At my peak, everything felt easy. I had cracked the code: the harder I trained, the smoother competition became. By the time I stepped into a tournament, I knew I was ready. My body moved before my mind. Shots felt automatic, like the game slowed down just for me. That rhythm was addicting — not just the winning itself, but the way it felt to own a moment, to be completely in sync with myself.

People didn’t always celebrate me the way it looked from the outside. Yes, there were moments of admiration, but more often, I felt a quiet isolation. It’s lonely at the top. At the peak, I wasn’t untouchable — I was misunderstood. People saw the trophies, the jersey, the highlight reels. Few took the time to see the person behind it all.

The hardest moment of my career wasn’t losing a match or missing a shot. It was stepping away from Team USA. I devoted 15 years of my life to wearing those three letters across my chest. Team USA gave me the best opportunities in the world, shaped my habits, my discipline, my sense of pride. But when I walked away, I didn’t just leave behind a team — I felt like I was leaving behind myself. For so long, I had told myself my identity was Team USA. Without it, who even was I? The confusion was heavy. I felt stripped bare, like my worth had walked out the door with that jersey.

And yet, walking away also opened the door to another role I had dreamed of my whole life: becoming a mom. That has always been my greatest goal — bigger than any medal, deeper than any title. Shifting from Team USA to motherhood was its own kind of transition, but one that brought me back to who I truly am at the core. Being a mom has redefined purpose for me in ways no competition ever could.

What grounds me now isn’t performance — it’s impact. All those years of training, sacrifice, and learning under pressure weren’t wasted. They became tools I could use in new ways. Today, my fire comes from helping others see what they’re capable of. Through Beyond the Lanes curriculums, workshops, and the Elite Youth Tour, I get to take everything the sport gave me and pour it into the next generation. That’s where the joy lives now. Watching a kid light up when they discover their potential. Seeing someone realize they’re stronger than they thought. That feeling is as powerful as any medal I ever won.

I no longer need performance to define me. Bowling doesn’t dictate my worth — but it will always be part of me. Not as my identity, but as my gift. And gifts are meant to be shared.

So here’s the truth, for the athlete, the high achiever, the one staring at the end of a chapter: your sport is not who you are. It’s something you do. And what you do will change. But what you’ve learned? That stays with you. The discipline, the resilience, the lessons forged in competition — those are yours forever.

People won’t remember the medals or the titles. They’ll remember the impact you had. They’ll remember how you treated people, how you showed up, how you gave back. That’s the legacy that never fades.

Life is a series of evolutions. We are always becoming, always stepping into what’s next. The spotlight will fade, chapters will close, but that isn’t the end — it’s the invitation. To grow, to evolve, to embrace the next version of yourself. And that journey never ends.