Being by myself so much is new for me. I’ve never traveled alone, much less lived alone. I realize now that, as much as it irritated me sometimes, having a posse of coaches, trainers, teammates, parents, and trustees surrounding me all the time was a comfort. It buffered all of us as we went from one place to another, reinforced the idea that we had something precious, that we were something precious. And now it feels like I’ve been drained of everything that once made me special. I’ve been leveled. In the United States, becoming famous is a pipe dream for a skier. But I became infamous instead, and now anonymity feels like the best I can hope for.

Being alone used to be thrilling because it meant I was on the mountain, my heart beating in my ears as I contemplated my line for a first descent. I used to enjoy my own company then, back when my instincts were finely honed and fear was a friend I could trust to tell me when something wasn’t right, not a tyrant run amok in my brain. Time alone used to be fleeting and precious.

When I get back to the apartment, I’m tired but keyed up. The new sights and sounds and the novelty of the city seem to have temporarily tricked my mind out of its fugue. Now I feel it all seeping back in: that amorphous but persistent fear that those I love are in mortal danger, as though I’ve left them all in a house with a gas leak only I know about. The center of me feels weak, like I’m a cloud of a person. I was a skier, I was a beloved girlfriend, I was someone’s little sister. I’m none of those things anymore.