The Things That Move

Photo taken by Christophe Ena, The Associated Press, 2026

I had an unexpected encounter recently—one that moved me in ways I didn’t anticipate.

I was oblivious to the Winter Olympics in Italy; even the opening ceremonies escaped my notice. News snippets I did see focused mainly on controversy—ICE, athletes speaking out against fascism, the United States, and Israel—yet, overall, there was a strange silence.

As someone who doesn’t follow sports, much of this escaped my attention.

One day, doom-scrolling on Instagram, I stumbled upon a brief video: a highlight of young American figure skater Alysa Liu, who won the gold medal for the United States. The video told part of their story, and something about it spoke to me.

The background was familiar: childhood shaped by intense training, life directed toward a singular goal where discipline and performance overshadowed childhood itself.

Alysa Liu’s father fled China after activism around the Tiananmen Massacre, pouring everything into raising his children. Alysa’s extraordinary talent shaped a life structured around their gift.

But what happened next was not typical.

As a teenager, Alysa quit skating.

They left the sport behind for two years—living as other teenagers do: spending time with friends, traveling, and living outside the rigidity of elite training. No skating.

And then something shifted.

The desire came back.

But it came back different.

When Alysa returned, it was on their terms: rehiring coaches with conditions—skating, eating, and performing when and how they chose. Full agency became non-negotiable.

And somehow, the coaches agreed.

When I heard this part of the story, I realized it was more than a comeback—it was a transformation, and something in me leaned closer.

So I searched for the performance that won the gold medal.

From the moment Alysa stepped onto the ice, I was mesmerized.

I cried.

I cried in a way that surprised me. Even now, as I dictate these words, I feel the tears well up again.

What I witnessed was an authentic expression. The technical brilliance was there, but above all, something more shone through.

Presence.

Joy.

A kind of embodied freedom.

Watching Alysa skate, I saw the beauty of what human beings are capable of sharing with the world when they allow themselves to fully inhabit who they are.

For me, this felt like the real hero’s journey.

Not the story of perfection or dominance, but the story of leaving the path that was prescribed, wandering away from it, and eventually returning—transformed. Returning not because obligation demands it, but because something inside calls one back.

And answering that call with the whole self.

The authenticity of it struck me deeply. Alysa showed up exactly as they were: the hair, the piercings, the music they chose, the style that felt like theirs. There was no attempt to fit the mold of what an Olympic athlete is supposed to look like.

Instead, there was commitment.

A pushing—not the harsh, punishing push of discipline imposed from the outside, but the internal push toward one’s highest expression.

Watching them, I saw beauty.

I saw power.

Earlier this year, I spoke about the energy of the Fire Horse—the idea of a wild, creative, unstoppable force moving through the body. When I watched Alysa skate, I thought: That’s it.

That is what it looks like.

Fire expressed through a human vessel.

And something in me woke up.

Since my brain injury, every part of who I am has been affected. As a result, the relationship between mind and body has changed, and the ways I move through the world—physically, creatively, emotionally—have been rearranged. Movement has become something I have had to relearn in ways I never imagined, and at times, it can be incredibly difficult. There are moments when I feel like a stranger in my own body, negotiating how to inhabit a body that does not do what I want it to.

But witnessing this performance reignited something dormant within me.

A part of me that remembers movement.

The performance did not simply move me emotionally.

It moved something inside me back into motion.

And perhaps that is what art is capable of doing.

Perhaps that is what the things that move us are meant to do.

They remind us of the parts of ourselves that are still waiting to be awakened—the return of the things that move us exactly as we are.