Roller Skating, Chronic Illness, and Letting Go of My Nineteen-Year-Old Calves

When I was seventeen, I strapped on roller skates for the first time. Within an hour, I could skate in a straight line without falling on my face—an accomplishment that, naturally, my friends mocked mercilessly. But I didn’t care. The smooth glide across the rink floor hooked me. It felt like freedom on eight tiny wheels.

Not long after, my mom and I moved from our creaky Victorian house on the edge of the city to a brand-new suburban development. The kind with endless, freshly paved streets—basically a roller skater’s dream track. So, I did the only reasonable thing: bought a pair of skates and started practicing every single night. From 10:00 p.m. until nearly 2:00 a.m., I was out there circling cul-de-sacs and flying down streets like my life depended on it. I put so many miles on those skates that I wore through two full sets of wheels.

And did I get better? Oh, hell yes. By nineteen, I wasn’t just skating—I was flipping, spinning, jumping, skating backwards at speed, weaving slaloms like I was auditioning for the roller-disco Olympics. If skates had wings, I would’ve taken off.

Then real life happened. Job. Wife. Grown-up responsibilities. My tiny-wheeled obsession got shoved into the dusty corners of memory. I haven’t laced up skates since.

Fast forward to today: I’m strolling through a beach town when I see some guy pulling off a jaw-dropping trick on skates. The crowd gasps. My first instinct? Shout: “I could do that! Better!”

But let’s be honest. Could I really? It’s been forty-four years since those wheels touched my feet. Roller skating is not like riding a bike. At nineteen, I had calves that could crush walnuts, thighs like tree trunks, and a daily routine packed with trail biking, badminton, swimming, and skating. My body was built for movement.

Now? My legs are still strong, but the sarcoidosis, the heart failure, the medications—they’ve all left their mark. Walking up a single block of incline can leave my lungs screaming and my heart staging a protest. Skating flips and backward spins? Not happening.

And you know what? That’s okay. I can look back and celebrate what my body used to do without punishing myself for what it can’t. I can cheer on the young skater in the street, silently bragging to myself that, yes, I once did it better. But I don’t have to prove it.

Because sometimes, the real trick isn’t a backflip on skates. It’s learning to let yourself off the hook.

So Tell Me

Have you ever given up a passion—sports, dance, music—only to catch yourself reminiscing years later? Do you ever wonder if you could still do it? Drop a comment below, or subscribe to my blog to keep following these little life reflections. Let’s laugh, wince, and cheer each other on as we figure out what aging gracefully really means.