The final whistle blew last night at the NCAA Championship. Cheers erupted on one side of the court while tears streamed down the faces of the other. I sat in the stands, watching the scene unfold—a mixture of dreams realized and hearts broken. It’s moments like these that magnify the raw intensity of sport.
As I watched, my mind started to drift. Memories long buried in the recesses of my mind, locked away in what I often call my “small box,” began to resurface. It’s where I hide the moments too painful to process fully, the emotions I’m not ready to feel. It’s a place I rarely visit. But last night, that box flung open, and I was back in March of 2022—a moment that would change my perspective on life, sport, and what it means to chase greatness.
We were on the verge of history. My team, after years of grit and grind, had finally earned a chance to fight for the national championship. It was more than just a game. It was validation for all the hours we’d poured into training, the sacrifices we’d made, the tears shed after tough losses, and the unrelenting pursuit of a dream.
The semifinal match against the University of Alberta Pandas was destined to be a battle. The Pandas were a powerhouse, a team that seemed to dominate effortlessly year after year. But we were hungry—hungrier than we’d ever been. We stepped onto the court with fire in our eyes and determination in our hearts.
Set after set, we executed. We were leading 2-0, and though the Pandas started to claw their way back, we felt in control. That was until the end of the third set, when our world shifted.
Our left-side hitter, a cornerstone of our team, went down. I still remember the collective gasp from the crowd, the silence that followed, the way time seemed to stand still as she clutched her calf in agony. She had partially torn it—she was out for the rest of the match, and possibly beyond.
Panic swept over us like a wave. This wasn’t part of the script. This wasn’t something we had prepared for. But volleyball, like life, doesn’t wait for you to gather yourself. The game goes on, whether you’re ready or not.
Our coaches made a decision, subbing in a player who had seen little court time over her four years on the team. She was talented, yes, but untested in moments of such high stakes. The gym seemed to hold its breath as she stepped onto the court.
And then—magic.
She played with a calmness and determination that I’ll never forget. It was as if all those years of waiting for her chance had built up into this moment, and she wasn’t going to let it slip. She scored critical points, carrying us to victory and punching our ticket to the national final.
I was named MVP of the match, and I gave an emotional interview afterward. I should’ve felt elated, but deep down, I was restless. The final was looming, and we knew our left-side hitter wouldn’t be able to play. Doubts began to creep in, subtle at first but growing louder as the hours passed.
The next day, we stepped onto the court for the championship match. The weight of the moment was crushing. For the first time, I felt the pressure—not just to perform, but to lead. To somehow find a way to rewrite the story without one of our most important players.
But the game didn’t go as planned. The other team played with precision and confidence, and we struggled to find our rhythm. As the final points were scored, I felt the sting of reality sinking in. We had lost.
Standing on that court, watching the other team celebrate, I couldn’t stop the flood of “what ifs” that consumed me. What if we’d made bolder changes? What if we’d trusted that player from the semifinal more? What if…?
The “what ifs” haunted me for weeks, months, even now. They aren’t just questions—they’re reminders of how close we came, of the razor-thin line between victory and defeat.
But the pain didn’t end there. Before the final, I received one more offer to play for the Ukrainian National Team—a dream I had carried since I first picked up a volleyball. It was everything I had worked for, the culmination of years of hard work and sacrifice.
But then, war broke out in my homeland. Everything changed. Dreams that once felt so urgent suddenly felt insignificant in the face of such devastation. I had to make a choice, and in that moment, volleyball took a backseat to the realities of life.
I walked away from that opportunity, and though I know it was the right decision, it still stings. It’s another “what if” to add to the list.
As I watched the NCAA final yesterday, I was struck by a thought I’d heard years ago: “Athletes die twice: once when their career ends, and again at the actual end.”
It’s a truth that hits harder the longer you’ve been in the game. The first “death” is painful—not because you lose the sport itself, but because you lose the version of yourself that existed within it. The player who fought, who dreamed, who believed they could conquer anything.
Last night, I felt the weight of that truth again. For some, sport brings joy and fulfillment. For others, it leaves behind a bittersweet mix of pride and regret, of what was and what could have been.
To every athlete reading this: hold onto your moments. They are fleeting, and once they’re gone, they live on only in memory. Whether you stand on the podium or walk away with tears in your eyes, know that these moments shape you in ways you can’t yet understand.
For me, volleyball has been a journey of triumph and heartbreak, of “what ifs” and unforgettable highs. It’s taught me resilience, humility, and the importance of showing up—not just for the game, but for the people around you.
The box is closed again, but the memories remain. And for that, I am grateful.
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