I fell in love with figure skating because of Black women who refused to disappear on the ice. I remember the first time I laced up a pair of skates during a cold winter in Elizabeth, New Jersey. The rink felt bigger than I expected, and the ice looked impossibly smooth. My childhood friend and I didn’t really know what we were doing, but that didn’t stop us. We stepped onto the ice carefully at first, arms out for balance, unsure of how to move. We fell more than we glided. But we kept getting back up. Falling didn’t feel dramatic; it felt normal. We would laugh, brush the ice from our coats, and try again. After a while, the falls didn’t sting as much, and the movements started to feel natural. What began as awkward steps slowly turned into something steadier, and that small sense of progress kept us coming back.

Growing up, I watched Debi Thomas, Surya Bonaly, and Tai Babilonia not just as athletes, but as proof that we belonged in spaces that were not designed for us. Figure skating has long been coded as elite, delicate, and overwhelmingly white. Seeing Black women in that world, commanding it, changed how I saw the sport and, frankly, how I saw myself.

Thomas represented intellect and precision. A Stanford student and future orthopedic surgeon, she showed that brilliance on the ice and brilliance in the classroom could coexist. Babilonia brought strength and charisma to pairs skating, redefining what partnership and power could look like. But Bonaly was different. She was raw athleticism. She skated with force, speed, and an unapologetic presence that didn’t fit neatly into the sport’s traditional aesthetic.

And then there was the backflip.

At the 1998 Nagano Olympics, Bonaly performed a backflip landing on one blade — a move that was banned by the International Skating Union at the time. The backflip had been outlawed after Terry Kubicka landed a two-foot version at the 1976 Olympics, with officials citing safety concerns. Bonaly knew the rule. She also knew she would be penalized.

She did it anyway.

It was the final punctuation mark on her Olympic career. The crowd erupted. The judges deducted points. She finished 10th.

For decades, that moment lived in highlight reels and exhibitions. It was remembered as rebellious, defiant, and controversial. It was framed as an act of rule-breaking rather than innovation. Bonaly was often critiqued not only for her technique, but for her appearance, her power, and her refusal to soften herself to fit skating’s narrow mold.

Fast forward to 2026.

Ilia Malinin, known as the “Quad God,” became the first person to legally land a one-blade backflip at the Olympics after the ISU lifted the ban in an effort to modernize and energize the sport. His performance was celebrated. It helped secure gold for Team USA. Social media lit up with praise for his athleticism and boldness.

And it was bold. It was athletic. It was historic.

But it was not unprecedented.

The move is widely referred to as “the Bonaly flip” for a reason.

The contrast between how Bonaly was treated and how Malinin is being celebrated has reignited conversations about race, aesthetics, and power in figure skating. When Bonaly executed the move, she was penalized and frequently portrayed as too aggressive, too unconventional, too different. When Malinin performs it under updated rules, it is hailed as innovation and evolution.

To be clear, the rule change matters. The move is no longer banned. Malinin did not break the rules; he performed within them. His achievement stands on its own merit.

But rules do not exist in a vacuum. They are shaped by culture, values, and gatekeepers. And for years, figure skating rewarded conformity over athletic experimentation, especially when that experimentation came from a Black woman who already stood out in a predominantly white sport.

Bonaly herself has reflected that she may have been “born too early.” That statement carries weight. Trailblazers often arrive before institutions are ready to embrace them. They absorb the criticism. They take the deductions. They push the boundaries that later generations are allowed to cross more comfortably.

For girls like me growing up, Bonaly’s backflip was not reckless. It was liberating. It showed that athleticism did not have to be disguised as delicacy to be worthy. It showed that excellence did not have to shrink itself to fit tradition. It showed that even if the judges refused to reward you, you could still define your own legacy.

Watching Malinin receive widespread praise does not diminish Bonaly’s impact. If anything, it proves her point. The sport eventually moved in the direction she was already skating toward. The backflip went from forbidden to featured. What was once docked is now displayed.

That evolution is progress. But progress should not erase memory.

Bonaly did not just perform a backflip. She expanded the imagination of what figure skating could be. She challenged a system that was slow to recognize power when it came in a Black woman’s body. And even without a gold medal, she secured something just as lasting: influence.

I haven't put on a pair of skates since 2012, after an injury that left me with a fractured shoulder in 5 areas. But even then, I've never mastered anything close to what the women I admired did. Speed yes? Tricks, flips? Definitely not. But those women still paved the way for countless young Black ice skaters like Starr Andrews, who are still fighting a system for recognition.

For those of us who grew up watching Bonaly, her influence was everything.