In the Spring of 2016, I was at a mandatory extracurricular event for my introductory Communications class at the University of Maryland. My professor at the time, Luke Capizzo (now Dr. Capizzo), was an advisor for a student group called TerpTalks – it was UMD’s version of TedTalks. Twice a year, TerpTalks put on a showcase where several of the 30,000 or so UMD students would share their story. A story about anything. It was that night in the Spring of 2016, sitting in an auditorium in the Stamp Student Union at UMD, that I knew it was time to tell my story.

Being a student athlete is one of the hardest things to do. You have to be able to balance school every day, practice, workouts, and a social life. Being a student athlete is one of the best things that has ever happened to me, but it is also one of the hardest things I have ever done. Not only is being a student athlete hard, but trying to get recruited to play your sport in college adds 2x the stress. 

I’ve tried to write this over and over but was unsure of how to start, because where do I start? Within the past five years, I’ve laughed, I’ve cried, I’ve found myself, I’ve lost myself, then picked the pieces up and found myself again. But still, I went through all of that and don’t quite know who I’ll be when the ball stops bouncing in my collegiate career.

The act of intentionally showing up for yourself, even when you don’t see progress, is progress in and of itself. At the start of my recovery I was so focused on measurable success seen in numbers, people, and cooperating with societal perspectives. I took a year away from my sport, scared of what people would think when I return, scared of where my times would be compared to years prior. It turns out success is not measured in numbers or unsolicited opinions. Showing up for yourself culminates in a seed of optimism; an optimistic outlook saved my life. Mindset is more valuable than what any diet or physique can provide. A mindset with morals, values, humor, and intelligence, is what makes us all beautifully human.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve always felt different. It wasn’t until my senior year of high school, however, that I received the closure of a diagnosis. It took a while for doctors and professionals to take me seriously, as I presented as a happy and confident teenager, how could I possibly be dying inside? I became adept at hiding my struggles, with practice comes perfection, and I would only let those close to me know how I truly felt inside.

Perfection is a funny thing. It’s claimed that perfection doesn’t exist, yet there is a word for it. You would think that means one can be perfect. At least that’s what I believed, and that’s what I aspired to be. I wanted to be the perfect athlete, the perfect teammate, the best of the best in all the sports I have played. It did not matter if it was a silly race at school, or a huge basketball game, if I could not be the best there, if I could not win, I would not want to do it.