When we were kids, our personalities clashed. But as we’ve both grown up, our differences have actually made me love her more than ever. Hannah is so funny and gregarious. She pulls me out of my shell.
As kids, the outdoors were like one huge playground to us. Unless I was at school or it was time to eat, we were outside. When we got bored of each other, my siblings and I would go knocking on doors to recruit friends to join us for games and adventures. My mom would call us in for dinner but afterward we were right back outside. Even in the winter, our parents gave us the freedom to roam, but they were strict with curfews: 8 o’clock in the winter and 10 o’clock in the summer.
Like most Icelandic children, we were encouraged to experiment with lots of sports. I loved sports and trying new things, but to this day I cannot figure out how my mom managed our chaotic schedule. Jack, Hannah, and I were all participating in at least one activity at any given time. My mom would drop me off at gymnastics, head back to town and grab Jack at handball, then transfer him to soccer or piano before picking up Hannah, who played soccer and participated in gymnastics as well.
My mom was really plugged in to what we were up to. That’s the kind of mom I want to be. She always wanted to be involved and helpful. She knew my friends and my siblings’ friends. She would check in with them and be genuinely interested in what they had going on. She wanted to be involved, and we knew she cared deeply about us.
I think it’s cute how much she loves talking about her kids and finding out about other people’s kids. It always makes me laugh when we’re at the CrossFit Games or Regionals and she would come home with stories of meeting other competitors’ parents, trading stories with them and forging new friendships.
“Guess what,” she said to me after a day of Regionals competition. “I hung out with the Vellners today. Did you know that Pat’s brother is in the Cirque du Soleil?!”
I remember being proud she was younger than most of my friends’ parents. I wanted to do everything just like her. To me, she was the coolest person in the world, and I looked up to her. She had red highlights, so I wanted red highlights (which she did not allow). She had a belly-button piercing, so I wanted one (which she didn’t let me do, either). She also had the cartilage of her upper ear pierced, which I was dying to get. This, she actually did allow me to do!
Because all her songs were my favorite songs, she made me a mixtape—yes, an actual cassette tape—featuring Madonna’s “Music,” Oasis’s “Wonderwall,” and Deep Blue Something’s “Breakfast at Tiffany’s.” I still love those songs. I can’t remember if she was entertained or annoyed by the attention, but I was her shadow; she couldn’t shake me.
When I was six, gymnastics entered my life. It was my first love. Within a few years, it was my sport. I spent four hours a day, six days a week training, on top of school and homework. My first gym, called Bjork, acted as my second home from age six until sixteen. I remember the pride I felt walking through town after practices, my shiny uniform glistening under the lights.
Gymnastics taught me discipline. Even at a young age, coaches set expectations. I also learned perseverance—because nothing came naturally to me. When I watch an athlete such as Simone Biles perform, it blows my mind. She looks like a cat. She always seems to know exactly where her body is in space. Biles can perform a double flip with a triple twist and know just where she is.
I was virtually the opposite. Any type of twisting caused me to lose all sense of awareness. I was basically flying through the air, guessing when I would hit the ground and unsure which body part would make contact first. When I was learning any new skills, not just twists, I always landed on my head at least three times. I had friends in gymnastics who would just try stuff and land on their feet with nothing more than a stumble-step to the side. Not me. I was always on my head. But I would get back up and try again.
What I lacked in natural talent, I made up for in grit. I was always a hard worker. As a gymnast, I thrived on conditioning and the endless practice our Russian coaches prescribed. I loved the sweat and the discipline, but sometimes my affinity for hard training made me an outcast among the other girls; no gymnast loves conditioning, especially when you’re a kid.
Ironically, I wasn’t driven to compete in gymnastics. It was the one thing where I never felt competitive drive. I wasn’t trying to be the Icelandic National Champion. I was simply trying to get better, and I loved the challenge and the process that led to success. I learned resiliency through failure. Gymnastics taught me early on that failure is part of the process. I would land on my head, go try again, fail, and then try again—over and over. Finally, the third, fourth, or fifth time, a lightbulb would go off and I would think, Ah, yeah, now I get it! But it always took me those failed attempts to learn.
This arduous process was the same no matter what I was learning. It was a priceless lesson that success doesn’t simply appear; it takes hard work, passion, and resilience. I learned that I could succeed in anything, if I was willing to commit myself to it.
My mom taught me how to laugh at myself, and gymnastics reinforced that. It would become one of my greatest assets in life, especially later, as a professional athlete. I have always taken my sport seriously—I respect my coaches, my competitors, and my teammates. But I refuse to take myself too seriously, and this I’m certain I inherited from my mom. The ability to giggle when I mess something up royally is a priceless gift. To advance in any skill, you need to be able to shrug off mistakes and smile at them. Having fun and laughing, even if it’s at your own expense, makes the process enjoyable.
* * *
My parents got divorced when I was in second grade. My dad decided that he would be moving back to England. We kids stayed with our mom in Iceland. Around the same time, I learned that my grandparents would be moving away. Afi, my grandfather, became the Icelandic ambassador to Denmark, which required them to leave Iceland, and leave me. I was young and sensitive and the stress was too much. I often got migraine headaches as a child. Usually they accompanied stress or sickness, and hospital visits were required if they were especially intense. The combined stress of my parents’ split and the departure of my anchors, Amma and Afi, landed me in the hospital with a migraine. The diagnosis was a headache, but I know it was my broken heart manifesting itself.
I wasn’t away from my grandparents too long. Mom took me to stay with them for a few weeks not long after they left. Over time we would also settle into a rhythm of visits to my dad. From then on, I would divide my summers between visiting my grandparents in Copenhagen and visiting my dad in England with my siblings.
My dad has been a mathematics professor at a college since before I was born. This meant that he had the same holidays as us kids, and we would always go on fun trips. Dad would fly to Iceland and pick us up when there was a break in school. On trips to London, we would usually go to stay with his parents; I called them Nanny and Granddad.
Every single summer we would take a big trip. My dad loves seeing the world and showing us the world. We went to places like Italy, India, and Thailand. My dad is a collector of experiences. He’s an amazing teacher, loves his work, and he is my gold standard for work ethic. All his professional life, the only day he took off was for his father’s funeral. He’s a very committed man.
I’m precariously close to being a perfectionist in most things. I credit my dad for fostering that quality in me. In school, especially, I always took my job as a student seriously. I finished my homework religiously and without any oversight. I loved taking exams and seeing how I stacked up against my peers. I was a good student. I was unusually focused for my age, liked to work, and found pleasure in achievements. The downside was a serious demeanor that didn’t necessarily reflect my inner thoughts. Parent-teacher conferences often produced comments like, “Katrin needs to relax a little.”
My dad has a rational, analytical mind paired with a teacher’s ability to reframe situations, making you believe everything is easier than you are making it.
He makes things sound so simple and achievable.
He looks at the world through a prism of “How can this be better?” This coaxed excellence from all of us kids, especially in academics. Instead of celebrating top marks (even 9.5 out of a possible 10 points), he searched for opportunities for us to improve. He acknowledged the result was good, but as a teacher he is hardwired to fill voids of understanding. He wanted to teach us what we got wrong, worried we might go through life not knowing that last half a point.
I never saw my mom’s and dad’s differing approaches to parenting as being in conflict. In fact, I believe they were perfectly complementary. I like to think that I adopted characteristics from both of them. In academics I mirrored my father. I internalized his drive toward constant improvement. Perhaps to a fault.
My mother tried to teach me how to soften the laser beam. When I burst through the front door and charged straight for my room after school one day, the opposing forces were on display.
“What’s up?” my mom prodded.
“I got a nine on my exam,” I said through clenched teeth.
“Kat, that’s really good.”
“No, it’s not.”
She countered with a perfectly logical argument that I simply did not want to hear.
“If you get nines, or even eights, in college, or especially in university, it’s a fantastic result!”
“Maybe for you,” I huffed, insinuating that she did not value perfection. Even at twelve years old I wanted it like I wanted to breathe air.
I see a lot of my father in Jack, as well. He is very calculated and analytical. I’m certain he would tell you that he’s the most intelligent sibling, but I’ll fight him for that. He is very smart. He was always very athletic and played soccer growing up. Even on the pitch, Jack was constantly analyzing. He would get angry when the other kids were playing bunch ball instead of running the plays he was trying to draw up for them. He just wanted them to follow his directions.
The skill set would serve him well in adulthood. He now coaches the women’s soccer team at his university in England. His girlfriend told me recently that even when he’s in the shower, he can’t shut down his analytical brain. She catches him drawing plays in the steam-fogged shower glass.
I credit both of my parents for instilling a drive to succeed. My grandparents had a lot to do with that as well, of course. My school average was never lower than a 9.5 out of 10, and I graduated a year early. Any time I received a grade lower than 10, I would focus on the question I got wrong. It didn’t matter to me where I placed in relation to the rest of the class or that my grade was the highest. I wanted to know and understand everything. I would hound my teacher for an explanation so my understanding would be complete.
More important than any of that is just how abundantly clear my dad makes it that he loves his kids to the moon and back. He passionately and actively shows us that he cares and goes out of his way to check on us. He wants to make sure that we are doing all right. He is so loving that it drives my sister crazy, but I can’t get enough of it.
* * *
My baby brother, Bjorgvin, balances the force in our family. Where my highly driven, type-A personality needs to “Go, go, go,” Bjorgvin is happiest at a slower pace. Bjorgvin was born when I was eleven, and we didn’t live together for long. It’s fun for me to see him as a young adult and how different he is from me, Jack, and Hannah.
He takes after my mom a bit more. Bjorgvin has the typically affable qualities displayed by the baby in most families. He is easygoing and sweet. He gets along with everyone and is nearly impossible to fluster.
I watched Hannah intentionally try to get him fired up by making fun of his hair. He was so unperturbed that she became upset and stormed out of the room. Nothing can burst Bjorgvin’s bubble. He will literally giggle when someone tries to get a rise out of him.
I had a hard time understanding him for quite a while because he is not super competitive, which simply does not compute in my mind. But that’s just Bjorgvin. He’s like a cool breeze, calmly watching the world before he reacts. My constant competitiveness and drive for perfection are as alien to him as they are natural to me.
In most ways my parents were opposites. But their personalities as parents actually complemented each other perfectly and rounded out my siblings and me. It wasn’t just my parents, either; I was lucky enough to have incredible grandparents, too.
Having so many supportive people in my family provided me with a strong foundation of security and confidence. My competitive nature was nurtured and encouraged by a coterie of loving people all around. My family knows me, loves me, and gives me faith in myself. Because of them, I was able to put myself out there and test what I’m really made of. There came times in my competitive life when I had to question everything, but thankfully I had my family as my rock.
3
GRANDMA AND GRANDPA
AMMA NAD AFI
One look, and I had found a world completely new
When love walked in with you
—GEORGE GERSHWIN, “LOVE WALKED IN”
April 14, 1962
It was the sixties: John F. Kennedy was the president of the United States, the Cold War raged with Europe stuck in the middle, the Beatles released their first hit, “Love Me Do,” and Brazil won the World Cup for a second time that year. In Iceland, though, a band was playing in midtown Reykjavik on a clear and beautiful spring evening. Helgi Ágústsson tapped his foot to the live band at the Hotel Borg. It was a popular place to socialize and go dancing and Helgi had arrived early with his friend Halldor Sigurdsson to enjoy the jazz band before the crowds drifted into the venue and the night began in earnest.
The scene revolved around dancing. Real dancing—the kind that required social skills, athleticism, and chivalry. These old friends, Helgi and Halldor, had all three in spades and were frequent fliers at the Borg. Each would encourage the other’s confidence to ask for dances with attractive young ladies when confidence faltered. They were perfect gentlemen and even better dancers.
When the band took their first pause, the boys decided to take a stroll around the small lake in downtown Reykjavik. Just before they returned to the Borg, they stopped at a small corner shop to buy a plate of chocolate.
With chocolate in hand, they nearly collided with two beautiful girls who were exiting a taxi. The girls said yes when they offered some chocolate, and a conversation ensued. They talked all the way into the dance, where they shared a table. Helgi and Halldor bought the women soft drinks and they danced all night.
Helgi felt an unshakable connection with one of the women. Her name was Hervör, but her friends called her by her nickname: Heba. She was an especially talented dancer and very beautiful.
Helgi knew the bass player, Omar. After a few dances, he requested the song “Love Walked In.” Omar agreed and complimented Helgi’s taste, perhaps for the Gershwin, perhaps for Heba. Most likely both. The song had great meaning to Helgi and he was hoping that she would understand the message he was trying to send.
“Do you know this song?” he asked.
“No,” she replied. A bit crestfallen, he realized he would need to try something else.
He walked her home that night and a few days later they reunited to see a movie together. Within months they were shopping for pots and pans.
In my family, this day is known as Chocolate Day, the day my grandparents met. We celebrated it every year for fifty-four years. Helgi and Heba are my favorite love story of all time; they are my gold standard when it comes to relationships, love, and respect.
* * *
My grandparents are my world. I call them by their Icelandic titles: Grandfather is “Afi” and Grandmother is “Amma.” As a child, I constantly fought for more time with them. Because they took such an active role in my upbringing, we have always been tremendously close.
My mother was still finishing school when I was a baby. Amma watched me during the day back then and our bond grew stronger.
Every morning was the same: Amma taking her coffee in her Finnish Moomin mug while I played, practicing handstands and cartwheels under her delighted gaze. We would walk to Mom’s school to visit with her when she had a break, or just go off on our own adventures. Amma and I were always doing something—walking in Hyde Park or exploring local shops. There was never a dull moment; we were always on the move.
Being an ambassador is a highly distinguished support role to the prime minister, and I was proud of my Afi. In Iceland, our politicians are constantly on television. My grandfather’s position was enough to make him recognizable and respected, without being famous. When I joined him for lunch at work, I recognized the most important faces of Iceland’s government. In my formative years—and even when I was little—this made me want to pursue law and diplomacy.
As a young girl, though, I was often annoyed at my grandparents’ popularity. If we walked down any of Reykjavik’s main streets, it became a parade of handshakes and hugs. They seemed to know everyone.
“I can’t walk anywhere with you,” I would complain, wanting their full attention.
A large part of the ambassador’s job is entertaining guests and attending events. I remember watching my grandmother as she prepared for these. My legs would hang over the edge of the bed. I was enchanted by her and I would covet her pretty dresses and jewelry.
“Amma, when you’re old, can I have that dress?” I asked her when I was five years old.
It was a gorgeous emerald green gown and she looked stunning in it.
“Of course,” she replied.
This became one of her oft-repeated stories because of what came next. I followed up with something less conventional.
“Amma, did you hang out with the monkeys?”
My father had recently taught me about evolution. He gave me the rough concept but had left out critical details—like the timeline. In my young mind, it was perfectly reasonable to suspect that Amma was there with them. She laughed so hard at my erroneous question, enjoying my innocence. Memories of her laughing in that gown, of her positivity, and of how she taught me about love remain at the forefront of my mind, encouraging me in the quiet moments.
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