I still remember the first time someone told me I was “too nice” to make it in professional beach volleyball.
I was nineteen, standing barefoot on the hot sand in Southern California, watching the ocean sparkle behind rows of sponsor tents. The dream I’d chased since I was thirteen was finally within reach. I’d earned enough points on the women’s tour to compete against athletes I’d admired for years.
What nobody prepared me for wasn’t the competition.
It was the politics.
Back then, women’s beach volleyball had its own tour, the WPVA. The men played under the AVP, and everyone seemed to have an opinion about which organization would survive. Sponsors were limited. Prize money was unpredictable. Every week it felt like another rumor spread through the warm-up courts.
“The AVP is starting women’s events.”
“The WPVA is losing players.”
“They’re fighting over sponsors.”
“They’re trying to sign everyone away.”
Instead of talking about serves, blocks, or strategy, players whispered about contracts and loyalty.
One afternoon, after I finished third in a tournament, someone approached me with an opportunity.
“You’ve got talent,” he said. “But you need to think about yourself. Leave now before everyone else does.”
I wanted security. I wanted bigger crowds. Better prize money. National television.
Most of all, I wanted someone to tell me what the right decision was.
Instead, every person gave me a different answer.
One veteran told me that loyalty mattered.
Another said loyalty didn’t pay rent.
A teammate stopped talking to me because she thought I was considering the wrong tour.
Suddenly the friendships I’d built over years of training felt as fragile as footprints in the sand.
That week I called my mom in tears.
“I don’t even know if volleyball is about volleyball anymore,” I told her.
She listened quietly before asking one question.
“When you were thirteen, why did you start playing?”
I laughed through my crying.
“Because I loved it.”
“Then don’t let adults convince you to love politics more than the game.”
The next tournament changed everything.
Not because I won.
Because I lost.
In the quarterfinals, I played the match of my life against one of the best teams on the beach. We battled through three exhausting games. Diving. Blocking. Chasing impossible balls.
We lost 15-13 in the final game.
I expected to feel devastated.
Instead, I walked off smiling.
For two straight hours, I’d completely forgotten about contracts, sponsors, rival tours, rankings, and gossip.
I remembered who I was.
After the match, my opponent hugged me.
“I hope we’re still playing against each other ten years from now,” she said.
Not “I hope you sign with us.”
Not “I hope you choose the right organization.”
Just…
“I hope you’re still playing.”
That sentence stayed with me longer than any trophy ever has.
Years later, tours changed. Organizations merged, struggled, disappeared, and reinvented themselves. Athletes came and went. Sponsors changed logos. Politics shifted with every season.
But the sand stayed the same.
Every time I stepped onto the court, the score still started at 0-0.
I’ve realized something I wish every young athlete knew.
There will always be people telling you which team to join, what path to choose, who deserves your loyalty, or what success is supposed to look like. Some of those people will genuinely want what’s best for you.
Others will simply want you on their side.
The trick is learning the difference.
Don’t let other people’s agendas become your identity.
Your character isn’t built by the organization whose jersey you wear.
It’s built by how you treat teammates when things get messy, how hard you work when nobody is watching, and whether you still love the game after everything around it changes.
Because championships eventually collect dust.
The person you become while chasing them lasts forever.
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