This was never the ending of my story. It was the beginning of a new chapter. One where healing matters more than hiding pain. One where vulnerability becomes strength. One where surviving becomes purpose.

I am a better person because of these setbacks, and I really do believe everything happens for a reason. Yes, I'm not playing lacrosse like I had imagined I would have in college, but I have become a better, more thoughtful, more patient person than I ever thought anyone could be. And now I can help others by sharing my story.

You deserve the support you know you need to get through this. Now, I have people in my life who constantly make me feel supported. I have found a home away from home.

I am someone who fought through depression and kept breathing. Someone who faced anxiety and kept going. Someone who learned that strength isn’t pretending you’re okay. Strength is telling the truth when you’re not.

In high school, I was an athlete. From the outside, it looked like dedication. Discipline. Drive. Inside, it was anxiety looking for somewhere to land.
At sixteen, compulsive exercise became my language. I was at the gym before school, and then again after, sometimes for hours. Around that time, I started experimenting with purging. I didn’t binge, so technically I didn’t “fit” the definition of bulimia nervosa and I was quietly proud of that. In my mind, it meant I had more self-control.

I used to think seven was my lucky number, until it wasn’t. Seven stitches on my ankle, seven medications to take, seven months until I’d be fully healed, or so I was told. May 16, 2015. I can still remember running across the gym, playing tag when I felt a slight push on my back. “Tag!” my friend said, but instead of laughter, screams came out as I crashed to the ground. I was only seven when I first injured my ankle. Now, as a seventeen-year-old, I am faced with the difficult choice that seven-year-old me never thought would happen from just a “sprained ankle.” Get surgery again and hope it’ll be over, or endure the pain I once never had to feel.

Grief doesn’t wait for the offseason. It doesn’t care about practice schedules or game days. And when it’s ignored, it quietly shapes anxiety, burnout, and identity struggles in athletes long after the final whistle.

You are more than your sport! Approaching my final seasons, I’m reflecting on everything I’ve learned. The most important lesson is that it’s possible to love your sport deeply without letting it shape every part of who you are.

Going through surgeries and physical therapy was tough, but the hardest part was dealing with my emotions. I realized that while people often talk about healing the body, they don’t talk enough about healing the mind. The mental struggle was real and exhausting.

The biggest lesson I’ve learned is to give myself grace. I don’t have to be perfect to be worthy. My identity isn’t defined by a single sport, performance, or day, it’s defined by how I care for myself and others, how I keep learning and growing, and how I find joy in what I do.