People think the hardest part of becoming a professional beach volleyball player is learning to hit harder, jump higher, or dive farther.
They’re wrong.
The hardest part is deciding who you’ll be when everyone else wants you to choose a side.
I was twenty years old when I qualified for my first full season on the WPVA tour. For years, I’d watched women fight for every inch of respect the sport received. We didn’t have the biggest television contracts. We didn’t have overflowing prize money. Sometimes our crowds were smaller than the men’s. But every woman I met believed she was building something bigger than herself.
That’s why, when rumors started spreading that the AVP wanted to bring women into its events, everything changed.
Some players celebrated.
Others were furious.
Every tournament felt less like volleyball and more like politics.
Veteran players reminded us that the WPVA had given women a place to compete when very few people cared about women’s beach volleyball. They said leaving would betray the athletes who had built the tour from the ground up.
Others argued that the future belonged with the AVP. Bigger sponsors. Better television coverage. Larger audiences. Maybe, finally, enough money that women wouldn’t have to coach clinics every Monday just to pay rent.
Both sides made convincing arguments.
And both sides wanted rookies like me.
One afternoon after practice, a respected veteran sat beside me in the sand.
“You’ve got potential,” she said. “But talent isn’t enough. We need young players who believe in what we’re fighting for.”
The next day another athlete pulled me aside.
“If women want equal opportunities,” she said quietly, “maybe we have to stop protecting the past.”
Neither conversation was really about volleyball.
They were about loyalty.
Soon people stopped asking how my shoulder felt or whether my passing had improved.
Instead they whispered.
“Which side is she on?”
I hated that question.
Not because I didn’t care.
Because I cared about everyone.
The WPVA had given women opportunities that hardly existed a decade earlier.
The AVP had resources that could help women’s beach volleyball grow beyond anything we’d imagined.
Why did believing both make people think I believed in neither?
Then came the tournament that changed me.
A sponsor unexpectedly reduced its funding only days before the event. Prize money dropped. Players panicked. Some blamed the WPVA leadership. Others blamed the AVP for competing over sponsors. Rumors spread faster than serves across the net.
The locker room became divided.
People who had laughed together all season suddenly ate lunch at separate tables.
Warm-ups became awkward.
Even partners argued.
That weekend I lost in the second round.
Not because the other team was better.
Because I couldn’t stop thinking about everything happening off the court.
As I sat alone near the shoreline after my loss, one of the oldest players on tour walked over carrying two bottles of water.
She wasn’t famous anymore.
She wasn’t fighting for contracts.
She simply loved volleyball.
“You know,” she said, watching the waves, “everyone thinks history is made by the loudest people.”
I nodded.
“It usually isn’t.”
She smiled.
“It’s made by the athletes who keep showing up.”
That sentence confused me.
She pointed toward the courts where volunteers were already raking the sand for the next match.
“Organizations change. Sponsors leave. Tours merge. People argue. But every generation needs players who remember why the game matters.”
I thought about all the energy I’d spent worrying about choosing the “correct” side.
Maybe I’d been asking the wrong question.
Instead of asking, “Who wins the political battle?”
I should have been asking, “How can I help women’s volleyball become stronger?”
Those aren’t the same thing.
The next season, I stopped treating players from different organizations like opponents before the whistle ever blew.
I congratulated great performances no matter whose jersey they wore.
I shared practice drills with younger athletes.
I volunteered at junior clinics whenever tournaments ended.
Some people thought I was naïve.
Others said I wasn’t committed enough.
But something unexpected happened.
The younger girls watching us didn’t care which organization our tournament belonged to.
They cared that we inspired them.
Years later, the sport continued to change. Tours evolved. Business decisions reshaped professional beach volleyball more than any athlete could control.
But I never forgot what that veteran taught me.
You can’t always control the system you’re competing in.
You can always control the example you’re setting.
If you’re a young athlete, you’ll eventually find yourself surrounded by opinions—about teams, schools, coaches, friends, even social media. People will tell you that you have to pick a camp immediately or risk disappointing someone.
Sometimes you’ll have to make difficult choices.
But never let someone convince you that supporting progress requires tearing down the people who helped build the path before you.
The strongest competitors aren’t the ones who shout the loudest.
They’re the ones who compete with integrity, respect those who came before them, and leave the game better for the girls who come after.
That’s the match I finally learned to win.
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