Sierra Enge plays midfielder for both Stanford University and the United States U20 women’s soccer team. At Stanford, she was part of the 2019 national champion winning squad that knocked off North Carolina in PKs. Below, in her own words, Enge shares what the last few weeks have been like as an athlete in quarantine.
Six weeks ago, I was in the Dominican Republic playing for the United States U20 women’s soccer team in the CONCACAF final against Mexico. Though we had already qualified for the World Cup to be hosted by Costa Rica and Panama in August, we were determined to win the tournament.
The following day I flew back to Stanford with a first place medal and an entire row to myself on the flight.
I was so happy, I started planning out my next few months while still in the air. We were supposed to have a training camp in Spain in April and two domestic camps in June and July. I knew I had to craft a spring quarter class schedule that would allow for these absences, and I was already trying to communicate my availability to my summer internship.
Fast forward to today, and I am now quarantined at home with my family taking online classes and working out on my own. Like billions of people around the world, I have no idea what the next few months hold. In just a few short weeks, I went from a period of excitement where my biggest stress was figuring out how to manage my time, to a new period of uncertainty and unknown (and plenty of free time).
I do not know when the next US training camp will be, or if the U20 World Cup will happen in August. I do not know when I will be seeing and training with my Stanford teammates again. Simply put, I do not know what the future holds.
My spring season at Stanford has been cancelled and I am now responsible for training and working out on my own while preparing for both a U20 World Cup and my fall college season, both of which are now in doubt. This spring was going to be crucial for our preparation at Stanford. Though we lost some important seniors to graduation, those of us returning are determined to win back to back national championships. Everyone was excited to get after it in spring and set the tone for the upcoming season.
For a team sport like soccer, training together is essential. Movement on and off the ball and some of the finer intricacies of the sport are nearly impossible to work on individually. Perfect cohesion within your 10 person group is required to attack and defend effectively. You can’t practice playing with other people when you’re by yourself. In addition, there is a difference between being in shape and being in soccer shape, and the only way to really be fit for a full 90 minute game is to play in games.
Another important aspect of our team that is gone is the social piece. My Stanford teammates are my sisters. We have so much love for each other and truly enjoy the time we get to spend together. This bond is what makes us click on the field.
In contrast, I’m not as close with my US teammates, as we come from all over the country and all different schools, meaning that having those camps together was going to be vital for us growing closer and bonding as a team. We are on a mission to win the U20 World Cup for our country for the first time since 2012, and we want to do everything possible to give us an advantage.
Not only am I away from my teammates and unable to play in games, but the role of soccer and sports in my life has totally changed. I used to wake up on the weekends to watch Premier League games and break up my homework during the week by watching the Lakers defend Staples Center. This part of my life is now temporarily gone, and I miss watching athletes push themselves and compete to the very best of their abilities.
This time away, however, has made my love for soccer and sports evidently clear. I am eager to be able to turn on the TV again and for there to be so many live sports on, that I have to take a moment to decide which one to watch. I also know that when I finally step back onto the field, I will play with both joy and a newfound appreciation for the sport. When the ball hits my foot in my first game back, I will definitely have a smile on my face.
One of my favorite mantras is “control what you can control.” During this time of so many uncontrollables, I am finding things I can control.
I am lucky to have an older brother who plays soccer at Tufts University and a younger sister who is going to play at Pepperdine in the fall. The three of us have been able to find open fields and make the most of our training. I am also lucky to live near the beach with awesome running trails to maintain my fitness.
If the coronavirus has given me anything, it’s time. Time that I may not always have to work on my weaknesses and develop new areas of my game, as well as time to work on those parts of my life that aren’t soccer. I am reading, doing puzzles, and practicing meditation. Most importantly, the virus has also given me more time with my family.
It is truly incredible how quickly things in your life can change. Rather than seeing my Stanford teammates everyday, I am calling them via Zoom. Rather than being in camp with the US, I am training on my own and staying in touch with my teammates and coaches via text and email.
I went from the high of winning a National Championship and a CONCACAF title within three months of each other to being home with absolutely no idea as to what comes next.
Despite these peaks and valleys, I am controlling what I can control and making the most of my time. Still, I feel for the college athletes whose seasons got cut short and cancelled. I feel for all the Olympians who were training for their shot at a gold. And I feel for athletes of all levels who can no longer train and compete as they used to, because I know just how important sports can be to someone’s identity and sense of purpose.
I urge everyone to control what you can control. Stay positive and know that the moment you get back to playing the sport you love, you will do so with a newfound passion and intensity.
Shawna Gordon played as a midfielder for Sky Blue FC, the Boston Breakers, the Western Sydney Wanderers in Australia, and Umeå IK in Sweden. Below, she takes us through her favorite pairs of kicks.
SHOE SURGEON X TWIX AIR JORDAN 1
I don’t usually do too much color, but I love this shoe because both the blue and white part of the sneaker have different material underneath that can be exposed when torn. There were only 100 pairs made, and it’s basically 3 shoes in 1!
AIR MAX 95
I was never a huge fan of the 95’s because of how bulky they look on some on people, but this is the most comfortable shoe I own. I love the material and love that they’re naturally dyed to get this great colorway.
AIR FORCE 1
Can’t go wrong with the classic white AF1. They are one of my everyday go-to’s, which is why I purchase a white and black pair almost every 6 months. These in particular have a thicker sole, which I love!
AIR VAPORMAX
I don’t wear these VaporMax’s with everything, but when I do decide to, I fall in love all over again. I prefer the laceless over laces and love this clay-green color.
AIR FORCE 1
AF1’s are one of the most iconic Nike sneakers out there. I love a good classic silo, but I’m also a sucker for gum soles, which make these one of my favs!
AIR JORDAN 1
The AJ1 is my favorite Jordan silo, and these Pandas can be worn with any color and anything. I love them so much, I have 2 pairs 🙂
Veganism saved me. I know what you’re thinking—veganism saved you?
It sounds dramatic, sure, or maybe like I’m joking. But I promise you it’s the truth.
I’ve been a professional soccer player for eight years now, going all the way back to 2012. In 2016, I had my worst professional season.
There were personal struggles off the field that were affecting my on field performance, and, long story short, I just didn’t feel like myself anymore. It felt like I was sleepwalking through someone else’s life. I no longer felt confident on the pitch, which had always been a source of energy for me.
I knew something needed to change.
I didn’t know it was my diet.
But after that season, I took a hard look in the mirror and promised myself that I would turn it around in the offseason. I wanted to re-examine every part of my approach—my mentality, my fitness, and yes, my diet. Everything was on the table, because I needed to get back to feeling like myself.
And then I found veganism. Or I guess veganism found me.
I had already been cooking mostly vegetarian meals for a month or so before I made the full transition. Initially, I was just curious. Because it was the offseason, I knew I had some leeway to experiment. Though I’d read some accounts from players raving about the vegan lifestyle, never in a million years would I have guessed that taking animal protein out of my diet was just what I needed to turn my life around.
Right away, I noticed positive changes. I wasn’t as tired between workouts. I was quickly getting leaner, and sleeping a whole lot better. I started knocking off my fitness goals with ease. I dropped 20lbs, which made long-distance running much less of a struggle. My endurance improved, and I was able to run at a faster clip without feeling fatigued.
At 5’10”, I’m already on the bigger side for a soccer player, so changing my physical composition was a huge positive for my game. And people noticed. As the offseason went on, I’d have friends and teammates approach me and ask about how I’d managed to so quickly change my physique. Of course, running six days a week and lifting for three helped. But it was my diet that allowed me to train as hard as I was training during that time. I had always spent the offseason running and lifting, but I’d never gotten these results.
Now, I’ve come to genuinely believe that veganism isn’t just a nice alternative, but truly the optimal diet for an elite athlete. I can tell you right now that I’m not going back. As a professional, I’m always looking for habits that give me the best chance to succeed. And after seeing what a plant-based diet has done for me over these past few years, I know that it’s the cleanest way to eat, and that if I want to compete, it only makes sense for me to continue giving my body the proper fuel it needs to function.
Of course, if you’re serious about making the transition, I would recommend talking with a nutritionist to make sure you have a plan to support your needs. You can’t just cut out meat and not add protein elsewhere. When I was making the switch, I talked to my club’s nutritionist in order to ensure that I was still getting the proper nutrition. We talked about supplements, like iron and b12, and went over which plant foods contained the proteins I needed for gaining mass and helping my muscles repair.
What a lot of people don’t realize is that pretty much all plant foods contain protein. Some even have a higher protein-per-calorie count than meat.
Another underrated aspect of going vegan is just how fun it can be. Seriously. It forces you to focus on what you’re putting into your body in a way that you never have. People aren’t just being cutesy when they call it a lifestyle. It really does change the way you relate to your body, which impacts every single aspect of your life.
Plus, if you like to cook like I do, discovering substitutes for dairy and meat can be an enlightening experience. I routinely make meals for family members, friends, and teammates, and more often than not, they are shocked that what they are eating is both vegan and delicious.
To say veganism saved me might sound over-the-top, but the truth is that transitioning to a plant-based diet gave me the opportunity to really take ownership over a central part of my everyday life. It helped me re-discover the confidence and sense of self that I thought I had lost. It meant I was healthy and happy and focused, which helped me pull myself out of the rut I’d been in.
I can, without even a sliver of doubt, say that I will continue on this path for the rest of my life. I already know how much it has helped me, and that’s not even taking into account the good it does for both the environment and the welfare of the animals who we share this planet with.
My recommendation? Give it a try. You might just surprise yourself.
“I’ll never be an Olympian,” I wrote. “But I hope you remember me for being a great teammate that was always there when you needed me.”
In my mind, this was a resignation letter to my teammates. I had already sat out of my senior cross country and indoor track seasons with an injury, and it was unlikely that I’d be healthy enough to compete in the outdoor track season either.
I had come to Stanford with big hopes, dreams, and expectations. But with just a few months left in my final season — after five years of nagging injuries that sidelined me for most of my college career — I faced the realization that my dreams would remain just that. I was not going to achieve my running goals. At the very least I could take solace that I had aided in others’ successes.
Coming to terms with this was incredibly difficult.
After my first stress fracture freshman year of college, I decided that I needed another outlet. I doubled down on my schoolwork, diving headfirst into my International Relations major. I took courses on everything from the Israel-Palestine conflict to water treaties in India and Pakistan. I interned at the United Nations and U.S. Department of State, and I was mentored by the likes of former U.S. Ambassadors and Secretaries of State. My athletic career wasn’t going how I hoped it would, but luckily, Stanford had a lot to offer outside of track and field.
Fast forward a few years. My final outdoor track season was beginning and, to my surprise, my latest injury had healed faster than anyone expected. Somehow, I was healthy.
But healthy and fit are two different things. I hadn’t run in nearly two months, and in a sport that demands consistency, I was pretty far off the mark. I knew my chances of success were low, but I had one last opportunity to see what I could do. A “hail mary” if you will. I was willing to put myself out there and try. I had to. If not for anything else, then for my teammates, to show them it was possible to be brave and bounce back.
By the time the first race of the season rolled around, I had run on the ground only nine times. I raced to marks in the 1500 meter that in fitter times of my career would have been pedestrian paces. But by the end of the season, and “racing” my way into shape, I had begun to find my stride and narrowly qualified for the regional championship.
The meet was held in Austin, Texas, where it was 100-degrees and 99% humidity. Adversity, though uncomfortable, played to my advantage. Over the next two days, I dove at the finish line twice, nabbing fifth place in both heats. It took everything I had, but I managed to advance to nationals.
At nationals, I had imposter syndrome, and I had it bad. I knew I was less fit than my competitors, and I had a gnawing feeling that I didn’t belong. But in the semi-final race, I pulled out my diving finish once again, crossing the line just ahead of a former NCAA champion to secure a spot in the final.
To say that I wasn’t expecting this would be an understatement. I was ranked 127th in the NCAA coming into postseason competition — a blip on the radar considering my injuries. But there I was in the top 12, my chances at becoming a national champion the same as everyone else lining up beside me.
I remember walking up to the line, the sound of the starter gun, the burst of adrenaline as I took my first strides. With 400 meters to go, it was anyone’s race. 10 of us flew around the final curve, and six of us swished across the finish line.
Time doesn’t actually slow down at moments like this, but you have a moment-to-moment awareness of your surroundings that’s hard to describe. Everything — the crowd at Hayward Field, the other five runners on my sides, the injuries, the lack of fitness, all of it — faded into the background for a few seconds as I stretched every fiber of my being across the line.
In unison, we all turned our heads to the scoreboard. Turned out I was sixth.
I sighed in disbelief — I was so damn close, just tenths of a second from a national title. But I was in it. I had a shot.
I was proud of my two-month journey from middling prospect to championship contender, but I can’t pretend I wasn’t disappointed. Years of injuries had made me a more well-rounded person and a better teammate, but that experience — jumping into the outdoor season out of shape and unprepared, only to find myself an arm’s length away from being a national champion — reignited a flame that I thought had long been extinguished. For the first time in years, I felt the old hopes and dreams creep back in.
I had told my teammates that I would never be an Olympian. But that no longer sat right with me.
In the fall of 2018, I moved to Bend, Oregon, to join Littlewing Athletics, a unique running club with an all-female roster, a female coach, and a women’s athletic brand (Oiselle) as our primary sponsor. Our coach, Lauren Fleshman, fosters an environment that prioritizes health and happiness over performance. As an athlete who had been plagued with injuries for so many years, I needed this health-first holistic approach.
That first fall in Bend I worked harder than I ever had. I ran more miles, did harder and longer workouts, and spent hours each week in the weight room reteaching my body how to move. But I also worked smarter, which was necessary, as the months to follow were a total whirlwind.
I tried out a new event, and it worked out great. Most distance runners move up in distance as they get older, but I tried the opposite approach, and competed in a shorter distance (the 800 meter). I ran personal bests all spring and summer, and qualified for the US Championships final in the 800 meter, in my first year of competing in the event.
By the end of the meet I had finished 7th in the country. I then raced all over Europe, and won every race I stepped to the line in. I went to the most prestigious road mile in the world and finished on the podium. It felt like I was living off pure adrenaline, month after month.
It’s now 2020, and after another fall of hard work and countless miles, it’s officially an Olympic year. The trials are only months away.
I want to make the team, though with how competitive American women’s distance running is, I know it’s a long shot. I won’t define my success on whether I make the team or not, but you can be sure that I’m going to go for it. I know from my own experience that you can’t ever predict what kind of magic might happen when you give yourself a chance in a big race.
There is something very special in testing the limits of your body— it is truly a privilege to get to do. To still compete all these years later. No matter the outcome, this journey has been so worth it. I will be forever grateful that Littlewing and Oiselle took a chance on me, and even more so that I took a chance on myself to go after a dream.
From the time I first started playing volleyball, it was all I wanted to do. I loved the physicality, the competition, and being part of a team. Every moment I was on the court, I felt like a child on a playground. I even loved practice.
This passion guided me through high school and college and into my professional career. But soon, another obsession began to take hold of me: I wanted to become an Olympian. This quickly became my only focus. I was certain that if I could call myself an Olympian, my life would be complete. After that, there wouldn’t be anything else to prove. I would have reached the pinnacle of my sport. I could sit back, take a moment to relax, and appreciate my accomplishments.
But then there I was, alone, empty, and fatigued by the very thought of picking up a volleyball, just months after representing my country at the 2016 games in Rio.
I was supposed to be happy. Things were supposed to be perfect. I had set myself an ambitious goal and then I had accomplished it. But instead of feeling proud or content, I just felt lost and confused. The little girl inside of me who used to love playing for the sake of playing seemed like a total stranger, or a ghost.
I looked for ways to rekindle my passion. I set new goals.
I initially thought a season playing for Imoco Volleyball would do the trick, as my boyfriend (and now fiancé) would also be playing in Italy. But two weeks in, he walked away from his contract to return home to California. Just like that, the person I was counting on to share my downtime with — one of the primary reasons I was even in Italy — was gone.
Long story short, I got through it because I had to. As my dad often reminded me, I was a professional.
Don’t get me wrong — I truly loved the city of Conegliano, as well as my teammates, my coaches, and the league — everything, really, except the actual volleyball. It felt like I was just going through the motions on the court.
I finished the season and headed home to California to train with Team USA, lifting every day and touching a volleyball 5 days a week. I still felt lost, but I didn’t have time to step away. Being a professional volleyball player means playing eight months of the year with your club team and the other four with the national team. You only get one week off the entire year.
But as I waited for my passion to come back, I used my time in California to reconnect with those aspects of my life outside of my sport that I had been neglecting. I grew my relationship with my fiancé and built a strong foundation with my group of friends at home. I made myself available to those closest to me, and by the end of summer, I was finally starting to feel like myself again.
So much so that I decided to sign with Vakifbank Spor Club in Istanbul.
Though I hadn’t fully regained my passion, I was confident I could deal with the various nuances of playing professionally abroad. On top of that, Vakifbank was indisputably one of the best teams in the world. It felt like an opportunity I’d be stupid to miss.
Yet as the 2017 season began, my confidence was immediately put to the test. I was sitting behind a veteran Turkish player in her final year, and while I appreciated the intensity of my training, it was tough to stay motivated when I barely saw the court. And though my fiancé had come with me to Turkey, he was now battling a potentially career-ending injury and had to return to California for surgery, leaving me alone and struggling… again.
When the season finally ended, I went home, physically stronger than ever before, but mentally drained. Volleyball and I just weren’t meshing. It had become a job, and everything felt 10x harder than it probably was. I found myself clinging to my days at home and just trying to make it through my days on the court. All I wanted was to spend time with my family, my fiancé, and my friends. I wanted a normal life.
I couldn’t feel the passion, and I didn’t understand why. I was stuck in the past, trying and failing to remember how I had fallen in love with volleyball in the first place. Instead of passion, I felt a profound resentment for the sport that was supposed to be the greatest constant in my life.
But here’s the thing: sometimes when you’re in the trenches of doubt and self-inquiry, the answers you need just can’t find you.
It was only when I allowed myself the space to reflect on why I was spinning that I started to get a grasp on my situation. Stepping back, I realized that dedicating myself to some specific end goal or perfect situation was a recipe for unhappiness. I had set myself up for failure by thinking that becoming an Olympian would be the answer to everything, and when it wasn’t, thinking that I just had to have one good club season somewhere in order to right the ship.
What I realized was that goals are only a small part of the picture. They may help motivate you in the beginning, but you can’t expect them to be an enduring source of purpose. I knew I had to channel the little girl I used to be, the one who loved every part of the process, not just the end results.
Now what fulfills me are the hard days, those days when it’s hour 6 of training and I can barely move, but my teammates are still making incredible plays, despite there being no trophy to earn. It’s those practices when we are scratching and clawing for points, when I’m so exhausted that all I can do is lean on the other 5 girls and know that they are doing the same. Loving those days is loving the process.
Don’t get me wrong: winning championships and gold medals will always be the greatest high — but it’s those long, exhausting days in between the big moments where I find my purpose.
If I’m able to call myself an Olympian again, I know that it’ll feel 100x bigger than my first time around, because I’m no longer focused on the wrong things. I’ve stopped obsessing over the end results, and I’m no longer always looking ahead to what’s next. I know now that my job isn’t to win this or that trophy, or make this or that team.
My job is only to play.
I am what people would consider a “perfectionist.” I can remember getting a 99 on a math test in 8th grade and immediately feeling a pit in my stomach. You couldn’t convince me that wasn’t a letdown.
This pressure has always been self-inflicted. It’s the source of both my greatest achievements as well as my most persistent anxieties.
It was this need to be perfect — this unshakable desire to make my parents and my peers proud, despite their insisting that they already were — that used to keep me up at night, staring at the ceiling, contemplating how my life would change when I finally revealed the one secret that had been festering in my mind for years. The secret that, instead of fading with time, had forced its way deeper into my thoughts and feelings with each passing day.
Will they still love me? Will they still be proud? Will they still want to be my friend?
I asked myself these questions again and again.
What will change when I tell them that I think I am gay?
For years, I was able to bury these incessant questions by throwing myself into my sport. When I was on the field, and only when I was on the field, I could quiet the voice in my head. Then the questions surrounding my identity and how it might damage my closest relationships would disappear. On the field, I was a soccer player. And I was only a soccer player.
Rather than reflect on who I was, I thought about ways to train and which college I should play for. But once I was settled at Penn State University, I found myself with more time on my own and more individual freedom. I could no longer perpetually ignore my internal confusions by being entirely consumed with something else, and so I finally allowed myself the space to explore my sexuality.
By sophomore year, I had my first steady relationship. I tried to keep it quiet, but — as many of you know — there’s no hiding things from your team. I realized that despite my best efforts, they’d find out eventually. I knew I had to tell them first.
I remember sitting one of my teammates down and, my voice shaking, finally confessing my innermost secret.
“Okay, so you’re gay,” she blankly replied. “What do you want to do for lunch?”
I couldn’t have been more relieved. What I considered this huge secret, this monumental revelation, didn’t change our relationship at all. And as the rest of my teammates found out, not one of them judged me, shunned me, or looked at me any differently. They didn’t care.
It was this initial relief that gave me the courage to officially come out to my older brother Kevin. Sitting on an old couch in the living room of my college house, I wiped the sweat off my palms and took out my phone. Struggling through trembling fingers, I typed, “Hey” into the message field and sent it to him.
“Hey,” he replied.
“I’ve got something to tell you,” I wrote, working up the courage to type those words that I’d held close for so long.
“Oh yeah?” he inquired.
“I think I’m gay.”
“You think?”
“I’m gay,” I wrote, as my heart leapt from my chest.
I watched the three bubbles bob as he typed, my stomach churning with each passing moment. And then, it appeared. Kevin replied,
“I’m so proud of you. You’re always going to be my little sister. I don’t care who you love, I will always love you.”
After coming out to Kevin and receiving his support, I felt liberated to tell the rest of my family. I also started to open up with my friends and teammates about my relationship and my life in general. All my fears, constant companions for so many years, were proven inconsequential. My family, my friends, my teammates: they didn’t care who I loved, as long as I was happy.
Soccer went from being my escape to becoming an incredible support system. By finally letting myself be vulnerable, by sharing the parts of myself I’d previously kept hidden, fearing they were “too different” to share, I was able to connect with my friends and teammates on a deeper level.
As I sit here now reflecting on my own story and all of the twists and turns that have led me to this point, I can’t help but feel grateful. I grew up with an extremely loving and supportive family that molded me into the person and athlete I am today. Their love, along with the support of the soccer community, has helped me realize that of all the successes a person can achieve, the greatest is being proud of exactly who they are.
Even though I’ve only just scratched the surface of my self-understanding, I’ve learned that what was truly bothering me wasn’t being gay. It was the uncertainty surrounding it all. I was worried that being gay was an imperfection. I was worried that being gay would let other people down. But when I was consumed by these concerns regarding other people’s opinions of me, I was worried about things that were simply out of my control.
Now, instead of focusing on the different ways outsiders may perceive me, I reflect on all of the people in my life that love and support me unconditionally. I focus on treating others with respect, and I trust that the values of decency and kindness form the only compass I truly need.
So, what changed when I came out to my family and friends?
Nothing, or almost nothing. My family still loved me, and my friends were still my friends. None of our relationships were any different. Only my own self-perception was transformed: I discovered more confidence, insight, and perspective than I could have ever hoped for.
It was just after I learned I was pregnant that I heard the Jamaican national team would be having their first camp in two years, in the spring of 2018.
Fast forward to the fall, and there I was with Josiah, my eight-week-old son, biting my nails as I watched the national team go into penalty kicks against Panama with the first ever World Cup birth for any Caribbean team on the line.
We won. We were going to the World Cup.
I was so happy for the squad and for Jamaica as a whole. I immediately facetimed my mom, crying. Then I reached out to our head coach, Hue Menzies, and told him that I would do everything I could to be ready for our January camp. I had just been cleared to start running again, and I had my first session with my strength and conditioning trainer the day after the match. I walked into that workout as motivated as I’ve ever been.
Every athlete has been told that it’s all mental – that perseverance is simply a matter of having the right mindset. I’ve heard coaches say it at the end of training, when everyone is gassed but we still have more conditioning. I’ve heard teammates say it when I thought my arms were giving out but I still had another set of push-ups to do.
I even heard it in the delivery room. 27 hours, 18 of them unmedicated – all mental, I was told.
But even then, and even after hearing it again and again throughout my 21 years of competitive sports, it was only after I became a mother that the phrase truly began to speak to me.
I had no reason to think that I wouldn’t be able to compete again at the highest level. Besides a long labor, I hadn’t had any complications in my delivery. I knew other NWSL players who had returned to form after giving birth, and I had closely followed Serena Williams during her comeback. She has long been someone I admire, which made her return to the court as a mother especially inspiring.
But one thing I failed to anticipate was just how much hormonal change my body would go through post-pregnancy. I wasn’t prepared for how easily these changes would manipulate my headspace. For instance, right before we were discharged from the hospital, I couldn’t figure out how to adjust Josiah’s car seat. I had a complete, spontaneous meltdown, telling myself I should have practiced this ahead of time. It was such a small issue, but my emotions just snowballed out of control.
It was then that “it’s all mental” started to make sense to me. I realized that each and every day, I would first have to get my head right before I could tackle all of the responsibilities that came with being both a new mother and a professional athlete.
My first months back in training were some of the most intense I’ve ever had. I would get up each morning, take my son to training, breastfeed him when I was finished, drive an hour back home, somehow find time to shower and eat, and then head back to the indoor facility for my technical session with my son in his stroller. This was my daily routine until I finally joined my club, the Washington Spirit, in DC for preseason.
It wasn’t easy, and the fact that I was rarely able to get a full night’s sleep certainly didn’t help. But the training itself always mellowed things out. I felt calmer after workouts and more in control of things.
My husband is also a professional athlete, and I will never forget how during my preseason (which was his offseason), before we could find a nanny, he would get up every morning at 4:30am to get all of his training done by 8 so that he could spend the rest of the day with Josiah while I was training. There were also camps in Jamaica when both my mom and my mom-in-law had to come along and tag team childcare, as I was still in the process of weaning Josiah and couldn’t leave him for a week. It means everything to me to know that my family not only believes in my dreams, but also sacrifices for them, too.
On the one hand, being a mother means that everyday I wake up and am needed. I am loved so fiercely by this tiny human who wants nothing more than to simply be nurtured. On the other hand, being a professional athlete means having to prove myself every time I step onto the field. It means fighting every day to earn my spot, knowing there are always others working to take my place, and they don’t care that I might be a little sleep-deprived.
There are days when it feels like it’s been forever since I’ve played competitively. These are the days when I wonder if I’ll ever be as good as I once was, when it seems like every touch is a bad touch, or I keep forgetting to track back, or I’m simply too tired too early into training. Sometimes I can’t keep focus and start looking in the direction of my phone during drills, thinking about Josiah. I’ll stare at him after practice and wonder if I should step away from the pitch and focus on just being a great mom and wife.
But when I give myself the space to reflect on it, I know that by continuing to follow my dreams I am showing my son what it means to live an impactful life. I am showing him that it’s possible to be committed to both your passions and your family, that you can still serve others as you chase your own goals. I know that my purpose on and off the pitch is to set an example in the way I work and treat others around me. My hope is that when Josiah is older he can look back on what I’ve done and know that if I could play in a World Cup a year after giving birth, he can do anything he is willing to work for.
Through it all – the sleepless nights, the exhaustive training, the emotional and physical highs and lows of balancing motherhood and competitive soccer – I’ve had to dig deeper into myself and my faith than ever before. I’ve had to ask myself each time I see my son and each time I step onto the pitch, how can I be the best version of myself, for my family, my teammates, and my country?
Little routines can help. Everyday during my commute, I listen to a sermon. It helps me feel like I’m putting on armor before I even step onto the field. I also take time each morning to reflect on what I’m most grateful for. Almost always, it’s my family that tops the list.
I can honestly say that being a mother has only grown my love for the game of soccer. I can’t imagine myself working toward anything else at this point in my life. Knowing that it’s not my sole purpose has allowed me to better focus while I’m on the field and play with a sense of peace. I know that no matter how I play, my son will be waiting to greet me with love.
Being able to compete in a World Cup just nine months after giving birth to a strong, healthy boy was a unique and precious blessing that I didn’t take for granted. When I stepped onto the field in Paris as a new mother, representing both my country and my family, I knew I had already won.
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.