Filling the Ice

Let's stop riding the boards

I’ve been watching the Olympics nonstop.

Mostly women’s figure skating.

There’s something about it that slows me down — the glide, the quiet before the music starts, the way an entire arena holds its breath while one small person stands in the middle of so much ice.

Tonight, while watching Julia Sauter (Romania), I said out loud how incredible it is that such a massive rink can feel completely filled by someone who looks so tiny from afar. These skaters don’t hover near the edges. They don’t cautiously stay in one corner. They move across every inch of the space like it belongs to them.

And then I surprised myself by adding, I wish I filled every inch of my space.

Julia Sauter, Olympian

Right now, in my career, I feel like the smallest fish in the biggest ocean. I’m present, but sometimes I feel like I’m floating instead of swimming. I didn’t used to feel this way. Back home in Mississippi, I knew where I fit. I knew my people. I knew my voice. I filled space without overthinking it. I showed up, spoke up, and belonged.

Here, everything feels larger — the rooms, the systems, the conversations. Some days I walk into meetings feeling like I brought a teaspoon to a lake.

And now I’m on the vestry at St. Luke’s.

I’ve had exactly one meeting. Mostly I listened. I tried to keep up, learn names, and follow the flow of conversation. There were no big spiritual revelations — I was just orienting myself, trying to understand how things work and where I might fit into all of it.

Later that night, the question crept in anyway: Am I enough for this?

I told my mom about it, and her first response was, “I don’t know what that is.” Even after I explained, she didn’t seem especially impressed. That made me laugh, because I’ve been at this church for a year now. I write a blog that much of the congregation reads, it seems like. I usher. I show up (every once in a while). I say yes to things that scare me. I am visibly serving (I think).

So why does my brain still default to not enough?

It’s not that I need anything to sound impressive. I just want to do the right thing. I want to make the right difference. I want to do the job well. I want to help. I want to be present. I want to contribute something meaningful.

And yet I carry this quiet fear that I’ll be the one left standing still while everyone else keeps moving.

That fear showed up the other day while I was ushering, when I completely forgot to go forward and retrieve the communion plate while the service continued. Everyone else moved on with practiced ease. I stood there for a moment, frozen, embarrassed, out of rhythm. Eventually I caught on, of course — but that tiny pause stuck with me longer than it should have.

It felt like proof of every insecurity I carry.

Watching skating this week reminded me that no one is born knowing how to fill that kind of space. They learn. They fall. They practice until their edges know the ice. And what we don’t see on television is the pacing — the breath control, the way routines are built around what a human body can actually sustain. No one skates full-speed for four straight minutes. They can’t.

Then there was Amber Glenn (USA).

Amber Glenn, Olympian

She entered the competition as the favorite for gold and had a rough short program — the kind that makes your stomach drop when you’re watching. The music kept playing, she kept skating, but at the end she was all tears because she knew she had made a mistake that would cost her any chance at a medal. After today’s performance, she did not place in the top 3.

But only after delivering a stunning comeback in her free skate.

She didn’t disappear after the mistake. She didn’t spend the next night hugging the boards. She came back into the center of the ice and skated like she belonged there.

And that’s the part I can’t stop thinking about.

Not the perfect performance.

The return.

Because that’s what that ushering moment was — a missed cue. The service kept going. I stood still. For a second, I felt like I’d proven every doubt right.

But the world did not end.

The liturgy continued. The plate got passed. I learned.

Maybe filling space isn’t about never falling. Maybe it’s about coming back to the center after you do.

Right now, I’m navigating a bigger professional world and a deeper level of church involvement. I’m a year into this community. Some days I feel capable. Some days I feel like I’m chasing the music.

Becoming Episcopalian has been a series of small yeses — yes to communion, yes to ushering, yes to vestry — not because I have it all figured out, but because I’m trying to show up.

And I think I’m tired of skating along the boards.

I don’t want to hover at the edges of my career anymore. I don’t want to shrink in rooms just because they feel big. I don’t want one missed cue to send me back to the wall.

Maybe filling space doesn’t mean being impressive. Maybe it just means being faithful to the role in front of you. Maybe it means inhabiting the ground beneath your skates.

Just this meeting. Just this Sunday. Just this flight for work. Just this mistake, followed by learning.

So here’s the real question underneath all of it:

Am I enough?

Right now, I don’t always feel like it.

But maybe enoughness isn’t something you feel.

Maybe it’s something you grow into — one edge at a time.

And maybe, without realizing it, I’m already filling more space than I think. Or not. I don’t really know. But that sounded inspirational, right?

We’ll see how next week goes. See you there!