My Words: Chasing an extraordinary life

Wisconsin Volleyball taught me the secret to an extraordinary life. 

When I came to Wisconsin, I played because I loved the sport. I continue to play because I am addicted to the journey — I have found it’s all in seeking greater meaning, the fearless pursuit of what motivates and inspires you, ignites your fire, and keeps you coming back for more. 

Our head coach, Kelly Sheffield, has always preached sports are a laboratory for life. What he means by that is behind the image portrayed by the TV and social media coverage is real applicable growth that carries far beyond the sport itself. It is tapping into more than just the skills of reading the game and making the shot. It exposes our weaknesses, forcing us to embrace vulnerabilities & learn from them. 

To play with the dreams of reaching the highest of heights within sport is to train every day, for years -- testing, growing, and fine-tuning both the body and, just as equally, the mind. I am a believer that to be an elite player, to play at the elite level for championships, you have to become an elite person. In many ways, you must live an elite life. 

But what does that mean?

Following in the footsteps of great leaders like Lauren Carlini and Haleigh Nelson, we all bought into the dream of winning a national championship. Without a thought, that has been the dream of this program. The confetti falling, the blur of teammates on the floor crying, everywhere you look hugs in hats and t-shirts declaring Wisconsin volleyball champions.

However, dreams are a tricky thing. Three final fours, back-to-back-to-back and one title. The euphoria of finally winning it all did not come without a whole lot of heartache for this group.

After sustaining a season-ending injury before the start of B1G play last year, I found it was the lessons I learned with that heartache that made my decision to return so easy. 

Our first trip to the final four was an incredible experience. In the years leading up to a goal like that you often wonder if you're doing the right things– if all this work is taking you where you want to go…it has you day in and day out envisioning that national championship moment, believing that if we win it all– it will all be worth it, and hoping, trusting, you will get there. 

But it didn’t take winning the title to learn I was looking at it all wrong. Coming so far, so close, and coming short, I realized I had been dreaming of the wrong things. 

Many of those are surface-level things. Things that alone would not be worth the sacrifices.

It is the deeper parts, the experience of working towards greatness, achieving elite status as a team and the parts that go into that. It’s the lessons, the love, the trust, the teamwork, the collective sacrifice to do something incredibly special. It’s the daily grinds, sweat-soaked practices, the constant inspiration just by being surrounded by incredibly motivated individuals. It’s the safe space to come as you are. It’s the constant push of personal and group limits. 

There is something beautiful about chasing something that will never be rewarded to anything less than hard work. Similarly, there is something about watching a team grow as a unit in the race to meet their potential. The ever-expanding heart of the family connected by a ball, a net and some lines on a floor --- those are the parts that really make up the dream for me.

I want to win championships and I chase after them with everything because I know that as much as I give, I will receive so much more than I ever could’ve asked for in return. I’ve learned to fall short of the goal doesn’t mean it wasn’t worthy of putting everything on the line for it. That's ridiculous. To win and have that idea solidified— that it is so much more than the big win itself, but what comes in the pursuit of something so hard is life-altering.

Earlier this season, after beating Michigan at home, I was making my way up the Field House steps to speak on a post-match radio interview and found myself reflecting on how different my life was this time last year. Specifically, how the perspective I had gained through five years with Wisconsin Volleyball had influenced my approach to recovery so heavily.

Last year was supposed to be my fifth and final year. It was a season that was shaping to be the best of my career quickly, and more importantly, a season that we had every feeling in the world would soon go down in the history books as Wisconsin Volleyball’s first national championship. My time on the court in this pursuit, however, was cut short. Just three weeks into the season I was scheduled for an ACL and meniscus repair surgery. 

It was a sloppy practice. We had just run those same stairs of the Field House up to the wall and back another time after getting aced again. I had just told a practice player to hold off and switch with me after this rally just because I didn’t want the break after running when my teammates didn’t get one. The first play back on the court I went up to block, landing to pivot for a transition attack with a single leg right on top of another player’s foot. There was no stopping it, yet I nearly ripped the net down trying to keep myself from crumbling. My surgeon would later say it was one of the biggest bone bruises he’d seen. 

Our setter, Sydney Hilley, looked at me and said words. What? I am not sure. I told her I felt a pop as I held my knee and breathed through my teeth. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw her hands go up to her head as she looked away. Kelly was standing at the pole on the other side of the net. He had seen the whole thing. I could see in the look on his face he thought it was over. 

I had a different reaction. 

I didn’t scream. I didn’t shed a tear. Having heard of the dreaded pops from other ACL injuries, I was in complete denial. I was convinced my kneecap just moved over and slipped back in place. I was convinced that they were wrong, that it was different. As I was lifted off the court, I completely believed this was not the end for me. 

In a way I didn’t yet understand, I was both so wrong and so incredibly right. 

Our team physician was called in to evaluate my injury. He began by performing an ACL screening test. As I laid with my back on the treatment table, he began by bending my right injured leg first. He then cupped his hands underneath my knee and pulled it towards him. I, having no idea what it was supposed to feel like, felt no pain and was further convinced I was fine.

Then he performed the same test on my left uninjured leg and I knew in a fraction of a second that the hard, strong, wall-like resistance I felt on my left was non-existent on my right. Just as quickly as I had denied an injury that would sideline me for the rest of the season– an injury that would burn my last chance at chasing a national championship with the remainder of my recruited class– I knew without a doubt I had torn my ACL and would be coming back without them the following year. 

That night, I sat by a fire outside my apartment complex alone. The last phone call I made was to my granny back home. The sudden loss of ever playing with the graduating senior class again was the hardest to swallow. I will never again hit a ball off of Syd’s hands in a Wisconsin jersey. I will never turn around to our libero, Lauren Barnes, jumping on me in celebration. Tears finally began to fall but almost as quickly they dried up again. 

In the weeks that followed, I began to realize just how much work I would have ahead of me. All the quad, hamstring, and calf muscles I had spent years building disappeared as my body shut down the use of my knee. Poof. Gone. More often than not, I found myself laughing at the pitiful muscle comparison between my right and left legs. Or for that matter the disappearance of a kneecap altogether as the swelling swallowed it. 

As the season continued, I went from being unable to so much as lift my leg even an inch off the bed, to learning to walk again. For a while, it was upper body-only workouts. The first month it felt as though each day I could do something that I simply could not do the day before. Over two months post-op, something as small as the ability to pop my heel off the table a few millimeters upon flexing my quad was a huge win. 

I was always itching to move, to stretch, to sweat. Religiously I began working through exercises with 80 percent blood flow restriction on my leg, a practice that starves the muscle and tells the body to send all the good stuff to the leg in need. For seven months, the BFR exercises continued. I moved from leg lifts on a table to assisted piston squats and beyond. For months I watched my leg turn splotchy purple hoping for some missing muscle to reappear.

As intense as the rehab itself may have been, the training room quickly became a sort of oasis for me. I met my physical therapist, Bailey Lanser, the day after surgery. As it turns out, the morning after I went down at practice was Bailey’s first official day working at UW. If you ask me, I don’t think that was a coincidence. She quickly became the person I leaned on the most day-to-day. This extended far beyond her incredible knowledge, creativity, and encouragement. The energy, genuine care, and attention she brings for every one of her patients continues to amaze me every day I’m around her. 

I would send messages throughout each match to teammates when I noticed them execute something they had been working on in the practice gym. I’d follow up with seniors, dying to know everything — from what was said in team huddles and locker rooms, to what the energy was like on the court.

I quickly learned that this change in roles — from a starting player to a sidelined mentor and supporter — was once again pushing me out of my comfort zone and stretching me as a person. Just when I had thought I had fully grasped what I was looking for out of my experience with Wisconsin Volleyball, it proved it had more to offer. As the season evolved, I found it very fitting for this point in my career. With redshirting my freshman year and gaining more playing time each year to follow, I was able to better connect with each player and their struggles whether they were playing every point or not at all. 

Several interviewers have asked how crushing it was to not have been able to play in our program's first NCAA championship win. While I obviously wanted to be out there battling with my teammates, it would have hurt so much more if we had not won. We knew that year was our year, if ever. I wanted it just as bad, if not more, for that senior class. I didn’t want my injury to be a reason we fell short of the dream we had been chasing our entire careers together. When that confetti finally fell, it was so much bigger than the players standing on the court at the time. That goal had defined this program long before we had arrived. 

They say challenging times are when you find out who you are. In many ways, Wisconsin Volleyball accelerated that process for me. My injury solidified that. 

Somewhere along the way I’ve developed, to an extent, an unshakable confidence. This doesn’t mean I am never uncomfortable or nervous. It does mean that as I have learned what it is I value most, what ignites my fire, I’ve learned to trust myself, what it is I love, and my work ethic. I have discovered a real empowering sense of freedom to be myself and a fearlessness to chase whatever it is that sparks my interest. 

There is a genuine excitement I constantly have for life and all the potential it holds.

I love learning what it is I can pull off next, what things I’ll stumble upon, and what challenges I’ll run into in pursuit of it all. I’ve learned the adventure that comes with the chase is the best part. Often it is the time when all goes wrong that makes for the best story. All the small parts, good and bad, add up to the extraordinary. 

I love the way in which the chase shapes the people doing the chasing. The harder and faster they run, the more they develop. The value at the ‘end’ so often hides in the journey it took to get there. 

The real fun now exists in finding out just how good we can get, who we can become.

In that same meeting with Kelly, he had told me then that I would appreciate this season differently than the rest. 

While I have always been incredibly grateful for my time with Wisconsin Volleyball, I have found this to be true.

My first game back in the field house, the parent section was filled with number 18 t-shirts-– my friends, family, and rehab crew supporting my return. Something about having them all there, especially the rehab crew at a time when playing again was still so new and at times so unsettling, was very grounding and comforting. 

Throughout the warm-up, as I could finally run out to the center court for the team huddle, once again getting to stretch, skip and pepper with my teammates, I found myself reflecting on the road I’ve traveled similarly to the run up the Field House stairs for that radio interview. The most exciting part? My journey here in Madison has not yet finished and I plan on having one hell of a story to tell in the end. 

Remember… the fire is what keeps you warm, not the smoke.

Did you enjoy reading this? Read more My Words stories from the Badgers here.