Olympic Falls and Poolside Fails

It’s less about blowing it and more about what comes next that matters.

Last week, Olympic figure skater Ilia Malinin had what he would probably describe as the worst day of his life.

For weeks, commentators had been circling him like he was already wearing the gold medal. He’s the only skater to land a quadruple Axel in competition. He hadn’t lost since 2024. There was even a Washington Post article explaining how his body is divinely designed to complete six, perfect gravity-defying jumps.

By all accounts, the gold was his.

And then, on the day of competition, as he described it, “I blew it.”

It’s easy to armchair quarterback this because we’ve seen it before. An athlete spends years making the impossible look easy. And then one day, when the lights are bright and the stakes are high, the brain decides to freestyle it.

They stumble. They fall. They drop the ball or make an error and its all over.

And here’s the uncomfortable truth: it’s rarely about effort. Professional athletes do not lack desire or discipline. If wanting it badly were enough, they’d never lose. Sometimes the issue isn’t muscle. It’s mind. The most powerful organ in the body occasionally decides to press the wrong button.

Which is strangely comforting.

Because it means we’re human. Not robots. Not machines programmed for perfect execution. Our brains are brilliant and occasionally chaotic. They can compose symphonies and also convince us that everyone at the pool is judging our parenting.

Ask me how I know.

The fact that our brains can betray us doesn’t make failure hurt less. In some ways, it hurts more. Losing because someone else was better that day? Fine. Losing because you unraveled? That hits deeper. We feel that for athletes because we know no one is more disappointed in themselves than they are.

And here’s where it lands for us as regular people. 

We are just as capable of a spectacular mental meltdown as any Olympic skater. We don’t need ice skates for it. We can do it in sweatpants.

No matter how thoughtful you are, one day you will say something that wounds a friend.

No matter how much you love your spouse, one day you will misread the moment and bruise their heart.

No matter how devoted you are to your kids, there will be a day when you look back and think, “Well. That could have gone better.”

How do I know?

Because I’ve done all three. I assume you have too.

I had my own “I blew it” day at swim lessons.

In the quiet back corner of my brain, I knew my son wasn’t ready. But all my friends’ kids were in lessons, and I was afraid of him falling behind.

We arrived to discover that what I thought was a sweet little mommy-and-me class was actually sharing pool space with approximately the entire city. Suddenly it felt like dozens of parents were perched around the edge of the pool, watching ME. Judging ME.

My son refused to get in.

In hindsight, I wish I had possessed the calm wisdom of a parenting sage. Instead, I thought about how much the lessons cost and how many people were watching me flail.

I bribed. I scolded. I threatened. And when none of that worked, I did what every parenting book tells you not to do: I forced it. I pulled him into the water.

There is a fine line between “this is good for you” and “this is good for you because its good for me,” and that day I stepped right over it.

It wasn’t until I felt my anger rising, hot and embarrassing, that I snapped awake. I lifted him out of the water, sat him on the side of the pool, kissed his wet face, and apologized.

Then I did something that felt dramatic but necessary. In the middle of the lesson, without any explanation to the instructor, I got out of the pool, gathered our towels, walked us to the car, and then called a friend in tears.

“I am the worst mom,” I announced, because shame is nothing if not theatrical.

She said something I’ve never forgotten: “You had a bad moment. That does not mean you are a bad mom. It’s what comes next that matters.”

What a relief. What a truth.

One bad performance doesn’t define a skating career. And one bad parenting moment doesn’t make you a bad parent.

Because the only thing better than a winning story is a comeback story.

For me, the comeback meant withdrawing him from swim lessons and waiting another year until he was ready. (Spoiler: he swims beautifully now. No lifelong trauma. No memoir titled Dragged Into the Deep By My Sea Monster of a Mother.)

It also meant refusing to let the shame of that day fester in my heart. Telling that story out loud to other moms loosened its grip. It turns out shame thrives in secrecy but withers in the light.

For Ilia, I imagine the comeback looks like trusted conversations, honest reflection, and then lacing up the skates again. Falling isn’t the end of a career. Staying down might be, but he won’t because he’s a great skater, probably one of the best ever.

And here’s the quiet grace in all of this: our failures expose something true about us. We are limited. We are fragile. We are not in total control. Which is humbling and also freeing.

Because if perfection isn’t the standard, then repentance, repair, and resilience can be.

We are going to have catastrophic failures. A meltdown at work. An argument that goes too far. A parenting moment we wish we could rewind. Maybe even a moral misstep no one else sees.

Those moments matter.

But they do not get the final word.

It’s what comes next that matters.