Content warning: This article discusses eating disorders. For 12 years of my life, my identity was tied to cleats and grass stains. I lived by the “athlete brain” mindset of leaving everything I had on the field and working 110%. Every drill, every sprint, every weight session was about pushing harder, doing more, being better. When I packed up my life in Miami and moved 1,200 miles away to Boston, I didn’t realize I wasn’t just changing my environment, but I was also going to transform my relationship with fitness and with my body. What started as a “body recomposition” became something far more important to me: a path towards enjoyable workouts, self-respect, and true wellness.
As someone who played both club and varsity soccer since I was young, I used to think exercise had to be grueling to “count.” If I wasn’t pushing myself to exhaustion, just like those brutal two-a-day preseason trainings, was I even really working out? But when I moved from Miami to Boston in 2022 and left competitive sports behind, I had to reimagine fitness completely. Without the structure of team practices, I defaulted to punishing solo workouts that left me drained rather than empowered. It took hitting rock bottom in my sophomore year to realize that how I was going about training and finding time for wellness wasn’t working.
During one of my workout sessions, I glared at the calorie counter ticking upward, and a memory surfaced: eight-year-old me, racing across the field just for the sheer joy of feeling my legs pump beneath me. When did exercise stop being play and become penance? That moment sparked a complete overhaul of my relationship with fitness, one that required me to unpack the toxic aspects I imposed on myself and rediscover what movement could mean beyond performance metrics.
Struggling with an eating disorder, it changed movement into a numbers game, calories burned, steps taken, minutes logged, with my worthiness tied to the numbers. As I worked toward recovery, I started questioning: What if fitness wasn’t about shrinking or earning anything? What if it could actually feel good for me? At first, the guilt was overwhelming. Resting felt like failure.
My breakthrough came when I remembered how movement used to feel before the pressure: the pure joy of chasing a ball down the field, the effortless flow of a perfect shot on goal, the quiet satisfaction of post-practice exhaustion. Slowly, I started to realize that on days I listened to my body, I actually had more energy. When I moved in ways that felt enjoyable rather than obligatory, I wanted to keep doing it.
Boston’s changing seasons became my unexpected teacher. As summer faded into chilly fall, I discovered the magic of running along the Charles River, leaves crunching underfoot, without checking my pace. Winter taught me to appreciate yoga sessions and meditation when the sidewalks were icy. Movement stopped being a transaction (“burn X calories to earn Y food”) and started feeling like a gift. I experimented until I found what truly lit me up: Running became my moving meditation, where I could process emotions with every stride. Long walks with people I loved turned into my daily mental reset. Weightlifting surprised me, I loved feeling powerful as I progressed, not because I was “toning” but because I was capable.
I started seeing exercise not as a means to an aesthetic end, but as a vital part of my mental health, one that worked better when it came from a place of self-care, not self-hate.
My athletic background became both an obstacle and an ally in this transformation. The same discipline that once drove me to overtrain now helped me stay committed to self-care. Months of learning about my body allowed me to recognize subtle cues about what my system truly needed. Most meaningfully, I began viewing my body not as a problem to be managed, but as a trusted teammate who’d carried me through countless games, injuries, and comebacks. Even on hard days, a walk outside could shift my entire perspective and mood. I started seeing exercise not as a means to an aesthetic end, but as a vital part of my mental health, one that worked better when it came from a place of self-care, not self-hate.
The most liberating part? Releasing the idea that there’s a “right” way to move. Some weeks I lift weights six times; others, I run every day, and on hard weeks, I walk to clear my head. I take rest days without guilt because I know movement will be there tomorrow, not as an obligation, but as an opportunity. Fitness isn’t something I do to my body anymore; it’s something I do for myself. Instead of pushing this idea that I have to work out, I shifted it to, I get to work out, I get to move my body.
The girl who once played through injury and exhaustion is learning a new kind of strength — the courage to listen, to rest, to move simply because it feels good.
The numbers, calories, steps, pounds, it doesn’t drive me anymore. The thrill of a runner’s high, the peace of a sunset walk, the pride in lifting heavier than last month. That’s what really drives me, and it motivates me in more than just fitness. My body isn’t a project to fix; it’s the vessel that lets me experience life.
To anyone who’s ever defined themselves by their athletic performance: your competitive days may belong to the past, but your right to joyful movement is timeless. This isn’t about abandoning your competitive spirit, but rather expanding what it means to win. For me, victory now lives in the space between effort and ease, in remembering that discipline and delight aren’t mutually exclusive. The girl who once played through injury and exhaustion is learning a new kind of strength — the courage to listen, to rest, to move simply because it feels good.
For those navigating similar transitions, know this: unlearning is harder than learning, but what waits on the other side is worth the struggle. Your body isn’t a machine to be optimized, but a partner to be cherished. However you choose to move, or not move, may it come from a place of self-respect rather than self-punishment. As an athlete, the field may be different now, but you still get to decide how you want to show up for the game.
If you or someone you know is seeking help for mental health concerns, visit the National Alliance on Mental Illness (NAMI) website, or call 1-800-950-NAMI(6264). For confidential treatment referrals, visit the Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration (SAMHSA) website, or call the National Helpline at 1-800-662-HELP(4357). In an emergency, contact the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800-273-TALK(8255) or call 911.
If you or someone you know has an eating disorder and needs help, call the National Eating Disorders Association helpline at 1-800-931-2237, text 741741, or chat online with a Helpline volunteer here.