Afterward, my doctor gently but firmly informed me that my competitive sports career was over. He droned on, telling me all the activities I could not do and how one can lead a very fulfilling and normal life, but I had stopped listening.
Quitting skiing was simply not an option. It was woven too tightly into the fabric of my family. I spent a year recovering. I was homeschooled and I had to spend most of the day in bed. I watched longingly as my family left every weekend without me, sitting in bed while they flew down the slopes or went out on the lake. I felt ashamed of my brace and my physical limitations. I felt like an outsider. I became even more determined to not let my surgery affect my life. I longed to feel a part of my family again; to feel the pride and hear the praise of my father, instead of the pity. With each lonely day I grew more and more determined to never again sit life out. As soon as the X-rays showed that my vertebrae had successfully fused, I was back on the mountain, skiing with a fierce determination, and by midseason I was winning in my age division. By then, my younger brother Jeremy had taken the freestyle skiing world by storm. He was ten years old and already dominating the sport. He was also exceptional in track and football. His coaches told my father they had never seen anyone as talented as Jeremy. He was our golden boy.
My brother Jordan was also a talented athlete, but his mind was his greatest attribute. He loved to learn. He loved to take things apart and figure out how to put them back together. He didn’t want to hear imaginary bedtime stories; he wanted to hear stories about real people in history. My mom had a new story every night for him, about great world leaders or visionary scientists, and she researched the facts and wove them into engaging tales.
From a very young age, Jordan knew he wanted to be a surgeon. I remember his favorite stuffed animal, Sir Dog. Sir Dog was Jordan’s first patient and underwent so many procedures he began to look like Frankenstein. My dad was delighted with his brilliant son and his ambition.
My brothers’ talents and ambitions presented early and I watched those gifts earn them the accolades that I desperately wanted. I loved to read and write, and when I was young I lived half my life in books, movies, and my imagination. In elementary school I didn’t want to play with other kids; I was shy and sensitive and I found them intimidating. So my mom spoke to the school librarian. Tina Sekavic agreed to allow me to hang out in the library, so I spent the next few years reading biographies about women who had changed the world like Cleopatra, Joan of Arc, Queen Elizabeth, and others. (My mom had initially suggested this, but I quickly became fascinated.) I was moved by their bravery and determination, and I decided right then and there, I didn’t want to settle for an ordinary life. I craved adventure; I wanted to leave my mark.
When my brothers and I reached our teenage years, Jordan’s academic prowess continued to surpass his peers. He was two years younger than I was when he tested out of his grade’s science and math classes and was placed in mine. Jeremy broke records in track, led the football team to the state championship, and was a local hero. My grades were high, and I was a good, sometimes great, athlete. But still, I hadn’t unearthed any talent as impressive as those of my brothers. The feelings of inadequacy increased and drove me almost obsessively to somehow prove my worth.
As we got older, I watched my father invest himself more and more in my brothers’ goals and dreams. I became tired of always being on the outside, I wanted the attention and approval too. The issue was that I was a dreamer, and inspired by the heroines in my books. I had grand ambitions that fell far outside my father’s pragmatism. But I still desperately craved his approval.
“Jeremy is going to be an Olympian, and Jordan will be a doctor. What should I be, Dad?” I asked him on an early morning chairlift.
“Well, you like to read and argue,” he started, which felt like a thorny compliment. In fairness, I was that annoying teenager who questioned every opinion or decision my parents made.
“You should be an attorney.”
And so it was decreed.
I went off to college, I studied political science, and I continued to compete in skiing. I pledged a sorority, in an effort to be well rounded, but when the organization’s mandatory social requirements got in the way of my real goals, I quit. I had to work hard for my grades, and even harder to overcome my physical limitations in skiing. I was obsessed with success, I was driven by an innate ambition, but more than that by a need for praise and recognition
The year I made the U.S. national ski team, my dad had a sit-down with me.
“Shouldn’t you focus on school, Molly? I mean how far are you going to go with this thing? You have far exceeded any expectations anyone had of you.” Though they never said it, everyone had pretty much stopped taking my skiing career seriously after my back surgery.
I was devastated. Instead of the visions I had of my father looking at me with the same proud smile he gave Jeremy the year before when he had made the national team, he was trying to talk me out of it.
The hurt only further fueled my determination. If no one else would believe in me, I would believe in myself.
That year Jeremy finished third overall in the country, and to the shock of my family, so did I. I remember standing tall on the podium, a medal around my neck and my long hair in a ponytail.
I got home that night and ignored the pain in my back and neck. I was tired of living with pain and pretending it wasn’t there. I was exhausted from trying to keep up with my superstar brother and I was especially tired of feeling like I had to constantly prove myself. Still, I had made the U.S. Ski Team and I had placed third overall. I felt satisfied. It was time to move on—on my own terms now.
I RETIRED FROM SKIING. I didn’t really want to be around for the fallout from that decision, though I suspected that despite my third-place finish, my father would still be relieved. To get away, I signed up for a study abroad in Greece. I instantly fell in love with the unfamiliarity and uncertainty involved in being in a foreign place. Everything was a discovery, a riddle to solve. Suddenly my world became a lot bigger than seeking my father’s approval. Somewhere, someone else was winning a blue ribbon in women’s moguls, or acing an exam, but frankly I didn’t care. I was especially enamored with the Gypsies in Greece. When I think about them now, they weren’t so unlike gamblers—seeking out angles, adventure, ignoring rules, and living an unfettered, free life. I made friends with some Gypsy kids in Crete. Their parents had been rounded up and shipped back to Serbia, so they were on their own. The Greeks are very wary of foreigners, understandable for a nation that has had a long history of occupation. I bought these kids food, and medicine for their baby. I spoke conversational Greek, and their Gypsy dialect was similar enough that we were able to communicate. The leader of the Gypsies’ tribe heard about what I had done for the children and invited me to their camp. That was an amazing experience. I decided to do my honors thesis on the legal treatment of nomadic people. It saddened me that these people couldn’t travel freely, as they had done for hundreds of years, and it seemed they had no advocates or representation. Their way of life was entirely free. It was so different from the life I had known. They loved music, food, dancing, falling in love, and when a place became stale they went somewhere else. This particular tribe was opposed to stealing, and instead focused on art and commerce to make their living.
I spent an extra three months after my program ended traveling by myself, staying in hostels, meeting interesting people, and exploring new places. I returned to the States a different girl. I still cared about school, but now I cared just as much about life experience and adventure. And then I met Chad.
Chad was good-looking, fast-talking, and brilliant. He was a deal maker and a hustler. He taught me about wine, took me to expensive restaurants, took me to my first opera, gave me amazing books to read.
Chad is the one who took me to California for the first time. I’ll never forget the drive along the Pacific Coast Highway. I couldn’t believe this place was real. We went to Rodeo Drive, had lunch at the Beverly Hills Hotel. Time seemed to slow down, as if Los Angeles was one never-ending perfect day. I watched the beautiful people—they all seemed so content and happy.
Los Angeles felt almost dreamlike and not governed by reality. I had started to rethink my plan to live in Greece, and Los Angeles