Four Minutes for Forever

I’ve probably seen that photo of myself 10,000 times. 

You know the one. It’s very 1998. Me in my blue dress with the sparkles on the sleeves. Hair all done up with my “TGIF” bangs resting right above my eyebrows. But the best part for me is my big smile. Whenever I see that photo when I’m mentioned on TV or somebody posts it on social media, it completely fills my heart with joy. 

Because the thing is, people have no idea what was going on 20 minutes before that big smile. 

They just see a 15-year-old girl nailing her free skate at the ’98 Olympics, owning it, living the dream. 

They don’t know that before she stepped out onto the ice, she was locked in the bathroom by herself, talking to her mom on the phone.

Gosh, I remember it so vividly. It was this tiny gray bathroom away from all my coaches and teammates and the cameras. The IOC gave the athletes one of those big cellphones with the retractable antenna, like the ones from “Saved by the Bell.” I had it pressed up against my ear, and I was just panicking. 

“I can’t do this, Mom.”

“I don’t know how to do this.”

“I’m shaking.”

I’d performed so many times in my life. In world championships and big events and even in the Olympics a few days before for my short program. Being nervous was nothing new. But this was just so different. It was … everything. 

Four minutes for the rest of my life. 

Four minutes for gold. 

Four minutes for forever.

That weight … sometimes I can still feel it in my chest when I think about it. Usually on competition days I’d be all confident in the mornings and tell my parents, “I got this,” or “I’m gonna nail it.” But when I went to their hotel for lunch that day in Nagano, there was just this dread in me. Like an anchor. I didn’t want to eat my pasta. I didn’t want to leave my parents. I didn’t want to get on the bus to go to the venue. I was asking if I had to go. I was almost in this like, fight-or-flight mode. I got there and in my six-minute warm up I could feel my legs shaking. My skates felt heavy, the ice felt different. 

I was a pacer. I couldn’t stand still and wait for my time. While Chen Lu and Michelle Kwan and all those incredible women skated, I paced. I heard their good scores and my heart rate just kept rising and rising. I ducked into the bathroom and that phone call with my mom saved me. She gave me an all-time pep talk. She reminded me of all the hard work I put in. All the talent I had. That I was meant for this moment. And, I think most importantly, she reminded me that no matter what, she loved me with all her heart.

And then I was just set free.

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“The only time you’ll find success before work is in the dictionary.”

My dad would always tell me that when I was little.

And I loved it.

I was always a dreamer. As long as I can remember. I loved believing in something, you know? I remember Kristi Yamaguchi signing her autograph with “always dream.” She was a huge inspiration for me. I was nine when I watched her win her gold in France. It lit a fire in me. I knew I wanted to be an Olympic champion, too.

It’s funny, I just remember myself being this little businesswoman. I was so serious. (I still had lots of fun, during my self-imposed fun-allotted-timeslots.) I loved the process of getting better, of seeing improvement. Around that time, my family and I had just moved from Delaware to Texas for my dad’s job. I went from being surrounded by rinks to having  just one where we could get ice time. It was in a mall in Houston. It was right near the food court and all the smells would linger as I practiced. Tacos and burgers and chow mein. And at Christmas there’d be this massive tree in the middle of the rink. So all my routines would have a big hole in them.

Sometimes the only time we could get on the ice was in the dead of night at 3 a.m. It was so hard to be present and focused at that hour, and I fell a couple times pretty badly. I remember thinking, Is this what the journey looked like for everyone?

But those hard times, the hurdles and the obstacles, they’re what make you you. And when you have big dreams, there’s going to be those moments. That’s when I leaned on my support. I don’t even think I truly grasped how much my parents did for me until I became a mom myself. They were always, always family first. I think I’m still kind of in awe of them. They just made me believe I could do anything.

And they protected me, too.

When I was 12, I won gold at the U.S. Olympic Festival in St. Louis. I was the youngest athlete to ever win, and with that medal came all sorts of attention. I went from my food court rink and all my friends to doing press junkets and being on magazine covers. Stuff that I couldn’t really comprehend when I was that age. All of a sudden the media put me into a rivalry with Michelle Kwan. And I started reading all these things and began to understand how much attention we were getting.

My parents kept me grounded, focused. It was about my skating, about still loving it. And at the rink is where I felt most comfortable. Even to this day. I was out on the ice a few weeks ago and just to feel the cold air on my face, the weightless feeling of those first few strides on a fresh sheet of ice … it takes me right back to being that young girl. When I’m at a rink now and I smell the rubber flooring and the gas fumes from the zamboni, I’m back and begging my coach for another minute on the ice to work, to get better — to try and be perfect.

That’s who I was. I always wanted to be the most prepared. I loved that feeling of your blood pumping and your heart racing and having to meet the moment. I loved knowing that my dream was right there, right in front of me. Because I knew, deep down, I was ready.

But in Nagano, I couldn’t find that part of me.

Because that’s what the Olympics do to you. That pressure, that feeling of finality — it just can’t be replicated. There’s no other moment in your life that can come close to it. It’s all-consuming. And being 15, without all that much life experience, it felt like I was either going to be an Olympic champion that night or just be heart-broken forever.

That’s part of what makes the Olympics so special.

I was finally in the dream. The one I had dreamt so many times. And I froze.

And it was my mom who came to my rescue. In that bathroom, she reminded me of all those things I knew deep down. I got off the phone, and I remember I was actually still shaking when I stepped on the ice. I knew Michelle had skated so incredibly well and that I needed a basically perfect performance to win. I remember my starting position, and those first 10 or 15 seconds where I passed by the judges and started to feel my legs again. Then I hit my first jump.

And I don’t remember a single thing after that.

I just went into the zone.

I watch it back now and I see my big smile after I land my jumps and I can still feel that joy. It was so pure. It was happiness and relief and the realization of a dream.

When they told me I was an Olympic champion I couldn’t believe it. To see that gold medal … to hear the anthem … it’s still hard to put into words. But if I can be honest, what I’m really so grateful for is the whole experience. Not just the result. Because it felt like that journey, that day, that skate — I overcame all these obstacles and delivered on my purpose. 

It’s not that I was perfect. No one is perfect. Skating is hard. Ice is slippery. Blades are sharp. And even though I don’t remember it all, I remember that every jump felt so good, every moment felt perfect. And to live up to your own expectations, to outdo my dreams … that’s what I loved about that day. That’s what fulfilled me. 

Some days I wish I could talk to that 15-year-old girl in the bathroom, shaking like a leaf. It’s not that I would tell her anything she didn’t know already. I wouldn’t even tell her anything at all at first. I would just do what my mom did for me. 

I would listen.

And then I’d tell her what she already knows.

“You got this, girl. Go make history.”

—Tara