In the public eye, I am Mikaela Shiffrin — Olympic gold medalist, World Cup champion, the face of alpine skiing. To the world, I am strength on skis, grace under pressure, and the embodiment of focus. But behind the medals and record-breaking stats, there is another side of me. One I have rarely spoken about.
This is my story — my battle with PTSD. It’s a story not of podiums and victory laps, but of silent suffering, healing, and the fierce power of vulnerability. I am writing this not as a skier, but as a human being — one still learning how to live with trauma and find strength in the cracks it left behind.
The Day Everything Changed
It was an ordinary day on the calendar — but it carved an extraordinary wound in my soul. When I lost my father, Jeff Shiffrin, in early 2020, my world collapsed. He wasn’t just my dad. He was my rock, my mentor, the steady heartbeat behind everything I achieved. Losing him was like having the ground pulled out from under my skis — and falling into a freefall I couldn’t stop.
Grief, I expected. But what followed wasn’t just grief. It was insomnia. It was nightmares so vivid I would wake up gasping. It was panic attacks before races, and an overwhelming sense of being lost. It was guilt — for smiling, for skiing, for functioning while he was gone.
It wasn’t until much later that I realized what I was experiencing was Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. PTSD. A term I had only associated with war veterans or survivors of horrifying tragedies. But here it was, inside me — relentless, unseen, and suffocating.
When the Slopes Became Silent
For most of my life, skiing was my sanctuary. The mountain was my escape. But after Dad died, even that became unfamiliar. I’d step into the start gate, and instead of adrenaline, I felt fear. My body would freeze. My mind would replay images of the hospital. His final moments. The unanswered questions.
Every time I sped downhill, it felt like I was hurtling away from him. I couldn’t reconcile my need to keep skiing — my profession — with the ache of knowing he would never again be waiting at the bottom of the course.
FILE – United States’ Mikaela Shiffrin reacts on the podium after winning the women’s slalom at the World Cup Finals, Thursday, March 27, 2025, in Sun Valley, Idaho. (AP Photo/John Locher, File)
PTSD doesn’t always scream. Sometimes, it whispers. Sometimes, it numbs. I began to shut down emotionally. Friends noticed the change. I gave robotic interviews. I buried myself in training, hoping to outrun the trauma. But you can’t ski away from what’s inside you.
The Stigma of Being Strong
In sports, strength is celebrated. Tears are hidden. Vulnerability is often mistaken for weakness. As an athlete, I was expected to “bounce back.” To “be resilient.” And in some ways, I did. I returned to competition. I stood on podiums again. But internally, I was unraveling.
No one talks about the pressure to heal quickly when you’re famous. The expectation to “move on.” I didn’t want pity. But I longed for space — space to feel, to break down, to not be okay.
One night, after a race where I underperformed, I locked myself in my hotel room and sobbed for hours. Not because I lost — but because I didn’t know who I was anymore. My identity as a skier was all-consuming, and now it felt hollow without my father beside it.
Healing Isn’t Linear
There’s a misconception that healing follows a timeline — that you grieve, process, and move on. But PTSD is not linear. It loops. It ambushes. One good day can be followed by three dark ones.
I began therapy. At first, I was resistant. Talking about pain felt terrifying. But it became my lifeline. Through therapy, I began to untangle the guilt, the suppressed rage, the helplessness. I learned breathing techniques. I wrote letters to my dad that I never sent. I screamed into pillows. I meditated. I sobbed on ski lifts.
One day, I admitted out loud: “I’m scared every time I get on snow.” That confession, though small, cracked something open. It allowed me to begin skiing with new intention — not to prove I was over my pain, but to carry it with me, gracefully.
What PTSD Taught Me
PTSD, as brutal as it is, taught me radical self-compassion. It forced me to stop running and start listening — to my body, my fears, and my needs. I stopped pretending to be okay for others. I stopped measuring my worth in medals.
It also taught me empathy. I began noticing others who were silently suffering. Fellow athletes, fans, even strangers online who shared their stories with me. I saw the invisible wounds people carry — and how healing begins when we stop hiding them.
For the first time, I saw courage not as charging downhill, but as staying in bed on your worst day and deciding to try again tomorrow.
A Different Kind of Victory
One of the most important races of my life happened off the slopes. It was the day I showed up to therapy after a severe panic episode — when all I wanted was to stay curled in darkness. That was a win. A quiet, invisible gold medal.
Eventually, I began to rebuild. Not into the same person — but someone softer, stronger, more whole. I started speaking to young athletes about mental health. I opened up in interviews about fear and loss. I shared posts that weren’t filtered for perfection.
And with each act of truth, the PTSD lost a bit of its grip.
Why I’m Sharing This
So why am I telling you all this now?
Because I know there are people out there, maybe even reading this, who are smiling in public and crying in secret. Who are performing brilliantly while feeling broken inside. Who think being strong means being silent.
I’m here to say: you are not weak because you struggle. You are not alone because you break.
PTSD doesn’t look the same for everyone. But one thing it responds to, without fail, is honesty. When we speak, when we share, when we seek help — we take back our power.
I used to think that sharing my story would make me seem fragile. Now I know it makes me real.
Today, I Keep Skiing
I still ski. I still train. I still chase goals. But I also rest. I cry when I need to. I check in with myself. And most importantly, I honor my father’s memory not by pretending I’m fine, but by living fully, even when it hurts.
The mountains are no longer just podiums to conquer. They are places of remembrance, healing, and fierce grace. I feel him with me in the snowflakes, in the wind on my face, in the quiet moments before the starting gate.
PTSD may always be a part of my story — but it is not the end of it.
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