“I almost lost Liza… I once thought I would never be able to land a quad again.” Those were the words that opened an exclusive almost two-hour interview, 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 unprecedented technical brilliance and historic quadruple jumps. Yet behind the medals and roaring crowds was a young athlete battling invisible 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 Olympic Games became, in his own words, “a tunnel without light.” Training sessions that were once filled with confidence turned into incessant self-doubt, as each failed landing seemed like confirmation that his dominance might be slipping.

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 inside 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 they suffered after unexpected falls during key competitions. He replayed those mistakes repeatedly in his mind, wondering if his body (and, more dangerously, his mind) could hold out.

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

He confessed that, for the first time, he considered moving away from elite skating completely. The thought of never landing on a quad again was devastating and strangely relieving. It was the internal conflict between ambition and survival that almost destroyed him.

Adding to the turmoil was a deeply personal family crisis. Malinin revealed that her sister Liza faced a scary health issue during that same period. “I almost lost Liza,” he whispered, pausing to steady himself as tears broke his composure.

The fear of losing someone he loved changed his perspective. Suddenly, medals and titles seemed secondary to family. He described rushing between training sessions and hospital visits, trying to compartmentalize the pain as he prepared for the biggest competition of his career.

According to US Figure Skating officials, Malinin maintained remarkable professionalism during public appearances. Privately, however, he felt fractured. The double burden of athletic expectations and personal fear created what he described as “mental noise” that never quieted.

At the Milano-Cortina 2026 Winter Olympics, that noise became deafening. An unexpected fall during a critical segment left viewers stunned. For Malinin, the slip-up wasn’t just a technical error; It symbolized months of repressed anxiety exploding in front of the world.

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

Sports psychologists often emphasize the resilience of elite athletes, but Malinin’s story reveals its complexity. Resilience is not the absence of crises; It is the decision to continue despite it. For him, that decision came slowly, through vulnerability rather than bravery.

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

Little by little, training transformed from a quest to prove oneself to a journey to rediscover 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 under-discussed. The aesthetic beauty of sport often hides brutal internal battles. “We smile under the lights,” he said, “but sometimes we fight storms that no one can see.”

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

The interview ended not with triumph, but with gratitude. Malinin expressed his deep gratitude for his family, his coaches and the fans who supported him during uncertain performances. His 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. Her tears were not signs of weakness; they were a test of survival, a reminder that even the “Fourfold God” is human in the spotlight.