“I almost lost Liza… I once thought I would never be able to land a quad again.” These were the words that opened an exclusive interview of almost two hours, as Ilia Malinin revealed the most painful chapter of her life, shaking the foundations of figure skating around the world.

For years, Malinin carried the nickname “Quad God,” a title earned through unparalleled technical brilliance and historic quadruple jumps. Yet behind the medals and roaring crowds was a young athlete battling unseen pressures that intensified as he prepared to defend his reputation on the Olympic stage.

The six months leading up to the Milano-Cortina 2026 Winter Olympics became, in his own words, “a tunnel without light.” Training sessions that were once filled with confidence turned into relentless self-doubt, as each failed landing seemed to confirm that his dominance might be slipping away.

Malinin described waking up some mornings unable to recognize himself. The skater who once attacked the ice with fearless aggression suddenly hesitated before taking off. Each quad attempt carried not only physical risk, but also the suffocating weight of global expectation and personal fear.

In the interview, he admitted that the pressure to remain the sport’s technical pioneer became overwhelming. Sponsors, analysts, and even fans expected constant evolution. He felt trapped within his own legend, terrified that an imperfect program could dismantle everything he had built.

What the public didn’t see were the sleepless nights. Malinin spoke candidly about the anxiety attacks she suffered after unexpected falls during key competitions. She would replay those mistakes repeatedly in her mind, wondering if her body (and, more dangerously, her mind) could withstand it.

The emotional breaking point came during an Olympic practice session. Standing alone on the vast expanse of ice, memories of past injuries and setbacks flooded back. “Every traumatic memory surfaced at once,” he said, his voice trembling as he recalled that paralyzing moment.

He confessed that, for the first time, he considered stepping away from elite skating altogether. The idea of ​​never landing on a quad again was both devastating and strangely relieving. It was the internal conflict between ambition and survival that nearly broke him.

Adding to the turmoil was a deeply personal family crisis. Malinin revealed that her sister Liza faced a terrifying health scare during that same period. “I almost lost Liza,” she whispered, pausing to compose herself as tears broke her silence.

The fear of losing someone she loved changed her perspective. Suddenly, medals and titles seemed secondary compared to her family. She described the rush between training sessions and hospital visits, trying to compartmentalize the pain while preparing for the most important competition of her career.

According to U.S. figure skating officials, Malinin maintained remarkable professionalism during public appearances. However, in private he felt fractured. The double burden of athletic expectations and personal fear created what he described as “mental noise” that never subsided.

At the Milano-Cortina 2026 Winter Olympics, that noise became deafening. An unexpected fall during a critical segment stunned spectators. For Malinin, the slip wasn’t just a technical error; it symbolized months of pent-up anxiety erupting before the world.

He admitted that after the show he sat alone in the locker room questioning his identity. “I didn’t feel like God Quad. I didn’t even feel like Ilia,” he said. The disconnect between himself and his character had never been deeper.

Sports psychologists often emphasize the resilience of elite athletes, but Malinin’s story reveals its complexity. Resilience isn’t the absence of crisis; it’s the decision to carry on despite it. For him, that decision emerged slowly, through vulnerability rather than bravery.

He credited honest conversations with family for helping him regain perspective. Seeing Liza recover reminded him that fragility is universal. The same body that could launch itself into quadruple rotations was also capable of trembling under emotional stress.

Gradually, training shifted from a quest to prove himself to a journey of rediscovering joy. Instead of chasing perfection, he focused on small victories: clean edges, controlled landings, steady breathing before takeoff. Each successful quad became an act of quiet redemption.

Malinin emphasized that mental health in figure skating remains largely undiscussed. The sport’s aesthetic beauty often masks brutal internal battles. “We smile under the lights,” she said, “but sometimes we fight storms that no one can see.”

By publicly sharing her darkest six months, she hopes to redefine strength within the skating community. Strength, she argued, includes admitting fear, seeking support, and recognizing that even champions can feel lost on the Olympic ice.

The interview ended not with triumph, but with gratitude. Malinin expressed his deep appreciation for his family, his coaches, and the fans who supported him through uncertain performances. Their belief, he said, helped him believe in himself again.

Today, Ilia Malinin stands not only as a technical pioneer but also as a symbol of emotional transparency in elite sport. His tears were not signs of weakness; they were proof of survival, a reminder that even the “four-time god” is human under the spotlight.