On February 29, 2024, at 9 am, I was on the phone with my friend with a grief that overtook me. My friend on the other end is trying to convince me of my worth. Attempting to remind me that my life is worth something, that I wasn’t a waste of time, or a failure; but I was. In my mind, I was worth nothing. I had failed. I could not see a tomorrow. I could not believe that my life and all I work for would amount to anything. My tear-stained eyes caught an orange pill bottle across the dorm room. I asked for forgiveness and opened the cap.

I grew up in a small town in Missouri. My mother was an ESL teacher, and my father was a preacher. When I was ten, we moved to Topeka because my father was called to be a pastor at another church. My father and mother put my brother and me in every sport. I remember playing rec basketball at Logan Elementary on Saturdays, and then attending volleyball practice in the evenings. When I got to high school, those two sports stuck. My first year was a rough one. I was barred from athletics because of my epilepsy, and that was a very tough pill to swallow. But I worked hard to get back into shape for my sophomore year and decided to switch sports. I joined the cross-country team to help keep me in shape for basketball. I could never have guessed that switching would lead me to be able to continue running in college. That was a goal that I had never deemed to be possible. Running gave me a reason; it was my worth. It made college a reality.

Washburn was my first college offer. I still remember my first phone call with coach Granato. I could imagine myself running in the jersey and chasing success; he sold me the dream. I felt a weight come off my shoulders, bringing me peace. I thought I had a home and knew I could run with freedom, no longer worrying about the recruitment process. But I should have listened to the words of a former teammate in high school who ran at Washburn and quit after her first year. She warned me not to go; she told me the coach was cold and uninviting, and she felt alone. Talking about how her teammates treated her and how she had lost her love for running. I doubted her; I believed my story would be different. I felt that maybe she wasn’t mentally tough, or that perhaps she was exaggerating. Looking back now, I feel ashamed that I even doubted her. She had the same struggles, and we both had very similar treatment, yet I questioned her.

When I had my first practice, I had rose colored glasses on. My story would be different. I could keep up, I was tough, and I could face any difficulty that would come my way. Moving into the dorms brought me joy; finally meeting my roommates, whom I was excited to see. I fully believed that we would all be friends and that we would all get along. That was a naive thought. The reality of life sets in; you break off into your “cliques.” This is normal, but the treatment was not. It was neither healthy nor productive. It was harmful to the team culture as well. There was always a slight undertone of condescension. I felt very suffocated, the constant mental comparison, and with the fear of social rejection, you thought that you could not make one wrong step, and with a disconnected coach, he could not see the issues plaguing this team’s success.

Yet, with all of these struggles, I couldn’t bring myself to walk away. Quitting did not feel like an option. I believed that no one would understand, and they would see it as another failed story. A story of a college athlete who was not tough enough to handle the stresses and the work that came with the name. The title was significant to me. It gave me worth and was a trophy in my mind. I had made it; I was finally something. I felt that I was making my family proud, giving my name worth. But with all of these stresses, it takes a toll. In January, when I got back from winter break, I suffered a season-ending seizure. I felt my dream begin to collapse. All I had worked for was going away; all I had planned disappeared. I have had epilepsy since I was nine years old, and I am familiar with all of the side effects that come with the disorder. But I was not prepared for the insomnia that took place because of it. I would go days without even an hour of sleep, my body was tired, my school work suffered, and I would not get out of bed to eat or shower. I was in denial about my depression. A depression that left me paralyzed and isolated.

My breaking point was when an argument erupted in my dorm room on February 29. I felt I had failed the people around me. I was not a good teammate, friend, or student. I was done with life. My running career was gone, and any sort of comfort I felt that I had left. I knew it was time to go when I spotted the orange pill bottle across my dorm room. This feeling overwhelmed me; I could not believe my life was worth anything anymore. Running had given me a purpose, and it was gone. So I unscrewed the cap and poured the medication into my mouth. The lights were gone, and the pain that I felt disappeared until I woke up in an emergency room. I felt ashamed and angry at the same time. I was so mad that I was alive. I wanted to be gone.

I spent three long days at a mental health hospital. Sitting with people that I would not even think about talking with if we were not in the same sweatsuit and sticky socks. It taught me many lessons and is an experience that I will take with me for the rest of my life, but the day I was scheduled to leave, I felt a paralyzing anxiety. The same anxiety that got me in the hospital in the first place. When I went back to school, I was hoping that I could be received with empathy and understanding from coaches and teammates alike. That was far from the case. I felt that I was abandoned. I needed support, but instead, I was met with silence. The coaches who recruited me also left me with more questions than answers. I was told that because I had “quit,” staying in communication was inappropriate, yet I still had the jersey hanging in my closet.

These lessons teach you who your friends are; most were not the women who wore the same jersey as me. Hearing what people were saying about you was the most hurtful thing. Having them turn their back in an instant was unbelievable. The memory that hurt me the most was being in the hospital and realizing that my best friend on the team had completely gotten rid of me in an instant. Deleted me from her life, blocked me on everything, refused to speak to me, and got rid of every photo of me. The same people who preached mental health took every bit of me.

While there were losses, I look back and realize how much I gained. While my plan for myself did not come to fruition, as time passed, I realized I didn’t want it either. Each day that passed, the wound that felt exposed slowly began to close and disappear. While it was not easy, I found people who were my support system. The friends I had reminded me that I was worth so much more than how fast I can run around a track. They built me up and supported me through my grief and my joy. I had a professor who believed in me. He changed my plan for myself, and met me with the needed empathy. He gave me the strength to have a voice and made me realize that the title was not all that I was worth.

I chose to be silent for a year. I wanted to find forgiveness and peace for the people who hurt me. I wanted to see change. I wanted to see young women wear the jersey, get a taste of the dream, and complete the race. I have found that my life is worth hanging up the spikes and closing that chapter. But why should athletes be faced with that choice? Feeling so weighted down that they think they must give up something that gave them peace is unfair. The athletes should be taken care of by the same people who recruited them, and I have yet to see that. Having to see young women like me go through the same struggles year after year is not a change. Making excuses and preaching about mental health, while turning your back on an athlete when it is time to practice what you preach. Trying to sweep the issue under the rug and refusing to make a change is doing a disservice to the students and the families who entrusted that their child would be taken care of. If this is how we handle issues like this, we have failed. The trophies we chase should not be at the cost of the athletes bringing them home. We fail to examine the retention rates and ask why the athletes leave. We are caught up in what they can do for us instead of how this experience can uplift them. The athletes who are the faces of this university and its athletic success should have the same protections that we are willing to give the coaches. Choosing between their life and the sport should not be the sport.