How our Ski Racing Journey Started

There are moments in life that reveal themselves only in hindsight, pieces of a story forming quietly long before you realize you’re living the beginning of something extraordinary. When I look back now, I can trace the line so clearly — yet at the time, it felt like nothing more than a series of winter Fridays, of tiny boots and cold cheeks and giggles echoing off the snow.

We never imagined we would raise a ski racer.

My husband had once been a performance skier in his youth, but by the time we built our family, that chapter of his life existed only in stories told late at night, the kind you fold away gently, knowing they belonged to another version of yourself. Ski racing wasn’t part of our plans, nor did we push it in any way.

The First Spark — Before We Even Knew It Was a Spark

We lived in Sibiu, a city wrapped between hills and forests, just twenty-five minutes from Păltiniș — a small ski resort where winters feel like a soft blanket laid over the mountains. Every Friday in winter, the kindergarten would load its tiny humans into buses and take them skiing. No pressure, no expectations, no big dreams. Just children sliding, falling, trying again, cheeks red from excitement and cold. Chris was just another little boy in a bright snowsuit.

His instructor noticed that he had a natural balance, an unusual ease, a spark that didn’t fade even when he fell or struggled. He was all joy on skis. Bby the second winter, the instructor — a close friend of my husband — approached us with a different tone, one that carried weight.

“He’s already advanced for his age,” he said. “You should him a lot further. He really loves this.”

We enrolled Chris in a local ski club, expecting nothing more than fun and fresh air. The first race he ever entered wasn’t even his — it was a Family Race, requiring all three of us to participate. To this day, that remains one of my favourite memories, not because of results, but because of the feeling of standing together at a start gate, amused and slightly terrified, a small family wrapped in an unfamiliar kind of excitement.

A confession: I am not a spectacular skier. I am neither a beginner nor an expert — just a woman who’s skied since childhood, who can go down almost any slope slowly, carefully, with a heart full of joy. I have always loved the mountains, even when they scared me a little.

What followed were seasons marked by growth, small victories, and the kind of emotional investment you barely notice until it’s already defining your weekends, your conversations, your travel plans.

Chris raced at six. He raced at seven. He raced at eight. But more than racing — he belonged to the snow.
You could see it in the way he carried himself, in how the world sharpened when he was on skis, in how he anticipated movement before his body followed. Local competitions became stepping stones, and soon his results spread beyond our small circle — national races, podiums, the first medals glinting in winter sun.

He won competitions like Cupa Speranțelor and Minicupa României, names that would later matter, though at the time they were simply signs that he was outgrowing what Romania could offer him.

Then came Austria , in Zauchensee, at the International Kids Trophy. Nothing prepares a child — or a parent — for that kind of world, especially coming from a small country. He loved every singe minute of that week.
For my husband, it rekindled a fire he thought had long gone out.
For me… it was the moment I understood that dreams can appear unexpectedly, like a new path you didn’t notice until you were already walking it.

The Hidden Part of the Story — The Side Few See

Soon we were traveling to Austria for preseason camps — two weeks, sometimes more. The training conditions were incomparable: the snow better, the coaching stronger, the environment exactly what a growing athlete needed.

But these beautiful experiences came layered with sacrifice.

From October to March, Chris missed large portions of school. I traveled with him constantly, carrying books, notebooks, and making sure he kept up with classes. We reorganized everything — business, finances, daily life, expectations. There were mornings when I felt exhausted even before the day began, and nights when I wondered if we were doing the right thing.

For more than three years, this was our life: the suitcases, the early mornings, the hotel homework, the long drives, the races, the snow, the hope.

After one of his runs, Chris looked at us with the quiet certainty only children possess when they speak their truth and said:

“I wish I could stay here longer.”
My husband and I exchanged the kind of look you only understand after years of parenting — the look that says: This is real. We have to at least consider it.

That was the beginning of a new chapter — the chapter where a family begins to imagine moving countries, changing everything, letting go of the familiar in order to give their child a chance to grow where his heart naturally led him.

I’ll tell this story soon — how we made the decision to move, what it required, how we doubted, how we hoped, how we stepped into a new life one uncertain step at a time.

But for now, this is how it all began.