“Completely devastated and at a loss for words.” That was how Doug Zeghibe, CEO of the Boston Skating Club, described the unthinkable tragedy. Even from his chair of authority, he could barely find the strength to utter the words. It seemed impossible—absurd, even—to speak of Evgenia Shishkova and Vadim Naumov in the past tense. The husband-wife duo, once crowned world champions in figure skating, was the club’s soul. Their chemistry—on and off the ice—was legendary. Things seemed almost like a fairytale. 

But on January 29, a collision between IC 5342 and a US Army helicopter over Washington, D.C., rewrote their story forever. That cold, cruel night didn’t just steal away two skating icons—it orphaned their only son.

Maxim Naumov concentrated solely on his performance at the US Nationals in Wichita. The former US junior men’s champion had grown up watching his parents glide across the ice with breathtaking elegance. This time, though, he was on his own, determined to make them proud. His parents, in their familiar role as coaches, were in the same town, mentoring future stars at a development camp.

But fate has its own twisted timing. Maxim’s early departure from Nationals—because of an unexpected change of plans—may have saved his life, but it couldn’t shield him from heartbreak. By the time he landed back home, his world had already collapsed. After almost 60 days, the figure skating phenom has opened up about his condition. And his story is heartbreaking. 

Life doesn’t stop for anyone—not even for someone who has lost his entire world. Maxim Naumov is that someone. On the day his parents, Evgenia Shishkova and Vadim Naumov, were taken from him, Maxim was hundreds of miles away, landing at his destination. He waited for the familiar vibration of his phone—the scheduled post-competition call from his mother.

She always called, always.

But this time, the call never came. Days later, when Maxim sat down with Today’s Craig Melvin, he recounted the final memory he would ever have of his parents. It was his mom’s last call—her voice filled with pride, congratulating him on his performance at Nationals. That was the last time he heard her voice.

“It means everything to me; I mean, my whole life, part of it was to make them proud,” the 23-year-old said, his voice breaking. Then, Melvin asked a simple but piercing question: “Have you thought about moving on?”

For a moment, Maxim was silent. Then he exhaled and shook his head slightly.

“I don’t have the strength or the passion or the drive. The dedication of one person anymore. It’s three people.” Because even though the figure skating phenom was skating alone, he carried three hearts with him—his own and the two that were lost. So, how did he move on?

Figure skating phenom explains the process of moving on 

In Maxim Naumov’s own words said in the interaction, it came down to two things:

1. Let go of the list
   For years, Maxim was bound by expectations—the technical elements, the checklists, the polished routines. There was always a list: the perfect jump, the flawless landing, the score he had to beat. But now?
   “There’s no list,” he said simply. He didn’t care if he missed a step or stumbled. The pursuit of perfection no longer mattered. Only the expression did.
2. Skating from the soul
   In March, Maxim performed publicly for the first time since the accident. The venue was painfully symbolic: Washington, D.C., the same city where he had lost his parents. Yet, in front of 15,000 people, he took the ice. The song he chose? One his parents loved.
   Meanwhile, as the music filled the rink, Maxim didn’t count steps or chase scores. Instead, he followed his heart. With every glide and turn, he let grief pour out of him. His movements were raw and untamed—graceful yet broken, free yet fragile.

That day, the Skating Club of Boston member wasn’t skating for the judges or the crowd. He was skating for two people who were no longer there to watch. And when he finished, his lips trembled with just a few simple words: “This is for you, Mom and Dad. I love you.”

However, Maxim’s journey didn’t end that night—it started.

He found a way forward by shedding the pursuit of technical perfection and embracing the purity of expression. The ice was no longer a stage for medals and rankings—it became a sanctuary. It’s a place where he could speak to his parents without words. In doing so, he proved that moving on doesn’t mean letting go.

It means carrying them with him. Every step. Every glide. Every time his blades cut the ice.