Addie Lydon ’26

For years, I outgrew pair after pair of skates. Their leather became thin and broken-in, and the laces embedded into the boots. They were never new or shiny, but each pair was mine and had been through a lot with me.

I didn’t just learn to skate in them; I was raised in them. My schedule, my friendships, even my family dynamic revolved around hockey. Weeknights were for practice. Weekends were for games. Holidays were for traveling. Our car always smelled faintly of damp gear, and our family arguments often started or ended in a rink parking lot. It was a rhythm I knew by heart.

And then it ended.

Abruptly, I woke up with my coach over me.
“Addie, are you okay?”

I didn’t know what was going on, but I did know those lights were giving me a headache. As I got off the ice, the athletic trainer looked at me with disappointment. I knew this was my last time on the ice. I knew I was about to go into weeks of dizziness, nausea, and an aversion to light. What I also knew was that this was going to be my fourth and final concussion.

I had to untie those laces and rip off the skates as quickly as they went on. I would never wear those skates—or any skates—again. I would never feel the crease under my blades, never shuffle or t-push across the ice.

Without my skates on, I couldn’t help but feel like I was wearing my shoes untied. No direction. No identity. Just… lost.

And that loss didn’t stay on the ice. It followed me everywhere.
The routine that had once structured my life was gone, and without it, everything felt unsteady. I struggled to find motivation, to feel like myself, to understand who I was without the one thing that had always defined me. What I had lost wasn’t just a sport, it was my outlet, my stability, and a huge part of my identity.

There were moments when it felt like I was stuck there, in that in-between, no longer the person I had been, but not yet someone new.

I hit a low point. I kept trying to fill the space hockey had left by overloading my schedule, hoping staying busy would make things feel normal again. But instead, I would burn out, lose motivation, and feel even more stuck. I didn’t fully understand what I was feeling or how to handle it. It wasn’t until I went home to recover from the concussion and had a real, honest conversation with my dad that I realized I wasn’t “ok” and something needed to change. That moment made it clear that I couldn’t keep going the way I had been, not just for myself, but for the people who cared about me: my parents, my siblings, Mrs Nadeau and everyone that was silently supporting me. 

So slowly, things began to shift.

I began to realize that those worn-out skates didn’t define me, and neither did the sport. I started helping the school’s social media. Designing posts, telling stories, and finding ways to make people feel connected gave me the same kind of spark hockey once had. I found new laces. I realized I wasn’t losing a team, I was just becoming part of a different one. I joined a club, Girl Up, that I now lead. I found my love for leading in my community as being elected Vice President. I had never seen myself becoming involved in leadership roles, but now they are my passion. I learned to retie those laces.

I also began noticing relationships I had once overlooked. My advisor became more than just someone who asked me how my day was; she became a mentor I went to about everything in my life. She helped me through the moments when things still felt heavy, when I wasn’t sure I was fully okay yet. She helped me tighten my new laces. My boss, who held me accountable but also reminded me to enjoy the workspace, showed me that leadership doesn’t always mean being the loudest voice, but often the most dependable one. She helped me start to loop those laces. Those relationships helped me realize I wasn’t as alone as I thought—I just had to look up from the ice to see them.

And while hockey wasn’t a part of my daily routine anymore, the lessons it taught me stayed. The dedication I brought to every practice carried over into new passions, and the teamwork I learned helped me support people in new ways. I made my first knot in those laces. 

There was so much more to my life—things I had been missing—because I was hyperfocused on lacing up those skates. I finally was able to tie the new laces I had found.

Letting go of hockey wasn’t easy. It was messy, and at times, it felt like I was losing more than I could handle. But in doing so, I made space for something even more important: growth. I didn’t lose myself; I fought to find myself again. I uncovered parts of me that had been waiting all along.