From the outside, life after soccer was pretty nice.

From the outside, life after soccer was pretty nice.I was living in Oakland, delighting in its harmonious mix of city energy and natural serenity; working at a coffee shop; and riding my bike between house and dog-sitting jobs. I belonged to a vibrant community. My days were simple but peaceful, even idyllic. I was happy — but in those quiet moments where I could be most honest with myself, I knew something was missing. Deep down, I could sense the shadow of something that once was. At first it was a faint memory so tissue paper-thin it was nearly imperceptible, so quiet it could be easily smothered by all the other sounds in life’s symphony. But with time, that shadow grew larger, its once-blurred edges sharpening into a shape I recognized. It followed me around, demanding to be acknowledged, and cast such a sharp contrast to my life at the time that it began to feel like me and that shadow were two separate entities. But they were both me. And if there’s anything my experiences in soccer and in life have taught me, it’s that the shadow we’re often taught to avoid at all costs contains so much wisdom, if only we have the courage to embrace it; that to deny that shadow’s existence is to essentially deny a part of ourselves, and when we do that, we’re potentially denying ourselves growth and redemption. We’re taught to fear that shadow — and, in all honesty, it is scary. Confronting your past is heavy, exhausting work, but I stood to lose so much more by letting that fear consume me. Returning to the NWSL has been one of the most challenging, transformative, eye-opening experiences of my life. I’m here to tell you that if you have the courage to step outside of your comfort zone and face that shadow, whatever it might be in your world, you can receive peace in exchange. You can receive joy, something I personally feared I might never feel again while playing soccer. The journey back was neither smooth nor linear, but it has been worth every difficult experience and hard lesson I learned to get to where I am now.

Last July, I uprooted myself from the Bay Area and moved back home to Havertown, Pennsylvania. I loved being near my family and childhood best friend again, but I was still spending a lot of time alone in those days. Ironically, the easy comfort of being back home and lack of distractions made it even more difficult to ignore that shadow — and even if I could, there was still the matter of physical reminders of my soccer life, like the field I grew up playing on that I often drove past that summer. All of my thoughts, memories, and emotions tied to both of those things collided and produced unbearable anxiety, so I booked a session with a therapist to help me sort the feelings out. Looking back on it now, I realize that I knew all along what I needed to do, but sometimes it helps to hear it from someone else. After I shared my story with my therapist — how the coercion and abuse I faced from someone I once trusted shattered my self-confidence and ruined the relationship I had with a game I loved so dearly; how I’d been involved in a car accident and found it difficult to return to soccer because I was still trying to heal from the first blow; and how, even after all of that, I still missed playing and had been considering a return — she looked at me and said, “You have to do it.” Those words liberated me. Still in the parking lot from that session, I called my mom from the car and told her about the conversation I’d just had. We both cried. Then she asked what she and our family could do to help, a question I wasn’t used to responding to. Growing up, I was one of those kids who strove to do everything by myself, believing the truest sign of strength was total independence. I obsessed over self-improvement, filling my shelves with books on the topic, not allowing myself to settle for anything less than perfection. That kind of control was strangely comforting; if I never asked anyone for support, I didn’t have to worry about being vulnerable by admitting I needed it. If that sounds counterintuitive, it’s because it is, and I realize that now. Not only that, but it would have been impossible to avoid vulnerability if I was ever to return to the soccer field. I couldn’t have it both ways. Slowly, I started sharing my decision to play professional soccer again with those close to me. At that point, I hadn’t touched a soccer ball or worked out in ages; all I had was the vision. But one morning, I went out to a park near my best friend’s house with a ball and my headphones, turned on the music, and started kicking it against a wall. That’s all it took. I felt a whisper in my soul as clearly as if someone had spoken the words aloud to me: it was time. I was ready to continue writing this chapter of my life. I gave myself six months to commit to the vision, and from there I would decide how far I wanted to take it. But in that moment at the park, I was just happy to feel that glimmer again.

Then it was time to get back to work — not just physically, but emotionally and spiritually, too. By then, I understood that the body could only do so much, and that if I were to give myself the best shot at professional soccer again, I’d need to get strong again in every possible way. I eased back into shape, playing pickup soccer around town and working with Steve Swanson, my coach from my college days at the University of Virginia, who offered to train me. It was exciting to feel myself progress, but still, I wrestled with the pressure I continued to impose upon myself. Athletes are known to be excruciatingly hard on ourselves, and are even expected to be, but the lines between holding yourself to high expectations, pushing yourself outside of your physical and mental comfort zone in order to grow, and creating an internal dialogue filled with negative self-talk are dangerously thin. I hadn’t realized how badly those years of abuse and coercion had wounded my self-esteem until I had to rely so heavily on my own self-perception. I hadn’t realized how much I had internalized harsh criticism until I found myself fighting against it, on top of everything else I was already working against. It wasn’t sustainable, and I knew it wouldn’t serve me or my game. If I was really going to do this, I knew that as I found my strength again, I’d also need to peel back the layers of self-protection that I’d built up over the years and allow myself to be soft.

As the months passed, I faced another question: where to play? Initially, I wasn’t even considering rejoining the NWSL. The thought of returning to a league so fraught with painful memories while I was trying to start fresh and write a new story for myself seemed unrealistic. As I dug deeper, though, I realized that the only thing holding me back from rejoining the NWSL was fear: that my past experiences would engulf this new chapter of my career, that people would compare me to the player I once was — or, worse, that I’d fail to live up to those standards. But then I thought about Michelle Betos, McCall Zerboni, and Yael Averbuch West — people I knew from my earlier playing days who were still in the league, who still knew the real me and who, most importantly, made me feel safe. Once I started a conversation with Gotham FC, I felt that safety applied not only to those individuals, but to the club’s environment as a whole. I was drawn to the team’s playing style, courtesy of our head coach, Juan Carlos Amoros, and realized Gotham FC was where I wanted to be. Securing a spot on the team required every ounce of my willpower. Remember, I’d only been training for about six months when preseason, which is already designed to be a physical and mental gauntlet, rolled around. Every time I stepped on the field, I wasn’t only going up against other talented players for a place on the roster; I was battling my own mind, too, fending off my insecurities in order to compete. It was such an emotional time, and I shed a lot of tears for a number of different reasons. I cried after every single training session in preseason because it was all so hard, physically. After I signed a contract with Gotham, I cried on the bus from the hotel to our first regular season game against Angel City in Los Angeles, simply from the overwhelming nature of everything I’d conquered to reach that point. I didn’t play in that game, but the anticipation continued to mount for the moment I did step back onto the field. I’d love to be able to say that I flourished when that time finally came during our second match against OL Reign. That I stepped onto the field a wholly healed, confident player, that every touch was silky smooth and precise. If only life were that neat. The reality is that I stepped onto that field and completely dissociated. As happy and relieved as I was to be back out there, I was also overcome by a slew of different emotions, and it took me a while to sift through them all, which made it hard to fall asleep after games. Not only that, but I was still working through my perfectionist tendencies; as the season pressed on, I struggled not to internalize our collective setbacks as a team and not blame myself for every unfortunate result. I’ve come to understand that thought patterns take practice, just like playing soccer, and that change could only come through repetition. Once, after a particularly difficult match I blamed myself for, I wrote “It’s not your fault” in my journal one thousand times. Journaling in general was a tremendous help as I transitioned back into the NWSL. So did my faith, which continues to ground me and serve as a constant reminder that I exist and play for something so much bigger than me. I’ve since learned how to ask for help; now I don’t hesitate to let my family and loved ones know how best to support me, which often involves asking them to affirm and validate me when I experience moments of doubt. I can’t imagine asking them for that kind of care before I began my journey back to the pitch. It’s taken me a long time to embrace the idea that the universe wants to support me and is not out to get me; for so long, I’d been trapped in a victim’s mentality, and it has felt so liberating to emerge from that narrative as someone who has conquered and overcome some of the most difficult challenges and is now able to access joy and freedom. Only when I reached that point in my healing journey did I feel the difference on the pitch. Like most players, I’m at my best when I’m having fun, and there’s something about knowing how hard I’ve fought to get here that’s added a whole new dimension to my game. And let me tell you: returning to the NWSL in 2023 after seven years away has been an experience. The league has changed so much from how I remembered it; even now, I don’t know if I feel more like a seasoned veteran full of wisdom, or a wide-eyed rookie filled with wonder. I like to think I’m getting the best of both worlds right now, a harmonious blend of experience and curiosity.

There was a time where I sought comfort in knowing exactly what was coming next, but that, too, was a form of protection. The real me wants to be surprised every once in a while. The real me wants to be led by my heart sometimes, not always my head. The decision to play soccer again came from the heart, and I’m so proud of myself for facing the shadow rather than running from it. As scary as it was, and as much work as it’s required (and continues to require) me to put into it, I’ve arrived at a point of total fulfillment. I feel whole playing this beautiful game again, something I never thought I’d feel after everything that’s happened to me in this sport. A few weeks ago during a trip for an away game, I was roommates with Mana Shim, who’s had her own experience returning to soccer after overcoming similar adversities. At one point, we looked at each other in our hotels and said, “I can’t believe we’re back here.” Neither of us would have been able to predict this journey, but that’s part of what’s made it so worthwhile. Visit NWSLsoccer.com/Intheirownwords to read more player stories.