It’s a different kind of heartbreak to realize the one thing you loved, and thought you would be doing for the next 10 years, was actually the very same thing that was tearing you apart mentally. 

I was 12 years old and suffering through the agony of a verbally degrading coach. Now, I was not completely unaware of the ways of a tough coach; I have been around sports since I could walk, and I watched my brother go through his fair share of tough ones. I think the difference between us in sports was he always thrived off of that kind of pressure, that kind of push. Me? I crumpled. 

Stated plainly, volleyball was my life. It was the one thing that made the world go round for me. After being encouraged into it by my mother at the age of 9, I discovered I was actually quite good. After a couple seasons of recreational ball at the local YMCA and a couple more at a prestigious travel club, I was hooked.

I made it through my first official season as a middle school volleyball player where I got to play with some of my best friends. I had been appointed to my first – and only – position, which happened to be setter. Playing evoked this passion within me, and I worked endlessly to improve. 

My middle school coach was the perfect balance of fiery passion and positive motivation. She lifted me up when I got too in my head, she pushed me to make difficult playing choices and she created a hopeful, loving team environment we all looked forward to after an extensive school day.

The season went by smoothly and quickly, so the time came for me to return back to club volleyball. It was unbeknownst to me this first ever school season would be the very last time my eyes lit up when thinking about volleyball.

After playing school ball, my family wanted me to play at a club where my school teammates would also be. It just made sense at the time. The club I went to was run by my middle school coach, so I was ecstatic.

I tried out, I actually made the “best” 13 year old team the club had to offer. I met my new coach who traveled here from a European country, where volleyball is truly a lifestyle.

This was shown at our very first practice. Her style was aggressive, and it did not make any sense to me, a positive peacekeeper. To say the least, she scared me. 

She was the kind of coach where you could not tell whether her aggression was due to excitement or frustration. At practice, I never knew what she wanted from me. She would tell me to do one specific thing, something new to me, but would get frustrated when it did not come naturally. I tried really hard to make her happy, just so she would no longer yell in my face.

It was embarrassing when she did it. I had to stand there in this gigantic, dusty gym that had three different courts and three different teams, and just take whatever she yelled. My teammates would look at me with concern, but I could also feel eyes burning my body from the other two courts. There were girls as old as 18 in this gym, and I can remember, to this day, the way their eyes soared over my face with pity.

In practice, I learned how to manage my anxiety. I would lean on my teammates, as her targeted frustration would bounce from me to the entire team. 

We competed once every couple of weekends in different cities. Our first ever tournament was in Birmingham, and this was the day my outlook on volleyball changed forever. We had an early morning, having to be at the complex at 7 a.m. Together we warmed up, stretched and did some ball control drills. Our first games were classified as pool play, where we just played to win and get a decent spot in our bracket. It was fine overall, just the normal pulling me aside to yell at me. This time, in front of parents as well.

When we moved to bracket play, I swear something was unleashed in her. We placed well in our seed, which led to us playing some competitive teams.

At this point in the game, we are losing. As a team, we are losing. Our opponents are killing the ball, and not one player on the back row is able to get the ball up. Not me, not the libero and not any of our defensive specialists. 

As a setter, I have two obligations: get ready to pick up a dig, and if not getting a dig, sprint to the front row to run our offense. 

I am exhausted. I have run all over this court. I have been shamed once earlier in the day for falling over a chair trying to keep a ball in play, and then I was shamed later in the day for not trying hard enough to keep that exact ball in play. Very contradictory if you ask me.

I made errors. As a volleyball player, I made some mistakes in the game. I shanked a few passes, got called for doubling a few sets and probably missed a serve. 

We lost the game, and my coach told me it was my fault. She looked me in the eyes during our huddle after the game, and she cursed at me. She told me I deserved to cry because I was the reason we lost our game.

To me, my world shattered. I was embarrassed she laid into me like that in front of my teammates and all of our parents. I was embarrassed because I felt like a complete failure.

I cried relentlessly after that game, and if it were not for my assistant coach, a true angel, I would have quit the team after that day.

Somehow, someway, I found the courage to keep going. My teammates came and found me, so we continued the season together. We made trashy names for our coach after she laid into one of us during games; we would call her behind her back, of course. We hugged and told each other to just play volleyball, forgetting the anger she tried to elicit from us.

I learned a lot about myself from this season when I was 12. I learned how to channel my own frustration. I learned how to block out outside factors. I learned how to have the prettiest hands when it came to setting. I learned how to be a great volleyball player for myself. 

But it was not enough. From then on, I would remember every single comment this woman made, how degrading she was and how scared I was to make any kind of mistake. This season would remain in the back of my mind for the next two and a half years. 

I was lucky enough to have two really amazing coaches back to back before I began life as a highschool athlete. Eighth grade I had the same coach from seventh, and then I had two amazing coaches for club ball that following spring.

I had my favorite volleyball season my freshman year of high school. Playing with my best friends, and working the hardest I have ever worked, we ended up winning a championship for our region.

In January, I entered my final season of club volleyball, this time enduring anger from a male coach. Without going into too many details, I hated the sport after him. I never wanted to go to practice, and I never wanted to go to tournaments under him. He was knowledgeable about the sport, I will give him that, but he would scream. Full, bellowing voice, he would scream at me. During games, during a tournament. In my face. To the point where I debated walking off the court, several times.

I never signed up for this. I never knew coaches who were supposed to train and encourage you, only the ones who could turn your passion and love for the sport into disdain. 

Perhaps I was too sensitive to be a serious athlete. I played my final season when I was 15 years old, a sophomore in high school. It pained me to walk out of my highschool head coach’s office, having to tell her I just could not stomach the anxiety or dread anymore. I could sense in her, too, that it stung to see me walk away. 

Reliving this is strange. I both despise these two coaches for the pain they created and thank them for making me stronger. Overall, I detest them for creating this hatred in my heart for the sport I once worshiped. 

I made the decision to walk away from the sport because it was no longer an outlet for me. Instead, it was constant mental anguish. I have forgiven these two coaches in my heart, but I am still working to forgive myself, because everyday since, I have this longing in my soul for what could have been if I had stuck with it.