I come from a roller skating family. And when I say that, I don’t mean “we went on Friday nights sometimes.” I mean deep roots, hardwood floor, generational wheels.
My parents met at the Grand Old Rink in Portland, Oregon—Oaks Park Rink—which opened in 1902 and is still rolling strong. My grandmother’s father and grandfather helped build it, so the rink shows up in our family history the way a favorite relative does: always there, always important. My aunt and uncle skated competitively in the early 1950s, and by the time I was two (around 1956), I was already on skates and underfoot.
So no—“grew up at the rink” isn’t poetic license. It’s literal.
Some of my fondest childhood memories revolve around competitions, club activities, and rink life. When I was ten, I was chosen to be Cinderella in the annual skating show. This was a big deal: two nights, packed grandstands, media coverage, the whole magical production. My family was so proud they bought tickets for an entire section in the grandstand. For those two nights, I truly felt like a princess—and that moment bonded my mother and me forever. Nearly every birthday after that included some small Cinderella trinket, as if to say, remember who you were on wheels.
Then we moved to Texas.
Roller skating there was… different. Fewer shows, more pressure. Competitive skating was cutthroat in the best and worst ways, and coaches were training skaters to win—period. Our club produced national champions, and suddenly I wasn’t Cinderella anymore. I was just another pretty good skater.
I won my share, but by high school I was ready to widen my world. I cut back on skating to experience something resembling a “normal” teenage life in the early 1970s: captain of the drill team, chorus, drama club. And honestly? I loved it.
I never stopped skating, though. When disco hit in the late ’60s and early ’70s, I found my way into paid performances—special events, theater openings, appearances. I loved performing, and it was a great way for a young skater to make a little money. Of course, earning money meant losing amateur status and the ability to compete. That was fine with me. I was in love, planning my wedding (to a non-skater), and knew I couldn’t fund a competitive career while going to college and starting a marriage.
So when the chance came to teach at a brand-new rink near the university, I jumped—literally.
It was the perfect setup: classes during the day, teaching evenings and weekends. By the time I was pregnant with my first daughter, I had a small skating club and students heading into competition. I taught entire families—parents and kids together—and many of them are still lifelong friends. The rink moms helped watch my children, and everyone knew to keep an eye out for two little ones toddling around the skating floor in walkers.
Skating wasn’t just my job. It was our village.
My husband’s aerospace career eventually moved us around—California, Texas, and beyond. Each move meant leaving behind skaters I’d mentored, families I loved, programs I’d built. That part never got easier. Short stays made it hard to develop national-level competitors, but I kept building anyway. Because somewhere along the way, I realized it wasn’t the winning that mattered most to me.
It was the becoming.
Taking beginners and helping them grow into confident artistic skaters. Teaching courage. Teaching joy. And always—always—wanting my students to love skating as much as I do.
So yes, skating is my life. And the lessons I learned on the skating floor have shaped everything that came after.
Lessons from the Floor
Sportsmanship
There is honor in both winning and losing. Learning to congratulate the winner when it isn’t you is one of the hardest—and most generous—lessons a young person can learn. Being a graceful winner matters too. Some of my dearest friendships are with people I once competed against, and that is a gift competitive skating gave me for life.
Perseverance
Some people learn quickly. Some learn visually. And some have to try a move a hundred times before it finally sticks. I was a quick learner—until I wasn’t. I’ve fallen so many times on one elbow that I still have a permanent bump. I also have a broken tailbone that makes sitting squarely… complicated. Perseverance—through pain, frustration, and disappointment—prepared me for real life. It taught me that if I keep going, things do get better.
Musicality
Music has always been the soundtrack of my life. I grew up under the glow of the neon organ loft at Oaks Park, with the Mighty Wurlitzer playing and Don Simmons cueing “Linda” as I stepped onto the floor. We knew every classical overture used for freestyle. I’ll never forget watching Bobby Greer land a triple right on the crescendo of Slaughter on 10th Avenue, pointing at us kids like a touchdown celebration. Music is to skating what air is to breathing—it’s the reason I skate. It’s how movement becomes emotion.
Balance
And I don’t just mean on eight wheels. Skating taught me how to fall without quitting, how to get back up without drama, and how to find center when everything feels off. Funny how often that skill comes in handy off the floor.
Community
A rink is never just a building. It’s a family. A refuge. A place where generations overlap, where everyone knows who’s struggling and who needs cheering. Skating taught me that we are never really doing this alone—even when the music is just for us.
And I’m Still Learning…
If there’s one lesson skating keeps teaching me, it’s this: you’re never finished.
Not finished learning.
Not finished growing.
Not finished being surprised.
Even now—especially now—I learn something every time I step onto the skating floor. Sometimes it’s a technical reminder I’d forgotten. Sometimes it’s patience. Sometimes it’s courage, watching a beginner try something that scares them. And sometimes it’s joy, pure and unfiltered, when a skater finally feels a piece of music land in their body for the very first time.
People often assume that because I’m the teacher, the learning flows in one direction. But that’s never been true. My students teach me how to see skating through fresh eyes. They remind me not to rush the process. They show me new ways to listen to music, to interpret movement, to celebrate progress that doesn’t come with medals or titles.
They also keep me honest.
Skaters know immediately if you stop caring, if you stop listening, if you start teaching from habit instead of heart. So I stay curious. I ask questions. I adapt. I learn.
What I hope my skaters understand—new and old—is that skating doesn’t end when competition does, or when life gets busy, or when the music changes. It can grow with you. It can comfort you. It can challenge you. It can give you community when you least expect it.
I may have started this journey as Cinderella, and I may no longer wear the tiara every day—but I still step onto the floor with the same sense of wonder. Wheels under my feet. Music in the air. Something new waiting to be discovered.
As long as I’m skating, I’ll be learning.
And as long as I’m learning, I’ll keep teaching.
Because this life—this art, this community, this beautiful, rolling journey—was never meant to stand still.
Leave a Reply
You must be logged in to post a comment.