I’ve never really talked about this, but I guess there’s no time like the present. So, here it goes.

I grew up playing sports. It was in my blood. I felt like it was an integral part of who I was and who I was meant to be. The seasons of the year were defined by the sports I played. Sometimes, I felt like I was too, and I liked it that way. That’s how I wanted it to be. That’s how I wanted to be known. I wanted to be the girl who scored the winning goal and saved the day. 

Growing up, in the fall, weekends were spent running around a soccer field and getting pieces of turf stuck in my sweaty shin guards and eating orange slices after a game. In the spring, my parents would drive me from pitching lessons to AAU games and I put one too many dents into the siding of our house from pitches gone wild. Then middle school came around and so did new trends and all of a sudden I wanted to learn how to play lacrosse like everyone else. 

I thrived in a competitive atmosphere. I used the rush of the bases being loaded or the scoreboard being tied or the game clock ticking down to feel alive. The pressure to be the best came solely from myself, never from anyone else. If I’m going to do something, I’m going to do it right. I was a perfectionist. Well, I still am. It’s both a blessing and a curse; it’s both my biggest strength and my biggest weakness. 

I always thought I was going to go to school for sports. Everyone in my family did. My dad was a basketball star who turned down NBA pre-training camps to raise a family. My mom played tennis in college and had the meanest backhand on the court. 

I always thought I was going to. I really did. And then I got sick. And a lot changed. 

My sophomore year of high school was when I quit the lacrosse team. I was in too much pain and too weak to carry in grocery bags from the car let alone run up and down the field. It was when I had to be put on home-bound instruction to finish out the year when I knew, in my bones and in my soul, that something was wrong and my body was no longer functioning the way it had been. 

The day I handed in my jersey was the day I felt like I lost a piece of myself in more ways than one. It felt like the vision I had of my past, present, and future shattered like broken glass. When you’re diagnosed with a chronic illness, in some ways, you do lose a piece of who you were and who you thought you were going to be. 

At the time, what I didn’t realize, though, was that the piece of myself that I had to give up would be replaced by a million others and who I thought I was going to be was not who I was meant to be. What I didn’t understand was that I will never be defined by a singular sport or a singular accomplishment or even a singular character trait. 

Do I miss sports? Yeah. I miss the way your teammates would wrap their arms around you in a huddle and the way everyone had to shake hands after a game, no matter if you won or lost. But I’ve also found that same support in this community. I’ve found that same sense of pride in simply being myself and being there for others. I feel just as alive helping others as I do when I would strike out a batter. I feel like maybe losing who I thought I was helped me find who I really am. 

Just to get this straight – playing sports and having IBD are not mutually exclusive. People like Carrie Johnson, Kathleen Baker, Rolf Bernischke, and so many others have shown me that. My own journey and experiences have also shown me that it just wasn’t my path, and that’s okay. It’s more than possible, but it’s also okay if it isn’t for you and your post-diagnosis body.

Nowadays, now that I have more energy, less pain, and the ability to move my body again, if you give me a softball I can still throw a mean curve ball. I still love to play lacrosse at my local field. Those skills have somehow stayed with me through everything, like muscle memory, but they no longer carry the same weight that they used to. 

They remind me of some of the best times in my life, like spending hours in the backyard practicing with my family. They remind me of some of the worst times in my life, like when I had to say goodbye to parts of my heart that I never thought I’d lose. 

When I think about it, those skills tell part of the story of my transformation – of how the girl I once was evolved into the woman I’ve become. One who isn’t defined by the sport she plays or the home run she hits. I’ve become me, just me, and maybe it took losing sports to finally realize that’s more than enough.