In this post, I give you a complete narrative of my personal track and field experience. I document the highs, the lows, and the (eventually career-ending) injuries. I describe the successes, the failures, and everything in between; the mental health battles, the sacrifices, the brutal scrutiny, the love/hate relationships that developed, the exhaustion and physical agony, and I try not to spare you any details.
She’s
pretty lengthy. So decide now if you want to commit 20 minutes of your time
reading it. This is your only warning. (:
Full
disclosure… I initially wrote this for myself. I didn’t really intend for it to
go anywhere (until I was contacted by a couple of student-athlete mental health advocacy groups). In the effort of participating in the trend of “full
transparency,” I – after much deliberation – decided to post this for those
that were interested. I want people to understand that the reality of being a
high-level college athlete is far from pretty. We need to stop glamorizing it. I know
good and well that some of you could use a behind-the-scenes anecdote to
solidify that idea.
Anyway, let’s get to it.
I’d like
to begin boldly with the statement that, entering college, I naively bought into the
idea of college athletics. I submitted myself to track and
field; it felt like I’d become borderline enslaved to the NCAA for the last
few years of my life. Ooh, three years, woo-hoo. “That’s not very long –
you’ve still got your whole life in front of you,” most experienced adults
would tell me. Mmhmm, sure. But my three years is a bigger percentage of my
life than theirs. It feels longer. And, little did I know at the time, but my measly three years would go on to mold the rest of my life.
Let’s go back. I want to start you
off with a timeline. I’d been high jumping since I was 12? 13? Now that I’m 21,
we’ll call it 8 years of high jump total – although when I was younger, my time
and attention was certainly not focused on it. So… 5 years of track along with
other sports, then 3 collegiate years of only high jump. Hours of practice a
day, roughly six days a week, for three years. (Watch out, here comes my
statistics brain.)
I’ll say I averaged 2.5 hours a day of practice (including warm-up, workout, event specific training, lifting, and core/prehab). This is probably a generously low underestimate. I’m not counting all the other things that went in to being a high-level athlete at Georgia. The countless meetings, video sessions, treatment (!!!), medical appointments, nutritional scans and consultations, sport psychology and counseling/therapy, travel, competition preparation, and who knows what else? Not counted. The amount of time my mind was consumed by the sport – lying in bed at night, in class, watching film on my own? Not counted.
Okay, you get the picture. Let’s continue
with my generously low time estimate. 2.5 hours a day, 6 days a week, about 45
weeks a year, for 3 years. It comes out to about 2000 hours. Of just practice.
I’ll let you estimate all the other factors I mentioned but didn’t include.
In this world, time is money. And
for some of my teammates and friends, I watched the time they put into the
sport turn into money. Time turned into success, which turned into money. Not
that money is the end-all-be-all, but in a sport like women’s track and field…
there’s not much money in it anyway. So, it became even more impressive as I
watched my teammates, friends, and the pros that we trained with experience lots
of great successes over the years. NCAA champions, Olympic teams, collegiate
records, national records, etc. The list goes on and on.
While I’m on the record, I do want
to get one thing straight. I truly never desired to go pro in this
sport. Sure, there were moments where I caught glimpses of that dream – the day
I jumped 1.90m in practice, the day I competed with the pros at the Olympic
trials – but it was never my dream. Frankly, I had seen the raw, ugly truth of
being a professional track athlete up close, and it was not pretty. Have you
ever wondered why all the best female track athletes are models, too? Ever
wondered why the successful ones are not always the best in their event, but
the most well-known? Why some incredible athletes go under the radar for years
and are eventually forced to retire because they can’t make any money? The
short answer: it’s a popularity contest. And I wanted no part in that.
So, yes, I knew my track career
would come to an end sooner rather than later. And I was okay with that.
Contrary to how it may sound, I’m
not bitter. I realize that I’m fortunate; I know that I fared better than most
young athletes around the world in my sport. During the peak of my high jump career,
I was consistently ranked in the top 100 female high jumpers in the world.
Of any age – high school, college, or professional – and of any nationality. I
competed for Team USA in Finland at the U20 World Championships in 2018 and
again in 2019 at the Pan-American Championships in Costa Rica. There's nothing quite like competing in the sport you love, proudly wearing your country across your chest. I qualified for
the U.S. Olympic Trials and held my own as just a teenager amongst the pros. I
have numerous All-American statuses (whatever that means) and I jumped my
collegiate personal best for 5th in the United States in the best track and
field stadium in the world. I’ve gotten to travel all over the country,
consistently, competing in this sport. I promise you, I’m very grateful. My
faith community, which I clung to all through high school and college, urged me
to be constantly, whole-heartedly, actively thankful for the
opportunities I was presented with and where they led me. All the glory to the
Lord.
This isn’t just about the athletic
experiences; I received a free college education, too. The value of my
education is unmatched. Honestly, it’s why I decided to participate in college
track in the first place. It saved me from debt. On the days where I really didn’t
want to go to practice, I’d remind myself that being an athlete is like a
full-time job. I had to show up to work to get the paycheck – my undergraduate
education. I could talk endlessly about how grateful I am to have been able to
use my God-given athletic ability to pay for my college education, but I’ll
save you. Just know that I’m quite appreciative of the doors that high jumping
opened for me; it meant a great deal to me.
I got an education, phenomenal
friendships, stellar connections; I learned grit and determination, leadership
skills, mental toughness, seemingly impossible time management, how to deal
with all different types of people, how to display the type of passion that
motivates others, etc, etc. I got enlightened by my involvement in this
sport. But I also got mental health battles that I never saw myself struggling
with. And the icing on the cake? I got injured.
Not the teeny weeny
my-leg-hurts-and-I-need-a-month-off type of injured, but I got chronically
injured. Painfully injured. I got the there’s-not-really-a-solution-to-it
injured. The you’ll-just-be-in-pain-all-the-time-and-have-to-deal-with-it type
of injured. The best kind, obviously.
I could write a book on my
experience with this stupid injury and how I handled it. Or – more realistically
– how it handled me. I really could. For the purpose of giving you a
behind-the-scenes look at college athletics, however, I’ll just try to summarize
it and integrate it into my narrative as best I can. I mean, I wouldn’t be in
this position – writing this – if the injury didn’t occur. Okay. Bear with me.
It began in December of my first
year in college, 2019. I went to my trainers complaining about back pain – when
I was lifting, when I was practicing, when I was sitting for extended periods
of time, etc – and they sent me to get scans. They told me nothing really came
back on the X-rays, so I got an MRI. When I met with the “football” doctor (the
PA on staff that works with UGA Athletics), he essentially informed me that my
scans came back clean. Little things were mentioned, such as the possible
overextension in high jumping and incorrect lifting form, which he said most
likely contributed to my excessive muscle tightness, spinal inflammation, and
back pain. I was prescribed strong anti-inflammatories and sent home.
Let’s fast-forward a year. This is
not to say nothing happened in that year… it was the beginning of COVID-19. My
back hurt on and off that year, but nothing I couldn’t handle. I’ve constantly
been told by doctors and medical staff that my pain tolerance was high. (In
high school I had my first knee surgery on a torn meniscus that I got scanned
after a year of running, jumping, and playing volleyball on it. It took me a
year to go to the doctor, who was absolutely appalled that I could even walk
because my cartilage was shredded.) So I say, light-heartedly, that at
the time I thought there truly was nothing wrong with my back. The outdoor
season was cancelled that year because of COVID, and hardly anyone was in
Athens to train. Training became lower volume and less aggressive on the body.
As we came back to school in the
fall of 2020, I went through another year of intense fall training. And heavy, heavy
lifting. Imagine being sore and utterly exhausted all of your days. “Oh,
but this week is recovery week!” my parents would say when I complained about
how bad I was hurting on the phone. I shudder just thinking about it. “Recovery
weeks,” which came around once every 4-5 weeks, were almost worse. Yes,
they were lighter, lower volume – but your body would be aching trying to rebuild
your muscles and catch up with the beating it had taken. And then… a smooth 7 days
later, you’d be back to the grind.
In the interest of giving
you a true perspective of the ugliness that is college sports – humor me here and use your imagination. Picture a bunch
of young, extremely athletic people, and imagine these folks completely passed out, unable to even stand up and walk out of practice. I have one of those inescapable vivid memories of a workout in that treacherous late summer Georgia heat.
After set 2 (only set 2!!) of whatever circuit we were doing that day, I picked my head up off the grass to see if my teammates were taking it as hard as I was. One of my teammates was lying motionless face down on the field. One physically couldn’t breathe, and the trainers were rushing to hook her up to the oxygen tank. One had their head in the trash can, violently throwing up. One was rolling around on the field (like me) trying to alleviate the pain. I don’t even know if what I saw through the stars floating across in my vision was accurate. Y’all. It was only set 2. We all — in our mangled conditions — hauled ourselves up and completed two more sets.
Let me tell you, I saw the light that day. Jesus was there. And I would continue to see the light in that way… vision absolutely gone, heartbeat thrashing, soul departing… for the following few years. My roommate came home that day and said the trainers checked her heart rate when she was passed out in the grass, declared it was over 200, and the coach simply told her to get up and run.
All that to be said, don’t take the
words “fall training” lightly. Boy, we went through it. But you’d certainly be in
the best shape of your life when Thanksgiving came around. That was typically
when we started doing event-specific training, since the indoor season started
in January.
By the end of that year’s fall training, I was hurting. My back was in shambles. I was in so much pain that I could hardly function. I couldn’t sit in class, I couldn’t do a light power clean, I couldn’t run, I couldn’t do my schoolwork, I couldn’t sleep at night. I did schoolwork in 10- or 15-minute increments at the desk in my room, because I simply couldn’t sit for longer than that. In between, I’d foam roll, stretch, reheat my heating pack, tighten my back brace, and shed a tear or two. Big sigh, then back to work. The back pain was unreal, and there was no relief from it. There was no sitting/standing/laying position that gave me relief from the pain. I found myself desperately craving sleep, because the only time it didn't torture me was when I was in an unconscious state.
Each day at practice made it worse. My lifting became justifiably pathetic. I was physically and mentally exhausted from spending 100% of my days battling the pain. I, again, went to the medical staff and convinced them that something was very wrong.
A few X-rays and MRI’s later, I was back in the doctor’s office looking at my images. This was around November 2020, nearly one year after my previous appointments. He informed my that my simple stress fracture (a pars fracture, or pars defect, which occurs when the pars interarticularis breaks and severs the bony ring that circles the spinal cord) from last year had morphed into a more serious issue called spondylolisthesis. Essentially, one of the vertebrae in my lower back had slid forward and slipped out of place onto the vertebrae beneath it. It was treatable, but in my event… it would be an ongoing problem. The entire preface of high jump is overextending your back over the bar. Throughout the next couple of months, we experimented with treatment plans to mitigate the pain. With constant rehab, limitations in the weight room, and modifications at high jump practices, I was able to lessen the level of pain I was in during my everyday life. Not to say that it was pleasant, but it was manageable.
I jumped both indoor and outdoor
seasons that year. At practices, I did everything in my power to avoid physically
high jumping, and instead I would do drills. The act of arching myself over the
bar – backwards – and landing in the pit on my neck (as I unfortunately tend to
do) was excruciating. It would have me posted up in the training room and laid
up in bed as much as possible for the following few days.
Somewhere along the way, I began premeditatedly avoiding doing the one thing I loved to do. The thing that had led me to this place, these people, this lifestyle. It transcended beyond physical pain.
Yes, I jumped that entire season. But no, it was not fun. It was far from pleasant. It took a toll on me. I had many nights, alone in my room, filled with misery, questioning, regret, and a sprinkle of anger. I laid in bed awake for hours and hours because the pain was too foul to go to sleep.
Over time, I learned the cycle. I
knew what I could do to manage the pain after practices and meets. I knew what
treatment did help and didn’t help. I knew what meds to take, when to take them,
and how many days before a competition I needed to start taking the strong
stuff for it to be at least somewhat effective. That year, I was on a lot of
drugs. Pain meds. Anything and everything. I had to clean out cabinet space in
my room to make space for the entire pharmacy that I collected.
I competed at every meet that
season. I jumped pretty averagely – good enough to stay competitive, but bad
enough for me to be constantly frustrated with myself. I successfully made it
to NCAA indoor nationals in March, finishing 13th with a lousy 1.77m (5’9.5”) jump, and then NCAA outdoor nationals in June, finishing 5th with
my collegiate PR, 1.84m (6’0.5”). There was nothing quite like jumping
in one of the best track and field stadiums in the world. Track Town USA: Eugene,
Oregon.
We, Georgia women’s track and field,
finished in third that day. Third in the country! We brought home a trophy back
to Athens, and all six of us – yes, it just took six athletes – worked
incredibly hard for those points. I was proud of my team.
Next up, Olympic Trials. Biggest meet of my career, also in Eugene OR. I could elaborate quite a bit about my experience at the Trials, but that’s not the point of this post. It’s simple, really; I was beyond ecstatic to have qualified, to have a chance to jump with the pros and compete for a spot on the U.S. Olympic Team. However, I had to jump at the Trials less than a week after I jumped at NCAA’s… and boy was I hurting. I did the best I could with the hand I was dealt, but I didn’t expect to beat the pros at this point in my career (broken back or not). They had years of experience on me. It was an honor to be competing, but it was also a brutal reminder that my Olympic dreams were quite literally crumbling in front of me. I was only 20 years young. The thought of training for 4 more years, of enduring all I had endured even in just the last few months, to get another chance at the Olympics, was downright devastating.
With my season then over, I
hightailed it to New York City for my summer job, where I taught kids to
wakeboard and waterski on Jamaica Bay. I chased another passion of mine, and I had
a blast doing it. I removed myself from track and field for almost three months
before fall workouts began again. It was a quite a – much needed – breath of
fresh air.
Then I went through fall training
for the third time. This time… with an entirely new coaching staff. Over the
summer, our head coach left UGA and the new hire pretty much cleaned house. I
went into my third year blindly. New head coach, new jumps coach, new ops
people, new teammates, new roommates. Many of my old teammates (and friends)
had transferred because of the coaching change. All four of my roommates left.
I stayed because I wanted to finish my degree (read: I cared about school). But
it really felt like I had transferred, too.
After my flight back to Georgia that
August, me and my very full suitcase waltzed in the front door of my house the
day before classes started, and I met my new roommates. We exchanged shy little
“hi’s” and went through the formalities. There were four different girls living
in my house. Not bad, but strange. Facebook really brought me one of
my best friends that year, so maybe it was a blessing in disguise.
There’s another aspect of college
athletics I’d like to mention now, and I saw a lot of it with five female athletes
in one house. In aggregate, I lived with 11 different girls by the time I graduated. Through
that, and through my teammates and friends, I witnessed my fair share of eating
disorders. Food/nutrition is such a huge part of high-level sports, and it’s
often overlooked.
Without going into specifics, I observed
many athletes that I knew struggle through eating disorders – and most had no
idea that they had it. I saw and heard the telltale signs of them. I watched as
those athletes wondered why they were always injured, why they couldn’t ever
recover, why they had no energy at workouts. I’m not one to get involved, so I
would just lightly encourage better eating behavior. It wasn’t my business
until it began harming the people I cared about. For the most part, athletes would cyclically work themselves out of the
habits, so it was never a huge deal. However… at other schools, and in other
sports, I’ve heard some horror stories. Understandably, the sport of track and field
is a breeding ground for eating disorders. You have to be in amazing shape to
compete, and you’re constantly comparing yourself to the athletes doing better
than you. Maybe if I just look more like she does, if I could be built more
like her, then I would perform better, you trap yourself into thinking. It’s
track, swimming, and gymnastics, I’ve noticed, that have it pretty bad. The sports
where how you look matters, to a certain extent. The individual
sports. Your relationship with food can make or break your athletic career. It’s
also something to look out for as young athletes grow up in sports.
On a related note… (geez, somebody
stop me) … mental health. I’m happy to be a part of the generation where mental
health is more openly discussed, but the passive chatter about how important
mental health is in sports just doesn’t cut it. I watched my teammates and friends
struggle with unnamable issues. I have seen people quit, take necessary breaks,
go home, drop out, transfer, go completely off the grid, etc. all for mental health reasons. Athletes have
to be so tough, mentally. You can’t be physically tough if you’re mentally
soft. Just imagine keeping it together as you’re on the starting line of the 100m
dash at the Olympic Trials, knowing that the next 10-ish seconds will determine
the trajectory of your life. Crazy, right? But it’s very real. And for us field
events; it’s staying calm, collected, and focused (that’s the hard one)
for hours and hours at a meet.
Sports psychologists, counselors, therapists,
mental health advocates – you name ‘em, Georgia had ‘em. They were there to
help. So… we all went to therapy. I don’t think that was the best solution to
the problems we were facing, but at least they were trying. My issue with it was the
medications that they seemed to prescribe so easily. Couldn’t sleep
at night? Meds. Symptoms of depression? Meds. Signs of ADHD? Meds. Low energy?
Meds. It was absolutely absurd. Now, I grew up in an environment that promoted
facing and tackling the issue itself, rather than masking its symptoms. That was made
clear by my parents. Modern solutions also cause modern problems. Maybe that’s
traditional of them, maybe not. Either way, all this pill-using was bizarre to
me. My parents were also very surprised that I was going to therapy. I’d admit –
it was a little out of character for me – but I’ll end my tangent by mentioning
that I, personally, had an extremely positive experience with the mental health
staff at UGA. I certainly felt like I was falling apart at times, and the guy I
saw did wonders for me simply by being a friend.
Alright. Tangent over. Back to the story.
It was fall of 2021 and I was going
through the hardest fall training of my life with the new coaching staff and
administration. For 10 weeks, I was no longer a jumper. I was a sprinter.
I’ve got loads of respect for both sprinters and distance runners alike; I
mean, imagine showing up to practice every day of your life (for years) and
asking Coach what you’re doing that day. The answer would always be the same. “Running.”
How terrible.
Needless to say, I died at those
workouts. But come Thanksgiving, I was in the best shape of my life. (Only to
stop working out with the sprinters and lose my fitness… so what was it all for?)
But I felt proud. I didn’t miss a single rep of a single workout all fall. I
had no idea that my body was capable of what it did that semester. And then, as
we began jump-specific training, I couldn’t do too much because of my back. I had all kinds of modifications in the weight room, and when my training
group would high jump at practice, I’d just run high jump approaches. It was frustrating
watching everyone do what I couldn’t.
In the training room, one of the only things I found that worked for me was needling. Every time I high jumped, I would go to the training room and get my paraspinal muscles dry-needled afterwards to try to mitigate the amount of pain looming in my near future. Ten needles, shoved in at an angle towards my spine, left to marinate for a few minutes. I was thankful that I had found something that helped, even in a small way. All other types of treatment had been pretty unsuccessful, so needling became my regular routine.
Not only could I not practice much
this year, but I was in painnnnn. Pain pain. I wish I was better with words so I could really describe it. My broken spine took a real
toll on every aspect of my life… and I hated the fact that athletics bled over
into my regular life. I was in pain 24 hours a day. For a while, I couldn’t
function without a back brace. I excluded myself from normal college activities
because I would rather lay in bed. I lost the desire to be social, and it was an
impossible task just to face society. It took everything in me just to sit in
class. And when I was sitting in class, the last thing I could do was pay any sort of attention with the constant, nagging, spearing agony in my low back. I might as well have just stayed home. But nooooo, I’m a
perfectionist. I made myself go to class. I hated missing class.
As an athlete, you miss so much anyway.
I missed classes all spring, every year, because we traveled every weekend. I
missed out on so many opportunities for summer internships because the season
ran through May and June. I missed out on other teams’ sporting events. I missed out
on having a job – earning some kind of an income – in college. I missed
out on studying abroad and being able to travel in general. I missed out on opportunities to gain career experience and build my resumé. I missed out on
going home to see my family and friends during holidays. I missed out on
fun activities and events because of early practices. I missed out on sleep. I
missed out on going to away football games with my friends. I missed out on the chance
to go to the college football national championship when Georgia won.
All that – because under no
circumstances could I ever miss a couple days of workouts.
I’ve always been aware of the
sacrifices that it takes to be a good athlete. I knew all of that going into it
(minus the extra sacrifices that it took because of COVID). I’m not upset that
I missed those other opportunities – I wouldn’t know what to do without athletics.
Being a regular college kid sounded dull to me. I was happy to make the
sacrifices to pursue my dreams of being a great high jumper. It’s just, well,
sometimes the Lord has other plans.
I had recurring mental breakdowns in the following months. I realized my athletic potential was deteriorating. I was jumping lower than I had my freshman and sophomore year of high school. How embarrassing. Here I was, surrounded by the best coaching staff and medical care and academic resources, chiropractors and massage therapists and nutritionists and strength coaches, with personalized training plans and incredible facilities and world-class training partners… yet I was jumping lower than I did at 14 years old. I was jumping worse than I did with no coach, borrowed shoes, and a busted high jump pit at a local track that I hopped the fence to practice on. It really makes you think.
Not only was I not jumping well at all, but it was super painful some days to even practice. And if you can’t practice your sport… well, then it’s extremely hard to be good at your sport. And I was not willing to fully give up my physical health and mental stability just to get a few high jump reps in during training. It was a precarious balance. I was in pain 24 hours a day. Every other aspect of my life was suffering as a result of the constant, uncontrollable pain and discomfort. It was taking a serious toll on me. To make it worse, I was losing my friends because I found it so difficult to be social anymore, let alone to have a pleasant attitude. Sure, I had to put on a face sometimes, but I found it even more exhausting to pretend. I was taking some of the hardest classes of my life, writing a senior thesis, traveling and competing for track, applying to master’s programs, and trying to figure out what to do with my life after my upcoming graduation – all while trying to pretend that I wasn't in brutal, inescapable physical agony.
I was
spiraling.
Deep
down, even before I went in to talk to my trainer that one day in April, I knew
that I couldn’t continue high jumping. Over the years, I had learned to
tolerate the sport I once loved. It’s depressing, really. It happens. I didn’t
want to admit it in those previous few months, but I knew.
We
talked about medical retirement. We talked about what that would mean for my
scholarship. We talked about potential options. We talked about surgery. We
talked about what I could (and would have to) do in order to live with this
injury for the rest of my life. It was tough to talk about, but it felt like a
weight lifted off my shoulders. A light at the end of the tunnel, if you will. I
couldn’t imagine a life without constant precautions and pain management,
but the thought of being potentially pain-free certainly excited me.
For goodness
sakes, I’m twenty-one years old. I sound ancient. “Looking forward to being pain
free!” I sound like I’m 75 and just had a total hip replacement. Geez.
Anyway,
I made my decision then and there; I was going to medically retire.
I made the decision to pursue other
things that excited me and benefitted me; other things that I was good at. I
made the decision to remove myself from an environment that had become slowly
toxic to me. I made the decision to prioritize my physical and mental health. I
decided to go to graduate school and focus on my education. I made that decision
with no other influences.
It took
some of the pressure off me for the rest of the outdoor season. I officially graduated
with my degree in economics and international business (and a minor in Spanish)
in just three years. I got to travel, hang out with my team, and compete as a D1
high jumper for the last few months. I tried to have fun with it again. There
was nothing at stake. Unfortunately, I never again high jumped very well. I was
consistently jumping around 5’10”. I jumped that same bar at almost every meet
in the outdoor season. I’d finish the event… say hi to my family briefly if
they were there… and go get needled. I learned how to bear it.
The
season wasn’t good, but it wasn’t bad. I was soaking up my last few moments as
an athlete. The tears certainly poured out the last time I hit the pit at regionals. It’s an
end and a beginning; bittersweet. I had the wonderful support of my coaches,
teammates, and friends. I truly was surrounded by the most incredible people
and support system, and I definitely didn’t deserve it. Y’all know who you are.
I’m so appreciative of you, so thank you.
To Madie
– for urging me to take the leap and put myself first. You reminded me firsthand
that athletics isn’t the end-all-be-all. Thank you for being by my side from my
freshman year of high school until now. And for paving the way to retirement!
To Christian and Ashlyn – you both consistently supported me from a distance throughout my entire collegiate career, and you did it extremely well. It didn’t go unnoticed, and I’m so thankful.
To my
teammates/neighbors/partners in crime – who have become my closest friends –
you all mean the absolute world to me. Quite realistically, I wouldn’t have made it without
y’all. I’m sad to leave Athens, but I know the friendships will continue! Best
of luck next year.
To my parents – who celebrated with me, cried with me, traveled across oceans to support me, constantly prayed for me, and always had open arms to receive me; and from who I received
the utmost unwavering support – I cannot even begin to describe how much I appreciate all you have done and continue to
do for me. I am who I am because of you! Thank you for always being in my corner.
And to everyone else, I truly had the most amazing support system through some seriously difficult years. So, thank you. If you actually read all this, first, that’s super impressive. Second, I’d love to hear from you. You probably have my contact information if you made it this far. I’d really appreciate it.
I’m
excited for the next season of my life, and to see where the Lord takes me. For
now, I’ve been enjoying retirement at home here on the Tennessee River,
waterskiing to my heart’s content. My master’s program starts in July (more on
that later).
For those asking about what I’m
going to do about my chronic injury… well, sweetheart, it’s chronic. So I’m
going to learn to live with it. I’ll spend the next year adjusting to normal
life, and then reevaluate how severely my back still bothers me if I’m not high
jumping (that overextension motion) and lifting heavy. Then I’ll return to
Athens a year from now and discuss surgery or other options. There is a
possible surgery where they’d go in and put screws in my spine to secure it
back in place, but it doesn’t come without its negative effects and
externalities. So, we’ll see.
I'm sad to say that I'm leaving the sport I used to love. I'm even sadder to acknowledge that my spine issues are projected to plague the rest of my life with pain and complications. The poor, naïve me three years ago would have never guessed that I'd be walking away with serious pars defects, bilateral L5/S1 spondylolysis, trace spondylolisthesis in L5/S1, degenerative joint disease (also known as osteoarthritis) in L1/L2, and anterior disc narrowing and osteophytes (bony outgrowth caused by cartilage degeneration) in my lumbar spine. Fancy medical terms aside, I'm walking away with chronic pain.
I have no choice but to understand that this is my burden to bear (everybody has their thing in life, right?). It's useless to go back and identify all the times I could've/should've stopped or done things differently. It's useless to try to assign fault for my condition. Instead, I've come to recognize that it's much more advantageous to identify what I gained from my experiences and how it fostered my growth as a person, not an athlete. At the end of the day – and this is what they spend years of seminars trying to, quite unsuccessfully, drill into college athletes – my identity is not in a sport. As cheesy as it may be, I really do believe that I have so much more to offer to this world than just my high jump abilities, and I'm determined to finally have the chance to discover who I am off the track.
Hopefully this post opened at least
one person’s eyes on the difficulties faced by college athletes that aren’t
visible on the surface. (That was my goal, at least. I definitely got a little
off track, so my apologies.) I learned a lot in my
last three years, but lately, I’ve been learning how to be nicer to myself. I’ve
spent the last couple years beating myself up, so now I’ve got to be gentler
with myself. This includes putting my mental and physical health first. It also
includes accepting the fact that I didn’t reach my goals in track and
field, and that’s okay. I gained valuable experiences and friends along the way.
I’m not defined by my successes or failures. If everything turned out exactly
as you expected, life would be boring. God has a plan for me, and I trust Him. Completely.
I apologize for the sappiness and for the length. It's strange to be vulnerable on the internet. But... I figured if I was going to share my story, I wasn't going to do it halfway.
So, here’s
to whatever the future holds.
– Shelby T.
