“A cancer diagnosis put my ice dancing career on pause. Three years later, I’m skating for gold at the Olympics”

Skating has always been part of my life. One of my earliest memories is watching my older brother at the rink. Because of his involvement in the sport, my childhood home in Rockford, Illinois, was a revolving door of billets. So it came as no surprise when, at two and a half years old, I laced up and hit the ice. Growing up, my sister and I earned the nickname “rink rats.” I tried other sports, like dance and gymnastics, but nothing felt as good as figure skating. I fell in love with the frictionless freedom of gliding over ice on sharp blades. In skates, I was free to express myself.

At first, the sport was just a fun outlet for me, but things got serious when I turned nine and my family moved to Colorado Springs, the figure skating capital of the US. My older brother had set his sights on a professional career, and my sister and I were keen to follow in his footsteps. A year later, I was watching the 2002 Salt Lake City Olympics and found myself glued to the TV, not wanting to miss a single axel or spin. It became clear that my dream was to go to the Olympics.

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I spent the next eight years honing my craft and travelling across the US for competitions. But, as the years went on, I could feel myself falling out of love with the sport. I dragged my feet on the way to practice and didn’t feel the same high I used to when performing. My skating partner and I lacked chemistry, and we decided to part ways. Then I did what any confused 18-year-old who loves the spotlight does: I moved to Los Angeles.

My goal was to get a spot on a new competition show, Skating With the Stars—think Dancing With the Stars but for figure skating. I had gotten a callback, but during my interview, the woman vetting me asked, “Are you sure you’re done with skating professionally?” I told her I was  finished without a doubt. She must have seen something I could not yet admit to myself, because she looked at me and said, “I don’t think so.” When I didn’t get the part, I turned my attention to becoming an actor and landed small roles in music videos like Simple Plan’s “Can’t Keep My Hands Off of You.”

It turns out that the casting director was right. After a year in LA, Canadian ice dancer Paul Poirier called and asked if I wanted to train with him. He had just split up with his skating partner, and he knew I had won medals at major international championships before my mid-career break. I was flattered that an Olympic athlete had come knocking. Despite my previous certainty about quitting, I was eager to give the sport I’d loved one last try.

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Out of shape and out of practice, I moved to Toronto in 2011 to train with Paul at his home rink, the Scarboro Figure Skating Club. We clicked right away, both on and off the ice, which completely revived my love for the sport. Training became a full-time job when we decided to try for Sochi 2014. The regimen was six days a week, three to four hours on the ice, two to three hours off the ice, plus an hour of physio. At the end of every day, I was completely wiped, but Paul and I shared a sense of humour and lightheartedness that made the tough days easier to get through.

When the Olympic qualifiers came around, we placed third in Canada. After three years in the country, I had become a Canadian citizen and was excited to skate for Team Canada. But then Paul broke his ankle six months out from Sochi, and we couldn’t recover in time. We were devastated—but less so when, a few months later, we beat the team they sent to the World Championships instead of us.

After Paul’s injury, we became more determined than ever to make it to Pyeongchang 2018. Nothing was going to derail us—or so we thought. Then, in March of 2017, my mother found out she had terminal Stage 4 brain cancer. When I heard the news, I went numb. I wasn’t sure if I should miss the World Championships to fly back to Colorado to be with her. The cancer quickly robbed her of her lucidity, but she had always been my biggest supporter, and I knew what she would have told me to do. I kept skating, though it hurt to finish every competition and not hear my mom, Bonnie, screaming with excitement.

In the end, Paul and I qualified for Pyeongchang. I was ecstatic—it was something I had worked toward my entire life. At the Games, I was surrounded by the world’s best athletes and felt inspired by the strength, agility and talent of my competitors. We placed eighth, but I had achieved 10-year-old Piper’s dream—and my mother lived to see me compete on the world stage. She passed in May of 2018. After she was gone, skating took on new meaning. In the back of my mind, I performed every routine in her honour. I stopped shying away from strong emotions and funnelled them into my performances, which made my skating more captivating and intense.

In October of 2022, heading into the first event of the season, I started to feel incredibly tired and nauseous. I thought it was normal competition jitters, but when it persisted and I started to feel a throbbing pain in my left side, I went to the doctor. At the hospital, the doctors found a nine-centimetre cyst on my left ovary and a liquid-filled tumour attached. My mind was spinning. I couldn’t stop thinking about whether it was cancer or whether I would still be able to compete. I was booked for surgery in December to remove the tumour, and on my 31st birthday, I learned that it had been Stage 1 ovarian cancer.

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When I got the news, I was lying in bed alone, and I started bawling. I had no idea if I would have to do chemotherapy or how the diagnosis would impact my skating. I was still healing from surgery, bandaged up and in pain, and now I had to deal with this life-altering news. It was terrifying. When I met with my doctor a few days later, she confirmed that I could continue skating after recovering from the surgery. I wouldn’t have to undergo chemo. After that, I was slightly less anxious, but I still spent the next year in fear that the tumour would return.

For weeks after the surgery, it was painful to move. When I finally got back on the ice in mid-February of 2023, Paul and I celebrated the fact that I could skate in a circle. I slowly ramped up my training while wearing a pregnancy compression belt to keep everything secure. I felt grateful to be back doing what I love. In late March, we won bronze at the 2023 World Championships in Japan. Throughout my cancer journey, Paul was immensely supportive. They say skating partnerships are like business marriages, and Paul was there for me in sickness and in health.

Over the following year, Paul and I toyed with the idea of retiring after the 2024 World Championships in Montreal, but Milano Cortina 2026 was just two years away. The temptation to tackle one last Olympics was too strong. This past January, we won our fifth Canadian National Skating Championships, dancing to Don McLean’s “Vincent.” The commentators called it “magni-Vincent,” and we were met with a standing ovation. Our score of 231.05 set a new Canadian record, and with gold medals in hand, we were selected to represent Canada at the Olympics in Italy. While not as nerve-racking as our first qualification back in 2018, it was just as exciting. The pressure was on again.

Heading into Milano Cortina, we’ve been training five hours a day on the ice, tweaking our routine to make sure it’s the best it can be, plus dedicating two hours off ice for physio and strength training. In my free moments, I’m packing and planning for Italy and finding time to recharge with a good comedy movie and red-light therapy.

My goal is to win a medal for Canada. It would be amazing to go out with a gold, but these days, I just feel lucky to have the ability and opportunity to compete. When I was younger, the losses were harder to swallow. But, after overcoming cancer, I no longer take my health, my career or my life for granted. I’ve come out the other end with a sense of gratitude and privilege that wasn’t there before. Every time I step on the ice, it feels like a gift.