of someone else’s lived experience.
We are borrowing wisdom that cost them time, effort, heartbreak, and devotion.
We are trusting that what they’ve given has value—even when we’ve paid for the lesson.

And as teachers, we are giving.

We may not say, “I give to Justine,” the way a student says, “I take from Linda.” But teaching is a form of giving that goes far beyond steps and technique. It is patience. It is seeing potential before it’s visible. It is offering structure, encouragement, and perspective earned over a lifetime of showing up—especially on days when it would be easier not to.

When I teach, I feel humbled by the exchange. Honored by it.

Because teaching is not about depletion. It’s about continuity.

Every time a student takes what I offer and carries it forward—adds their own artistry, their own courage, their own voice—I am reminded that giving and taking are not opposites. They are partners. A cycle. A lineage.

So as we begin a new year, maybe it’s worth asking ourselves a slightly different question—not just who did you take from? but also:

What are you carrying forward?
What has been entrusted to you?
And who might someday say your name with the same quiet pride?

If someone says, “I take from Linda,” I hope they say it knowing they are part of something larger than a single lesson or a single season. I hope they say it knowing that what was given to them was given freely, lovingly, and with the hope that they would someday give it forward in their own way.

That, to me, is the real legacy of skating.
And maybe of life itself.