I turned on paid subscriptions a little over a month ago, but since then, I’ve shifted fully into writing my book. It’s taking up most of my time and energy, and I’ve realized I can’t write as frequently (or with the care a paid subscription deserves) while working on the first draft.

That’s why I’ve decided to pause paid content for now. You won’t be charged while I’m focused on the book. My draft is due in September, so until then, I’m lifting the pressure to post consistently. I’ll still write when I can, on my own timeline, post the occasional free newsletter, and I’m already thinking of updates and essays to share after I get past this big milestone.

Thank you so much for being here. I’m incredibly grateful, and I’m looking forward to reconnecting in a couple of months. <3

Bonjour !

J’ai activé les abonnements payants il y a un peu plus d’un mois, mais depuis, je me suis entièrement consacrée à l’écriture de mon livre. Cela me prend presque tout mon temps et mon énergie, et je me rends compte que je ne peux pas publier aussi souvent — ni avec l’attention qu’un abonnement payant mérite — tout en travaillant sur ce premier jet.

C’est pourquoi j’ai décidé de mettre le contenu payant en pause pour l’instant. Vous ne serez pas facturé·e·s pendant que je me concentre sur le livre. Le premier jet est prévu pour septembre, donc d’ici là, je me donne le droit de ne pas publier de manière régulière. J’écrirai quand je le pourrai, à mon rythme, je publierai peut-être une newsletter gratuite de temps en temps, et je prépare déjà quelques idées de trucs à partager une fois ce gros cap passé.

Merci du fond du cœur d’être là. Je suis infiniment reconnaissante, et j’ai hâte de vous retrouver dans quelques mois. <3

No relationship is ‘meant to be’. Leave.

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Last winter, I was invited to perform a solo with Ice Dance International. Recently, I’ve started skating on my own again, something I hadn’t done since I was about seven, when I used to compete in solo ice dance. It’s a strange shift: going from focusing on another person’s movement to having no one to look at, no one to mirror or orient myself around. It feels lonely, and I realized my biggest challenge was learning how to place myself in space. Without another body as a reference point, I’ve had to learn to become my own compass.

I’ve always felt that the music you skate to chooses you, more than you choose it. I was searching for the right song to choreograph a number to, waiting for that ‘coup de foudre’ (instant spark) until ‘Babylon’ came on shuffle. I first discovered the song on YouTube, when it was released, in a live rooftop performance by Tamino. I found it beautiful, especially in its simplicity: the video begins close to him, the location unclear, maybe Egypt? As the song unfolds, the camera slowly pulls back, revealing we’re actually in New York. Tamino, who at first fills the whole screen, gradually disappears into the busy city, his voice eventually drowned out by sirens and urban noise. He uses the story of Babylon as a metaphor for lost love, and the subtle camera work amplifies the idea — something that starts out grand and all-consuming, eventually fading away.

I felt that obvious “that’s the song!” moment, before I had even fully tried to understand the meaning or figure out why I was so drawn to it. This is always my favorite part of creating anything: that moment when everything seems to come together like magic, even though you don’t yet know why.

Afterward, I began listening more carefully to the lyrics and reading about Babylon. In myth and history, Babylon is often portrayed as a magnificent, powerful city that eventually collapses under the weight of its own pride and corruption. It’s become a symbol for human ambition, downfall, and the loss of something once great.

He uses it as a metaphor for a love he lost : trying to understand why something so beautiful could turn so ugly. I felt connected to the story too, though for both similar and different reasons. I was also reckoning with a loss, something I had helped build, something that once felt so grand and powerful, only to end up cast out of for daring to question it. I was left staring at something that once seemed magnificent, now watching its ruins crumble.

“Babylon, day comes the vultures devour you.
Baring the rot in your gardens.”

Sometimes, what appears so great on the surface is built on rotting soil : and no matter how impressive the structure looks, it can’t hold.

“And I’ll be coating my treasures in fire
So none but the damned may prize them.”

Extracting the beauty from what I needed to free myself from is a process only those who know that exact kind of pain can understand.

“They’re all I leave behind
Oh, were they even mine?”

I’ve often felt like none of it was ever really mine. As I let it go, I kept circling the same questions: What was mine? The fault? The beauty? What was I meant to keep, and what was I meant to surrender?

“Babylon, I’m looking out from your cold tower
Into a past horizon.”

How do you reckon with missing something that was hurting you? How do you mourn something that you know was breaking you?

“Bring down the rain of arrows
Take the defense
I wanna love tomorrow
But I love what’s left.”

It’s hard to know when to give up on something. Even when there’s nothing left to save, I stayed stagnant. Not just in the past, but in the need to make sense of it. It’s hard to stop searching for meaning and to accept that some things are better left misunderstood. Some stories are meant to stay unfinished, some endings to remain unresolved.

“Oh Babylon, you fake
Your walls are built to break
And I never came to stay
But I’m losing every way around you.”

Even when I wanted to leave and escape, I found myself trapped, unable to move on, losing myself again and again in the ruins.

As someone with a near-pathological need for sense-making, the choreography and performance became a way for me to let go. To allow myself to rest inside the liminal space between past and future, breaking and building, denial and acceptance.

When I had coffee with my friend Jordan (@oniceperspective) to see if he was free and wanted to film the piece, I initially suggested shooting at the Central Park rink, where I envisioned re-creating the camera pullback that reveals the city. But Jordan proposed we film at the Rockefeller rink, because of the Prometheus statue there. Although Prometheus doesn’t have a direct link to the Babylon story, I felt an immediate connection: Prometheus was the Titan who defied Zeus by stealing fire from the gods and giving it to humanity, enabling progress and civilization. As punishment, Zeus chained him to a rock where an eagle ate his liver every day, only for it to regenerate each night. Prometheus has long stood as a symbol of rebellion, sacrifice, and the suffering that comes with bringing knowledge or light to others. And as someone who often turns to mythological stories to make sense of my own life, I knew it was perfect.

I had so much fun planning where the camera would be at different points in the choreography : revealing Prometheus for the first time when the song’s lyrics mention “Babylon,” and positioning me in front of the statue as the camera slowly revealed the surroundings. And since I had already envisioned my dress making me look like a water-worn, oxygenated statue, pulled from the sea after Babylon’s fall, it all felt meant to be.

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Don’t get me wrong. Most of the time, I was ecstatic. I had finally achieved what I had been chasing for nearly fifteen years. I celebrated, I danced, I laughed until I cried. I looked at the medal and barely believed it was mine. I was proud. Joyful. Relieved. I had made it. I had reached the summit of the mountain I had been climbing since I was a child. But here’s the thing nobody tells you about the top: when you get there, all you see is the horizon. Vast, endless… empty. I stood at the peak and felt a strange kind of vertigo. Not from the climb, but from the height. There was no next path, no handhold, no sign pointing the way. Just the unsettling realization of how far I’d come, and how little I knew about where to go next.

It was beautiful, in a way- how quiet it was up there. But it was also incredibly lonely. In the days that followed, I oscillated between joy and anxiety, elation and confusion. It was a rollercoaster I hadn’t expected, and one I couldn’t seem to get off. The days turned into weeks, the weeks into months. People kept asking me if I wanted to do it again. If I would keep going. But it wouldn’t have felt like climbing again. It would have felt like staying. Holding a position. And while I didn’t hate that idea, it didn’t thrill me either. The idea of letting go, on the other hand, that was terrifying. The question echoed louder and louder: “What will I do?”

It took me over two years to answer.

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Without a coach to guide me or a structure to anchor me, I felt lost. And worse—I caught myself worrying about what other people might be thinking. What is she even doing here? What is she working on? She’s not as good as she was at the Olympics anymore. The thoughts circled me like vultures, silent but relentless, picking at my confidence until I froze.

Even when I finally moved, I couldn’t turn off the voice in my head picking apart every step. People told me to share my skating on social media, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that if it wasn’t exceptional, then it wasn’t worth showing.

It was the same with songwriting. I started writing songs last year, but I could never finish any of them—let alone show them to anyone, let alone perform them. I would listen to other artists’ work and immediately compare. It’s never going to be as good as this, so what’s the point?

The irony is that the perfectionism that now paralyzes me is the same force that made me a champion. It’s what got me to the rink every morning, what pushed me to refine every detail, what made me incapable of settling for good enough. After competitions, the podium and the celebrations often felt like background noise. What I wanted most was to break down my scores, analyze every point, and figure out how to be better for the next event. That painstaking process—ce travail d’orfèvre (this meticulous craftsmanship)—was what I loved most about my job.

Figure skating is also a sport where your work is judged by a panel of people from different countries, generations, and tastes. To win, you have to convince all of them. There’s little room for something too niche or polarizing—your perspective on your own work has to absorb and reflect everyone else’s. I was never someone who obsessed over pleasing the judges more than anything else, but I can’t deny that I cared. And that I had to care.

To protect myself from criticism, I trained myself to anticipate it. I learned to see my skating through the eyes of my harshest critic. I shaped myself into the least attackable version of me possible.

I’m not criticizing that mindset. In competition, it wasn’t just normal—it was necessary. It was a strength, and a process that I enjoyed. But now, as I step away from that world, I’m realizing just how much this way of thinking—this thing that once made me great—is now getting in my way.

The Art of Bombing.

Last December, I was in London visiting friends. My friend Sam, a young comedian on the London circuit, was performing a Work in Progress set at a tiny comedy club in Angel. I had never seen a work in progress comedy show before—only polished specials on YouTube or Netflix. I understood the concept, but I hadn’t realized just how unfinished a show like this could be.

For an hour, I watched Sam test jokes that didn’t land, stumble over his words, fumble with the mic, and cut jokes short when he forgot the setup—or when he just changed his mind mid-delivery. It was messy. Imperfect. At times, uncomfortable. And yet, I was completely entranced. Not just because I got to see the behind-the-scenes process of someone figuring out their art, but because I was mesmerized by Sam’s absolute lack of fear.

Even when the room fell into silence, he just shrugged it off, laughed, and kept going. “Well, I guess I won’t be doing that one again!” he said, crossing out a failed joke in his notebook. Later, when we grabbed a drink, I was struck by how happy he was. “Yeah, I was so bad!” he said, grinning. “The show is gonna be good though.”

Sam wasn’t just unafraid of failure—he enjoyed it. He understood that taking risks was the only way to grow as an artist, and that nothing teaches you more than a bombed set. “I’ve lived and continue to live out a lot of people’s worst nightmares in the service of making something that I feel is right and ambitious enough to be worth watching eventually,” he told me recently.

Failing on Purpose.

It made me think about my own experience with improv comedy a couple of years ago. I had signed up for classes with a few friends and stepped into a world that felt completely foreign to me: creating in the moment. Improv is all about reacting, trusting the flow of whatever is already happening, and the less you think, the better you are.

At first, I loved it. The silliness, the spontaneity, the playfulness. It was fun, low-stakes. But then we started performing for an audience, and something in me locked up.

The fact that we couldn’t rehearse before performing made my brain short-circuit. How will I ever be ready? How will I know I’m good? How do I prepare myself to be worthy of being on a stage? What if I bomb? What if I make a mistake?

The more I worried about losing control, the more unnatural I became on stage. The more I tried to control the outcome, the more rigid and disconnected I felt. And after a few performances that left me wanting to crawl into a hole and disappear, I quit. At the time, I lacked the self-awareness to understand why I did. And because I was still competing, it wouldn’t have made sense to unlearn a skill I still needed every single day.

But now, here I am, trying to figure it out. How do you unlearn something that has been useful to you your entire life? How do you reshape a mindset that once served you so well but is now holding you back?

Of course, it’s not about getting rid of perfectionism entirely. Figure skating taught me une exigence—a level of discipline and precision—that is an invaluable strength. But maybe it’s about loosening my grip just enough to make space for something else.

Lately, I’ve been thinking about the idea of failing on purpose. What if I trained myself to value failure more than I value perfection? What if I started seeing it as a sign of growth rather than something to be ashamed of? What if, like Sam, I could feel proud of failing?

With that mindset, I decided one day that I would finish a song. Not a good song—just a song. I wouldn’t judge it, I wouldn’t overanalyze it, I would just finish it. A few hours later, I had one. It was the first time I had ever completed a full song, and ironically, it turned out to be the one I liked best.

A few days later, still riding that momentum, I decided to perform it at an open mic night. I hadn’t rehearsed it much, I was still unsure about some parts, but I told myself: I’m going to fail on purpose. Was it a Grammy-worthy performance? No. But it was better than if I had waited endlessly for the day it would be perfect.

I’m trying to carry this energy with me now. The point isn’t to be perfect anymore—it’s just to move and see where it leads. And instead of letting fear dictate my choices, I’m learning to trust my own taste.

What if the judge I tried to please most was me?

Perfectionism got me far, but maybe I don’t need it to go where I’m heading next. Maybe real growth isn’t about getting everything right—it’s about being brave enough to get things wrong.

The painting I chose to illustrate this text is The Entombment by Michelangelo. I saw it at the National Gallery in London during the same trip when I watched Sam’s show. I remember standing in front of it, completely moved—not just by the figures, which seemed to be caught mid-motion, but by the feeling that something was left unsaid, unfinished.

I didn’t realize at first that it was unfinished. But when I later researched imperfections in art, I came across this:

Michaelangelo’s contemporary, the historian Giorgio Vasari once observed that Michelangelo's works ‘were of such a nature that he found it impossible to express such grandiose and awesome conceptions with his hands, and he often abandoned his works, or rather ruined many of them... for fear that he might seem less than perfect.’

I wonder how many unfinished pieces exist in the world—artworks, performances, ideas—that were never shared because their creators feared they would be judged too harshly. How many moments of raw beauty, of quiet imperfection, have been locked away when they might have moved someone like me? What if the things we leave incomplete, the things we hesitate to show, are the very things that could resonate most with others?

I think about that now when I step onto the ice, when I sit with an unfinished song, when I hesitate to put something out into the world. Maybe the value of creation isn’t in its perfection, but in its existence. In the fact that someone, somewhere, might stumble upon it—and be moved.

Lately, I’ve been finding my way back to the ice—but on my own terms. Not chasing scores, not proving anything, just exploring what movement feels like when it belongs entirely to me. Maybe that’s in skating, maybe it’s somewhere unexpected. But this time, I’m not measuring success by how perfect it looks—I’m measuring it by how much it makes me feel alive.

À la fin de cet exercice, nous nous sommes échangé un regard amusé. Sans un mot, nous semblions nous demander : « Et si ? »
À l’époque, nous étions occupées à patiner toute la journée avec nos partenaires respectifs, ce qui ne laissait ni le temps ni l’énergie pour poursuivre cette idée. Mais nous avions conclu un pacte : nous patinerions ensemble une fois nos carrières compétitives terminées.
Je ne pense pas que l’une de nous prenait cela très au sérieux, et pourtant nous y voilà. Dans un mois à peine, nous allons performer ensemble à Art on Ice, le plus grand spectacle de patinage artistique au monde.

Quand j’en parle à mes amis non patineurs, ils me demandent : « Est-ce que c’est spécial ? » Après tout, ils ont déjà vu des duos du même sexe dans d’autres formes d’art chorégraphié. Mais dans le monde du patinage artistique, c’est en réalité une idée très nouvelle. Tellement nouvelle qu’elle n’a jamais été réalisée au niveau élite. Pendant plus d’un siècle, le patinage en couple a célébré la grâce, la force et l’harmonie—mais uniquement à travers le prisme des partenariats homme-femme.

Le Canada est devenu le premier pays à autoriser les couples de même sexe à concourir au niveau national, et cela ne date que de deux ans. Aucun autre pays ne l’a encore rejoint. C’est totalement absurde qu’en 2025, le couple de patinage artistique du même sexe le plus connu reste Chazz Michael Michaels et Jimmy MacElroy, issus du film Les Rois du patin (2007). Pourtant, beaucoup dans le milieu du patinage artistique craignent encore ce que cela pourrait signifier et comment cela pourrait transformer le sport.
C’est pour cela que j’ai décidé d’écrire sur toutes les raisons pour lesquelles ce changement est non seulement important, mais absolument nécessaire.

Dynamiques de genre et déséquilibres de pouvoir

Dès les premiers niveaux du patinage artistique, les garçons sont largement moins nombreux que les filles. Pourtant, la seule chance d’avoir une carrière est de former un couple mixte. Cela crée un déséquilibre de pouvoir significatif en faveur des garçons dès le début de la carrière de chaque patineur.
Les garçons deviennent les célibataires recherchés par les entraîneurs et les parents des jeunes filles. Ils ont tous les choix du monde, tandis que les filles sont souvent considérées comme interchangeables. Il arrivait souvent qu’un jeune garçon organise des essais, invitant toutes les filles célibataires de la région à être comparées le même jour. La technique compte, mais tout autant l’âge, la taille, le poids, et le potentiel attrait physique de la fille.
Ce déséquilibre laisse une marque durable sur le psychisme des femmes tout au long de leur carrière. Nous savons que nos partenaires ont une voie plus facile pour trouver une autre partenaire. Nous savons que notre apparence physique compte autant, sinon plus, que nos compétences en patinage ou nos capacités athlétiques.

Ce n’est pas surprenant que beaucoup de ces relations sur glace deviennent psychologiquement voire physiquement abusives. J’ai été témoin de nombreux exemples au cours de ma carrière, sans que personne n’intervienne, car cela était vu comme la seule option pour que la fille puisse avoir une carrière—et que c’était mieux que rien.

Contexte historique : Hétéronormativité dans le patinage artistique

Les racines du patinage artistique se trouvent dans les danses de salon du XVIIIe siècle, où les rôles de genre rigides étaient centraux. Issues des cours européennes, des danses comme la valse ou le menuet imposent aux hommes de mener chaque mouvement, tandis que les femmes suivaient gracieusement, incarnant les attentes sociétales de domination et de soumission.

Ces dynamiques ont été transposées au patinage artistique, où les rôles en couple soulignent l’homme comme leader et la femme comme point focal esthétique. Même si la société a évolué, ces traditions ont perduré. Tandis que la danse de salon commence à intégrer des couples de même sexe et à briser ces normes, le patinage artistique s’accroche encore à des structures dépassées.

Le résultat est un sport qui limite la créativité et l’autonomie de chaque patineur. Hommes comme femmes se retrouvent confinés dans des attentes étroites de force et de beauté, et plus ils incarnent ces rôles de genre, plus ils sont récompensés par les juges.

On m’a déjà dit sans détour : « Les hommes sont le cadre, et les femmes sont le tableau. » Cette idée, selon laquelle les hommes incarnent la force et les femmes la grâce, est profondément enracinée dans ce sport. Un jour, j’ai même entendu des juges dire qu’un couple obtiendrait de meilleures notes si la fille paraissait plus féminine. Ces remarques soulignent à quel point ces stéréotypes sont ancrés, façonnant les attentes et limitant l’individualité dans le patinage artistique.

Aussi récemment que l’an dernier, lors des répétitions pour un spectacle, le chorégraphe s’est adressé exclusivement à mon partenaire masculin, ignorant complètement ma présence. L’implication sous-jacente était claire : il était responsable de la chorégraphie, et moi, je n’étais là que pour suivre. Ces micro-agressions subtiles mais humiliantes étaient une réalité quotidienne tout au long de ma carrière, rappelant constamment les inégalités systémiques qui persistent encore. Ces expériences nourrissent ma passion pour ce projet : remettre en question et démanteler ces stéréotypes profondément enracinés.

Apprendre à diriger

J’ai toujours été considérée comme une « bonne suiveuse ». Chaque fois qu’un homme patinait avec moi, il disait à quel point c’était agréable et facile grâce à moi. J’ai même développé ce que je plaisante en appelant des « oreilles de chauve-souris », capables d’entendre les patins de mon partenaire derrière moi et d’ajuster mes mouvements en conséquence.

Pendant des années, j’ai porté ce compliment comme une médaille. J’étais fière de m’être façonnée en partenaire la plus accommodante possible. Mais quand j’ai patiné avec Madison, j’ai réalisé quelque chose : je n’avais jamais développé les compétences pour diriger. Je ne savais pas prendre des décisions ou des initiatives avec mon propre corps.

Cette dynamique—où les femmes doivent suivre et s’adapter—était tellement intégrée que je ne l’ai même pas reconnue jusqu’à ce que je sorte de ce cadre. Quand j’ai annoncé que je patinerais avec Madison, trois intervieweurs (dans les trois seules interviews que j’ai données) m’ont demandé si j’avais demandé la permission de Guillaume. Peu importe que notre partenariat soit officiellement terminé—il semblait que j’étais encore « prêtée ». L’absurdité de cette question m’a fait rire, mais elle était aussi un rappel brutal de l’ampleur de ces dynamiques dans le patinage : les femmes comme extensions de leurs partenaires masculins, dépourvues d’autonomie.

Patiner avec Madison nous a obligées à désapprendre ces habitudes. Ensemble, nous avons travaillé consciemment à développer de nouvelles compétences pour patiner en tant qu’égales. J’ai appris à occuper davantage l’espace sur la glace, à développer mon propre langage corporel et ma propre expressivité artistique. En me concentrant davantage sur mon propre patinage, je me suis améliorée. Libérée de l’exigence de traiter un partenaire masculin comme mon centre de gravité, j’ai pu utiliser mes « oreilles de chauve-souris » pour m’entendre moi-même.

À ma grande surprise, j’ai réalisé que non seulement nous pouvions alterner instinctivement les rôles de leader et de suiveur, mais que ce concept même n’était pas si important. Bien que ces rôles soient nécessaires en danse en raison des dynamiques du sol, sur la glace, où l’énergie circule différemment, peu de moments chorégraphiques nécessitent réellement un rôle spécifique.

Patiner avec une femme m’a appris cela. Maintenant, je rêve de voir un sport où les filles apprennent à diriger et les garçons à suivre.

Esthétiques genrées

Ces stéréotypes vont au-delà des rôles sur la glace. Ils créent un énorme écart dans l’égalité financière, même dans un sport comme le patinage artistique, où hommes et femmes sont techniquement payés de la même manière.

Les costumes des femmes, censés être le point central de l’apparence du couple, coûtent souvent beaucoup plus cher que ceux des hommes. L’accent mis sur des coiffures élaborées et le maquillage ajoute encore une charge financière supplémentaire pendant la saison. Et si tout cela peut être un choix, pour moi, cela n’en a presque jamais été un.

On m’a poussée à suivre des cours de maquillage, et je dépensais des milliers de dollars chaque année en produits de beauté (sans jamais vraiment devenir douée, haha). Des années plus tard, quand j’ai évoqué ce sujet en conversation, on m’a répondu que je devrais être reconnaissante—sans cela, je « ressemblerais toujours à rien ».

Et si nous nous habituions à voir différentes expressions de féminité et de masculinité sur la glace ? Et si les hommes portaient des costumes élaborés et les femmes des costumes plus simples ? Et si les couples mixtes se sentaient aussi inspirés pour briser ces normes ?

Connexion avec le public

L’audience du patinage artistique a drastiquement diminué au cours des 20 dernières années. Le public ne rajeunit pas. La plupart de mes amis sont non-patineurs. Quand ils me regardaient concourir, ils disaient que c’était très impressionnant, mais je voyais bien qu’ils n’étaient pas complètement captivés. La plupart d’entre eux, étant queer et féministes, ne se retrouvaient pas dans la présentation actuelle du patinage. Et pour être honnête, moi non plus. J’ai commencé à me diviser : la vraie Gabriella que j’étais avec mes proches, et la version performative que j’étais à la patinoire. Il m’était de plus en plus difficile de me plier à des règles auxquelles je ne croyais pas. Je questionnais constamment mon manque d’autonomie, ce qui me faisait me sentir déconnectée et seule.

Non seulement je me suis éloignée de moi-même, mais cela m’attristait profondément de savoir que mon travail ne parlait pas à ma communauté. En tant qu’artiste, c’est peut-être l’un des sentiments les plus douloureux, rendant toute cette quête vide de sens. Je crois que le patinage est le sport et l’art les plus beaux qui soient, et pourtant il attire si peu de monde.

Bien que les couples de même sexe ne soient pas intrinsèquement queer (deux personnes hétérosexuelles peuvent patiner ensemble de manière très conventionnelle, je vous assure), ils résonnent profondément auprès des jeunes générations, dont près de 30 % s'identifient comme queer. Cette inclusivité représente une avancée majeure pour atteindre ce public. Et même pour les 70 % restants de personnes hétérosexuelles, voir des couples mixtes reflétant des partenariats modernes et plus égalitaires offre une représentation authentique et relatable de l'évolution des relations homme-femme aujourd'hui.

La communauté du patinage artistique a beaucoup de retard à rattraper si elle veut toucher un public contemporain. Mais parce que j’aime ce sport plus que jamais, je nous implore de commencer à réfléchir aux moyens d’y parvenir.

Une vision pour l’avenir

Le patinage artistique a le potentiel d’être tellement plus. Imaginez un sport où les patineurs sont libres de diriger, de suivre ou simplement de s’exprimer—où l’art n’est pas confiné par des stéréotypes dépassés.

Et si la prochaine génération de patineurs voyait les partenariats de même sexe comme normaux ? Et si briser ces traditions inspirait l’innovation dans les couples mixtes ? Et si nous arrêtions d’apprendre aux femmes à se faire petites et aux hommes à réprimer leur créativité ?

Je pense à tous les talents que nous perdons et à ceux que nous pourrions regagner : des hommes plus petits qui adorent danser, des filles grandes et musclées dont la force pourrait être célébrée plutôt que dissimulée. Des patineurs qui ne se retrouvent pas dans les expressions de genre attendues mais qui ont pourtant tant à dire.

Nous dansons sur de l’eau gelée et patinons sur une surface qui contient toute la fluidité de la vie elle-même. Je me demande quelles œuvres pourraient émerger de ce magnifique sport. Toute la diversité artistique et athlétique.

Je suis convaincue que ces changements élèveraient le sport—et ne le diminueraient pas. Ils créeraient plus de place pour l’individualité, l’art et l’excellence.

Conclusion

Le changement n’est jamais facile, et je comprends les craintes qu’il suscite. Certains s’inquiètent de l’équité entre les couples de même sexe, d’autres résistent simplement à rompre avec la tradition. Mais l’évolution est nécessaire pour qu’une discipline artistique ou sportive prospère.

Ce que je sais avec certitude, c’est que cela en vaut la peine, et qu’il est temps. Le changement est effrayant, oui. Mais il est aussi excitant. Le patinage artistique est à son meilleur lorsqu’il célèbre la grâce, la force et l’harmonie. Il est temps de redéfinir ce que ces mots signifient—et qui peut les incarner.

At the end of the training exercise we exchanged an amused and daring look. Without words we seemed to ask each other, "what if?"

At the time, we were busy skating all day long with our respective partners, leaving no time or energy to pursue it. But we made a deal: we’d skate together once our competitive careers were over.

I don’t think either of us took it that seriously, yet here we are. In only a month, we’ll be performing together at Art on Ice, the biggest figure skating show in the world.

When I talk to my non-skater friends, they ask, “Is that special?” They've seen same-sex pairs in all the other choreographed art forms, after all. But it is, in fact, VERY new to the figure skating community. So new that it's never been done at the elite level. For over a century, pair skating has been a celebration of grace, strength, and harmony—but only through the lens of male-female partnerships.

Canada became the first country to allow same-sex pairs to compete at the national level, and that was only two years ago. No other country has joined them in doing so. It is utterly absurd that in 2025, the most well known same-sex figure skating pair of all time remains Chazz Michael Michaels and Jimmy MacElroy from the 2007 film Blades of Glory. Yet many in the figure skating world are still scared of what it could mean and how it might change the sport. That’s why I decided to write about all the reasons I believe this shift is not just important—it’s absolutely necessary.

Gender Dynamics and Power Imbalances.

From the early levels of figure skating onwards, boys are vastly outnumbered by girls. Yet, the only chance to have a career is to form a mixed couple. This creates a significant power imbalance in favour of boys, from the outset of every skater's career. Boys are the eligible bachelors that coaches and parents of little girls are chasing. They have all the choice in the world, while the girls are often treated as replaceable. Sometimes, a young boy would organise try-outs, inviting all the eligible single girls in the area to be compared on the same day. Skill matters, but equally important are age, height, weight, and how attractive the girl could one day become. This imbalance leaves a lasting impact on women's psyches throughout our careers. We know our partners have an easier path for finding another partner. We know that our physical appearance matters just as much, if not more, than our skating and athletic abilities.

It’s no surprise that many of these on-ice relationships can become psychologically or even physically abusive. I’ve witnessed countless examples during my career, with nobody stepping in because it was seen as the only way for the girl to have a career—and that it was better than nothing.

Historical Context: Heteronormativity in Figure Skating.

Figure skating’s roots lie in 18th century ballroom dancing, where rigid gender roles were central. Emerging in European courts, ballroom dances like the waltz and minuet required men to lead every movement while women followed gracefully, embodying societal expectations of dominance and submission. These dynamics carried into figure skating, where pair roles emphasised the man as the leader and the woman as the aesthetic focal point.

Even as society evolved, these traditions persisted. While ballroom dancing has started to embrace same-sex pairings and breaking of norms, figure skating still clings to outdated structures. The result is a sport that limits the creativity and agency of every skater. Both men and women are confined to narrow expectations of strength and beauty, and the better they perform their gender role, the greater their reward on the judge's scorecard.

I’ve heard it said outright: “Men are the frame, and women are the painting.” This idea of men as strong and women as pretty persists deeply in the sport. I once overheard judges suggest that a couple would score better if the girl appeared more feminine. These remarks highlight how entrenched these stereotypes are, shaping expectations and limiting individuality in figure skating.

As recently as last year, while rehearsing for a figure skating show, the choreographer spent the entire session addressing my male partner by name while completely ignoring me. This assumption—that he alone was responsible for the choreography and I was merely there to follow—echoes the systemic bias that pervades the sport. It reinforces the outdated idea that men are the leaders and women are merely extensions of their partners' bodies. Such subtle yet humiliating micro-aggressions were a daily occurrence throughout my career, constantly reminding me of the systemic inequities that still exist. These experiences fuel my passion for this project—to challenge and dismantle these deeply rooted stereotypes.

Learning to Lead.

I was always considered a “good follower.” Every time a man skated with me, they’d say how nice it was, and how easy I made it for them. I even developed what I jokingly call “bat ears,” so I could hear my partner’s skates behind me and adjust accordingly.

For years, I carried this compliment as a medal. I was proud of how I’d shaped myself into the easiest partner possible. But when I skated with Madison, I realised something: I had never developed the skills to lead. I didn’t know how to take decisions or initiatives with my own body.

This dynamic—where women are expected to follow and adjust—was reinforced in ways I didn’t even recognise until I stepped outside of it. When I announced I’d be skating with Madison, three different interviewers (in the only three interviews I gave) asked if I had sought Guillaume’s permission. Never mind that we’d officially ended our partnership—it seems I was still on loan. Although the absurdity made me laugh, it was also a stark reminder of how deeply ingrained these dynamics are in figure skating: women as extensions of their male partners, with no agency of their own.

Skating with Madison required us to unlearn these habits. Together, we worked mindfully to develop new skills so we could skate as equals. I started to take up more space on the ice, to develop my own physical language and artistry. I focused more on my own skating, and by doing so, I improved. Free from the requirement to treat a male partner like my center of gravity, I could finally use my bat ears to hear myself.

To my surprise, I realized that not only could we instinctively switch the roles of leader and follower, but that the whole concept wasn’t actually that important. Although in dancing these roles might be necessary due to the dynamics of the floor, on the ice, where the energy flows differently, few moments in choreography truly require anyone to take on a specific role.

Skating with a woman taught me that. Now I dream about how much stronger the sport could be if we taught girls to lead and boys to follow.

Gendered Aesthetics.

These stereotypes run deeper than roles on the ice. They create a huge gap in financial equality, even in a sport like figure skating, where men and women are technically paid the same.

Women’s costumes, pressured to be the centerpiece of the couple’s look, often cost significantly more than men’s. The emphasis on elaborate hairstyles and makeup adds yet another financial burden during the season. And while it’s fine if these things are a choice, for me, they rarely felt like one.

I was tricked into paying for make-up classes and I’d spend thousands of dollars every year on beauty products (and never really got good at it, lol). Years later, when I brought it up in conversation, I was told I should be grateful—otherwise, I’d “still look like shit.”

What if we got used to seeing different kinds of femininity and masculinity on the ice? What if men wore intricate costumes and women simpler ones? What if mixed couples felt inspired to break these norms, too?

Audience Connection.

Figure skating’s viewership has drastically dropped in the last 20 years. The audience isn’t getting younger. Most of my friends are non-skaters. When they watched me compete, they'd say the skating was very impressive, but I could tell they weren't completely engaged either. Most of them being queer, feminist artists, I could see that they didn’t relate to skating’s current presentation. And to be honest, I didn’t either. I started splitting myself: the real Gabriella I was with my people, and the performative version I was at the rink. I had a harder and harder time submitting myself to rules I didn’t believe in. I constantly questioned my lack of agency, which made me feel disconnected and lonely.

Not only did I grow more and more distant from myself, but it also deeply saddened me to know that my work didn't speak to my community. As an artist, this might be one of the most painful feelings, rendering the whole pursuit meaningless. I believe skating is the most beautiful sport and art form to exist, yet it attracts so few people.

Although same-sex pairs are not inherently queer (two straight people can skate together in a very straight way, I assure you), they resonate strongly with younger audiences, nearly 30% of whom identify as queer. This inclusivity is a significant step forward for reaching this demographic. And even for the 70% of straight people, seeing mixed-gender couples that reflect more equal and modern partnerships offers a representation that feels authentic and relatable to how male-female relationships are evolving today.

The skating community has a lot to catch up on if it wants to reach a modern audience. But because I love this sport more than ever, I beg us to start thinking about ways we can do that.

Vision for the Future.

Figure skating has the potential to be so much more. Imagine a sport where skaters are free to lead, follow, or simply express themselves—where the artistry isn’t confined by outdated stereotypes.

What if the next generation of skaters saw same-sex partnerships as normal? What if breaking these traditions inspired innovation in mixed pairs? What if we stopped teaching women to shrink and men to suppress their artistry?

Thinking about all the talents that we’re losing and those we’d gain back: shorter men who love to dance, tall & muscular girls whose strength could be celebrated rather than concealed. Skaters who don’t see themselves in the expected gendered expressions but still have things to say. We dance on frozen water and skate on a surface that contains the fluidity of life itself. I’m wondering about all the art that could emerge from this beautiful sport. All the artistic & athletic diversity.

I believe these changes would elevate the sport—not diminish it. They would create more room for individuality, artistry, and excellence.

Conclusion.

Change is never easy, and I understand the fears that come with it. Some people worry about fairness between same-sex pairs, others simply resist breaking tradition. But evolution is necessary for any art form or sport to thrive.

What I do know for sure is that it is worth it, and it is time. Change is scary, yes. But it’s also exciting. Figure skating is at its best when it celebrates grace, strength, and harmony. It’s time to redefine what those words mean—and who gets to embody them.