My Battle with PTSD | By Mikaela Shiffrin.

My Battle with PTSD | By Mikaela Shiffrin.

There was no dread when I fell down.

None.

I wasn’t terrified after hitting Killington’s two gates and somersaulting over my skis.

Despite sliding on my back into the bright red fence, I was not terrified.

When I eventually came to a stop, I felt no dread.

There was no room in my brain for any of that.

The only thing I felt was anguish.

That was all. There’s nothing else.

As soon as I stopped moving, I felt tremendous agony on the right side of my body. It felt like someone was stabbing me with a knife.

If you watch the footage of that crash, you can see me doubling over on the ground, attempting to curl in toward my stomach and assume the fetal position.

But I couldn’t do that because it ached too much.

And it’s honestly tough to describe how the pain felt. I can only describe it as if a dagger was stabbing me from within. Imagine if someone stabbed you in the abdomen and instead of removing the knife, they left it there.

Sitting immobile in the snow — completely bent over, holding my side, one ski still hooked to my boot, the other lying on the ground 20 meters up the slope — was the worst pain I’d ever experienced. By far. And that is saying something.

Pain is an unavoidable aspect of the downhill skiing experience. All of our backs are a disaster. You are almost always sore in your knees. And that’s before you get to the falling part—tumbling over, getting bent and twisted all over because of how rapidly you’re moving. You get acclimated to different sorts of soreness and pain. After a while, it’s almost as if: OK, at this point, I’ve experienced every type of agony imaginable.

So that is where I was before November 30, 2024, at Killington.

But this anguish was a new experience for me.

I was just sitting on the side of the slope. Cannot move. Unable to breathe properly.

When the medical personnel loaded me into the sled to transport me down the mountain, I believe I first felt something other than pain. I recall how strange it felt to be pulled on that sled — lying flat on my back, someone in front on skis driving the sled, and another in rear holding the rope that kept us from moving too quickly. As we came closer to the bottom, I remember hearing the award ceremony music. And I wanted to see the women who won, congratulate them, and tell them how fantastic they were and how thrilled I was for them. I could tell everyone at the bottom was still in shock from my collapse, as if they were holding their breath and unsure what to do or say.

And I remember disliking that.

I wanted the audience to cheer, everyone to be pleased, and the winners to be celebrating.

I desired all of these things.

But, more than anything, I just wanted the suffering to stop.

When you crash like I did that day, almost immediately, people start asking you questions and making statements. Question, statement, question, statement, without pause. And they attempt to appear cool, but you can tell they know something is very wrong. It’s like…

“Mikaela, are your legs okay?” ”

“Has anyone got a jacket for her? “It is getting cold.”

“How about your neck?” Mikaela, is your neck okay? ”

“Stay awake!” ”

“Mikaela, does anything else on your body hurt? ”

“She appears pallid. Struggling to stay awake.”

Mikaela, can you wiggle your fingers and toes? ”

“Do you remember the entire crash, Mikaela? Have you ever lost consciousness? ”

All the meantime, they have to take your boots off. They have to cut off your race outfit. You’re wriggling around, attempting to assist them get you undressed while simultaneously remaining completely still to avoid exacerbating the pain.

The shivering was dreadful. It was like, “Am I cold, shocked, or both?” Who cares; just make it end.

I was in pain the entire time I was shivering.

Everything is so chaotic, with everyone rushing in different directions around you. And the questions keep coming.

I recall trying to keep looking at my mother. I’m just trying to keep focused on her face. Occasionally, I would drift off.

It probably sounds strange, but it felt like all I wanted to do was fall asleep. Simply close my eyes, fall asleep, and wake up when everything was back to normal.

Of course, under certain settings, that is the absolute last thing you should do, so everyone around me was doing their best to keep me awake and aware. When you want nothing more than to close your eyes, everyone is continuously attempting to interact with you. It’s like…

“Hi, Mikaela. How are your shins? Hello… HEY! Stay with me!!! How are your shins? ”

What? My shins? What?!?!?

“Are you sure you didn’t lose consciousness, Mikaela? Could you describe the crash to me? Does your head hurt? ”

I told physicians that the right side of my body was “not OK,” but couldn’t elaborate further. It was like, “I can’t really explain exactly what’s wrong.”

“I can’t move my leg,” I informed them. “But my knees and my feet feel fine.”

I pointed to the side of my tummy and remarked, “There’s something wrong right here.”

When we got into the ambulance, I’m not sure if the road was genuinely bumpy or if it just felt that way due to shaking and agony. To keep myself busy while we drove, I imagined we were traveling past craters on the moon’s surface.

At one point, they cut away my garments for the first time.

That was when we noticed the blood.

And witnessing all of that blood was when it became more than simply pain.

That’s when I started to feel really afraid.

It turns out that whatever pierced into me as I fell did not puncture my colon.

It nearly did. However, it missed.

The physicians said it was about a millimeter away from puncturing my colon, but how could they measure it so closely? — and if that had happened, we’d be in a life-threatening position. (They said something about fecal matter, like, “There’s no fecal matter coming through the hole. That’s a good sign.” Oh, nice!)

But because that didn’t happen and it wasn’t life or death, once the pain lessened, I basically handled my rehabilitation like any other injury I’d had. It was like: Okay, I’m alive. Great. Now all I have to do is devote all of my energy to getting my physique in order. Into getting back in shape.

I underwent surgery 12 days after the crash, and I knew I wanted to compete again before the season ended at the end of winter. That left little time for me to relax. I believe it was roughly six weeks without snow. And the only thing I was worried about was whether I’d have enough time to regain my physical strength to ski full-power. I understood that once you return to the snow, your body must go through a process of readjusting to the demands of ski racing, which can take up to two months. So I’m basically doing the math in my head: With all of the marks I need to hit — walking, jogging, core workouts, strength work, and finally going back on the mountain — will there be enough time for me to return?

I expected it to be tight, but there was nothing particularly complicated about it. It was: Train hard. As always. Been there, done that. In fact, however…

I had no idea what would happen to me.

When I returned to the snow, which I had believed would be enjoyable and rewarding, something strange happened. For whatever reason, during my training runs, everything felt dreadful and far removed from how I intended to feel. My movements, turns, and overall performance were all poor.

I suppose the simplest way to describe it is that I didn’t feel like myself out on the mountain. It felt like there was a bizarre disconnect between my body and thoughts.

That was definitely scary.

When skiing a slalom course, the gates move quickly, and you must be able to throw your skis from one side to the other with precision on an icy hill. Your skis are essentially pushed up on edge anywhere from 45 to 60 degrees. And you’re moving from one side to the other at breakneck speed. So you don’t have much time to think about stuff while doing it. You must remember—almost instinctively, in real time, in a split second—where you need to be on the course. And occasionally there’s fog, or it’s a little gloomy, or the surface is frosty one way and soft the other. So you have to process everything right away. Which means you must be able to trust that what you perceive in your mind is completely tied to what you do with your body.

If that connection is even slightly off, or if there is a misfire, the danger level jumps dramatically.

After a recent encounter with my colon’s outer wall, I was hesitant to try ski racing.

Then I’d be up at the top of the mountain during training to make my comeback, and everything was just… how can I convey that?

Have you ever experienced a dream where you felt like you were racing in molasses? You’re being chased or whatever, and your body isn’t moving quickly enough to get away. Or are you just trapped in some goop and trying to move your body to get out, but you can’t move as quickly as you’d like?

That’s how I felt in real life while skiing. In my mind, I saw how everything was intended to happen. I understood how coordinated I needed to be. However, my body refused to perform the task at hand. It would not move quickly enough.

Molasses, essentially.

So I just continued sliding turns. Over and over again. The strangest thing was that I would frequently quit midway through a training course. As if I was going through the course, doing my thing, and then suddenly stopping. I had no intention of quitting. I hadn’t planned to stop. But I would quit. I would slow myself down and then stop.

It was almost as if I no longer had control over my body.

It was quite aggravating. However, it is also really dark.

One of the odd things about my collision in Killington was that there was no real explanation for it. I couldn’t point to anything and say, “Just don’t do that one thing you did the other time and you’ll be fine.”

There was nothing to grab onto. Nothing to worry about.

Before I went down, I felt fantastic. I had skied exceptionally well that day and in the days running up to the event. Everything seemed to be working for me.

I’ve viewed the film of that race numerous times since my fall, and what I can tell you is that I was at my best, most athletic, throughout the runs I completed at Killington, including the most of the run where I fell. Which makes it difficult to figure out. If it had happened when I was skiing really tentatively or tightly, it would have made sense. It would have explained a lot. Because when your body is tentative, when you are keeping something back athletically, that is often what causes a crash.

But this?

Nothing made sense. There was nothing I could point to. There are no actual lessons to learn.

I just had to get back on the horse and power through.

I didn’t realize it at the time, but my mind wasn’t prepared for such an experience.

I remember going out in the snow and thinking, “Wow, this is really, really unpleasant right now.”

And I’ll admit that there were some pretty low points. I began second-guessing myself or being judgmental of myself because I thought I was allowing what happened to affect me so much. It was like, “Come on, Mikaela, people have had much worse crashes and injuries.” They got through it. What’s wrong with you?

On really difficult days, I would question my motivation and whether I still wanted to do this. In my brain, I’d be telling myself, “You know what, I don’t really care if I ever race again.”

Come on, Mikaela, there have been far worse wrecks and injuries. They got through it. What’s wrong with you?

– Mikaela Shiffrin
Many of my emotions and feelings stemmed from a lack of understanding of the situation and how to “fix” it.

I felt fine physically. And I was not afraid of the act of skiing. But I’d be trying so hard to be accurate with my training runs, and my body wouldn’t cooperate. Then, at times, I would get strange mental flashes. These are truly bleak photographs. I’d anticipate crashes. I’d see them in my mind. I saw myself sinking and heading down. The pain would rush through my body, but this time it was also in my neck. My leg. My colon.

We’d be training in Europe, and at a quiet moment, I’d visualize the mechanics of my Killington crash, but in a new location. I’d notice it on the course ahead of me, on the mountain range that I was looking down at. So I wasn’t reliving the crash. Instead of reliving my former emotions, I’d envision them in the present moment. There was an expectation that it would happen to me in real time, within the next few minutes. And I’d be overcome by the sense of an imminent threat to my life.

I realized I needed to do something. To try something unusual. I couldn’t keep experiencing these terrifying visions and being unable to persuade my body to perform what I wanted, and then… Expect everything to fall into place after that.

My therapist is the one who initially suggested looking at things through the prism of PTSD.

My therapist explained to me right away that PTSD is unique to each individual. It’s not like a cough or a sprained ankle, where if you tell someone about it, they’ll probably know and understand how you feel.

Everyone knows what it’s like to have a terrible cough. However, PTSD does not follow this pattern. It comes in every shape and size. Everyone has a unique experience, and no two cases are the same.

However, I discovered some commonalities. Some elements that many individuals have encountered. One that particularly struck a chord with me was how many individuals describe it as seeing the world through a film over their eyes. Everything appears to be somewhat darker, as if there is a layer of grease on everything. (Maybe in my case it was molasses, but I completely understood that portion.)

I believe that the Cortina disaster in early 2024 and the subsequent Killington incident may have been linked. I discussed this with my therapist, who informed me that previous trauma, or a history of catastrophic occurrences, can sometimes influence how you react to fresh painful experiences. I remembered my father’s unexpected accident and death in 2020, as well as my fiancé, Aleks’s life-threatening crash in Wengen last year. Maybe when I crashed and suffered that puncture wound, it was the ideal storm for PTSD to set in. But who knows, really? With all of this, there’s a lot of nuance and so much we don’t know for sure.

My therapist reassured me that this emotion would not endure forever. She was really honest and upfront about this. She described it as if she was experiencing a new reality at the moment. And while working through it may take some time, exposure and getting an awareness of what’s going on can be really beneficial.

She informed me that it is a continuing procedure. Something that requires work.

I simply needed to keep doing it. I needed to remind myself and prove to myself that most of the time, nothing bad happened while training or racing. I rarely wind up with a puncture wound through my obliques. For the most part, everything works out fine.

I needed to go through the process of isolating that one occurrence and contextualizing it in relation to everything else I’ve encountered in this sport, which is usually wonderful and entertaining and often something that makes me proud, and so on. It felt like, “This could all be very good, and it almost always is.”

So learning that, combined with the notion that things would eventually improve with time and exposure, has been like peeling a bunch of layers off an onion for me. And that knowledge has helped me cope over the last few months. This may not be the case for everyone — as I previously stated, PTSD comes in many forms — but for me, being able to delve in and truly comprehend something, for whatever reason, causes me to feel less afraid of it. Less frightened.

After some time, my body has regained its ability to function properly.

My improvements were not just reflected in a chart. I could sense the change. It was real.

From the World Championships in Austria in February, when I opted to withdraw from the giant slalom because we realized I wasn’t in the appropriate frame of mind to participate, to just a few weeks later in Italy, the progress I’d made was clear to me. I mean, absolutely, I won my 100th World Cup slalom in Italy, which was fantastic. I was really delighted and hopeful since I was able to re-enter the huge slalom gates!

That was a major triumph for me. Even though I wasn’t very fast in those initial big slalom races, simply being willing to face the challenge and get back in the race? Taking risks resulted in measurable improvements.

After a few weeks, I traveled to Åre and experienced a moment where I approached the situation with the proper perspective. To be at the start gate, feeling nervous, thrilled, adrenaline-fueled, and ready to face the challenge. And just to have that experience again, where I was racing and skiing quickly?

It felt like I could breathe again.

Looking back, I believe I made the greatest progress in working my way back when I stopped caring about my times or race results.

I realized there were more essential things to be concerned about. And I’m proud of myself for keeping my priorities straight. Especially in a sport where the goal is to compete and set the fastest times.

For me, the question became more about whether you arrived at the starting gate with a better mindset. Do you feel more connected to your own body? Do you feel more in control? Do you feel more inclined to take on this challenge?

I knew I needed to pay care to my mental health. I came to understand that winning races, or even something as significant as winning for the 100th time and accomplishing something no one else has ever done … that stuff is great, of course, but what does it really mean if my mental health is suffering and I’m struggling to do something that I previously loved?

Getting there mentally, though, to that position, that perspective … it has been a process. It’s not as simple as flipping a switch.

When I won number 100 in Sestriere, many people approached me and said, “Wow, you sure kicked that PTSD quick.” I’m not judging them; their hearts were in the right place. They were attempting to say something nice.

But that’s not how it works.

It’s all one step at a time. No one can tell you when you’ve completed something or how long it “should” take. It’s a personal trip that may not follow the expected path.

In all honesty, it can be a chore.

Returning to a state of joy was a key factor in my ability to persevere.

I’m considering not only returning to that place, but also experiencing complete delight for the first time in my life.

And I’ve thought about it a lot. I guess I know.

Personally, I believe that is…

The ideal day on the mountain. The excellent day for skiing.

I just keep picturing that ideal. Thinking and fantasizing about what that ideal day may look like. Unsurprisingly, it’s not a race.

This is a training session.

Just me, my team, and the mountain. I’m doing what I do. For my personal fun and pride.

It’s a training session on a lovely day, and I’m doing a lot of laps around the course. With each run, I improve, even if I make mistakes or have issues to address. I am gradually improving. With each run, I improve my turn quality and speed.

I can tell that what I imagine doing in my head, the technical movements, what I’m seeing, and the message are clearly flowing through to my complete body.

It translates into what I’m actually doing. In lockstep. To perfection.

That lucidity, the mind-body link, is as present as possible. It’s just perfectly synchronized. I feel it with all of my being. And all I can do is smile in appreciation. Because, finally…

I feel like myself again.