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I started playing baseball when I was five years old. When you’re young and living in a small town, especially in the South, parents take sports very seriously. They want all their kids to be athletes. Most of the kids I grew up with either played baseball, football or both. Watch rec games, youth games or high school games down there, and the stadiums are packed with thousands of people just to watch kids play. It’s a way of life. That energy fueled me. Some of the best friends I have today as an adult I met through baseball. On travel teams, I befriended kids from the surrounding area and cities 15 to 30 miles away. I traveled to states such as Texas, Colorado, Florida and Georgia throughout the entire summer. I formed relationships that ended up lasting a lifetime. That’s one of the beautiful things the game has given me. But my long journey to the professional ranks was an up-and-down experience. In this sport, you’re going to fail way more than you succeed. That’s the other unique aspect of baseball. If you're a Major Leaguer, getting a base hit 30 percent of the time means you’re going to be an all-star. But the sport gives you the ability to accept failure and understand that failure will happen again. It also teaches you how to deal with it.

The sport gives you the ability to accept failure and understand that failure will happen again.

I Wasn’t the Most Naturally Talented Player, but That Didn’t Stop Me

I grew up a big Atlanta Braves fan. My entire life, I wore No. 10 because of Chipper Jones, the Braves’ Hall of Fame third baseman. He was like a god to me. He was a switch-hitter, and I always wanted to replicate that skill even though I was right-handed. There was something about the way he conducted himself—he always played hard, and he helped the Braves dominate in the ‘90s. They won the 1995 World Series when I was six years old and I became infatuated with them. To this day, if I met Chipper Jones in person, I would freak out. I don’t get starstruck often, but that would qualify.Having those idols or role models growing up made me want to play the game the right way. I was never the biggest kid or the fastest kid but I was going play my fucking ass off. I was going to play hard. It helped me a lot through high school, and gave me the opportunity to play college ball at one of the best junior college baseball teams to ever exist. We went on to win two national championships while I was there, and even though, personally, it was kind of an up-and-down three years, it turned out to be one of the best experiences of my life. I started as an outfielder, then moved to pitcher and was eventually asked to play shortstop, the position that would get me drafted. My time there was amazing—it was everything I wanted and hoped for. That last year at junior college, I signed a scholarship to go play for the University of Houston, but once the season was over, the Los Angeles Angels selected me to play in their organization. I had to make a decision about whether to continue another year in college or go to “The Show.” At that time, being young, I was done with going to school. I wasn’t a hugely academic person and I just wanted to focus on baseball. So I ended up taking the little signing bonus and agreed to become an Angel. It was a surreal experience. I got to meet, play with and compete against guys that I had grown up watching—everyone from Todd Helton to a 19-year-old Mike Trout.

Being Drafted in Baseball Doesn’t Mean You’re on a Major League Roster

Getting drafted in baseball is an experience unlike any other sport. When you get drafted, you don’t go straight to the big leagues. In fact, it’s almost like you’re starting over. Unless you’re one of those guys who gets drafted in the first or second round, you’re probably going to have a nice Minor League career—there will be ups and downs, promotions and demotions. You’ll stay at the Single-A or Double-A levels for a while. That can be taxing mentally. You wonder when you’re going to get your shot, when you’re going to get your break. For me, it never came. I got called up once to Single-A. One of the team’s players had been injured and so I took his place for about three or four weeks. It was a good feeling and I was appreciative of the opportunity. Unfortunately, it didn’t last long. With the little opportunities that you get, you have to make the best of them or it just kind of fades away. The professional level is a business. It’s not like college or high school, where a group of guys works for one common goal. No, in professional sports, you have to perform or they have to find somebody else who can. If you’re not one of those first- or second-round picks to whom they offer big signing bonuses, the window becomes so much smaller. It was challenging. I played for two years and when spring training came around for my third season, I felt like I was going to finally get more opportunities than I had gotten the year before. Near the end of camp, as the season approached, I still remember everything. Usually, during the last day of spring training, you pack your things from the hotel, head to the facility, play an intrasquad game, place your belongings on the bus and fly home for the season. As I woke up for that last day, ready to go and play a full season, it didn’t even cross my mind what I’d be walking into.

When you get drafted, you don’t go straight to the big leagues. In fact, it’s almost like you’re starting over.

What Being Cut From a Baseball Team in MLB Is Actually Like

Usually, if there’s a sheet of paper on your chair, it means you’re being released. I had seen so many players walk into the locker room and have that happen. As I walked to my locker, that piece of paper was waiting for me. I just stood there for ten seconds, but it felt like an hour. I didn’t know what to do. All the other guys in the locker room know what’s about to happen so they pretend you’re not there. They let you have your moment of reality. I picked up the paper on my chair, and sure enough, there was a note. “See Abe,” it said, referencing our general manager. I really appreciate the movie Moneyball. One scene depicts a player being released and it’s authentic to the actual process. In total, it’s a 45-second conversation and it goes something like this: “Hey, go ahead and have a seat,” they’ll start. “We are going to go ahead and release you today. We wanted to thank you for all your hard work, and we’ll have somebody from the front office go ahead and let you know what the flight arrangements are gonna be. But once again, we thank you for your hard work and we wish you the best.” That’s it. You want so much more. You want to have a deeper conversation about it, or maybe do something or say something that’s going to change their mind. But you can’t say anything in that moment. “Do you have any questions?” one person asked me.“No,” I said. I should have asked a million questions.

Saying Bye to Baseball Was One of the Hardest Things I’ve Ever Done

I remember feeling so defeated. It felt like I got hit with a stun grenade. I had passed up a full ride to play Division I ball at a major university in a major conference. Almost two years had gone by and they were already releasing me. I just didn’t grasp the business side of sports. I went back into the locker room and a couple of guys expressed condolences, gave me a hug and wished me the best. I just wanted to get the fuck out of there because it was embarrassing. I remember packing my stuff as quickly as possible. Usually, they’ll take you on the team bus back to the hotel, but I told them I wanted to walk. It was only about 30 minutes by foot from the facility to the hotel. I packed all my stuff and started walking.There was a shortcut from Tempe Diablo Stadium. If you walk into a cemetery that cuts through the highway, you can get to the hotel faster. So I took it. Sometimes it’s hard to believe in symbolism, but as I passed through the graveyard, a coyote approached in the distance, stopped and then stared at me for 30 seconds. At this point, I was scared. “Why are you walking through a cemetery?” But that moment made me come back to my senses. “This is going to be the last day you play baseball.” Something came over me. I could have continued to chase it, maybe get signed by another team. I didn't have a sports agent and knew that it was going to be tough. But I just knew that I didn’t love baseball anymore. I wanted to move on to something else. I had no clue at the time what that something was. I was 22 years old and I had invested everything into baseball. I wasn’t good academically and I wasn’t driven to go back to college. But I also knew a lot about myself and that I didn't want to work an office job or a desk job for the rest of my life. I had no clue what I was going to do without baseball. And it scared the shit out of me.

Coming to Terms With Not Making the Team

Because I grew up in project housing, in a single mother household with three older brothers, I felt that being the youngest meant I had the most to accomplish. All my brothers were super successful. My oldest brother turned out to be an amazing architect. The second-oldest played college football and became an amazing graphic designer. The brother just above me played college baseball, too. As the youngest, I always wanted to overachieve. Playing professional baseball was me sticking it to them. But, ultimately, I realized I had a responsibility to my mother, someone who had worked her ass off and took care of four kids and did it with a smile on her face. I owed it to her to give everything that I had to baseball and be successful. I always wanted to buy her a house—I didn’t want her to have to work the rest of her life. My decision to stop playing was a big letdown. I remember calling her on the flight home and trying my best not to cry. I was fine until I got home and she picked me up at the airport. I just couldn’t hold it in anymore. It felt like I had let her down, and I was scared of the future. But I eventually realized that I was a big believer in the universe putting you in the right place at the right time. I knew that it was all going to work out, and that I was going to find something. And I did. I’m now doing something completely different with my life. But baseball’s lessons have taught me to be mentally tough and understand failure and know I’ll always get another at-bat. The most beautiful thing about baseball is there is no shot clock. You always have a chance to turn it around. There’s nothing more beautiful in life than knowing that no matter how bad things are going, you always have a chance.With so many people out of work, and COVID-19 affecting a good part of this country and the world, a lot of people feel like they have to start over. But somehow, someway, it’s not over. It’s still the bottom of the ninth. We’re down some runs, but we can turn this around. Baseball has afforded me that perspective. I was meant to go through that experience. I was meant to be able to get up in the morning and still push and tough it out. To know that I can still win.

I first tried figure skating when I was three. I’m told I loved it immediately. As it happens for other people, and in other sports, all was fine and casual for a couple of years. But by age six it was clear that this was more than just recreation for me. In elementary school, I trained every day after school. By middle school, I was training before, after and sometimes in the middle of my school day. In high school, skating drove my entire schedule and fully defined who I was—or so I thought. And I had a more “normal” existence than most young figure skaters, who by their teens have usually transitioned by homeschooling to allow for maximum training time and flexibility. Not to mention, almost all of them choose to train full-time after high school, delaying college until their skating career is over. I am so thankful I had parents that pushed me to go to college and live on campus, even if that’s not what any of my competitors were doing. I admire Nathan Chen for doing the same and paving the way for other skaters. (If you don’t know him, look him up and be amazed.)Am I ever going to the Olympics? No, I am not. Was that once my goal? Yes. It was a lifelong dream, but it was never my only one. Aiming for the Olympics consumes you. Rationally, you understand that there will be life after the Games, but it’s not something most athletes actively prepare for. And it is not something that our associations help us prepare for. Let's just say it: Their only concern is making money on athletes in their prime. What happens after is your own problem to figure out.

I have been skating for longer than I can remember—literally.

Becoming a Figure Skater Is Equal Parts Give and Take

I often ask myself, is the reason I never made it to the Olympics because I had goals beyond my sport? Because my parents and I fought to keep some normalcy in my life? Maybe. But as with everything, we make choices. The funny thing is, I think I’m only now able to appreciate the choices that I was making. Now that I’m retired, on the outside looking in, I see it all: the choices, the gifts and the sacrifices.

Not All Memories of Figure Skating Are Good Ones

Gift No. 1: I have been skating for longer than I can remember—literally. Some of my first memories are of standing under show lights as an audience of 400-plus people cheer for me, or standing on top of a podium holding a cereal bowl-sized trophy. Those feelings of joy will live in me forever. Sacrifice No. 1: I also vividly remember thinking to myself, “Maybe this is just baby fat that I can grow out of.” I feel guilty, or maybe even dramatic, writing that but those feelings just prove how normalized talking about weight loss is in our sport. The only time in my career that I remember being told I looked good enough was when I was dealing with severe health issues. I was so thin and tired I couldn’t make it up a flight of stairs—and yet people said I looked great. I often wonder about the dichotomy of skating because I barely understand it myself. How can it groom such confidence alongside self-consciousness? These early memories are just the beginning of the internal war that sustained me through my career.

Traveling to Compete Came at a Price

Gift No. 2: From my earliest competitive days, I was lucky enough to get to travel for competitions. As I got older, the places I traveled to got further away. By high school, I was traveling around the U.S. and to France and Canada, all to represent my region and country. I learned to manage my academic commitments while traveling. I learned to be professional, and what it means to represent something bigger than you. I made lifelong friends and was teammates with people from all different backgrounds. I became a role model for younger girls. None of this would have been possible without skating. Sacrifice No. 2: To qualify for these events, training was a lifestyle rather than just something I did. It controlled when I slept and what I ate, and was behind all the times I had to say no to doing something with school friends. I remember being heartbroken when they finally just stopped inviting me. In college, it was at times the same story, and post-graduation it meant putting off my professional career to train full-time. These are the things that I chose to give up, but at the time they didn’t always feel like choices.

Chasing Perfection Is the Ultimate High

Gift No. 3: Do you know what it feels like to fail a million times and finally succeed? That’s the high that every athlete chases. To learn a new element or to prepare for a competition, I would fall thousands of times onto concrete-hard ice, with no pads. But when you put in the work, the results will follow. There is simply no better feeling in the world than landing an element for the first time or nailing a program at a competition. It is immediately and irrevocably instilled in you the reward of perseverance. It is to me the most powerful feeling and a lesson that defined who I am as a person. Nothing can compare to the feeling I get inside when I skate. It is the pure feeling of freedom, pride and success. Sacrifice No. 3: I don’t have one. Of course, there are more sacrifices, ones that I still must deal with even though I’m now retired. But nothing can compare to the feeling I get inside when I skate. It is the pure feeling of freedom, pride, and success.

I’m so lucky to have had the opportunity to chase my dream and truly dedicate myself to the thing I love.

Life After Figure Skating Is Just as Important as During It

I’m so lucky to have had the opportunity to chase my dream and truly dedicate myself to the thing I love. So why move on if I’ve yet to accomplish my ultimate goal? Simply put, the sacrifices no longer felt worth it. The pressures of the things I had given up, without me realizing it, were creeping their way into the light. When you are in it, you don’t feel the sacrifice or recognize the choices. You know they’re there—they’re just simply a way of life, part of what raised you. But like a light switch turning on, I suddenly, truly felt them. And so I decided I am ready to love myself, rather than just the sport. I am ready to reach for goals beyond the Olympics: leisure with friends, starting my career and eventually starting a family.That was the hardest decision of my life. I had a dream and wholeheartedly believed in myself. There’s a part of me that will always feel I did not achieve. But there’s more to success than the Olympics. As the wisest woman in my life once told me, “You will always love skating. You’re not giving up—you’re growing up.”

During my fourth year as a high school teacher, a tenth-grade boy walked into my class with a shit-eating grin and asked, “You’re starting a water polo team?” In a school system without pools or competitive swimming, starting a water polo team was last on my list of ventures. I was confused, to say the least. I ran through all possibilities in my mind: The students knew that I played water polo in college. I was currently the head coach at my alma mater. Our principal expected the staff to make everything happen for the kids whenever they wanted something. Still, this proposal was 25 yards late and about 162,000 gallons short.“What on earth are you talking about?” I asked him back.“There’s a sign-up in the hallway,” he snickered.Into the hallway I went, where there was indeed a huge homemade sign on the wall: “SIGN UP FOR WATER POLO. MISS V. WILL TEACH YOU HOW TO HANDLE YOUR BALLS.”Eleven boys had already put their names on the attached piece of notebook paper, ripped from some insolent sophomore’s notebook. He didn’t even bother to tear it on the perforated edge.I yanked the poster off the wall and turned to find most of my class standing behind me, desperately trying to hold themselves together. I was laughing inside too, because, come on, it’s a little clever and mostly harmless. Still, I mustered up the most adult-authoritative voice I could manage at age 25 and demanded, “Who put this up here?”Crickets. Some giggles, but mostly crickets. In total, there were five posters throughout the building with various promises of what I would do for their balls if they joined my team.The prankster was identified. (Well, my students ratted him out.) I blocked the door and wouldn’t let them leave class until they told me.The best part? I didn’t even know the kid.

Within a week, I had fallen in love.

Water Polo Was My Instant Obsession

Eleven years prior, I was a high school sophomore who needed a fall sport. A girls’ water polo team was starting, and I joined knowing nothing about the game. Within a week, I had fallen in love. Water polo combines the strategy and speed of basketball, the grace and power of swimming, the challenges of soccer, and the physicality and brutality of ice hockey. I was immediately a student of the game. Everything that I did began to revolve around water polo. I obsessed over strategy, filling my notebooks with plays, the X's, O's and arrows dominating the hastily scratched details about literary terms and Biblical allegory. I only knew two things for certain as a teenager: One was that I was absolutely going to turn into my mother; the other was that I needed to play water polo in college. The former was a given, and I came to terms with it early in life. (There are worse things that could happen.) The latter was a little more difficult to achieve. Water polo was a relatively unknown sport on the East Coast back in the early ‘90s. There were only four women’s varsity teams in the nation—all but one of them in California—when I applied to college, and women’s college water polo was still governed by USA Water Polo, not the NCAA. When I was a senior in high school, we played a tournament with college coaches in attendance. Since women’s water polo at the university level was technically a club sport, and not a full-fledged varsity team, they could talk to anyone at any time. I knew from my first conversation with my eventual coaches that I was going to play for them. I filled out the school’s application in my hotel room. For the next few months, they called religiously, afraid that I would choose another university. I was the first recruit in the team’s short history. “Recruited to play” was a phrase that showed up after my name in the local paper, my school paper and on every letter from my new team. So, of course, when I arrived for my first day of college, I followed the pack of recruited athletes to special meetings while every other freshman attended mandatory orientation sessions in buildings without air conditioning.

The Shame of Being in a Second-Class Sport

Imagine my surprise when water polo wasn’t in the paperwork at the orientation for varsity athletes. Panic rose from the pit of my stomach and settled in my throat—thankfully because it forced me to keep my mouth shut. As the pieces fell into place—club sports, no matter how good they are, aren’t varsity—I waited to get discovered for being the loser who thought she was a college athlete. Eventually, I realized that not only was I not getting priority registration at this meeting, but I also wasn’t getting registered for classes at any other meeting. Terror took over. The man in charge wanted us to raise our hands when he called out our sport. I couldn’t get out of the room, so I did the next best thing. I waited until he named a sport and no hands went up. Casually, elbow on the desk and with my best affected teenage look, I elevated my left hand to about 45 degrees when he called out, “Swimming?” It couldn’t have been more perfect. For the next 30 minutes, I created a lie that I ended up not having to use: that I had decided to play polo before swim season started and I loved it so much that I quit college swimming before I even began. Crisis averted.USA Water Polo was instrumental in developing women’s water polo across the country, and by the turn of the century, Title IX provided more and more opportunities for high school girls to find varsity teams. That sounds crazy. Back when I played, women were still fighting openly for equal representation. My university supported us financially as a club, enough to cover tournament fees, transportation needs and hotel costs. We had shitty pool time (practice ended at 11 p.m.) and no on-campus perks, but the school newspaper wrote about us, and our trophies and plaques were in a glass case by the pool. I competed year-round because there was always a fall tournament somewhere. I practiced every day with our men’s club team, and in addition to being pressed up against their wet, sinewy swimmers’ bodies for four hours a day, I got to learn about the game from guys who were bigger, faster and stronger than we were. They never cut me a break because of my gender. Those guys expected me to hang with them or get out—and I got better every day because they let me stay. They were also the best friends in the world.

I didn’t spend all those hours practicing with the men’s team for nothing.

Water Polo Has Had to Struggle for Respect, but We've Found It

It may have only been a club sport, but water polo provided me a varsity-level experience. Throughout college, I played with and against future Olympians. Every Olympics, when I listen to Julie Ertel’s water polo color commentary, I have flashbacks to when I was a sophomore and she guarded me at nationals, rendering me useless on offense. When my students ask me if there’s anything in my life that I regret, I tell them that not trying out for the first women’s Olympic squad still haunts me. I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t have made the team, but trying out and getting cut would have been less embarrassing than that orientation meeting on the first day of college.At the time, we thought that varsity status would mean respect, and our petitions to be upgraded were relentless. Now I know that while I had to purchase my own swag and live in a dorm without a kitchen and frantically scramble to get the classes that I wanted, I wouldn’t have traded my experience for any of those perks. When the NCAA finally decided to take ownership of women’s varsity water polo, I was the volunteer head coach for a collegiate club program that gave everything to me. Several years later, my university finally joined the elite. Varsity women’s teams were popping up all over the country, and club teams like ours set the stage for the development and respect of our sport—one that lives in relative obscurity when the Summer Olympics aren’t on…or until some renegade high school sophomore decides to promote your ball-handling skills for the whole school to see. After all, I didn’t spend all those hours practicing with the men’s team for nothing.

Overall, I have been very fortunate in my career to have male bosses who have been supportive and fostered an environment filled with creativity, motivation, solid work ethic and equality. In my department and in one-on-one meetings, I never felt uncomfortable or unsafe—each treated me like they did their male employees. They expected top-notch work from us all, and if we screwed up they let us know. I was lucky, but not every woman in sports has been as fortunate as I have. Women, myself included, put up with a litany of inappropriate transgressions ranging from small to large. That includes the foreign female reporter who endured former Mets general manager Jared Porter’s harassment, and many, many others throughout sports who have suffered from thousands of smaller indiscretions—the winks, the unwarranted visits to desks, the “playful” jabs at our clothes. We’ve encountered the guys who make you change your walking paths and parking spots, the guys who mysteriously get our phone numbers to ask us out or randomly text us that they see us when we can’t see them. It’s these men who outweigh the good guys we all know and appreciate. The actions of the bad apples speak louder than those who continue to support women in the workplace. And while I’ve been blessed to still have the good guys in my life, that doesn’t mean I was immune to sexual harassment and feeling “less than” from the men who didn’t directly work with me.

Was he going to actually act on his words? What if I tried to leave? Would there be a fight?

I Was Sexually Harassed Almost Immediately (Literally)

It started during my first role in sports. Working in the league I cared about the most, I was beyond thankful for the opportunity and wanted this to be the beginning of the rest of my career. And it felt normal—a good mix of men and women. I felt safe and respected. Then I was paired with a fellow intern for a community outreach project. He had to wear the team’s mascot suit for a public appearance and I had to be the handler. The venue was a local hotel, and we were given a room where he could dress into the costume with enough space. I was already uneasy because he was not my favorite colleague, your classic “Chadtucket” show-off, never letting you forget his daddy is best friends with a higher-up who gave him the internship. After the event was over, the hotel was so appreciative that they offered to treat us to room service, which added more to my frustration. I just wanted to get back to my department with the colleagues and managers I enjoyed. I helped him upstairs and, sure enough, he tried to get me to come into the hotel room, failing to “playfully” lure me in with how fun it would be. I waited in the hall until the room service arrived, thinking that when the hotel employee knocked on the door my colleague would have to be fully dressed. I should have left, but I was scared that it would show I wasn’t a team player, that I would leave my colleague high and dry to fend for himself with the team’s heavy mascot uniform and van. I stayed and ate the food silently while texting other interns about how uncomfortable I was. All of a sudden, Chadtucket looked at me and said, “You know, we should take advantage of this room and have sex right now.” I froze. I had no idea how to react. Was he going to actually act on his words? What if I tried to leave? Would there be a fight? Would my superiors and HR believe me when I tell them what happened? He laughed as if what he said wasn’t problematic, and continued as I sat in shock with nothing to say. I finished my food, walked out of the room, went back to the stadium with him and then I told my direct reports what happened.I felt like there was more I could, and should, have done in the moment. But I thought nobody would believe me—that they’d think I was spreading rumors, that this would have been a sure way to get me labeled as a “problem” in the industry, that complaining about something so trivial would land me on a blacklist somewhere in the league. It wouldn’t have mattered anyway. The rest of the organization also couldn’t stand him and would have liked to see him go, too. But he was never reprimanded. All I was told was, “Just ignore him, he’s a tool.” It was a missed opportunity to tell a young man in the beginning of his career that that’s not how you treat colleagues, let alone women in general. And maybe an organizational lesson: Don’t send opposite-sex employees to a hotel for a company outing in the future.

The Harassment Only Got Worse, Much Worse

The college frat boy arrogance didn’t stop there. My next job was full of men who treated the younger female employees like game pieces to be played. There was your mix of young men who desperately wanted to get married and, with each intern class, thought they’d find their future “Mrs.” Then you had the slightly older men who were past the honeymoon phase of their marriages (if you even knew they were married—many took their wedding rings off at work). They weren’t even discreet about their interest in young, impressionable women. Then you had your middle-aged men in mid-life crises—they were either on the verge of, in the middle of, or fresh off divorce, looking to sow their wild oats like the good old days. Whichever category, these men feasted on the idea that a young woman working at a stadium could be their next conquest. They tried to lure women with promises of free alcohol and great views of the field from their office windows. They invited them to department parties in various parts of the office to “shoot the shit” so they could be one of the cool kids. Several interns fell for this trick, thinking they would get full-time jobs. Some eventually did. “You have to play the game however you can,” I heard uttered whenever interoffice affairs were discussed. There were great men who worked there and kept themselves out of such conversations, but they were outnumbered—this time by men and women. Yes, even women.

Not only did I have to look out for men hunting me in the workplace, but I had to be wary of women who could be just as vindictive with their power if their advances weren’t accepted.

Men Aren’t the Only Ones Responsible for Sexual Harassment in the Sports Industry

Looking back, I was naive to think that a woman, especially high-ranking, could never abuse their power and that having female leadership would stop the exploitation. I didn’t think a woman buying me expensive gifts from my favorite brands and taking me out to expensive meals for no reason was a red flag—I can’t believe I didn’t see it. My female colleagues did, and eventually, I caught on, but there wasn’t anyone to tell. One woman, lavishing gifts and more-than-OK attention on me, was in HR—and HR was a one-person show. We played off her love for me as an inside joke since there was nothing else to do. I eventually told one of my managers, whom I trusted. He’d stood up for me quite a lot when anyone (especially men) were either rude or flirtatious. But he couldn’t help me this time. “You don’t want to make enemies with her,” he shared. “[That person] has been here a long time and knows a lot of people”. This was by far the hardest, and craziest, revelation I had working in sports. For the rest of my career, not only did I have to look out for men hunting me in the workplace, but I had to be wary of women who could be just as vindictive with their power if their advances weren’t accepted. And there would still be retaliation if you came forward. After I left this role, that woman texted me on Valentine’s Day about how much she missed me. It was the first time I had heard from her since I left. I ignored it and pretended it never happened. She had too many friends in the league and I just wanted to keep working.

In the End, Not Even My Closest Colleagues Could Be Trusted

My last role in this sport was the final straw. I had a female manager who went to great lengths to make me feel inadequate and constantly spoke to others about how annoying my niceness was, and that I sent the wrong impression with having a happy attitude. Already regretting the move to this team, I also had to ward off the high-ranking executive who got my number and kept asking me to go to the movies. He would text me every time he saw me from afar to let me know he could see me and comment on my clothes. I told someone about it, and tried to find out how in the hell he got my number. But much like the previous experiences, trying to get help fell on deaf ears. “He’s useless, don’t worry about him” was pretty much all the help I got.When I was at my wit’s end, a friend from a previous team came to town and I thought, I’m saved. He would let me confide in him like he always had when we worked together, and he could help me figure out my next move. We went out to dinner and caught up, discussing my long-term relationship and other topics. But things took a turn when he started to tell me his marriage was failing. It didn’t feel like friends confiding in each other anymore, especially when he put his hand on mine and told me, “She’s not like you.” I felt like throwing up—I stopped eating my food, moved my hand away, and said, “I’m in a very happy, committed relationship, what are you doing?” I actually can’t tell you what he said next because, like my first encounter, I froze. I eventually got all feeling back and told him I needed to go. He walked me out but only because he tried to get me to go back to his hotel room. I walked away, and that was the last time I saw him. This man was my friend, or at least I thought he was. We had bonded over very serious family issues, mutual friends falling ill and then passing away, and the usual headaches of working in a front office (low pay, long hours). Until this moment, it had never felt like anything other than a good friendship. I cried on the train ride home because this was the moment I realized I was never going to be able to trust anyone, and it was only going to get worse from here. I left the sport with my tail tucked between my legs (and with that high-ranking executive still emailing and texting me to go to the movies). I moved on to the corporate world with a crushed dream buried six feet under.

It’s Time to End Female Sexual Harassment in Sports

There are many women who have dealt with much more than I had to. My experiences feel minor compared to what has recently made national headlines, but they added up enough to make me never want to work in a front office again. Why did I even put up with it for so long? I tell myself that I had thick skin, determination and a sheer passion for what my jobs were and what my career could have been. But eventually, it was enough to make me crack. I gave up on an industry where married men asked if they should leave their wives for me. Where men would comment on how much better I’d look if I wore tight-fitting clothes. Where men would ask me which female colleagues I’d want to sleep with. Where men and women would send me dozens of unanswered messages. Where men and women told me I brought these advances on myself because I was “too nice.” After all, they said, “When you smile it makes everyone think you want to sleep with them.” I don’t really have an answer to this problem right now. What other ways can you tell people to keep it in your pants? It doesn’t really seem like a novel concept. But it is, apparently, and I hope we get to a place where this culture of using and abusing power will change, and that women, especially, can have just one workday unscathed. Sports is not the only industry that makes women feel less than, but I hope that this Jared Porter situation will be the catalyst to finally start changing the cycle. I won’t hold my breath until then.

In the summer of 2011, nearly 14 million people watched the United States fall to Japan in the FIFA Women’s World Cup final. Less than a month later, a handful of those same U.S. Women’s National Team silver medalists, including newly minted superstar Alex Morgan, stepped on a field in Rochester, New York for the Women’s Professional Soccer league final to a crowd of 10,000. It was the last game the league ever played.WPS was far from the first women’s soccer league in the U.S. to go under. Sponsorship money was scarce and sustainable interest, despite the blips on the radar such as the rabid World Cup following, wasn’t to be found either.However, in the WPS’s wake, U.S. Soccer helped forge a new league. The National Women’s Soccer League started play in 2013, and despite multiple teams folding along the way—and having to walk some oft-thin ice along the way—the league is on the verge of its ninth year, with more sponsorship money, fan support and media coverage than any of its previous iterations ever had.

The next two years will be critical for women’s professional soccer in the U.S.

U.S. Women's Soccer Is at an Inflection Point

The next two years will be critical for women’s professional soccer in the U.S. NWSL Commissioner Lisa Baird revealed in January that U.S. Soccer’s guidance of the league has now moved to an informal role, meaning the safety net that has helped keep it afloat is now gone. However the timing, in conjunction with what’s happening on the field with U.S. Soccer, offers the league an opportunity for truly unprecedented growth.First, it’s important to understand the league is already growing bigger and faster than it’s ever been. While jumping on now would still likely let you claim “I was there before it was cool” in the long run, you’d certainly not be getting a seat at the front.In many ways, women’s soccer interest looks like the stock market. There are peaks and valleys, but if you zoom out over time, there has been steady growth. While sports leagues across the country suffered immensely from COVID-19, the NWSL saw ratings rise 500 percent year over year in 2020. (Yes, you read that right: 500 percent.) This was thanks to a television deal with CBS Sports that saw league games on a major broadcast network for the first time. The league’s other broadcast partner is Twitch, the Amazon-backed streaming platform which is growing rapidly on its own. Twitch pushes the NWSL’s product, and recently saw viewership peak at 35,000 during the 2021 NWSL Draft.These broadcast deals, along with major sponsorship deals including Verizon, Google, Nike, Budweiser and Proctor & Gamble, were all signed in the aftermath of the 2019 World Cup.This brings us to the here and now, on the verge of the Tokyo Olympics and the 2023 World Cup to be co-hosted by Australia and New Zealand.

Young Stars Are Showing the Way

The key for the NWSL is to capture the upcoming peaks to speed the growth of the curve. The Olympic delay caused by the pandemic actually serves as an opportunity, as the league won’t have to shoulder all the work to hold the attention of the women’s soccer world for the next three years until the sport’s marquee event. By narrowing the gap to just two years, the NWSL—and other world leagues, which are also quickly growing with increased investment—can highlight the stars people know in places they might not.This should be made easy by a league that has become extremely star player-driven. As has become the norm in the NBA and even the NFL, players are having their way with where they get to play. U.S. National Team stars Crystal Dunn, Becky Sauerbrunn and Kelley O’Hara all pushed trades in the last two years to land in more desirable locations for personal reasons. Dunn and Sauerbraun joined Portland while O’Hara moved home to Washington, D.C.There are also two new crops of young players that the world will get to know over the next three years. The first already has World Cup and/or Olympic experience, and includes the players most experts would agree are currently the best in the world. Lindsey Horan and Julie Ertz are the two most notable of those players to firmly be in the NWSL right now. Horan, 28, will spend 2020 in Portland while Ertz, also 28, and admittedly already well known for her key roles on the 2015 and 2019 World Cup squads, will suit up for Chicago Red Stars. Emily Sonnett, 28, was traded to Washington Spirit in January after helping the U.S. win the 2019 World Cup. Meanwhile, Rose Lavelle (25) and Sam Mewis (28) have opted to play overseas for now but are expected to eventually return to the league.There’s an even younger group that could challenge for Olympic and World Cup spots this time around, but is likely a few years away, and will instead spend their summers making a name for themselves in the NWSL. The last five number one overall picks—Sonnett, Lavelle, Andi Sullivan, Tierna Davidson and Sophia Smith—all were in the U.S. National Team’s January camp. That list doesn’t even include Ashley Sanchez or Morgan Weaver, who both starred in the 2020 NWSL Challenge Cup in Utah.

Now is the time to hop on before you get left behind.

There's (Dwindling) Room on the Bandwagon

The U.S. Women’s National Team’s run of dominance is far from over and many of its stars—both current and future—are going to be playing a lot of soccer all over the U.S., often outside of a U.S. uniform.Washington saw crowds of nearly 20,000 at Audi Field in the fall of 2019. Before the pandemic, Sky Blue FC (New Jersey) announced their home games are moving to Red Bull Arena in anticipation of significantly larger crowds, and there is no reason to believe that promise won’t be fulfilled in a post-COVID world.The NWSL is growing. There are seats on the bandwagon available, but they’re going fast. Now is the time to hop on before you get left behind.

When you hear about the glories and failures of the Olympics, you become inspired to watch grit, perseverance and dedication lead to victory. You fall in love with the heart and humanity of the athletes that fall below their expected performance. Maybe you even get jealous of those that take all their natural talent and success for granted. Maybe you did that for me. At my second Olympic Games, I fell—literally and figuratively. I’m sure no one was jealous, but maybe a little inspired or heart-stricken. Either way, I definitely learned a lesson that changed how I approached the rest of my skiing career performing triple backflips.

What It Means to Be an Olympic Female Skier

My sport is unique—so unique, in fact, that any reader with a quick internet search could easily unveil my anonymity, or at least narrow it down to podium numbers. We ski 40 mph into a 14-foot jump and do triple backflips 60 feet in the air. National teams travel around the world competing against each other on a very small circuit—you could build a web linking almost all athletes together throughout the entire history of our sport in hook-ups.We go to countries I would highly discourage visiting for both general safety and competition reasons—not to mention the brown shower water, questionable food and uncomfortable travel days. We also don’t get paid much. Most of my team has second jobs even though they are some of the best in the world at what they do. None of those are the reasons we do this wild sport. We do it for the challenge of overcoming seemingly insurmountable fear. We do it for the adrenaline of landing your best jump. And obviously, we do it for the chance to compete for our home country at the Olympic Games.

Most of my team has second jobs even though they are some of the best in the world at what they do.

Being a Woman Has Nothing to Do With Competitiveness

In 2014, my second appearance at the Olympics, I was still a “rookie.” I was coming off two ACL surgeries and was still competing in the highest degree of difficulty seen by women at the competition. I had attributed a lot of my motivation to my self-imposed mantra of “jumping like the boys,” which continually made me deny my gender and push against my body, my sport and even my coaching staff. There’s an ironic twist that female athletes, even in peak health, “fight against” their bodies to reach the top, but men “push” theirs. That’s another topic far too philosophical and psychological in nature for me to dive into. But the point is that during the foundation of my skiing career, when I successfully fought to achieve the skills of my male counterparts, I was still denied the same treatment. If my coaches sensed any hint of doubt, they would refrain from letting me train and compete like the boys on my team. Their “protection” for me was a disservice to my learning and ability to overcome during challenging situations, whether that was weather or soreness, which are always present. By not being accustomed to these conditions, I inevitably fell behind all my male counterparts. Missing training sessions dulled my skills and strength, leading me to get hurt more often and even become more scared. Of course, athletes of all genders deal with ups and downs in their careers. Most never even make it to a World Cup or to the Olympic level. My own speculation about my career is slightly irrelevant. I merely seek to point out that my male coaches and teammates still have the perspective that female athletes can’t handle the sport’s rigors. At this point, it might be more of a self-fulfilling prophecy than an accurate assessment. Either way, I still fought to prove them wrong and live up to be the athlete that I aspired to be.

It was all over.

I Was Too Concerned With the Gender Differences in Athletic Performance

What hit me at the Olympics was that I got too close. I was positioned perfectly to achieve my dream of winning gold with triple backflips. I won qualifications. I’d performed the best jump out of the entire field. And then it hit me: I was actually “good enough“ to be on the podium. But as soon as I realized that my dream could be a reality, everything fell apart.It was like my brain could no longer compute. My mantra of fighting and never being good enough slipped away. I was about to be good enough to stand at the top of the podium and I hadn’t mentally prepared for that. My first of three finals jumps was the easiest trick to perform. But the overwhelming change in my mindset overtook me. Suddenly, it was like I was watching myself from afar. I saw the moment slip away from me in slow motion, out of my control. I tried my hardest to catch up to myself, but during my jump, I had touched my hand to the snow. It was all over. I realized that all my tactics fell through the floor when the unattainable became a potential reality. Kind of silly, right? You try so hard for something, then when it happens, you don’t even know what to do with it. Some quote about “it’s the journey, not the destination that counts” comes to mind. I still think that quote is accurate. I bet most readers don’t know any athletes that have won gold in my sport. The bitterness of that moment for me is still lingering in my mouth. But I have changed. My mantra, my motivation and drive now come from doing my best and not through beating the boys. Moving away from what seemed like feministic warfare has reshaped me. This even extends outside sports. Getting rid of gender comparison, I think, is what a lot of women want. Not to “be” men. And definitely not to be “[insert adjective] for a girl.“

My younger brothers are both athletes. One is a professional football player; the other plays baseball in college. Being their sister is one of the greatest experiences anyone could ever have. The travel opportunities are fun, but you also get to see your brothers live out their dreams, and so many other things that probably would not have been possible otherwise.While my experience has its pros, it definitely has its cons—just like anything else. When people realize who my footballer brother is, or that we’re related, the first thing they say is how cool it must be to be related to such an amazing athlete. Yeah—it is pretty darn cool. However, for me, it comes with so much extra worry and stress. My little brothers are two of my favorite people in the entire world. While I am thankful for the talent they have both been given, and the strong sibling relationships we have, when it comes to my brother’s job as an NFL athlete, I stress.

When it comes to my brother’s job as an NFL athlete, I stress.

My Brother's Success Has Also Brought Me Stress

I’ve struggled with anxiety my entire life. I honestly wish I could say my brother’s job only brings me stress on game days, but it doesn’t. It is almost year-round, from training camp to making the 53-man roster, through every game day, to postseason, to OTAs and back round again. It all brings me stress. I worry about him making the team. And if he does, will he get enough playing time to prove himself? If he doesn’t, what happens next? Is someone going to pick him up? Is he going to move across the country by himself? What if he gets released after the season? It’s just question after question that constantly race through my head.While it brings me joy to watch him do what he loves, I am always worried about him and his safety. On game days, I constantly pray for him to stay unharmed. Every tackle makes me cringe. I’ve seen him get injured many times—too many. I see how it affects him and it’s heartbreaking. It’s especially hard to watch when an injury ends his season. I always wish that I could take the pain away so he could go back to playing, that it was me who was injured.Beyond the stress surrounding it, I have also begun planning my life around both of my brothers. I also don’t take any major vacations while he is home with us, since he’ll only be with us for a few short months before he leaves again. (However, with him living in a different city during the season, I have an extra reason to travel, and I like using away games as excuses to explore new cities). I wish it were as easy as just planning around football season, but I get to plan around baseball season as well, which is why I had a summer wedding—the last season I wanted it in. But who wouldn’t want her brothers by her side on her big day? That’s the more important part.The spotlight that’s on my family because of my brother comes with extra responsibility. I don’t want to make it seem like we have some fancy image to uphold, but my parents have made sure we realize that we must be more cautious of our actions. Which I am always reminding myself of when I am physically attending his games, since my body language tends to get the best of me.When people realize I am related to one of my brothers, they almost always bring up the other. And then most likely ask, “Well what do you do?” My typical joke in return is, “Oh, I retired young so my brothers wouldn’t have to live in my shadow,” which is just a sarcastic response to a sensitive subject for me.

The spotlight that’s on my family because of my brother comes with extra responsibility.

I Don't Resent My Brothers for What They've Accomplished

Why do people automatically jump to the conclusion that I must have been some amazing athlete as well? I used to be athletic, don't get me wrong, but not like my brothers are. I used to take it personally, like I was being compared to them, or I was somehow “less than” my other siblings. Over time I have just grown used to getting this question—I almost expect it most of the time—and the initial sting from hearing it has just gone numb.Besides the “What do you?” question, I have on occasion been asked, “Do you ever feel like you have been held back?” The answer is no. Could I have been more athletically successful? Yes. However, my success was completely up to me. I had the same opportunities as my brothers—they just worked harder. Their athleticism and success did not overshadow me or “hold me back” by any means. However, I do realize that this could not be the case for everyone in my situation, and each family of a pro athlete is quite different. There could be siblings out there who were not given the same attention. I can say that I am very thankful that wasn’t the situation for me.I can’t lie and say my life wouldn’t be completely different if I wasn’t his sister, or if he wasn’t a professional athlete. Obviously, not everything about it is negative. (I do not even like saying that there are “negatives.”) It can make our lives more challenging, but it’s a situation that plenty of people out there, I am sure, would be happy to be in. So even through all my complaining—and I complain a lot—I do not take this for granted.My brothers are a large part of my world, and I have loved being able to plan my life around them, because it means they are successful in something they love. It means they can do something not everyone is fortunate enough to do. Being their sister has given me such an amazing, experience-filled life that I wouldn’t trade for anything.

What is a “superfan?” Why would seemingly normal adults go to crazy lengths for a sports team? I can answer these questions because for the past seven years I’ve been engulfed in this world. Let me tell you this now: It’s a world filled with wonderful people, unique characters, some really creative costumes and a ton of passion.Before I get into the brat (read: meat) of this analysis, I want to share with you my three favorite NFL superfans—my inspirations, you could say—out there. Frozen Tundra Man: The handmade artistry and painstaking detail of this costume are stunning. I know this gentleman personally and it takes hours of preparation. The costume makes it nearly impossible to eat, drink or use the restroom during the game. However, I’m sure it does help keep him warm during those below-zero games at Lambeau Field. Da Pope: How can your team possibly lose with God on your side? Bearman: Another great cold-weather costume. He’s ready for every game, but it seems as though his team has been in hibernation since 1985’s historic championship. OK, let’s dive into the burning questions on everyone’s minds.

I Started Wearing a Costume to Games and Became a Hit

What is a superfan? Let me tell my story to help with this answer. I have been a fan of my team since the 1980s. They weren’t always good. In fact, they were pretty irrelevant until we drafted one of the all-time great quarterbacks. This led to a flood of attention and truly transformed my hometown into a football city. Jump ahead 30 years and my superfan story begins. I began wearing a costume to my team’s home games. The costume, which will remain anonymous for this article, generated more attention than I could have dreamed. I took photos with fans, made it on the local news and was invited to be on ESPN Sunday Countdown in Bristol, Connecticut—all within the first couple of years. I discovered a wonderful subculture of superfans around the country. These were my people, my tribe. They were regular people with extraordinary passion and energy. Had I always been a superfan? No. There was just something about these connections to other people who take their fandom to the next level that I really identified with. Their enthusiasm and energy were contagious. Superfans are not limited to sports, of course. Someone could be a superfan of any number of things: Star Trek, for example. Have you ever seen some of them? Wow. They are all in and they want to be around others who share that same love and excitement for pointy ears. One tends to think of superfans because of their outfit, but what I’ve learned is it goes way deeper than the face paint. My unofficial definition of superfan is: Any fan who has a passion, energy and enthusiasm for a certain subject that goes beyond an ordinary level.

I’ll be honest; this isn’t normal behavior.

Game Days Provide an Escape from the Daily Grind

Why go to such lengths? I’ll be honest; this isn’t normal behavior. No one in their right mind dresses like a giant bear on Sunday afternoons, unless maybe they’re trying to blend in to take some selfies in Yellowstone National Park or something. The “why” someone is a superfan can only be defined by the individual. For me, being an extreme fan of my sports team provides an escape from the daily grind of life. On NFL Sundays, nothing else exists. I wake up early and dive headfirst into a sea of face paint, hours of pregame statistics, the delightful smells of perfectly grilled bratwurst and rituals that surely can only result in my team’s victory. Fortunately for me, my two teenage sons share in my love for our team. They’ve grown to be superfans of their own. You might be thinking, well can’t I just turn the game on at 1 p.m., see what happens and still be a fan? Of course! For the superfan, the rituals and passion just take over well before the kickoff and after the final whistle. Yes, Monday comes and I go back to my day job, but next week’s game is always in the back of my mind. My costume started in 2014, when my wife and I were leaving our first preseason game as season ticket holders. A lady in the street passed me and said I looked like a certain former NFL coach. My wife said, “Wouldn’t it be fun to dress like him for the next game?” That was all I needed to hear. The very next game, my costume and superfan persona began. There was no elaborate planning, it just happened. Little did I know about the hundreds of pictures I'd take with fans and all of the places the persona would take me.The crazier the world gets, the deeper the fandom gets. At first, I did this just for fun. Then I started to realize this was so much more. I’ve met fans from Mexico to Austria to London to Japan and beyond. People whom I’ve never met are now my friends, people that I would never have interacted with share something in common. Sports can be such a great unifier of people and my superfan status has drawn me to so many wonderful souls. This is my "why."

What’s your passion? What is that thing that gives you hope?

Being a Superfan Means Having a Deep Love and Passion

In January of 2020, my wife and I were at Lowe's purchasing a new water heater. While waiting, I checked my phone and discovered a Twitter direct message from the owner of the team I support. “Congratulations!" the message read. "You have been selected as the season ticket holder to represent the team at Super Bowl 54 in Miami!” My wife and I were stunned to say the least. We enjoyed the trip of a lifetime watching the game and experiencing all the incredible fan experiences in Miami. My super fandom led me to an all-expense paid trip to the Super Bowl.The soul of the superfan is genuine. The passion and love are deep. The bonds between people of similar passions are true. What’s your passion? What is that thing that gives you hope? Maybe you haven’t discovered it yet, but when you do, you will know it. You will feel it in your heart. Your love for it will grow and, like a magnet, you’ll be drawn closer to those who share in your love. This love makes your life richer. It feeds the soul of the superfan.

The thrill of roller derby—and the act of skating itself—is in its incredibly minute details. It’s in the brief panic of “running for your life” to escape blockers. It’s in the crisp wheel edge that emits a dragging screech in perfect unison with teammates. It’s in the moments where your brain focuses on strategy, and shifting one’s feet and body into autopilot to accomplish action. After nearly eight years on skates, the details of this sport and its community became the fabric of my identity. This game was different. It’s odd and complicated and still suffers from having to over-explain its focus: repeatedly trying to get your team’s “jammer” to lap and score points while prohibiting the opposition from doing the same. Roller derby redefined physical contact for me. For nine hours each week, my body co-mingled with others, intertwined into an aggressive, sometimes unrecognizable, hodge-podge of limbs and torsos. Previously, this level of intimacy was only familiar to me romantically—I had run track and attempted rowing as past athletic endeavors. Then there I was, trading sweat with others, developing a truly alluring, newfound physical strength. I embraced exploring new ways to gain a physical upper-hand on opponents, strategizing about exactly where and how to make contact. I found an art in enlisting the optimum level of force without overextending. I evolved beyond believing the game to be solely an excuse to hit one another. Over the years, my desire to impose will through brute force lightened as I began to see there were other styles of gameplay for which my body and mind were better suited. While there was never any animosity between me and my body, there was a distinct pride I found within my ability to play a particularly physical game that I had never encountered anywhere else. From endurance to strength, roller derby reshaped my idea of physical sports.

Roller derby reshaped my idea of physical sports.

Roller Derby Challenged Me Physically and Lifted Me Emotionally

I started playing roller derby by chance. I recognized my extra-curricular path in grad school was trending the wrong way and, in desperate hope of finding a better community, I sought out a new adventure. Could I skate? No. Did I know anything about roller derby? Virtually nothing. Did I have any gear? Also, no. But I went, and I learned.I knew this journey would challenge me physically; I did not expect a complete transformation of who I was socially and emotionally. Up until this point, I had not thought of myself as social. I was the girl who didn’t make it into a sorority in college; the one who panicked when she had to figure out who she was going to room with each year of college; the one who, without a doubt, was the last person to ever know about a party, let alone end up attending. I struggled to craft meaningful relationships with others for so long that I was very paranoid about attending roller derby social functions the first few years.Despite this, roller derby became the fast track to including people in my life. All I had to do was show up and skate. Wherever I went, I found practices to drop in on and new people to make friends with. Somewhere between the post-practice beers, audacious adventures on team trips, and the baseline of the sport to be able to fall back on, I found a new form of social confidence. Roller derby friends became the most solid group of closely-knit people I’d ever had around me. We weathered injuries, weddings, divorces, promotions, transitions, children, ups, downs, dry spells—and we were always there for each other. I learned how to be a better ally to my BIPOC and transgender friends. I better examined my whiteness and my cis-ness, seeing systemic racism and privilege in ways I hadn’t ever before. Through our community, I built skills around how to call people out and construct safer spaces. The sport’s strong LGTBQIA+ community welcomed me for who I was as a queer woman, instilling in me a new form of confidence. While skating three-hour practices changed my body, the community of the sport elevated my habits, my thinking, my understanding of self and understanding of others.

Then, just like that, the sport that filled my life was gone.

The Pandemic Took Away the Sport I Loved

Then, just like that, the sport that filled my life was gone.I was optimistic during the first few months of the pandemic. I went on runs or long walks. But my skates sat ignored. I had skated to build footwork skills that would allow me to make up for my small stature. But removing the incentives of stopping other competitors turned skating into something utterly foreign to me. I had skated outdoors on trails before and somewhat enjoyed it. I just couldn’t relate to skating for the sake of skating.Finally, one day I went trail skating. I was alarmed at how scared I felt and at what my body had forgotten. What was once second-nature left me feeling like a newborn giraffe trying to walk. I was gutted and retreated further away from skating into a cocoon of aimless depression. Every once in a while I would see a friend post about going outdoor skating and it would lure me out of my apartment and onto the pavement. But it was never as satisfying as I hoped. After one especially terrible set of about ten miles in the middle of July, I broke down crying at what I’d become. My endurance was shot and my calluses were gone. Practices had long since been canceled, as had the entire season of the sport. Our friend group no longer saw each other. Everyone’s lives had come to a halt and we struggled to make basic conversation.On paper, nine hours of an activity each week does not immediately seem like a lot. Yet, losing it left me with a vast emptiness physically, mentally and socially. I felt I somehow lacked purpose, and didn’t fully know who I was anymore.I struggled to find engaging exercise. I dabbled in yoga but grew bored, falling well short of establishing anything close to a practice. I took to sleeping later than I was used to without a work commute and found myself burnt out from the computer at the end of the day. In the past. I was able to compartmentalize working out—either going to practice or going to the gym to lift heavy things. It had a set place, a set commute and a set separation from everything else. The pandemic did not afford me such luxuries. For a few months, I had a good track record of doing barre workouts run online by a studio in L.A. And then I just stopped. I realized I was making a choice to ignore it, but optimistically left the monthly subscription running on my credit card.

I Want to Finish My Roller Derby Career on My Own Terms

I wish I could say that over the months I’ve filled this gaping hole in my life with something as influential as the sport itself. Not exactly. Back in March 2020, someone told me this portion of our time would be labeled as “The Great Pause.” Perhaps this pause was a necessary challenge for me to experience and better understand life beyond roller derby. Maybe somewhere out there the universe needed me to slow down and shift my focus to something else. My career led to a new job; it moved my life across the country. It offers a plethora of benefits I never dreamed to have access to, along with a level of work-life balance completely new to me. This change led to me buying a house and throwing myself into a variety of projects thanks to my open weekends. Occasionally, I even manage to do an online workout, though somewhere along the way I seem to have lost my enjoyment of it.I spend a lot of time staring at the objects of my roller derby past—helmets, posters, medals, skate gear. Sometimes I remind myself I can simply go skate for no reason, and I do. The battle to reconnect to the eight wheels on my feet, to reshape what meaning they hold for me, is taxing. I can go tackle a mindless 14 miles, but struggle between bouts of boredom and sheer elation the entire way. Innately, there is a portion of me still thrilled by the novelty of simply rolling along. In sharp opposition is an underlying need for a goal or purpose to my movements. The fun is not nearly enough.So I began to explore the rest of what skating could be. In my new (warm!) climate, skate parks are plentiful, with meetup groups hopping the circuit roughly every other day for masked and socially-distanced skate sessions. And now this world includes me. Do I know what I am doing? Only in theory, though I’m not totally starting from scratch. Does anyone care that I’m new? No. Much like before, I show up and I skate. I’m reacquainting myself with falling, failing, succeeding and forcing my brain to think in new ways as it plots lines and runs. I feel lonely on this journey, grasping away at what little time on skates I can enjoy as a way to offset losing my skills completely.I wonder what our sport will look like when it restarts. Beyond my own skills, what will other people obtain? What if I’ve grown too accustomed to life without it: Will I be able to find joy in it again? How many of my friends will return? There is a joke in the sport that retirements almost never stay permanent the first time. I wonder if that holds true for forced hiatuses. I’m not sure if I’ve still even begun to master the idea of simply existing in a life post-roller derby. Despite experiencing almost a year without it, I’m hoping I can have at least one last shot at going out on my own terms.My mother, a woman of extreme practicality unlike any before her, would say something along the lines of: “Life continues.” And so it does. I suppose for me life will “roll on.” Somehow.

It’s 4:14 a.m. in my Brooklyn apartment. As is the case with most New Yorkers, I’ve been woken from a deep slumber, extending my long streak of going without a good night’s sleep. No, I don’t take a trip to the kitchen to get a cup of water. I don’t use the bathroom. Instead, I turn to my phone, wide awake; I feel like I’ve just hit the lottery. I did it, I think to myself. I’ve woken up at just the right moment.I breeze through all of my notifications—family group text, unwanted Facebook memories, another miserable day in the Jets’ offseason—and I head right to the ATP Tour app. Across the world, Nick Kyrgios and Rafael Nadal are renewing their rivalry at the Australian Open, and the match is tied one set apiece.No one in their right mind gets excited about something like this: a tennis match, let alone one going on in a country with a 16-hour time difference. Yet here I am in the middle of the night, rolled over on my side so as to not wake my girlfriend, watching on my smartphone. This is who I’ve become as a sports fan, and it’s all thanks to sports betting.

No one in their right mind gets excited about something like this.

I Began My Sports Betting Journey With a Small Tennis Tournament

Dating back to my college days, when I dreamed of broadening my horizons in competitive sports, I could never find a way to get into a sport like tennis, or soccer, or college football. Without a deep-rooted interest in all three—my parents didn’t go to big sports schools and weren’t huge sports fans—I found it very difficult to follow. Then, around five years ago, I made the executive decision that, for someone working in sports media able to see where the industry was headed, I had better figure out what in the world a “spread” was, or how a “parlay” works. The journey that ensued taught me many valuable lessons about betting, discipline and life in general. But the greatest thing I gained from it was entertainment, and an even deeper love of sports than I never thought would be possible.That’s the story of many who decide to bet on sports responsibly and recreationally. The casual fan just wants a reason to pay attention to a game and to have a vested interest. Through this lens, you can become a fan of a player, team or an entire sport, just as I did with tennis. While I never religiously watched tennis, I always appreciated the sport and would try to watch the Grand Slams growing up. I was a huge fan of Andy Roddick, and absolutely hated Roger Federer for denying him in so many finals. But aside from taking lessons when I was in elementary school and having a vague recollection of tennis names, I was clueless about how to watch sport. One day at work, things had come to a standstill and I decided a great way to pass the time would be placing a wager. The issue? It was the dead of summer, and with no baseball on, my arrogant American self just assumed that there wouldn’t be anything to choose from. Sure enough, I opened up my sportsbook and found some lines for the “ATP Challenger Tour,” whatever that was. The first match I saw, which was starting soon, was some guy named “Rublev.” That kind of sounds like a tennis player I remember, I thought to myself. Rublev…do I know him? Maybe. Whatever. *Click.* I placed my bet and began watching.

Gambling Is Full of the Unexpected

I suddenly grew an appreciation for Andrey Rublev, and started doing some research on him. At the time, he was a promising Russian teenager with a huge forehand and an even larger temper. I enjoyed watching him, even though he didn’t cover my set spread. I went back to work. So, now I had one tennis player filed away in my cluttered mind.Day after day, month after month, this happened over and over again until I started gathering a vast understanding of the players on tour, and who might make a good match. I began following the players on Instagram, keeping tabs on their tournament draws, looking forward to matches between players I knew. Two years later, I decided during a trip to Portugal that I had to drive 30 minutes to watch a small ATP 250 tournament. And, a year after that, I was anticipating matches so much that I began getting up in the dead of the night to watch on a small, five-inch screen.In betting, I always like to say that it’s never the bet you expect to hit that ends up winning, and the one that looks great for an entire game or match somehow finds a way to lose more often than not. Gambling, much like life, is full of the unexpected. You never know which way it’s going to take you. Similarly, in trying to carve out a niche in the sports industry, I never in a million years would have expected my career to involve sports betting, let alone tennis. Back in college, when my story in the industry began, I had to ask my peers what a “spread” was, and I found myself having a harder time preparing to talk about tennis than just about any sport.Now, tennis has been a boon to my career, and it’s also something I’ve drawn a great affection for. The volatility around tennis not only makes it great for wagering, it also provides drama, theater and entertainment. Each game in a match has the potential to swing the pendulum one way or another, and the four or five points that build to the business end of a game—or the few games that build to the conclusion of a set—escalate like a great plot. Almost every player’s got a personality; there’s probably a higher rate of action than most sports can offer; and in the end, a player’s efforts to capture victory culminates in a pressure-packed match point.

I’ll be forever grateful that I entered this long, winding journey—not for the career it gave me, but for the beautiful sport it introduced me to.

Sports Betting Is an Avenue to New Fandom

I’ll be forever grateful that I entered this long, winding journey—not for the career it gave me, but for the beautiful sport it introduced me to.There are plenty of negative things written about sports wagering, and plenty of ways in which it can go south for you. I’ve experienced plenty of the good and the bad. However, those with discipline who can bet responsibly have the opportunity to open new doors and become fans of sports they never thought would be possible. Sports betting is fun and entertaining, and it creates new fans of sports and teams. It’s the future of how sports will grow, and how fans will be made.

There is a problematic, deep-rooted, negative connotation associated with phrases that refer to the performance of female athletes. They range from “You throw like a girl” to “You run like a girl,” meant not only to belittle the skillsets of the male athletes they’re being hurled at, but to female athletes everywhere.But when it comes to swimming, these phrases simply don’t exist, something that makes me grateful to be a part of this amazing sport.I have been extremely involved with swimming my entire life. I competed in this sport for 15 years, and during that time I was a YMCA nationals qualifier, recorded multiple national top 16 time standards, was a three-time captain of my high school team and helped our program to our first-ever conference title my senior year. I was fortunate to reach the NCAA Division I level prior to hanging up my goggles for good. At the time, I thought that my happiest days associated with the sport were over, but I have been extremely fortunate to coach both boy and girl swimmers at the middle school and high school level over the past five winters. During my time on the other side of the pool deck, I have learned a lot about what it means to coach and mentor a different gender, and the unique qualities and characteristics that female athletes bring to training and competition.

What many people are unaware of is that girls can regularly outperform boys.

Girl Swimmers Regularly Outperform the Boys

What many people are unaware of, specifically in swimming, is that girls can regularly outperform boys—both in races and in practices. It’s usually the boys who need to keep up. There have been countless instances, both as an athlete and as a coach, in which I have experienced this firsthand. As a club swimmer with YMCA National Championship qualifying times, I often found myself having to give maximum effort to keep pace with girl swimmers in my practice group. Over a decade later, I still see this occur on a daily basis. My male swimmers will tell me, “If she is struggling to make these intervals, how do you expect me to?!”Swimming is a beautiful sport that requires an equal amount of strength and technique. It’s not a sport that can just be muscled through. Years of training and muscle memorization allow individuals to gracefully move forward in an environment that is entirely foreign and unique to the human anatomy. Because of this, I would bet just about anything that my female swimmers could easily outrace and outperform any male individuals with no swimming experience, and would go even further to declare that my top girl swimmers could beat at least half the boys who compete in this sport.The best part of all of this? No one on the pool deck finds this weird. Boy swimmers don’t feel shame or embarrassment when a girl is placed in a “faster” lane than them, nor do they have a sense of defeat when girls keep up more efficiently during a harder set than they can. Additionally, since boys and girls usually compete at the same time during high school “dual meets,” the boys are often in awe at how fast some of the female competitors can go. And trust me, these girls do not just “go fast for a girl”—they go extremely fast in general. The reasons for these equal or even superior performances can be explained for a variety of reasons. Typically, girls have smaller muscles than boys, and over the course of a long and grueling practice, become less tired than their male teammates, allowing them to continue to train at a high threshold. Additionally, when it comes to racing, brute force and strength can only get you so far in the water. Sure, the former football player who joined the swim team out of the blue might be able to mash his way to a faster 50 yard freestyle time. However, can he do it for 200 yards? 500 yards? Can he master the butterfly and breaststroke events? Having stamina and exceptional technique are vitally important in swimming, and this takes years of training to accomplish. The female swimmer, who possesses both of these skills, will always be able to perform against any other individual, regardless of gender.

My Girls Team Bonded and Competed as a Tight-Knit Group

It should be noted that female athletes, and swimmers, in particular, are incredibly special in other ways—not just in their ability to compete at such a high level. They're extremely caring toward their teammates and create sisterly bonds. They’re uniquely passionate about their teams and performances at championship meets, and often cheer at such high decibels on the pool deck that you can’t hear the person standing next to you. They decorate and plan festivities for senior night and banquets and ensure that the oldest members of the team get a special send-off for their final season. And they care about you as a person and are genuinely interested in your life away from the pool deck, creating friendships that can last a lifetime. Of course, coaching boys has its fantastic benefits and unique experiences as well, and I have had the pleasure of mentoring and guiding some magnificent and extremely talented and fast young men. But there is an entirely different world and atmosphere to coaching female athletes, which many male coaches don’t have the opportunity to experience.For instance, I will never forget last February, when my girls squad advanced to the state quarterfinals for the second year in a row. We were taking on a team that was heavily favored against us and featured two of the best girls in the entire state. As we traveled two hours to face our opponent, the girls were extremely upbeat and joyful on the bus ride down. They were laughing, talking, joking and continued their karaoke tradition of belting out the lyrics to “Shallow” by Lady Gaga and Bradley Cooper. Here I am, feeling nauseous from nerves about the upcoming meet, and the girls were just happy to be bonding and enjoying what could be one last fun ride together. However, when they stepped off that bus and onto the pool deck, it was all business, and they pulled off the shocking upset. It was truly one of the best moments in my swim career, and the girls did it in their own special way.

These girls are tough.

I’ve Become a Better Individual Coaching Girl Swimmers

Coaching girl swimmers for the past five years has undoubtedly made me a better coach and individual. I’ve had to find new ways to inspire performances and calm nerves rather than just giving the traditional “yell and pump them up approach.” These girls are tough, they can handle pressure and they want to succeed, but there’s a delicate balance of finding the right way to do it. I have appreciated this learning experience, and I know it will carry me forward in many aspects of my life, and not just on the pool deck.I was so lucky to lead a girls program that truly went from one of the—if not the—worst teams in the state to a semifinalist program through our hard work, dedication and team bonding. I even earned Coach of the Year honors in the process. We all grew together and learned together, and I’ve truly found that, in the pool, girls can really be seen as the equals they deserve to be, further cementing swimming as one of the best sports in the world.So go ahead: “Swim like a girl.” There is no higher compliment in the sport.

It was the preseason. The Dallas Cowboys had just lost their star quarterback, Tony Romo, due to a fluke back fracture. While the whole Cowboy fanbase was losing its mind and throwing in the towel, one dude didn’t. That dude was me.No one gave us a shot. Not the professional analysts. Not the average Joe on the street. No one thought we had a chance in hell. But I was so sure the Cowboys were going all the way that season that I got my belief proudly, prematurely and permanently tattooed onto my skin forever. “Dallas Cowboys SUPER BOWL CHAMPS.” (I have that Super Bowl's Roman numerals tattooed as well, but leave them out here for anonymity's sake.) A New York Giants fan had actually dared me to do it, so I gladly accepted. He paid, I smiled and about two hours later, after I’d posted my ink on social media, it was everywhere. I received 300,000 retweets on Twitter and had a story in a major New York newspaper. I got death threats and gift baskets sent to my house; my grandmother’s home phone number was leaked online; I even received a porn offer and a letter from the Super Bowl Committee that said I would be awarded four free tickets if the Cowboys made it to the final stage. It was a wild ride.

No one thought we had a chance in hell.

My Father Turned Me Into a Massive Cowboys Fan

So where does this story actually begin? I had just turned 29 years old, which means I was born in 1992, the beginning of the Dallas Cowboys’ dynasty rule of the ‘90s that saw them acquire three championships in four years. And I (kinda) missed it! I missed the glory days simply because I was too young to remember. As the Cowboys were winning rings, I was getting my diapers changed. I didn’t start watching Cowboys games until the 1999 season when I was six. Born to a superfan, I really didn't have a choice—to this day, I’m so glad I didn't. I'll never forget it. I was awoken one Sunday morning and given a #8 dark navy jersey that read “Aikman” on the back along with a hat and a big star to go along with it. Something was different about this Sunday. Usually, I was dragged around to grocery stores with my mother, but this Sunday was different: I was going with Dad to watch the Cowboys play! We headed out to a place called JJ Mugs, which is now named Alabama Joe's. We sat at a high top while my father’s friends and fellow Cowboy fans joined us. I'll never forget that day. The excitement was electric. We screamed, laughed and high fives flowed in every direction. It was like a whole new world was opened to me. My Sundays between August and January would never be the same. Mind you, that was 1999. The dynasty was over and "The Triplets" were diminishing. Michael Irvin retired in 1999, Troy Aikman retired after the 2000 season and Emmitt Smith went to the Cardinals in 2003. I was stuck watching quarterbacks like Chad Hutchinson, Quincy Carter, Vinny Testaverde, Drew Henson and a shell of Drew Bledsoe. I felt cheated. But I'm not one of these fans who gives up on their team or turns off the TV when they’re losing. No matter how bad it gets or got, I watched every snap. I'll be honest, it wasn't easy. It would have been so much easier to jump on the New England Patriots bandwagon like a lot of my classmates were doing back then, but I refused. The 5-11 and 6-10 seasons piled on for years.Until the season in question. I had never seen anything like it. Our starting, legendary (in my opinion) quarterback was out with a broken back and we were left with two rookies to run the offense: Dak Prescott and Ezekiel Elliott. The connection these two had that year was historic. As was typical for me—now making my living as a comedian—I was relentless on social media. I guaranteed a Super Bowl victory in December.

Soon, I was getting death threats.

My Super Bowl Tattoo Quickly Went Viral

My family friend, who was a Giants fan, finally had enough with my smack talk and offered to put his money where my mouth was. I remember it like it was yesterday: “If you’re so confident, big boy, meet me at the tattoo parlor. We will etch it in right now!” he told me. “My treat.” So there we were, two hours later, needle buzzing. There was no turning back now, and then: boom. I was marked forever. “Dallas Cowboys Super Bowl CHAMPIONS.”It took one single tweet to get me viral; I was internet famous at the buzz of a tattoo gun. Soon, I had radio stations from all over the United States contacting me with offers for exclusive interviews. I actually did call-ins, from hip-hop stations all the way to political radio, in all 50 states. Let’s just say I wasn’t getting much sleep for the next few days. Then came the local press wanting their piece. I appeared live on the local morning news stations and received requests from the local papers coming to my home for interviews and photoshoots. Little did I know, the madness was just ramping up and not all in a good way. Soon, I was getting death threats on social media and blocked phone calls with voicemails telling me that I “jinxed the Cowboys season [and] you will die for this!” They were laced with all sorts of expletives. I actually found these the most entertaining.

I was offered a porn contract in Miami that I gladly turned down. My tattoo may be big, but not everything else is.

The Tattoo Represents My Undying Belief

“Look, dude,” I’d answer occasionally. “I am a 24-year-old struggling comedian that lives on his grandmother’s couch. If you really think a tattoo that some idiot got jinxed America’s Team from getting a Super Bowl, then I think you are one that deserves to die.” I know, harsh. But it’s true. Who actually believes that? Sorry, no magical potions or witchcraft abilities here—just a chunky kid who loves and believes in his team. The craziness continued. I was offered a porn contract in Miami that I gladly turned down. My tattoo may be big, but not everything else is. Adults were stopping me around town asking me for autographs. I was receiving anonymous gift baskets to my house, a lot of which contained food. They were trashed immediately. They weren’t going to poison me. I went from just 1,000 followers on Instagram to over 17,000. I was the number one trending topic on Twitter and Facebook. I had comedy clubs that previously wouldn’t book me all of a sudden call me. It was great, but odd at times. I’m actually a good stand-up who has won numerous awards. It was kind of hard at first when people didn’t want to hear me speak—they just wanted to gaze at my arm and take pictures of it. Ultimately, the Cowboys lost in heartbreaking fashion to the Green Bay Packers in the playoffs. I cried my eyes out that night. My free Super Bowl tickets were gone and my grandmother’s phone number was leaked online. I stayed quiet for the next few days until I made one last trip to the tattoo shop. I added another “I” to my skin, turning the tattoo into a “Dallas Cowboys Super Bowl Champions” for the next season. We didn’t win that year either, but the madness stopped. Do I regret my tattoo decisions? Hell no. You have to believe in life! You have to have faith and, most of all, you have to dream and dream big. Something tells me this won’t be the last time you hear from the good ole “tattoo boy.”

“What do you want to be when you grow up?” We’ve all been asked that question. I wanted to be a veterinarian. Then I was told that school was expensive and takes a long time, so that dream went quickly out the window. My senior year of high school was difficult, especially when my friends were all pretty sure where they wanted to go and what they wanted to do, while I was completely lost. Looking back, I am very thankful for the adults who pushed me to keep moving forward, even when I was stuck (and even when I didn’t want to be pushed). Eventually, I got into an out-of-state school. During our freshman orientation, I still didn’t know what I wanted to do. I was, however, intrigued by this major: sports management. I had never really played sports, but I was fascinated by the idea of working behind the scenes. I attended the breakout session, and an hour later I knew what I wanted to do with my life. When the professor asked us what we wanted to be when we “grew up” (cue flashback to being eight and not knowing what to say), I’m pretty sure 80 percent of the students said they wanted to be the general manager of a team. It didn’t bother me that most of the students were male, or that sports themselves are perceived as a very male-dominated industry. I wanted to do something where I would enjoy going to work, and I’d get in one way or another.

My Road to a Life in Sports

The major itself was part of the business school, so I was also able to learn about marketing, sponsorship and sales, the “stepping stone into sports.” While this is a path that a lot of students fresh out of college take, it's also a love-hate road. I followed it to my first job out of college, at probably one of the greatest teams in sports to work for. My year there was everything I wanted it to be, and maybe more, but I also learned a lot of hard professional and personal lessons. It taught me to learn as much as you can from as many people as you can, in every department. I learned to not take things for granted and also to give yourself a chance to reflect and appreciate everything around you. I also learned that while I get the job done in sales, my passion was more toward the client service path. But I didn’t have the opportunity to do it there, so I had to rethink my plan for what I was to do next. My next opportunity was in sales for an NFL team. I figured I could use this position as a stepping stone toward the job I really wanted. That place taught me a lot—a lot of good and a hell of a lot of bad. I learned it was possible to have a true friendship with someone and still maintain a professional relationship. I learned that sometimes maintaining a positive attitude is very difficult, but it impacts the people around you—and so will having a negative attitude.

Other women in the office weren’t so lucky.

I Found My Dream Job in the NFL—and I Hated It

I could go on for days discussing the bad stuff. Suffice it to say that not everyone can be a manager, or should be. And that’s 100 percent OK. Managing others is a huge responsibility, and while not all have the same characteristics, I experienced the bad ones with a few of my managers and colleagues. I don’t really need to list them off—if you’ve been to a leadership seminar and seen a list of negative attributes, that’s pretty much it. There was no professional development guidance. It was more of a situation where you were supposed to feel lucky to make it to the next level. And that’s only if you stuck around for so long. The worst part of the experience was the sexual harassment. Mostly that meant inappropriate comments by men—married men with daughters my age—about my attire and my looks, but there were also misogynistic comments from three different men about “a woman's place.” I guess I was “lucky” because my female colleagues experienced this a lot more. After a few of these “passes,” I was able to stir up some courage and tell them that I did not appreciate these comments and they should stop. And they did stop—with me, at least. Other women in the office weren’t so lucky.I would continue to hear those comments, and I would try to say something when I could. I remember having a male colleague in my department call me to his office to tell me that I should “stop policing people” because I would put myself in a position that could potentially get me fired. I remember feeling proud that calling people out for their inappropriate behavior could really make them feel like I was the problem.

I felt exhausted, hurt and done.

Fixing the Problems I Encountered

About a year later I was given the opportunity to speak with someone in legal about my experience, hoping something would change. Unfortunately, it wasn’t until two years later that any change was actually made. And the work still isn’t done. You might ask: Why didn’t I go to human resources? Only the people who worked there can understand how helpless even our HR coordinator felt. They witnessed so much but could do very little to fix it. Rarely were people disciplined for inappropriate behavior. It felt like anyone with a manager title or above was untouchable. I felt helpless for a long time and even more so after having a team of talented executives join, and then less than eight months later, watch them be pushed out without warning—without truly having a chance to turn around the culture and business operations of the team. We had high hopes for the executives, but the rug was pulled out from under them as well as everyone who believed in them. I felt like I really tried during those eight months to give it my all. I felt exhausted, hurt and done. That place made me feel like I was only good enough to work there, and that I wouldn’t be able to succeed anywhere else. So when my time came to leave, I was sad to say goodbye to four years of routine and people that I grew to care about like family. I was also unsure about what was going to happen next. Still, I felt a weight being lifted off my shoulders. I’m now in a better place, mentally and financially, and have found my confidence again. I realized that when people talk about sacrifice and working hard to get to where you want to be, that shouldn’t mean putting your mental health at risk, tolerating sexual harassment and inappropriate comments, or feeling like you’re in a toxic environment. For what? A title change, with no pay increase? Thank you, next.

My first reaction was surprise. During a meeting with the U.S. State Department to promote skateboarding for their sports diplomacy program, I asked officials why it hadn’t already been incorporated like ping-pong, gymnastics and so many other less popular sports in the global landscape. The response was simple: “Nobody from the skateboarding industry has ever contacted us.” I had retired from my professional skateboarding career at the age of 40 and it was my mission to pass the sport’s gifts and creative flexibility onto the next generation.I was brought into the meeting, which took place in 2011, by another advocate working on a skateboarding program in Israel that connected local Palestinian and Israeli youth on the border. Soon, I found myself in front of ten suits from the Department of Defense on down, giving a PowerPoint presentation on how to incorporate skateboarding into our diplomatic relations with the Middle East.

Skateboarding Offered Evidence That a "Cool" Thing Came From America

That meeting was initially inspired after my friend and I had launched a skateboarding program for a New York City high school P.E. class. There was a mosque next door to us that had a community garden, and the Muslim children became invested in it and helped us build a mini ramp in their playground. That’s when I realized that this was something that could build friendships and bridge gaps across cultures. At the time, America had troops in Afghanistan and Iraq, and I saw skateboarding as a push for peace. To these Muslim kids, it was like they saw skating as a magic carpet. The imam, the head of the mosque, was thrilled to see his own kids pick it up and have fun for several hours day after day. Girls in hijabs riding skateboards in Lower Manhattan would have never been imaginable 20 years ago, but right before our eyes, we were seeing it. At that moment, with skateboarding being such an American creation, I realized it would help us promote our culture in the Middle East without having to slap a flag on everything. The simple act of skateboarding itself showed that a cool thing came from America. “Cool” was the keyword, the most powerful thing we export.

It felt like a gift to have the ability to sense the textures of the ground beneath my feet.

Skateboarding Gave Me a New Way to Look at Ordinary Things

Before I was a professional skateboarder, I would see things that weren’t recognized by regular people around me. A simple curb, smooth ground, rough Florida asphalt, unpaved road—it was all an opportunity for fun. Whether it was being kicked out of local city halls and college campuses, or getting in trouble for trespassing or destroying public property, all we wanted to do was explore the terrain on our skateboards. It was a means of knowing. It was a place where walls could be ridden, railings could turn into balance beams, ledges could become slides. Through the lens of a skateboarder's eyes, I experienced the struggle of failure in learning new tricks, and the feeling of success learning one for the first time.I remember the moment I realized I was flying off the ground, only three inches above it, just by standing still on my board. It felt like a gift to have the ability to sense the textures of the ground, like braille, beneath my feet. Even with my shoes on, being able to feel the difference between a rough concrete floor and a smooth marble plaza provided hours of endless fun.I didn’t make a lot of money off of skateboarding, but I did make a lot of friends around the world, and friends are the gold that can’t be bought or sold. In London, Paris, Milan and New York City, I made vast networks of friends at skateparks built by the cities to serve a community of future creators and designers. Now, 20 years later, people in cities and governments understand that skateboarding is an asset to the community at large. By investing in outdoor spaces, cities allow the youth to get away from the day-to-day stresses of life.The skatepark in many cities is the de facto teenager park. Most cities spent money on dog parks, playgrounds for small children, tennis courts, basketball courts and nature trails for the elderly. But the group that is most overlooked is the group that needs the investment in recreation the most. Whether you skateboard or not, the skateboard community is inviting and accepting and gives the most at-risk youth in our society a healthy release in an otherwise stressful time in life.

I can’t think of a better way to win hearts and minds than with sports and arts.

The Global Expansion of Skateboarding Is Imminent

Today, one of the largest Middle Eastern skateboarding facilities, Skateistan, is in Afghanistan, where Muslim children are able to take classes in reading, writing and math. When they’re finished with their education for the day, they get free time to skate in the facilities. The park is separated by gender, and it’s one of the only athletic activities that the country allows women to continue doing after puberty. It’s been funded by the Danish government, Nike and the International Olympic Committee, just to name a few.Skateboarding’s acceptance into the delayed Olympic Games of 2020 signals that the global expansion of the sport is imminent. It’s great to see cities all over constructing urban plazas that actively engage with consulting the skateboarding community. Seven years after our proposal meeting, the U.S. State Department included skateboarding in the sports diplomacy program under an umbrella called Sports Diplomacy (formerly SportsUnited). I can’t think of a better way to win hearts and minds than with sports and arts. This little simple wooden toy that started in the United States has now transformed into a global culture that has helped countless numbers of people find lasting friendships and share a common passion and imagination.

My face was buried into the sweat-soaked mat, my tears making the already damp surface even slicker. Fighting through the pain, I realized just how unbalanced sports in public schools are. I wrestle at a school that also has an award-winning football team. My team itself includes a large number of football players who join each year after their season is over. We live in Texas, so football means a lot here. But not many people understand the consequences of placing so much attention on it.

We live in Texas, so football means a lot here. But not many people understand the consequences of placing so much attention on it.

Football Players Get Special Treatment at My School

Recently, I sprained and tore some muscles in my right bicep and deltoids while practicing with my wrestling team. The pain was immense, making every single movement excruciating, no matter how small. Following the other wrestlers’ advice, I went to get it checked by the athletics trainers. When I stepped into their office, I was immediately met with eye rolls and dismissive glances, as though I was bothering them for no reason. I mustered up the courage to explain my pain and ask if they could help me. At first, they told me that it was probably nothing, just a typical ache or pain that comes with strenuous physical activity. When I attempted to describe the feeling in my arm, which had been growing worse over the past couple of days, they brushed it off. As I was standing there explaining my case and cradling my arm—since each time I let it hang at my side it felt like it was getting ripped out of my socket—a well-known football player came in. The trainer immediately turned to him, and listened intently as he explained that he jammed his toe during the workout that morning. He wanted a note to excuse him from workouts for the next few days, since he could (allegedly) barely walk due to the intense pain he was in. The trainer all too willingly obliged. When the player left, I went back to fighting for validation from training staff who are paid to help and support all athletics but choose to make football their only priority. Eventually, it became obvious that the trainer wasn’t going to help me, so I left and continued to go to practice. I fought through the pain as I was pinned, thrown and crushed under other wrestlers each evening. Most days the anguish would be enough to make me consider giving up and quitting wrestling. My coaches treated me with the same attitude as the trainers, telling me that every athlete is going to hurt sometimes, and that sitting out was letting the team down.

I Had to Beg for Attention From Our Trainers

My mother is an experienced massage therapist who has worked on individuals of every background and lifestyle, including athletes from all walks of life. When I told her about the pain I was experiencing, she examined me and informed me that I had sprained and torn a few muscles. Continuing to wrestle could seriously injure me further, she said. Validated and relieved that someone could actually help me, I returned to the trainers armed with my diagnosis, only to be shot down again. When I explained what my mother had said about my injured ligaments, they looked me in the eye and mockingly asked me what she did for a living. They were put in their place when I triumphantly replied that she was certified in massage therapy, and knew exactly what she was talking about. They reluctantly gave me some small stretches to rebuild my strength and gave me a note to be excused from practice for a few days, but continued to make me feel as though I was simply being a crybaby about the whole thing. What they didn’t realize was that I broke my leg the first month of school, and had already been in a boot and on crutches for a good portion of the school year, but I still swam on the swim team when I was cleared by the doctor. The doctor who cleared me had also warned that I would have pain in my leg for several months after the bone healed, and it was entirely true. I even joined the wrestling team during the healing process and braved each practice, even though I was unable to run or jump or even place much weight on my right leg. When the trainers acted as though I was being sensitive, I felt outraged, considering how much pain I fought through every day and how hard I worked over injuries, just to be told that I was overreacting.Meanwhile, any football player that came in, regardless of what injury they claimed, was treated with the utmost respect and care. They got better treatment, a bigger budget and more staff. My wrestling team doesn’t even get sufficient athletic tape, and when our coaches have asked for athletic staff and trainers just like every other sport, they’ve been refused. Our injuries are disregarded, our wrestlers ignored, our equipment used and battered with no hope for quick replacement. The feeling of blatant disrespect leads injured players to continue playing, hurting themselves and other team members in the process. It also leads to unnecessary tension between teams, damaging morale and burning bridges that would be better left standing.

I stared at the state titles and records on our mat room walls and wondered why no one cared about us or our wellbeing.

When One Sport Gets All the Attention, the Rest of Them Suffer

There is more than a physical aspect to this imbalance, the mental repercussions are astounding and obvious. We feel inferior to the football players, and the lack of understanding about what hard work wrestling is causes us to lose respect for our own sport. We face a lot of the same risks that football players do, and many that they don’t. We are held to the same standards, but given less support. We struggle to find reasons to pick ourselves back up after every tough match and every exhausting workout, having only our teammates to lean on when we can’t do it ourselves. And in a drama-filled atmosphere like high school, this isn’t always available. So we suffer and desperately try to make our bodies work even harder to earn the respect that is so generously given to the football team and their staff. So as I lay there, my injured arm pinned behind my back, radiating pain from my shoulder down to my wrist, I stared at the state titles and records on our mat room walls and wondered why no one cared about us or our wellbeing. I urge everyone to question why one sport deserves resources to the point of harming another. We are all athletes deserving of help and support in any way that we need.

Before the pandemic arrived, I was traveling back to university on a train. I’d been at national training camp, so I was fully kitted in branded athletic gear and hefting matching bags. Sitting opposite me was a congenial elderly gentleman, and during the ride, we struck up a pleasant conversation. Having spotted my clothing, he asked what sport I played. “Rugby,” I told him, smiling. “Rugby?” he repeated, in case he hadn’t heard me right. His facial expression was somewhere between incredulity and indignation. “Women’s rugby?”When I confirmed that yes, that was indeed the case, he shook his head in dismay. “Ach, I thought it would be hockey or netball!” He looked around, searching for the right words. “I can’t say I quite approve of women’s rugby. I certainly can’t watch it. I used to play rugby myself, but I just don’t understand why a young woman would want to play such an aggressive sport!”

I didn’t come to rugby expecting that I would have to repeatedly explain and prove myself.

Battling Misperceptions as a Female Rugby Player

I’m never sure which part to take offense at in these situations: the insinuation that women don’t have the same feelings and emotions as men (let me assure you, I want to tell him, that women can get just as frustrated and angry as you), or the implication that rugby is somehow a brutal or violent sport, and that women should not relish its physical challenge. I didn’t say either of these things, as I’m aware that the older generation has grown up in a slightly different world, and I wasn’t about to berate a friendly old man on a train anyway. The bigger problem is that these assumptions persist beyond the well-meaning consternation of elderly citizens. They exist—thrive, even—on a level above the individual, enshrined in media coverage, funding allocations, prize-givings and representation on high-level sporting authorities. As a female rugby player, I have to endure both the comments, ranging from surprise to scorn, and also the everyday refusal to see women’s rugby as a performance sport worthy of respect. I didn’t come to rugby expecting that I would have to repeatedly explain and prove myself. I grew up in a rugby-mad family. My parents regularly took me to watch our national (men’s) team, and they didn’t bat an eyelid when I took it up at the age of 11. In fact, it seemed the natural thing to do. The thought that playing the sport I loved could be considered by some as unnatural never crossed my young mind. I first experienced resistance to the idea when I hit puberty. Those are the teenage years when even the most thick-skinned and confident children—and I was far from one—become self-conscious of their bodies. Young girls are still pressured to conform to an ideal image that is thin (but not skinny), tall (but not gangly) and pretty (but not self-assured). A body built for rugby—a sport that necessitates both strength and speed—is not deemed “feminine” enough. I became ultra-aware of my “thick thighs” and “manly arms,” physical qualities which were the result of hard work and training, and which allowed me to excel from my small local club to the national squad. Although it was rare that I was openly mocked at school (or later university), the stereotypes I encountered were enough to reinforce my concerns about my body. I was asked if all female rugby players were lesbians, and if we took showers together after games. Boys challenged me to arm wrestling or push-up competitions, which were a source of great amusement for them—at least until I won. I was told I couldn’t possibly wear strapless dresses because my shoulders were too broad and developed to be “attractive.” On the other end, boys would mime shock upon finding out about my sport, and tell me I was far too pretty to be a rugby player—a back-handed compliment if you ever heard one. I was told, implicitly and explicitly, time and again, that a strong, powerful female body was somehow at odds with a beautiful one.

Women’s Rugby May Finally Be Getting the Respect It Deserves

This message has been challenged in recent years by women in all different sports. Last year was a pivotal one for women’s rugby in particular. In August, Ireland Rugby launched their new Canterbury kit, modeled by international men’s players and professional female models. Choosing nameless models instead of their own international women’s team sent a message loud and clear to fans: that the female players were not pretty enough or famous enough to advertise their own jerseys. In years gone by, this kind of everyday sexism in sports marketing and the media industry would have gone unnoticed, or at least unmentioned. Instead, this instance sparked an online backlash, with rugby communities around the globe using the #IAmEnough hashtag to call attention to injustices, both big and small, that female players face on a day-to-day basis. The campaign demanded that female players be valued just as much as their male counterparts. As a result of public pressure, Canterbury issued a statement committing to use female players in their advertising going forward, and the Ireland women’s team have since received the launch and publicity they deserved the first time around.Women’s rugby is one of the fastest-growing sports worldwide. It’s empowering. Like many others, it teaches teamwork, respect and determination, but it also teaches young girls to be strong. My parents’ support let me know that I could do whatever my brother could do, irrespective of my gender. I have had to hold onto that support throughout my sporting career thus far. As a teenager, I realized I would never achieve full professional status as an athlete. Although I had been dreaming of representing my country for as long as I could remember, I knew that my gender precluded me from playing full-time. Almost all female players hold full-time jobs alongside their rugby careers. (The leading exception is England, who fund their women’s XV team as full-time professional athletes). I have been repeatedly reminded that the powers that be view women’s rugby as simply an inferior version of the men’s game. Female rugby players are expected to train with the same intensity and commitment of male players but without a fraction of their pay. I am a member of a national training squad and a leading Premiership club, yet the match fees I receive are not enough to even cover the cost of driving to training.

The movement lets every young girl know that different body shapes and sizes have different purposes and strengths, but equal value.

How (and Why) We Should Put Women’s Rugby on the Same Level as Men’s

Those who object to equality point to revenue and economic drivers. They say that women’s rugby just doesn’t bring in enough money to justify financial support. But how can a sport garner fanbases and crowds when it’s not shown on live television? Or when their own players aren’t used in advertising campaigns? Or when they don’t even have their own merchandise made available to buy? The New Zealand Black Ferns are the most successful rugby team in the world, ahead of their male counterparts, the All Blacks. Yet the official New Zealand rugby store, run by the sportswear giant Adidas, currently sells 159 items of All Blacks kit and only four Black Ferns items. The disparity is beyond belief. Campaigns such as the #IAmEnough movement are crucial for the professionalization of women’s rugby, but also for the wider health and wellbeing of female athletes and young women. They announce that everyday sexism, especially in the media, will no longer go unnoticed or uncommented upon. It will be called out, and those supporting it will be held accountable. The movement lets every young girl know that different body shapes and sizes have different purposes and strengths, but equal value. I wonder, if this kind of attention had existed when I was 11, if I could have dreamed realistically of being a professional sportswoman. If I would have loved my body as a future international athlete’s, rather than hiding it beneath baggy clothing. But I will settle for the fact that progress is here now, slowly but surely growing traction. And that a young girl can turn on the television, or read a newspaper, or open social media, and see relatable and inspiring role models—and dream of being there herself one day.

“Pound that ball into the ground like you’re nailing Jesus to the cross because of your sins!” my basketball coach yelled. I quickly looked around at my teammates to see if anyone else felt the reverberating shock caused by her words. Knowing what would happen if we refused or argued, we just kept on dribbling. I thought to myself: How did I get here? I arrived at my small conservative Christian university in the fall of 2009 with one focus in mind: to play basketball. I had grown up in the opposite of a conservative Christian home, but I was familiar with strict narratives from my parents about “the way life is” or “how life should be lived” that primed me for the evangelical atmosphere I was entering. I’d signed my letter of intent to play basketball shortly after my first visit to campus. I remember feeling excited for a new start and the ability to play basketball at the college level—something I had dreamed about my entire life. I had attended a Catholic high school, so I didn’t think too hard about the university’s religious underpinnings. I figured that the culture would be similar to my high school experience—a simple prayer before and after each game, and not much else. I quickly found that my assumptions were wholly mistaken.

Whether we were lifting weights, running amphitheaters or playing in an open gym, we were constantly reminded that we needed to trust in Jesus.

I Had to Outwardly Trust in Jesus to Push Through Workouts

It’s 6 a.m. on the first week of preseason workouts. We’re all gathered at the gym. There are 30 of us, a mix of players from the varsity and junior varsity teams. “On the line!” our head coach demands. “You’re gonna need Jesus this morning!”Whistle. We sprint the full length of the court and back. Whistle.Again.Whistle.Again.Whistle.Again!We’re almost an hour into our sprints. My teammates and I are willing our bodies up and down the floor: sweat dripping, tears falling, hands on knees and heads. When I get to the other end of the court, one of our assistant coaches comes up to me and she asks, “Who is your hope in?” I take my hands off my knees, wipe the sweat from my face and stand up. “What?” I ask. “Who is your hope in?” I stare at her for what feels like minutes and tentatively reply. “Jesus.”“Who?!”“Jesus!”“That’s what I’m talking about! Now trust Him to lift your knees up and finish these sprints!”Confused by this interaction, I went on to finish the sprints and somehow managed to make it through the full six weeks of preseason training. Whether we were lifting weights, running amphitheaters or playing in an open gym, we were constantly reminded that we needed to trust in Jesus. As a 17-year-old who’d never interacted with this kind of evangelical Christianity before, I quickly learned that in order to belong in this new community, I needed to share in this belief that if I trusted Jesus in everything I did, I would make it through. I would succeed; I would gain victory. I had to.

I did this because I knew the cost of membership—and I was willing to pay anything to belong.

My Sexual Identity Was Hidden on the Court

As the season progressed, I found myself becoming more aligned with the beliefs around me. This change had less to do with fervent belief and more with the reality of being a closeted gay kid on a conservative Christian campus. I grew up in a home where my parents had their own ideas about life, and they insisted I wasn’t gay despite my repeated attempts to convince them otherwise. I arrived on this campus as a kid desiring love, acceptance and belonging. My hunger for membership within this community brought me both comfort and fear—a comfort that if I followed the rules, I’d be granted membership and a fear that if I was found out to be gay, I’d lose it all. Shortly into my first year at the university, I found that there was a specific language that this community used when speaking about those who were gay. It’s important to note that being gay was always framed as a “struggle.” By naming this a struggle, rather than claiming it as an identity, it was made easily comparable to other nominal sins, like the excessive consumption of alcohol or an appetite for pornography. I also found that by naming it a struggle, this community avoided saying things like, “Oh, you’re struggling with being gay,” but rather they’d say, “Oh, you’re struggling with same-sex attraction.” When I was introduced to this phrasing—and the dehumanizing acronym “SSA”—it was like a breath of fresh air. Now I had the language I needed to tell the community around me what I wanted to tell them without fear of being cast out. I knew that if I utilized this language they had given me, I’d still keep my membership intact and be able to experience some semblance of authenticity in my life—which had been lacking for quite some time. In the short-term, after sharing my “struggle” with close confidants on my team, I got the response I’d hoped for. In my framing of being gay as a struggle—placing this struggle outside of myself by naming it as same-sex attraction—I was only further ushered into the community. My vulnerability and authenticity were celebrated, but I knew that a caveat to this acceptance remained ever-present. If I ever showed a lack of belief, or “succumbed” to my struggle with same-sex attraction, I would be readily removed from the community. So at 17 years old, I knew I only had one option if I wanted the love, the acceptance and the belonging that I so deeply desired, I had to fight against same-sex attraction. That meant I had to fight against myself. Looking back on these experiences today—13 years in my past—I only have compassion for my 17-year-old self. I didn’t know what I didn’t know. All that I did know, however, was my desire to belong. So, when my coach told us to pound our basketballs into the ground as though we were nailing Jesus to the cross for our sins, I did. I used every bit of strength in my fingertips to drive the basketball into the hardwood floor. I did this because I knew what I’d gain if I did it. I did this because I knew what I’d lose if I didn’t. I did this because I knew the cost of membership—and I was willing to pay anything to belong.

For as long as I can remember, I was my dad’s carbon copy. I spent most of my childhood with him, playing word games together—usually Scrabble—or watching cricket. My whole extended family would always marvel at how I was his spitting image.It is said that parents are usually partial to one of their children because of the similarities they share, and that was definitely the case with my dad and me. He was a strong, silent type, and I was an introvert. We weren’t big talkers, but there was an implicit understanding between us that spanned many levels. We were both voracious readers and avid cricket fans. I was a daddy’s girl through and through.When my family and I suddenly lost my father in a car accident when he was only 46 years old, our lives were absolutely shattered.

I Had My Whole Life Planned Out—Before It Spun Out of Control

I was 15 at the time, my younger sister was 13, and life as we know it had done a complete 180 on us. It was the year I was sitting for my O-levels, and until that point, my life seemed to have been mapped out for me. There was a tacit agreement between my parents and me that I would earn my MBA and pursue a career in marketing.Since my family is exceptionally academically oriented, they wanted me to have a foundation in science. I begrudgingly went along with it. After that, in my A-levels, I was set to take accounting and economics as my majors, but I only had a month to decide. I took an introductory psychology course on a whim.It was love at first sight.By then, it had been three years of trying to keep the trauma from my father’s death buried in my mind's darkest crevasses. I was reluctant to even think about it. For about a year after the accident, I was in full denial. One of my uncles got my entire family an appointment with a psychologist, but I lied about my post-traumatic symptoms and was adamant that I was completely fine.I had a lot of unprocessed emotions and grief, which on my best days I could just about manage to keep from spilling over. I was too much of an introvert and practical-minded person to seek therapy or admit that there was an issue.While this sort of coping is absolutely not conducive to a healthy psychological state, that was the state of mind I was in. My priority was staying on track for the sake of my career goals. I also didn’t want to wallow in self-pity, which was the excuse I used for putting off dealing with my psychological issues.

I Turned My Studies Into Self-Healing

After that introductory class, I immediately took on psychology as one of my majors. During a very trying time in my life, my studies allowed me to quietly deal with my issues without involving anyone else. Delving into psychology textbooks made me gauge my mental state subjectively, without activating my defenses. It motivated me to read further on what was behind my conflicting emotions and feelings. Since I was studying so hard, I always managed to ace all my exams with top marks.But my pursuit of knowledge probably also saved my life since, before that, all my coping mechanisms involved avoidance, denial or sleeping pills.My family was progressive enough to be okay with me seeking psychological help, but I wasn’t. I’d grown up believing I was a strong, stable and resilient individual. To suddenly find myself in the pits of despair—even after going through a traumatic experience—felt like failure, especially when my family seemed to be handling it so much better than me. I wasn’t ready to admit defeat because that was too close to accepting that I was in some way more fragile than them, mentally and emotionally.I could have approached my psychology teacher, who had some experience with counseling—and also had an apparent fondness towards me—for help, but something always held me back. In my family, it was considered a sign of idleness and a lack of ambition in life to dwell on emotional matters. I was raised to see being highly sensitive as a personality flaw, not a strength. So I tried my best to keep the simmering torrent of emotions beneath the surface to convince myself that I had it under control.With psychology, I felt like I finally had the manual to work out how to dismantle my own psyche, to deconstruct my psychological issues and reconstruct them more healthily. I didn’t need a handyman in the form of a therapist—or so I felt.

I Found My Passion and Made It My Career

I went on to do my A-level, graduated in the subject and then took around five highly accredited online diploma courses from world-class universities in different concentrations: adolescent psychology, developmental psychopathology, abnormal psychology. The knowledge and insight that I gained from that deep dive into the human psyche—what makes us tick, our triggers and how to deactivate them—helped me above and beyond what a mere therapy session would have.I pored over theories of cognitive distortion, post-traumatic stress disorder and avoidant behavior. It helped me look inside to identify my personality type and defense mechanisms, and figure out how to use them to my advantage, rather than letting them hinder my growth.Having faced pretty bleak spells early on in my life made me empathetic toward people going through trying times, which helped me understand psychology at a more intuitive level. One of the most reassuring things for me pursuing a career in psychology has been how the field considered my deep innate sensitivity as an asset, rather than a weakness. It’s taught me that your work doesn’t only need to be there to sustain you financially or be your bread and butter. It can also save your life.

It was April 2019, two weeks after my 31st birthday. My husband and I were listening to a podcast about the “fertility precipice”—the notion that after 30 it becomes extremely difficult for women to get pregnant. The podcast specified that it’s actually more of a sloping hill than a sheer cliff and that it usually comes when you’re 33. With that in mind, we decided to table the baby conversation for another year. I didn’t want children, something I’d been sure of since I was 16. He wanted five. It was a contentious topic, and since we had another couple of years until we were scheduled to meet that precipice, we figured we had time.Fast-forward a year to April 2020, a week after I turned 32 and four weeks into the COVID-19 quarantine. On a face-masked walk, I tell my husband what had been swimming around my brain: that maybe, possibly, conceivably, feasibly, I may want to have children. The confession shocks us both.

I Was Always Too Worried About My Body to Want Kids

When I was 16, and I first decided that having a child was off the table, I was in the throes of anorexia and bulimia. I’d eat an apple for breakfast, then skip lunch to hang out in the school library or darkroom. After school, I’d play soccer for two hours, then go home to eat dinner and ice cream and then throw it all up. This was my daily ritual for about a year.During that time, sex and adulthood started creeping into my sense of self. It was an overwhelming change. I felt naked and vulnerable even thinking about it, and I leaned on anorexia and bulimia to guide me. At school, I’d lounge on the carpeted floor in a secluded alcove with the other thin and athletic girls during our free periods, talking about things we never let outside of our closed-off circle. Lying down to accentuate our jutting hips and collarbones, we talked at length about our sexuality and the ideal man. The most frequent topic was who out of the group of horny, popular and gangly teenage boys we took turns kissing would make the best boyfriend, husband or father. I looked down at my waifish figure, cupped my small, perky breasts, and said, “I don’t care who’d make a good dad. I don’t want to have children.”My friends were aghast. They glared at me like I’d ruined their gossipy game of MASH.“What? Why?” they demanded.“Because,” I said, “Having a baby would ruin my body.”Nods of understanding went around the circle. None of us had any idea how this notion percolating in my juvenile, eating-disordered mind would shape the rest of my life.

The Coronavirus Has Me Rethinking Being a Mother

Even after you’ve “recovered” from your eating disorder, there is always a part of it that lingers. It’s like knowing where your shoplifting, cigarette-smoking adolescent best friend hangs out every day, even if you don’t meet her there anymore. The idea that the physical toll of pregnancy, birth and breastfeeding would devastate my youthful body stayed with me until my 30s. I was repulsed by the thought of my skin stretching, my breasts sagging and who knows what happening to my vagina, because no one ever talks about it.(Except for Ali Wong during her stand-up special. Thank you, Ali, although from what you have to say, my god, it sounds like my vagina would go bust as well.)Since that teenage conversation I’ve told anyone who’s shown interest in the subject that I’ve never wanted kids. I repeated it over and over to ex-boyfriends, my parents, my husband and myself.Despite that, I’ve started to wonder lately, is now the right time to have a baby? Unemployment and quarantine isolation have shaken my once steadfast stance on childbearing. Instead of making lists of how it might ruin my body (and therefore life), I make mental notes of why it might be a good idea.

Now May Be the Perfect Time to Have a Baby

I am a 32-year-old woman. I’ve been happily married for a year. I haven’t forced myself to throw up in at least four. (Thank you, therapy). I don’t have paid employment (not without lack of trying on my part), but my husband makes enough for us both, so there wouldn’t be any maternity-leave politics on the horizon. I’m really very good with children—my ten nieces and nephews adore me. I enjoy taking care of my cat, although I’m a bit overprotective. All in all, I have the stability, tick of the biological clock and childrearing instincts to be a mom in nine months.That’s a good list but, most importantly, I think that I’ve finally come to a place in my eating disorder in which the idea of changing my body no longer seems like the same thing as wrecking my life. Still, I ask myself: How deeply true is this newfound interest in baby-making?

I Want a Baby Because I’m Bored, But What’s Wrong With That?

My husband and I have been self-quarantined since March 14 in our small two-bedroom apartment. The second bedroom is my breadwinner husband’s office. I spend my days bouncing from desk to couch to yoga mat to the kitchen. I couldn’t start a new job in April, because of the coronavirus pandemic, which means I’ve now been unemployed for over a year. I’ve spent the majority of our time in quarantine retreating into myself, and I’ve found my days repetitive and lacking significance. Depression and anxiety urged me to meet up with my old friends, bulimia and anorexia, but I no longer want to use them to satiate my hunger for control.Instead, this new idea started surfacing. Perhaps this global catastrophe has helped me refocus on the importance of family, away from obsessing over my beach bod. (Especially since the beaches are closed.) But a darker truth nags me. Do I want a baby because I want to be a mother, or because I just need something to do with my days?In April, when I told my husband that I was thinking about having children with him, I admitted that it was at least in part because I was bored. He pushed me to deeply consider this reasoning. But I pushed back. All the recent mothers I see on Instagram say that there’s no perfect time to have a baby. Besides, my resistance to motherhood is rooted in my eating disorder: that isn’t exactly fully coherent either.If my interest in motherhood has spawned during the deadliest virus outbreak in a century, one that’s making me lonely and sad, then why not give my husband, my parents and my friends a baby to look forward to? Maybe it’s a perfectly imperfect reason, and I no longer strive or starve for perfection.

I'm a white girl who grew up with zealous evangelical parents. I had the principles of justice, fairness, empathy and truth drilled into me my entire upbringing. My parents were Republican, so I was too. I thought my dad was the smartest person I'd ever met. I didn't know yet about right-wing talking points, or the toxicity of Rush Limbaugh that we'd be forced to soak up on road trips, or the poison pumping out of Fox News that my dad would turn on every day before and after dinner. I was too caught up with friends, boys and the comfort of my whiteness to question any of these staples in the background of my existence.When I went to college, my world broke open. I learned the real history of my country for the first time. I was educated about the many disenfranchised groups in our country that were holding this country together. I encountered my whiteness, my privilege. I couldn't wait to tell Mom and Dad about all of these injustices, because of course they would be as horrified as I was.Cut to my naive ass calling Mom or Dad after a class, eager to share with them these new lessons I was learning. These calls ended in tears, yelling, hang-ups. I felt betrayed. My parents had raised me to care about justice and compassion, but I was learning that in their worldview, those principals didn't apply to everyone. Justice and righteousness…but black people were responsible for everything that happened to them now because slavery was over. Kindness and compassion…but people of color were their own worst enemies and needed to pull themselves up by the bootstraps—never mind that they’d never been given boots in the first place.The tension hasn’t gone away and has been the most difficult aspect of my relationship with my parents. How do you reconcile being in a close, loving, authentic relationship with people who also hold racist beliefs? How was I to reconcile who they were as individuals—good and kind and fair—with their Fox News-shaped ideology about the menacing Other lurking "out there”?

My parents had raised me to care about justice and compassion, but I was learning that in their worldview, those principals didn't apply to everyone.

We Tried to Compartmentalize

In 2016 we called a moratorium on essentially all current events, because we couldn't have productive dialogue and my respect for my dad was deteriorating at an alarming rate. By compartmentalizing, we were able to salvage some of the love and fun and laughter from our relationship. Although it's always felt like an elephant in the room, it's also felt like the only option.Ten years after my first awakening—which is to say a month ago—I was in online therapy and having to once again, for the millionth time, address that I’m still not able to accept my parents’ beliefs that I find offensive. I still felt betrayed. My therapist told me the only answer was to search for acceptance, to take them off their parental pedestal and accept them and their beliefs as they are, for my own sake.

My Mom Has Started to Listen

Two weeks later, my mom and I got on the phone. I was nervous. She knew I’d been protesting the day before. I knew the state of the country was all too raw and important for me to talk about anything else. I tiptoed and braced myself. And then she shared that the past week had transformed her, and forced her to ask how she hadn’t seen the problems of racial oppression before."All black people have been asking is to be heard," she said as she choked up. “To be believed."I couldn't believe my ears. She told me how she’d always been in denial of white privilege because of the disadvantages she’d been born into: an absent alcoholic father, a mentally ill mother, poverty, hunger, abuse. She’d finally realized that none of those aspects of her experience were invalid, but that she also didn’t have to go through them on top of the daily challenges of having black skin in America.Ultimately, it was hearing from black women in the church who she could be sure "didn't have an agenda"—because of course Fox News has always told her a black person speaking of their victimization is just a charade for the liberal agenda—that moved her to understanding.Now that my mom has seen American racism for what it is, she can’t unsee it. But she’s still in a delicate place. Fox News is still saying, "What about black on black crime?" and my dad refuses to utter the words "systemic racism,” because doing so would pull the entire rug out from under his worldview. She’s being whiplashed.I saw them over the weekend and it was clear that my mom—who’s always followed my dad’s lead—is now on her own journey, one that he isn’t walking it with her. We argued. My dad stormed off when he couldn't find any more talking points to throw around.But my mom insisted that the rest of us stay up and talk until 2 a.m. She cried while she retreaded the idea that she's always tried to be a good person and wasn't given much. We held her hand as we walked her once again through the concept of privilege. And she heard us.

Now that my mom has seen American racism for what it is, she can’t unsee it.

Ultimately, White People Must Change

Let's be clear: We will always be too far ahead for her. We're talking about defunding the police right now while she's only just started to confront her white privilege for the first time in her life. But watching her come around has healed my heart. I’d given up hope in the name of acceptance, and then the universe changed my mom's heart in ways I hadn’t thought were possible. I don't know how she'll sustain these new discoveries without my dad as her teammate, and with the poison coming out of her TV every day.But I now believe more than ever that it is white people who are responsible for this work of changing from the inside out. It might take another decade of hang-up phone fights and moratoriums until we finish it, but we can’t give up. There’s always hope, even if we can’t always see it.