Mom, Can You See Me from Up There?

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💫 The Story of Da-bin Choi:

A Daughter Who Skated for Her Mother

When I was in high school, my mother was diagnosed with terminal colorectal cancer.
At the time, I didn’t know the full extent of her illness. I only noticed how often she was sick, and I began to worry constantly.

My older sister and I talked endlessly.
“What will we do if Mom isn’t here anymore?”

We knew that if our mom found out we knew about her condition, she would be heartbroken.
So we pretended not to know.
That became our secret promise.

Even though I was in my second year of high school, and even though I knew my mother was in pain,
there was only one thing I could do for her:
To do my best in the sport I loved—figure skating—and to show her that the talent she believed in was real.

When the 2016/2017 season began, my mother started chemotherapy.
Every two weeks, she would go in for treatment, and every time she came back, she looked weaker.
But still, she never once skipped taking me to the rink.

One day I said to her,
“Mom, I can go alone from now on. Please rest.”
But she just smiled and replied,
“Going to the rink with you doesn’t tire me.
Watching you skate is when I’m the happiest.”

Even as her condition worsened, she stayed by my side.

When the Asian Winter Games were held in Sapporo in 2017,
I stood on the podium with a gold medal around my neck—
the first in Korean figure skating history at the Asian Winter Games.
The first thing I did after the ceremony was run to the hotel,
where my mom waited for me, smiling through her tears.
“Congratulations, Da-bin. I’m so proud of you.”

Later that year, at the World Championships in Helsinki,
I skated alone—carrying the hope of earning Korea’s spot in the 2018 Winter Olympics.
The pressure was immense, but when I stepped onto the ice, I found my mother in the crowd.
And I reminded myself:
“This is just practice. Mom is watching me. Just like always.”

That thought gave me strength.

I finished 10th in the world and secured two Olympic spots for Korea.
On the flight home, my mom smiled and said,
“Da-bin, I’ll work hard during the off-season so I can go to every Olympic event with you.”

But after returning from that trip,
we were told: “There is no point in continuing treatment.”
On June 26, 2017, my mom passed away.

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After she left, I couldn’t sleep at night.
I was overwhelmed with grief.

But I made myself a promise:
“When the Olympics are over, I’ll cry all I want.
But until then, I will skate for her. For her dream, and mine.”

And I did.

On February 21, 2018, at the Gangneung Ice Arena,
before stepping onto the Olympic stage, my coach held my hand and said:
“Da-bin, I believe in you.
And your mom, who’s watching from above, believes in you too.”

I looked up and whispered,
“Mom… Can you see me? I’m here. On the Olympic stage.”

I skated my personal best.
And after the performance, I let the tears fall freely.

“Mom… Did you hear that cheer? That was for us.”

Even now, every time I skate, I feel her beside me.
And I carry her love with every step I take.

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💔 A Mother's Love, Always by My Side

I recently came across a story that made me stop everything and just cry.

It was about a young figure skater, Da-bin, and her mother—who battled cancer while supporting her daughter’s dream, never missing a single practice, never skipping a single competition, even while undergoing chemotherapy.

When Da-bin offered to go to the rink alone so her mom could rest, her mom smiled and said,
"Watching you skate is my greatest happiness."

Even when her health was failing, her heart never wavered.
She was there for every step. Every fall. Every victory. Until her very last breath.

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As I read her story, I couldn’t help but reflect on my own life as a mom.

My days are repetitive—wake the kids, feed them, clean the house, go to work, come back, cook, teach, fold, clean again, collapse in bed.
Sometimes I wonder, Am I doing enough? Am I giving them what they really need?

But maybe… just being there is enough.

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We, as mothers, don’t always need to do something big.
We don’t always need to be perfect, or extraordinary.
Sometimes, just sitting in the stands, smiling, whispering,
“I’m here. I see you. I love you.”
is everything.

To our children, our quiet presence is louder than the loudest applause.

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So today, if you’re a mom who feels invisible, exhausted, or unsure—
Please know: your love is felt.
Even in the smallest things.
Even in the everyday ordinary.
You are extraordinary simply because you show up.

And like Da-bin’s mom,
we are their greatest source of strength—just by being there.