Igls, Austria – A thousandth of a second is almost incalculable – generally irrelevant. In my life however, a thousandth of a second has the power to either catapult someone onto the steps of the highly coveted 'podium' or send them shamelessly into a lonely state of self doubt and frustration, relentlessly haunting them. And I have experienced both.

The track in Igls sits high on the majestic Austrian Alps. Its innocent demeanor carefully masks its sinister reality. Forget physical technicalities; this track preys entirely on the mind. It patiently awaits you to slide quietly down its belly, while filling your head with noisy doubts.

It's like writing an open-book exam, the answers are right in front of you but only if you know where to look. And even when you know the answer, you start to second guess yourself because it all just seems too…well…easy. Your confidence wavers. You start to change things.

The weather was clear, the ice was fast, and sliding was good. I felt confident and ready, competitive and fast – more so than I ever have at this track. Having never posted a solid result here, I felt convinced that my 'race-day curse in Igls' was about to be lifted.

The Challenge Cup race was on Friday followed by the World Cup event on Sunday. I was matched against Madison, in her Challenge Cup debut, and a Czech slider.

My first run was sloppy but fast enough to edge out the other two. I put down a flawless second run in the semifinal against two Germans and an American to land me a bronze, my first ever medal in that event. Although I was ecstatic to stand on the podium for the second time this season, I was more excited for the World Cup. My confidence had just been reinforced.

Knowing that a medal wouldn't be as easily handed to me on Sunday as it was on Friday, I tried to remain level headed and realistic. I also knew that a top six result was realistic. I was slowly building a reputation as one of the fastest sleds, behind the Germans of course, on the circuit. And knowing that didn't make me feel like I deserved another medal, it made me feel like I needed to live up to the fact that I had won a couple.

Sunday morning. I was pumped. I don't ever remember being as equally excited to slide as I was nervous. My routine track walk had transformed from a slow and calculated pace, full of thought and strategy to a sporadic trot, complete with the occasional hop or skip. I hardly even noticed the usual slew of spectators lingering about, pointing and whispering and staring at us 'athletes' like a new exhibit at the local zoo.

I sat, fully satisfied, in 6th position after the first heat. Sixth place, behind four Germans and an Austrian on her home track, wasn't bad...in fact, it was pretty darn good. I could feel it. It was my day, finally. And then, half way down the track on the second run, that 'Igls curse' found me...again.

I drove the same lines, made the same body movements and kept the same rhythm as the first run; the outcome however was much different. All of a sudden, I started skidding sideways in a part of the track that, until that exact moment, had caused me no grief. What went wrong? I don't know. I honestly don't. I'm not shy to admit my mistakes. But as cocky as it may sound, I didn't think I made any. Period. I fell seven places.

I tried to be strong. I tried to smile. I tried to fight the swelling amount of tears burning hot in my cheeks, but surrendered to them as I felt them surface and spill over.

For the first time in a long time I didn't care that I was mad and that everyone knew it. I mean, was I always expected to walk away from a bad race with my chin up, shining brightly with optimism? Wasn't I allowed to feel sad or frustrated or cheated? Wasn't I allowed to walk past the camera and not smile or wave or acknowledge its intrusive lens? Wasn't I allowed to bury my face in my hands and just…cry?

Well, I did. And then I did some more.

The thing is, is it's not just about getting a good result. I train eleven out of twelve months a year. I miss weddings, birthdays and nights at the movies. I see my family for four days at Christmas. I sleep in a different bed every six nights in a room with two other girls. I eat hotel food three times a day. I can't take medication if I get sick. I step on a scale everyday to make sure I'm not losing weight. I go to the track for three hours every day to take two, 40 second runs. I fight for fractions of a second. I fight for inches, metres and kilometres. I fight for medals.

And you know what? I'm OK with all of it.

In fact, I'm obliged. I'm just not OK with "being OK" with mediocre success. I'm not OK with standing proudly on the podium one day to helplessly trying to dig myself out of a hole two days later. Because I want to feel like all the sacrifices I've made, all the sweat, all the tears, all the lessons are worth it. That it means something. That the journey I've embarked on does, in fact, have a destination. I want something in return and 13th place isn't what I had in mind.

I was inconsolable. I wanted a do-over. I wanted everyone to recognize how victimized I was. To acknowledge my tragic misfortune. Unfortunately, I barely had time to dry my tears before the cargo van was loaded and we were on our way to the next race. And that's the way it goes. In a sport of speed, there's no time to be mad. No time to dwell. And even if you happen to find time to do those, nobody ever cares to join you.

One of the hardest things about competing in luge is letting go of all the 'what ifs' and 'could have beens.' It's funny how it only takes a split second to make a mistake that takes months, even years, to forget.

But somehow I have to believe that the low points in my career are just as important as the high ones. Because without one, the other would simply fail to exist.