In the end, he chose to rely on the medium he knows best to express his deepest thoughts. And despite his struggles at the 2026 Milano Cortina Olympics, his skate at the Feb. 21 exhibition gala helped him address those challenges and speak directly with the audience that had supported him along the way.

Malinin had been the heavy favorite to win gold at his first Olympic Games. During the men’s figure skating free program, he set out to make Olympic history by—a technical feat that would have underscored his dominance in the skating world and placed him on top of the podium. He popped the first jump he intended, the quad axel—one he alone has landed in competition—but couldn’t summon enough of his remaining skills to stay ahead of his competitors. The, once thought to be one of the surest bets in the always unpredictable Olympics, finished eighth overall.

How Malinin skated that program, it turned out, was a message to the world—one grappling with the weight of expectations he had been carrying. He hadn’t spoken publicly about the, he says, throughout this Olympic season. Touted as the next Olympic champion, Malinin faced extraordinary demands on his time and mental energy that eroded his confidence and led to his first loss in nearly two years.

More than a week later, skating in the Olympic exhibition gala, Malinin again chose to communicate on the ice, with a program he’d been developing for months with a friend who edited the music, titled “Fear” by one of his favorite artists, NF. The program soberly reflects the loss of control Malinin says he felt as hype and expectation around his Olympic debut mounted. He previewed the routine after his free program, posting a clip on his account showing a deluge of pinging social media alerts. He opened the performance with the sounds of that message flood, mimed scrolling through them, then placed his hands on his head and pulled up the hood of his gray sweatshirt—stamped with the word “Fear”—over his head.

“I really just wanted to share an extension of my thoughts and something I’ve been feeling all this Olympic season,” he says. “There’s been so much pressure, so much doubt, and everything around me—the noise, the media, the people, the environment—it’s been so overwhelming.”

The lyrics resonate deeply with Malinin: “Like a puppet, with strings, I just don’t have the choice. What’s the truth? What’s a lie? … “On the verge, on the edge, Is this what you wanted? Petrified, scared to death, Is this what you wanted?…Breakin’ down, spiralin’, Is this what you wanted? What you wanted? Is this what you wanted?”

The program was an emotional plea for the public to see him as “a human being,” he said. “We also have real thoughts, real feelings, even though it looks like we’re completely robotic with superhuman abilities. But deep down, we’re still similar to all of you.”

Malinin, of course, isn’t the first to address the near-impossible expectations placed on celebrities or elite athletes, especially Olympians. has used similar language to describe the danger of forgetting that athletes are people too—individuals who feel the same pressure, anxiety, and pain from harsh remarks and uninformed criticism as anyone else.

But perhaps more than any prior Olympics, these Games—and this U.S. figure skating team in particular—have embraced mental health as a priority, not an afterthought. The U.S. women’s team of,, and Isabeau Levito has drawn attention for their uniquely close bond, questioning why they can’t balance friendship and competition successfully. When asked after making the Olympic team about the novelty of their strong connection, Liu seemed perplexed, apparently not understanding why such closeness and supportiveness was considered unusual.

But in skating—and among women specifically—such camaraderie hasn’t been the norm. Young girls are taught early in their careers to hide their emotions, smile regardless of inner struggles, and never let rivals see weakness. That rigid system is one reason Liu quit the sport at 16, before returning two years later on her own terms.

When Glenn missed a jump combination in the short program, dropping her to 13th place heading into the final, Liu was among the first to hug and comfort her. She helped Glenn move past the mistake and skate a strong free program to climb to fifth. This supportive instinct extends beyond teammates: When Japan’s Kaori Sakamoto missed a jump in the free program and realized she’d miss gold, her emotions overwhelmed her, and tears flowed. Glenn stepped in to hug her and shield her from cameras zooming in on the distressed Sakamoto.

For Glenn, Liu, and Levito, such gestures matter more than medals or rankings. “I’m grateful for the success we’ve had with this, because it hasn’t made us less competitive, and it hasn’t caused any lapses on the ice,” Glenn said. “That’s one of the most beautiful things about sport—it’s not just what we do when we perform, but the journey and the people who surround us during it. I think that will improve so many athletes’ lives, and that’s what I’ve aimed to do.”

One of those athletes will be Malinin, who will leave Milan “learning to get back up and keep going,” he says. “It’s still just figure skating. And sometimes medals don’t mean as much as who you are as a person and what you truly contribute to the world around you.”