Open Letter to the Sport That Took Me As I Am

Eight words. One word. One that defines my household on any given Sunday, let alone any other day of the week. And somehow, I never chose sports, I think sports chose me.

At five years old, I learned friendly banter with an opposing team at a home game tailgate when I drove my electric four-wheeler to the group wearing a different color jersey than mine.

At eight years old, I remember wearing my Wilmington Blue Rocks dog tag every day to recess. I think I lost it since then, but the memories are still there.

Also at eight years old, I quickly fell in love with musical theater after being introduced to a summer theater program production of Aladdin.

At fourteen years old, I was cheering on every Philly sports team, no matter what team it was – unless it was the Washington Commanders were playing, and for my mom’s sake, we would root for them as long as they weren’t playing the Eagles.

At fifteen years old, we said goodbye to the treacherous Chip Kelly era, ushering in a new head coach that would soon be recognized as a legend in Philadelphia: Doug Pederson.

At sixteen years old, I began my football team era being the varsity team’s “watergirl.” I was the “Bobby Boucher,” but boy would I have loved to play. Luckily, it was just to get a few extra points to join my high school honors society.

Also at sixteen, I finally got my first featured role in the summer theater program – eight years after fighting to feel enough. 

At seventeen years old, I first realized that what I’ve been experiencing for years involved with theater was anxiety and disordered eating brought on by perfectionism. Struggling to fit in a space where I never felt accepted. It was then that I said goodbye to the thing I loved for almost ten years.

At seventeen and eighteen years old, I went from being focused on joining the honors society (which I did) to actually falling in love with being the football manager. At this point, what I did was more fun than anything. Little did I know, I’d finally find my space where I belonged.

At eighteen years old, I was one of the crazy Eagles fans who attended the Super Bowl parade. I felt the familial feeling once again that was in the sports world.

At eighteen years old, I still wanted to hold on to the music love that I had since spending four years studying music theory. I went to my community college to pursue business, still trying to manage the symptoms and feelings from the issues that presented a year prior.

At twenty years old, the world shut down. The pandemic set in and a first generation college student was left trying to figure out how to transfer to a four-year institution in the heart of the COVID-19 pandemic. 

At twenty years old, I had to say goodbye to musical theater one last time as I wasn’t accepted into the music program I wanted to be in. But little did I know this would set me up for success. Still struggling to be involved in my college community, I found a home in my school’s newspaper and radio station.

At twenty-one years old, I began pursuing my career in the sports world. I started to take my healing journey more seriously, figuring out what worked best for me at that moment in time. Some things worked well, others not so much.

At twenty-two years old, I was a first-generation college student who graduated with a Bachelor’s degree and two minors and loads of experience under my belt. From there, I set out to complete my Master’s.

At twenty-three years old, I finally found a journey in healing myself from the issues presented at sixteen and seventeen years old with what I thought was my space to belong in. It wasn’t, and that’s okay.

At twenty-three years old, I took up my Master’s and self-love coaching as a way to further my education and mission of advocating for accessible mental health resources.

At twenty-three years old, I watched a football player legally die on the field before being resurrected and awoken three days later on the road to recovery. That was when I realized I was apart of something much bigger than myself, but I was still an important part of it.

At twenty-three years old, I am a sports journalist – eighteen year-old me would be ecstatic. 

I bring these snapshots of my life up because sports has become engrained in me from a young age. From the start, it was something that would soon become the biggest and most important part of my life. During the pandemic when I was yearning for normalcy, sports did whatever it could to bring that.

For so long, I had worried about trying to fit in a space that I thought was for me, but sports – from my youngest age – brought me into the family I was always meant to be in.

As we gear up for another football season, and my third season covering the Eagles, among other teams, I’m so thankful to be in this position. I’m very thankful to be a sports journalist and be a part of a wonderful sports community. I have a lot of healing to go from years of perfectionism, doubt and second-guessing myself affecting my mental health.

I’ve spent years dealing with disingenuous friends and acquaintances and wondering why I wasn’t good enough for the first love I was introduced to at eight years old. Even into my 20s I dealt with issues from that which affected my physical and mental health. I had traumatic experiences and came out of it. But the one thing that stayed the same no matter what position my health was in.

Football is such a great community to be apart of, and I’m thankful everyday for the position I’m in to be able to talk about it.