By Anne Cebula
Before it was something that coaches and sports psychologists floated my way, visualization was a huge part of my life. I didn’t know there was an official term for it when I was younger, but I practiced it often. The night before a big test day at school, I would fall asleep with the textbook near my pillow (I had a bad habit of cramming); despite drifting into unconsciousness, my mind was humming. I was picturing where I was going to sit in class, which pencil I would use, and how I would work through each individual question, to a point that when I woke up the next morning for test day, my nerves had melted into quiet anticipation.
This is all to say that as funny as it sounds, I visualized my time at the Olympics long before I stepped on the strip. Everything had a haze of familiarity. I had never physically set foot inside the Grand Palais before July 2024, yet I had been there more than a thousand times in my head. Every possible iteration became more detailed. What had started out as just a moment on the strip (the rush of a lunge), eventually turned into longer sequences. Sitting in the call room, staring at the monitor. My sneakers gripping the floor as I walked from the carpet of the stage onto the strip. The wall of the crowd in my periphery, alive and breathing as it rippled with people.
I distinctly remember that when I met Sergey, even though it was the first time I had spoken to him, he sounded familiar. I realized afterwards it was because he was one of the missing pieces.
I don’t know if he practiced visualization himself, but when I told him I wanted to go to the Olympics, he approached the idea with an air of seriousness that comes with a well-seasoned veteran – despite never having been himself. The confidence was a quiet one: not arrogance, but rather reverence for the massive task he voluntarily committed himself to. He dove into researching optimal results timing for qualification, checked in with my physical trainer, monitored my practice log (I remember the spreadsheet growing as the months went by), amongst other unpaid tasks. When recommending him to others, I would joke that he did everything he could aside from physically hooking onto the strip and fencing in my place.
I actually dreaded competitions, especially towards the end, where it felt like every single result (and every single touch) held an insurmountable amount of weight. This is why one of my fondest memories in the sport wasn’t spent collecting precious points in venues in faraway places, but rather the years spent back home – the everyday process of quietly preparing for something so unknown, yet so familiar, alongside someone who had become an “Obi-Wan Kenobi”-esque figure.
It was the joy in running through the choreography of lessons, noticing the progression from week to week when we finally nailed a new action. It was the time spent gathering around the front desk for video analysis, still jet-lagged but trying to articulate what I felt on the strip vs what he saw clearly on video – the “aha!” moment in diagnosing mistakes and brainstorming corrections together. It was sprinting from the LIRR, equipment bag and all, to make it in time for open bouting, which he would always start with very specific drills sprinkled into the beginning (a new variation every week!) – preparing everyone’s unconscious memory for tense moments on the strip, but still allowing us to sink into a freeing practice.
Sergey took the process of preparing for the Olympics – a process that usually breaks people – and turned it into one of the most pleasantly focused periods of my life. That is a precious gift in a coach: the ability to take their love for the sport and guide their students to find their own. A coach like this unconditionally believes in you despite the stacked odds, and reminds you of why you decided to challenge them in the first place. Because the reality is (and he warned me this on the first day) you will probably not qualify, even if you “dot all your i’s and cross your t’s” so to speak… but man, isn’t the process fun?
I don’t know if NYFA students realize how lucky they are to be raised in an environment that not only pushes for excellence, but encourages one to seek joy – because at the highest level, that’s what makes the difference.
Lastly, I would like to wholeheartedly thank Misha for spearheading such an exceptional coaching staff. I look forward to seeing what champions come out of the club in the coming years.
