The Gold Medals We Don’t See

Today, my daughter, Miffy, heads into the hospital for surgery on her knee — the third one since her first, back in October 2021, just six weeks before the Beijing Winter Olympic Games.

I wanted to write this as an open letter — publicly, before your surgery — because I think it matters. Not just for you, Miff, but for every young athlete chasing something big.

You’ve always dreamed big. I remember you were 10 when you first told me you were going to the Olympic Games. And for the last Olympics, you did everything right. Early mornings. Tough decisions. Repetitions on and off snow. You put in the work. Then, five weeks out, disaster struck — ACL, MCL, PCL, and meniscus. All gone. Plan B had you watching the Games from the Channel 7 commentary booth instead of standing at the top of the course.

But you did what you always do. You fought back. Got stronger. More determined. But your knee wasn’t ready. On the 6th of December 2023–437 days after your first surgery — you faced surgery number two. Same knee. Same goal. Qualify for the 2026 Olympics. You went back to work like you always do.

Then, on the 25th of February 2025–446 days later — your knee said no again. So today, with quiet, courageous acceptance, you go back under the knife. And that little girl’s Olympic dream — the one you told me when you were 10 — won’t come true this time.

Being an elite athlete demands three things: relentless determination, the bravery to stare fear in the face, and a body that can carry those fearless ambitions. It means early alarms, countless reps, and the willingness to push past your limits repeatedly. Skiing is a privilege — we know that — but so is life. And the chance to live in nature, doing something you love, is a gift, too.

Turning up to face fear is scary. But doing it anyway — that’s courage.

I know you have unmet ambitions. But don’t forget: you’ve represented your country, competed in World Cups and World Championships, and lined up against the best skiers on the planet — many of whom are now your closest friends. Friendships forged in fire are the best kind.

Your mind and heart are strong, but your body has other plans. Your knee disagrees — at least for now. Maybe this is life’s quiet way of nudging you. Not away from your Olympic dream, but toward a reset. A rethink. Not a no — just a pause.

At 21, you see the world differently than you did in October 2021. And the world sees you differently, too.

We’ve always said: “The Olympics isn’t our dream; it’s yours. We’re just beside you for the ride.” Our job was never to raise athletes. It was to raise daring, kind humans. And for me, as your dad, raising strong young women has been one of the greatest privileges of my life. It’s taught me how the world sees you — and how important my role is in helping you push back, stand tall, and keep going.

Watching you face every challenge by daring greatly — with kindness and courage — matters. It matters. How do you raise kind kids? You show kindness. How do you raise brave ones? I’m still figuring that out. But I reckon it has a lot to do with love and trust. We don’t love you for the medals you win or the sports you master. We love you because you get up each day and show up. Being a parent — bringing a human into the world — is the most significant responsibility. It’s not about outcomes. It’s a lifelong commitment to love, nurture, grow, and sit with the hard stuff. It stretches over the years. It tests you daily. But love is the glue. When we lead with love, our kids can feel safe enough to dream, learn, fail, and try again. Not “try their best.” Just try. Because not everything needs to be our best — showing up is brave enough. Every day, courage matters.

Raising two young women who love the world, love themselves, and love nature is a mirror — a reflection of my life and the choices I’ve made as a dad. My mum lived with cancer for 16 years. Miff’s best friend, Beth Cooper-Wares, lives with brittle bones. Chip Liedel, a lifelong mate, just had major back surgery. Chance Burns, one of my dearest friends, dove into a pool and broke his neck. And Dave Winner, who drowned at 70 and was told he’d never walk again — is now back surfing. These are the kinds of struggles most of us can barely comprehend. They’ve taught us what real bravery looks like. They’ve shown us what it means to rise after falling, again and again. We take strength from them. And because of them, we have strength, too.

Today isn’t an ending. And it’s not quite a beginning, either. It’s just another step. Maybe your body is guiding you toward a new direction, or perhaps it’s simply adding another layer to your story — a layer built from grit, grace, and the resilience you’ve come to understand the hard way.

Whatever it is, it happens to all of us in different forms. And I’m just grateful we get to walk through it together.

If there’s one truth in all of this, it’s better to have tried and blown it than to have never known the courage to try in the first place.

That’s the win. That’s the gold medal.