Like many of us, I dreamed of becoming an Olympian when I was younger. A gold medalist. Famous for being the best in the world. And like many kids, I truly believed I wasn’t far off. We grow up hearing how special we are—our parents, relatives, and coaches telling us we’re destined for greatness. And we believe them. Why wouldn’t we? At that age, anything feels possible.
For a long time, I was convinced I would commit to a Division 1 school for swimming. From ages 6 to 13, I put my all into the sport. Practice was Monday through Saturday, two hours a day. Swim meets at least once a month. I was constantly memorizing time standards and chasing goals. My whole life revolved around swimming, and I was good at it. Fast. Consistent. Climbing the club ranks. I remember reading Olympian Missy Franklin’s book and thinking, That’s going to be me too.
I quit my club team in 2020, right before COVID-19, so I can’t even blame the pandemic. The truth is, it had been a long time coming.
About three years before I quit, I was at my peak. I had just hit the amount of times I needed to move into the highest training group for my age, which meant a new coach. Let’s name him Coach Mark. He was well-known and respected, the kind of coach people said could take you far. I thought it was the best thing that could happen to me.
It wasn’t. And everything began to spiral.
Coach Mark didn’t know me. Not a single thing. I vividly remember a meet where I swam slower than my best time, and he said, “Good job,” because he thought I had improved. It was clear he wasn’t paying attention. He never gave feedback or encouragement. I felt invisible. Worthless. Like nothing I did mattered. And while he poured his energy into the fastest swimmers—the ones who won medals and got attention—I sank deeper into a place I didn’t know how to escape.
I was struggling, mentally and emotionally, in a way I didn’t yet have the words to describe. I was drowning in expectations I couldn’t meet, surrounded by people who were faster, stronger, more noticed. No one could relate. I felt completely alone.
No one checked in. No one asked how I was doing. I stopped going to practice. I showed up to swim meets anyway, but I kept adding time—four, five seconds at a time on my races. In a sport where one millisecond can cost you a race, that’s a lifetime. It was the worst season of my life. The year I was supposed to shine, but I was crumbling. I spent nights crying, wondering what was wrong with me, asking why I suddenly couldn’t do something I once loved so much.
At the time, I blamed myself. I thought I was the problem, the failure. And maybe there were things I could’ve done differently. But I was also just a kid. A kid who needed support. A kid who needed to feel seen. And Coach Mark couldn’t give me that. He made me feel small. Replaceable. Like a dream that never stood a chance.
The truth? I never went D1. I never made it to the Olympics. And honestly, it took a long time for me to accept that.
Looking back now, I see just how much of it was tied to the pressure that comes with youth sports. There’s such a heavy emphasis on competition—on being the best, on standing out, on winning. And while that’s part of it, it’s not supposed to be all of it. Sports are meant to be fun. They’re meant to keep us active, teach us discipline, and build friendships. But somewhere along the way, I lost that balance. I became obsessed with being impressive—becoming someone people would talk about. And in the process, I lost sight of what really mattered: the love I had for swimming itself.
It’s hard not to wonder what could have been. If I’d had a different coach, if I’d stayed in my old group, would I have made it further? I wanted it so badly. And yeah, it still stings sometimes. I felt like I let down everyone who believed in me—my parents, who poured so much time and money into the sport; the coaches who built me up; my friends, who stood by me after every race and made all those long practices worth it.
And while the disappointment is real, so is this truth: I was always the same person. Someone who worked hard. Someone who gave her all.
There was never any doubt in my ability. I could’ve gone far. Maybe I would have. But sometimes, one coach really can change everything.
But here’s the thing: it’s possible to rebuild that trust and passion again—for the sport, or the dream, or whatever it was that made me light up.
My last season of swimming was truly my best—not because I was the fastest, but because I was happy. After a little over a year with Coach Mark, I moved back down a group to Coach Blake, who believed in me. He cheered me on when I needed it, and guided me when I felt lost. He saw me. Slowly, I started to love swimming again.
With Coach Blake, I laughed at practice. I pushed myself because I wanted to, not because I feared being forgotten. I made friends who lifted me up. I dropped five or more seconds on events I’d been stuck at the same time for years. I felt proud of myself again. I found joy in the sport—not in being the best, but in being there.
For a while, everything felt right again. And when it ended, I knew it was time.
At the time, I didn’t feel so accepting of the fact that it was over. But I was burnt out, and I knew I couldn’t stay with Coach Blake forever. I didn’t trust the system enough anymore to believe that the next group or coach would offer the same support. I was 13, and it all felt scary. I didn’t know what to do next, and up until that point, swimming had practically been my entire life.
But I stepped away, and gave myself permission to try new things. I won’t lie, for a long time, I felt like a loser. A quitter. I thought nothing would ever compare to what I’d done before. I felt like I had peaked too early, like I had nothing left to offer. I wasn’t worthy of anything. I felt small. Degraded.
But slowly, I started to rebuild. I began doing triathlons and training on my own, carrying the mindset Coach Blake had helped me build. Bit by bit, I mourned the loss of competitive swimming. And with time, I made my peace with it. I began to accept myself, not for what I could achieve, but for who I was without all the medals and time cuts. I let go of the need to chase what I had once been, and I started to live in the present as best as possible.
In high school, I joined cross country and track. I even returned to swimming for a little while. In doing so, I found the most supportive families and coaches I could have ever hoped for. They saw what I was capable of. They saw me, even when I wasn’t the fastest, even when I was still hurting.
I came to them with wounds. With the fear that I’d never be good again. And still, they stuck by me. They believed in me when I couldn’t believe in myself. They reminded me that I never had to prove anything to be enough. That being seen, heard, and valued should never be conditional.
With space and time, I finally had room to reflect. I realized that swimming was something I genuinely loved—not something I did to make my parents proud or to prove I was good enough. I didn’t need to earn the right to be in the sport. I didn’t need to be the best to deserve to stay. Swimming wasn’t just something I did, it was something that would always be a part of me. No matter where I went or who I became, it would always be there.
That’s the thing about sports: it’s never just about talent. It’s about support, trust, and the people who lift you up. One coach, teacher, or mentor can make or break an experience. Some of us are lucky enough to find the right support system. Others, not so much. But if you’ve ever felt invisible, unworthy, or forgotten, know that it is rarely ever about you.
So many of us have had dreams shaped or shattered by people in power. In sports, in school, in life. And while we can’t rewrite the past, we can reclaim our worth. We can honor the effort we gave, the resilience we showed, and the love we once had and possibly still even do.
Because no matter how far you went (or didn’t go), you were always enough.