The past two years have been both the most challenging and clarifying of my life. 2018 opened with surgery on both feet, my NWSL team folding, my boyfriend moving away, and the majority of my belongings getting “lost” – all before February.

Stuck on the couch with two scarred feet and an uncertain future, I felt powerless.

I had heard horror stories of NWSL players being traded or waived with no prior warning, waking up to emails that said, “pack up your bags and head to the airport.” Being young and naive, I was able to convince myself that it couldn’t really be that bad, or that it would never happen to me. Then came the announcement that my team had folded and that if I wanted to play in the upcoming NWSL season, I had to opt in to a redistribution draft by the following morning.

The draft itself was only a day later. As I watched it unfold, my teammates being sprinkled around the league without any control over their future, all of us still without an explanation as to what had happened, I finally understood just how unnerving playing in the NWSL could be.

I was picked up by the Chicago Stars, and with the signing of a contract, I had a new team. I was moving to Illinois, and that was that.

I was able to make it through the transition by relying on those elements of my character that had allowed me to become a professional in the first place. I had been living and playing abroad for years at that point, so I wasn’t a stranger to being on the move. I knew that I had to be both adaptive and resilient. But as I looked ahead to the 2019 World Cup, I began to wonder if I was doing everything I could to be at my best when the tournament started.

The national team was a priority, and the precariousness of life in the NWSL made me question whether it was the best environment in which to prepare. This was going to be my third World Cup with the Football Ferns, and the core of our team had been together for over a decade. They needed me to be ready, which meant that I needed to be willing to make the necessary sacrifices, even if that entailed taking the road less traveled.

And so, after a challenging 2018, I decided to move back to New Zealand at the start of 2019 and forgo the subsequent NWSL season.

Walking away from one of the most competitive and well-supported leagues in the world wasn’t easy, nor did it make sense to a lot of people. It had been nearly 8 years since I had lived in New Zealand, but I was still confident that it was the best place for me to mentally and physically prepare for the World Cup. I knew that making the national team my sole commitment would allow me to focus my effort and energy.

It wasn’t a simple homecoming, though. Going back to New Zealand meant that I now had to train with teenage boys to maintain my level of fitness. I was also living on the opposite side of the world from my boyfriend and needed to find work to survive the loss of my income. The situation was by no means perfect, and yet the decision to come home still felt empowering because I had made it for myself. I had taken control of my life and done what I thought was best for both me and the rest of the national team.

We’re a group that is used to sacrificing for each other. We’ve had to fight tooth and claw for everything we have, not just for results on the field, but also for better support from our federation. These challenges have made us incredibly close. I don’t know of any other national team that has such love and loyalty for each other.

It’s hard to understand unless you’ve been a part of it, which is why my decision to pivot from a more comfortable path seemed strange to others, but made perfect sense to me.

There were those for whom the bigger question wasn’t why New Zealand, but why continue with soccer at all? Why bother to fight through the injuries and all the uncertainty? These are questions I doubt I’ll ever be able to escape, no matter where I live or who I play for.

“Is there even professional soccer for girls?”

“Do you get paid for that?”

“What are you going to do after soccer?”

“When are you going to get a real job?”

Some of these are questions I even occasionally ask myself. Though I’ve worked hard to care less about what other people think, it isn’t easy. Especially now in my current situation – when I’m essentially living the life of a professional athlete minus the getting paid part.

What I’ve come to understand is that certain challenges, unfair as they may be, are just a part of being a professional female athlete today. Being underpaid and needing a part-time job, having to train with teenage boys and live across the world from my family and friends, constantly having to answer questions about what I do and why — these are things I can’t avoid but have to work through in order to live the life that I want to live.

The alternative would be giving up what I love simply because things aren’t as good as they could be.

Throughout my career, I’ve found comfort in the Leonard Cohen quote, “There is a crack in everything. That’s how the light gets in.” It reminds me that nothing is without its faults, but that without these imperfections, we wouldn’t be able to fully appreciate our experiences.

I know that neither my teammates nor I are content with the status quo. We want to see progress. We don’t think the next generation of New Zealand women should have to fight the same battles that we’ve been fighting.

But I also know that it’s precisely these battles that have made our team the most loving and supportive environment that I have ever been a part of. Playing for New Zealand has shown me that communities are strengthened by the challenges they face. It has allowed me to experience firsthand the tremendous power of a collective spirit and culture.

Similarly, the uncertainty surrounding my own professional career hasn’t always been easy to deal with. But it’s given me the opportunity to make decisions for myself and discover what truly motivates me. It has shown me that it’s the trials and the setbacks that make the wins so rich and beautiful.

For all these lessons to come through, I know there needed to be cracks.

As soon as I heard my dad’s voice, I knew something terrible had happened.

I had just gotten back from a hike in the Utah mountains — something we often do on our off days — and was hanging in a teammate’s backyard when I received the call.

“Are you home?”

“No, what’s up?”

“I need you to head home, sit down, and call me back.”

A million thoughts went through my head. I raced home, went straight to my room, sat on the floor with my back to the wall, and called him back.

My brother, Koa, had died.

Dad raised us on his own. We lived in Rancho Cucamonga, about 45 minutes inland from Los Angeles. In addition to being a single father, Dad was a cop. I remember not being able to find him at home one time, so I called 911, thinking it was his work number. He must have just been out in the yard, because when the police arrived, he opened the door to greet them.

Dad and Koa thought they were the big, strong protectors, but I always saw myself as the real protector and felt it was my duty to look out for them. With Dad heading off to work early and coming back late, it was often my responsibility as the oldest to take care of Koa. In the mornings, I’d wake him up, make breakfast, and get us out the door. In the evenings, I’d make sure we both did our homework.

He was my best friend.

As hard as I tried to be the responsible older sister, I couldn’t help but goof around with him. He used to run around the house, yelling and singing at the top of his lungs. For someone with such a horrible voice, he couldn’t have been a more confident singer. I’d try to be angry with him and get him to stop, but in the end, I’d crack and start laughing. That was all he ever wanted — to make me laugh.

From the earliest age, Dad signed us up for everything — soccer, baseball, basketball, hockey, karate, the lot. The only sport I wasn’t allowed to play was football, which was Koa’s favorite, but I always gravitated toward soccer anyways. As kids, we often played on the same team, but at home, we’d play against each other. There were no rules — we’d push and punch each other, doing anything we could to get a win. We were pretty wild, but it was all in good fun.

Those battles shaped who I am as an athlete. At 5’2”, I’ve been the smallest player on every team I’ve been on, but that has never held me back, since I grew up competing against an absolute beast at home. And as I’ve progressed through my career — playing on Youth National Teams, at Stanford, and now professionally — I’ve continued to carry that toughness with me.

Dad and Koa are a huge part of who I am. So when I came into the NWSL, I chose to wear #42 — the number both of them had worn when they played college football — in order to pay tribute to them and all of the support they had given me along the way. Seeing me run on to the field in my NWSL debut with that number on my back meant so much to them and our family.

Those first 24 hours after that call were the hardest of my life. I couldn’t eat or sleep. I felt numb. Nothing in this world can prepare you for that.

Koa had gone to a frat party, and at some point in the night, drugs were introduced. A bad mix of alcohol and drugs had shut his body down, and he was found the following morning, sitting at his desk. No one saw it coming.

I had training the next morning and a game that weekend in Utah. Everyone told me to forget about playing and go be with my family, but I knew that soccer was the best thing for me, physically and mentally. In the weeks that followed, my training schedule forced me to eat and look after myself. It forced me to get out of bed in the morning, and it kept me going when I barely thought I could get through the day. Being on the field was the only way to keep my mind off of what had happened.

There are still good days and bad days, but being on a team is a special thing. My teammates are always there to pick me up, and their love and support has helped me grow strong again.

I have only good memories of my brother — I can still hear his goofy laugh, and even just that thought is enough to make me smile. Every single day, I try to do something that I love. I try to be happy for him, since I know that’s what he’d want. And when I laugh, I know that he is with me.

I play for Koa now. In Utah, I have his name printed on the inside of my jersey. And before every game, I write his name on my knuckles.

Kalaukoa Kaha’i Kukailimoku LaBonta — I will carry your memory with me forever.

People assume that most professional athletes began as child prodigies, that they were the kids who started training as soon as they learned to walk, and then were the star of every youth team they played on. And some probably were.

I wasn’t.

I couldn’t even make my youth club’s “A” team.

Instead, my journey began with the “B” team of the Southern California Blues. And there it seemed to stall. Year after year, I watched as my fellow teammates got called up to the “A” team, while I was told that I was still too small, too slow, and just not good enough. These rejections never got easier. Each year, I was left heartbroken.

I started to doubt myself — it’s difficult not to when you’re told the same thing over and over again.

Throughout it all, my dad’s advice never changed. After each annual disappointment, he said the exact same thing: “You just have to work harder if you want it. Give it 110 percent, and dig deeper than everyone else on the field.”

My dad was my #1 fan. Before every game, he always had a Snickers and a banana ready for me. He didn’t really know soccer, but that didn’t matter. He knew enough to be able to tell whether I was playing my heart out. All of his feedback focused on my effort, rather than my skill. The only thing he cared about was that I left it all on the field.

That focus — that emphasis on effort above all else — became central to my approach. I realized that I couldn’t control my size, and that, once a tryout was over, I couldn’t control what team I was on. But I could always outwork everyone else on the field. Every practice. Every game. I could always be the most relentless.

And finally, after six years — six years of being told that I wasn’t good enough and six years of working every day to prove that I was — I made the “A” team. And not only did I make the team, but after our first training, I was named its captain.

I thought it must have been a mistake when I heard my name called. I still hadn’t even wrapped my head around the fact that I was finally on the same field as these girls, and I had just been picked to lead them. I was shocked.

What I hadn’t realized at the time was that, through all those years on the “B” team, I had been growing as both a player and a person, even when it seemed like I was stuck in place. Since then, I’ve been fortunate to play on so many amazing teams, at college, professionally in the NWSL, and abroad — and I have loved each and every one of them. But the most impactful chapter of my soccer journey — when I learned the most important life lessons — was my time playing for the “B” team of the SoCal Blues.

It was there that I learned to be accountable and to always push myself. I learned to pour all my energy into the pursuit of excellence, rather than worrying about any specific outcome.

But above all else, I learned to derive my confidence from within. No matter how many times I was told I wasn’t enough — not fast enough, not strong enough, not good enough — I always came back to my dad’s words. The confidence and life he spoke into me made me feel like I could achieve anything. My dad never told me I was the best. He told me I could be the best if I wanted to be. It was completely up to me and how hard I was willing to work for it. No matter what others thought, I had to rely on my belief in myself.

I’m the greatest futboller you’ve never heard of.

Give me five minutes and I’ll prove it to you.

Marta, Christie Rampone, Megan Rapinoe, Becky Sauerbrunn, Formiga, Carli Lloyd, Abby Wambach, Lieke Martens. Those are names you recognize — World Cup Champions, Olympic gold medalists, FIFA Players of the Year. They’re also all women I’ve played with. I’ve even captained a few.

I’ve represented my country and played in three different Champions League finals. I’ve won the Bundesliga as well as the Cups in Norway, Sweden, Germany, and France.

Which has to make you wonder, how have you never heard of me?

When I was five years old, I was given a piece of paper and prompted to decide then and there what I wanted to be when I grew up. In my fumbling, childish scrawl, I wrote “Football Player.” I couldn’t have known those words would end up guiding my life, fueling a dream I have never outgrown. Especially because I originally meant “American Football Player” — the sport my father played in college.

Since then, I have not only played alongside the greatest players in the world, but have also called seven countries “home,” learned to speak (albeit imperfectly) four different languages, and played in front of the King of Norway. Best of all, I’ve been able to make a living out of chasing my dream.

My success hasn’t been the product of natural-born talent. It was not so long ago that I was recruited as a “walk-on” in college, unable to juggle a ball more than 10 times in a row. But if I’ve learned anything from my journey, it’s that you have to have an incredible amount of stubborn belief and a whole lot of grit to make it. With that, anyone can make the impossible possible.

And somehow, I’ve done just that, reaching levels of success I could have only dreamed about but never predicted.

None of it has been easy. I’ve had to make my way without a national team backing and, even more humbling, without a shoe contract for most of my career. Despite having played for the best clubs in France, Germany, Sweden, and America, and being voted the 72nd best player in the world, I’ve had to pay for my own plane tickets to try out for international teams because they didn’t recognize my name.

It’s impossible not to think how different my journey would have been if I was a men’s player. I can’t imagine a men’s player with my resume having to fight as I’ve had to fight for recognition and opportunity. I can’t imagine a men’s player still having to pay for his own cleats and plane tickets.

But as I come to the end of my career — one that most of you have never heard of — I want you to know that none of this is said with any bitterness or regret. It is with pride and a belief that the next small town girl will have the chance to live an even bigger dream; that my career and those of the other unrecognized Greats with whom I’ve played have paved the way for younger athletes with starry eyes and crazy goals.

I want them to know that disappointment is an inevitable bump on this road, whether that means not making the team or watching your work go unappreciated. Those are the moments that help you see who you really are. Those are the moments that show you that you are stronger than you think.

Because it’s those difficult memories that I cherish the most. Yes, playing in front of 42,000 screaming fans with my country’s emblem on my chest was amazing. As was hoisting the Bundesliga trophy. But more often I think back on those times when tears were running down my face, on those moments of body-shattering pain when I felt like I couldn’t take another step but still found a way. I remember all those times I sat alone in a room, in Lord knows what country, wondering what the heck I was doing, asking myself, Am I really cut out for this? or, Is it time to walk away?

Those are the moments that let me look back and be proud of what I’ve done.

I have absolutely no professional regrets. I made it. I showed up and found a way to finish what I started when I scribbled down my dream in that wide-ruled notebook 28 years ago.

I am incredibly grateful for the experiences I’ve had, and I’m thankful for all of the lessons I’ve learned, for all the life-changing people I’ve met, and for the countless opportunities I’ve been given to discover what I’m made of. I’m confident that my struggles have left this game in a better place than where it was when I started my journey.

As this chapter of my life comes to a close, I can look myself in the mirror, hold my head high, and say, “Well done, you great. Well done.”

A week before the 2008 U20 Women’s World Cup, I blew out my knee in our last scrimmage against Argentina. I was devastated. I cried the entire flight home, knowing that I was missing the World Cup and would have to undergo surgery to reconstruct my ACL and repair my meniscus. I was also dating my first girlfriend and was certain that my family hated me for it. Though I was hopeful that they would grow to be more accepting over time (as they have), I would have given anything that summer to be out on the field rather than laid up at home.

As disappointed as I was, I knew I’d come back stronger. What I didn’t know was that that was just the beginning of my injury woes.

In January, 2017, a week before training camp with Mexico, my body went into shock as a result of overtraining. I had to miss camp and another opportunity to represent my country. June of that same year, just before another national camp, I fractured my back.

Bad luck, I told myself. Nothing was going my way, but I was determined to push through. By February, 2018, I was finally back on the field for Apollon Ladies FC, with World Cup qualifiers just around the corner.

Then I tore my Achilles.

WHOA.

Fucking whoa. That’s all I could think. I was sitting outside the imaging center in Cyprus when the doctor told me.

I immediately called my brother, 7,000 miles away back home. I cried into the phone. I couldn’t even breathe normally. I was gasping for air as I sobbed and tried to explain to him that my soccer career was probably over, which meant that my life was, too. He was able to talk me down, and his voice put me at ease for a few minutes. Then we hung up and I started hyperventilating again. I just kept thinking, there’s no way I can do this again.

But I knew I had to.

Because all I ever wanted was to make the World Cup roster and represent Mexico. And I had come so close, only to have the opportunity ripped away by injury. But after the initial shock, I knew I still wanted to play soccer. And I knew that I just needed to be healthy in order to play at the highest level.

Still, after having my Achilles repaired in a foreign country, far, far from home, it wasn’t just my body that I had to rehab. Sitting on the sidelines and dealing with PT, all while living halfway around the world from my friends and family, had caused me to fall into a depression.

Today, I can tell you that no matter the injury, the mental and emotional pain is always greater than the physical. There are programs for rehabbing all kinds of physical injuries, but there aren’t any guidebooks for dealing with the heartbreak and the self-doubt that comes with them.

What carried me through it all was my love of soccer. Even when I wanted to quit, I refused to, knowing that all the hard work, both mental and physical, would be worth it once I was back on the field. Five months after my Achilles surgery, I was starting to see a light at the end of the tunnel.

So of course, I immediately tore the labrum in my right shoulder, missed World Cup qualifiers, and had to watch from home as my country failed to qualify.

Back came all the doubt and depression. All I could do was ask myself, Why?

Why does this keep happening to me?

Why am I always fighting just to get on the field?

Why do I keep coming this close, but only this close, to living out my dreams?

I still don’t have the answers to these questions.

What I do know — what I’ve always known — is that soccer remains my greatest, truest love. No injury has or ever will change that. It is a love that drives me forward whenever life gets rough. A love that is unconditional. A love that lets me live freely, without judgement.

When I’m on the field, totally consumed by the game, there’s no better feeling. And no matter how many times I get knocked down (at this point, I can’t even keep track), that feeling always drives me to get back up.

All of the heartbreak — the inexplicable pain, the emotional struggles, the tears that stream down my face even as I write this — has made me as resilient as they come. Every physical scar has left a mental scar that has made me stronger, wiser. I know I can’t always control what happens to me, but I can choose how I respond. I can choose to dwell on the negative, or I can choose to be proactive. I can choose to give up, or I can choose to persevere.

I know that someday, maybe soon, my playing career will be over. But until then, I choose to enjoy the time that I have. I choose to play and to go out on my own terms. I choose to fight.