Born between two worlds

I was born in Miyazaki, Japan, in 2008. My dad is British, my mom is Japanese. That means I grew up between two cultures, two languages, two sets of traditions. But honestly? As a kid, I didn’t think about identity or where I belonged. All I wanted was to move.

My playground wasn’t swings or slides. It was concrete bowls and ocean waves. At three years old I was already standing on a board. First a surfboard, then a skateboard. Both felt natural, like an extension of my body.

Other kids at school were busy learning dance routines or piano. I was dropping into ramps that looked way too big for someone my size. But I loved it. The risk, the speed, the rush of landing something new. I didn’t care that people stared. I didn’t care that I fell, scraped, or bled. Falling was part of the fun.

Growing up in the skatepark

The skatepark became my second home. Sometimes I was the only girl. Often I was the youngest. People looked twice when they saw me ride. Some cheered, some doubted.

But skating doesn’t care who you are. The ramp doesn’t know your age. The board doesn’t ask if you’re a boy or girl. It only asks: do you dare?

I learned quickly that courage is a muscle. The more you use it, the stronger it gets. Every time I pushed myself, every time I rolled into a bowl that scared me, I felt that courage grow.

By the time I was 10, I wasn’t just skating for fun. I was competing. Traveling. Meeting riders I had once only watched on YouTube. The world of skateboarding was opening for me.

The fall that changed me

Then came 2020. I was training in California, high on energy, trying bigger and bigger tricks. One day, I flew off the edge of a ramp and didn’t land. I hit the ground hard.

The silence after the crash was the scariest thing. Then voices, panic, sirens. I was airlifted to hospital with a skull fracture, broken arm, broken hand.

Doctors told me it was serious. Too serious. Some said maybe I shouldn’t skate again. For a moment, lying in that hospital bed, I wondered if they were right. I was 11 years old. Maybe my dream had ended before it had even started.

But deep down, I knew: I wasn’t done. The board had given me freedom, joy, identity. I wasn’t going to let one fall take that away.

Recovery was slow. Weeks of pain. Days of frustration. But each time I stood, I felt stronger. When I finally stepped back on a board, I smiled so wide it hurt my face. I had survived the worst. I wasn’t afraid anymore.

Tokyo 2021: making history

Then came Tokyo. The Olympics in my birth country. I was 13 years old. The youngest in the field. People said it was crazy. But to me, it felt right.

Standing at the top of the ramp in the Olympic park, I could feel my heart beating in my ears. Cameras everywhere. Millions watching. But I told myself: it’s just another ride. Just me and my board.

And then—I did it. Run after run, pushing harder, flying higher. Bronze medal. The first ever Olympic park skateboarding final. And I was on the podium. Britain’s youngest Olympic medalist ever.

That medal wasn’t just mine. It was for every little kid who looked at me and thought: if she can do it, maybe I can too.

Skate, surf, repeat

When I’m not skating, I’m surfing. The ocean teaches me patience. The waves remind me that you can’t control everything. Some days the water is calm, some days it’s wild. You have to adapt.

Surfing makes me calmer. Skating makes me fearless. Together, they balance me. People ask me if I’ll choose one. I don’t want to. Why choose when you can do both?

My dream is to ride waves in the morning and ramps in the afternoon. To keep both parts of my heart alive.

Fans, family, fire

After Tokyo, my life changed. Suddenly, kids from around the world were writing me letters, sending me drawings, telling me they picked up a board because of me. That’s the best part of all this—not the medals, not the titles, but the inspiration.

My family keeps me grounded. My dad often films my tricks, my mom supports me every step, and my little brother is always by my side. He rides too. We push each other, laugh, fall, and get back up.

The fire inside me isn’t about beating others. It’s about beating fear. About going a little higher, spinning a little faster, landing something that once seemed impossible. That’s what keeps me hungry.

Paris, los angeles, beyond

I don’t know where the future will take me. Paris 2024? Los Angeles 2028? New waves, new tricks, maybe even new sports? All I know is I’ll keep riding.

I don’t skate or surf for medals. I do it because it makes me feel alive. Because every time I step on a board, I feel like the world is wide open.

What I’ve learned so far

I’ve learned that strength isn’t about size. Courage isn’t about age. And falling is just part of the story.

When people ask me what I want others to take from my journey, I say this: don’t be afraid to start. Don’t be afraid to try. Don’t be afraid to fall. Because that’s how you learn to fly.

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