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“They gave me six months.
I gave them a mountain range.”
I was born in Miami, June 2007, with Epidermolysis Bullosa (EB)—a rare condition that makes the skin as fragile as butterfly wings. Doctors believed I wouldn’t survive beyond six months.
At 2½ years old, my feet met snow in Big White, Canada, and everything changed. Skiing didn’t just move my body—it freed my spirit. At 5, I earned my first gold medal in alpine skiing, and by 6, I was charging through moguls at Silver Star Mountain. Two years later, I moved to Apex Mountain to train harder—and it paid off. I won every moguls competition in my age group across British Columbia until my tenth birthday.
We moved to Tignes, France, where for two consecutive years I was French Champion in my age category.
But every jump came with a price. While other kids brushed off falls, I faced open wounds, torn skin, and lasting scars. EB meant that a simple slip could mean losing the skin on my legs or face. Still, I kept skiing—and never said a word to my coaches.
Pain wasn’t the enemy. Giving up was.
At 13, we returned to Canada, settling in Quebec. I placed highly in regional competitions—including second in Ontario—while recovering from a broken ankle in the summer. I get a serious facial injury from snow abrasion. Coaches were shocked. I was back on the slopes in a week.
Resilience isn’t a quote—it’s a lifestyle.
School never stopped, either. My parents homeschooled me and my sister with a fierce routine: 2 hours of study every single day, year-round, followed by a full day on the slopes. No holidays, no breaks. That discipline led us both to graduate from grade 12 (French Baccalaureate) in sciences four years early.
At 14, I was accepted into the University of Toronto’s Environmental Sciences program.
Then came COVID. To keep training alive, my family moved to Aspen—a place where ski resorts stayed open. At 15, I qualified for the USA Junior Nationals in Park City, but tore my meniscus during the event. Surgery couldn’t keep me down. By summer, I was back—flying off water ramps with my butterfly wings still intact.
We returned to Apex, where I began competing on the NORAM and FIS circuits.
After a year, I started training year-round in Utah, attended camps in Sweden, and joined Wasatch Freestyle for elite-level development.
But at 16, life threw a new kind of challenge.
My parents were unable to stay as they are not permanent U.S. residents. I stayed behind, alone.
I kept up my studies at university, continued my training schedule, and held a job at the Utah Olympic Park—working at the Residences, at the café and at adventure center. I also took care of everything else: groceries, cooking, cleaning, laundry, budgeting, managing my life like a full-time adult while competing like a full-time athlete.
It was hard. But it was mine.
Rare Strength isn't just about beating injuries—it's about handling everything they never see.
From Deer Valley to Apex, from Sweden to France, I’ve trained year-round, and competed in NORAM and FIS events. I take three university classes per semester, work full-time at the Utah Olympic Park, and travel nonstop for training, exams, and competitions.
Why?
Because one day, I’ll stand at the World Cup starting gate.
Because I dream of the 2030 Olympics in France, and 2034 in USA.
Because I want kids with EB to know: wings are real.
I don’t have the most severe form of EB. But I know the looks. I’ve felt the pain. I’ve lost skin, toenails, blood—and kept going. Every September, when I slip back into ski boots, my feet blister, and my skin peels.
Some years are harder than others. But after two weeks? I’m back.
Back on snow.
Back in flight.
Back chasing something bigger than pain.
Because EB can touch my body—but it will never own my story.
