On Eating Lunch in the Library

The library was quiet.

Books on the shelves. A hum from the fluorescent lights. My lunch bag on the table in front of me.

That’s where I ate sometimes in middle school. Not because I wanted to. Because I didn’t know where I fit in.

Everyone else was grouped up. Laughing. Belonging. And I was there with my sandwich, wondering what was wrong with me.

Here’s what I know now that I wish I’d known then.

Nothing was wrong with me. I just wasn’t willing to blindly follow what other people were doing. And sometimes that costs you a lunch table.

But it also hands you something back.

For years in my competitive life, people judged me. They had opinions about who I was before they ever had a real conversation with me. They painted a picture, hung it on the wall, and called it the truth.

It was hard. Really hard. Choosing to keep showing up as myself while other people were writing a different story about me.

I could have become what they said. In some ways, that would have been easier.

Slip into the story they wrote. Stop fighting to be seen accurately. Let the picture on the wall do the talking.

But that’s not bowling. That’s not life. That’s not me.

Here’s what I’ve learned about uniqueness.

You stop comparing. You stop flinching when someone else’s highlight reel shows up on your screen. You stop auditioning for approval from people who were never going to hand it to you anyway.

You show up 100%. Not 80% because you’re worried about what someone might say. Not 60% because you’re scaling yourself down to fit someone else’s lane.

100%. Every approach. Every frame. Every room you walk into.

That’s not arrogance. That’s alignment.

To the young athlete reading this:

Don’t be afraid to stand out.

Set the trends. Don’t just follow them. The ones who change the sport, change the room, change the game… they were never the ones blending in.

Be you 100% of the time. No matter who’s watching. No matter who has an opinion. No matter whether today is your best day or your hardest one.

Never dim your shine.

And do everything out of kindness.

Because kindness is undefeated. You cannot lose when you lead with it. You cannot regret it. You cannot look back and wish you’d been a little colder, a little quieter, a little more like everyone else.

The library taught me something I didn’t understand at the time.

Sitting alone with a sandwich isn’t the worst thing. Shrinking yourself to avoid it is.

You were never meant to blend in. You were built to stand out with purpose, with kindness, and with a clarity that doesn’t need the crowd’s permission.

So stand out.

The world already has enough people trying to look like everyone else.

Becoming Over Achieving

March always feels like a reset.

Everything starts to wake up again. Growth returns. Not all at once, but little by little. And it makes me think about my own growth. Not just what I’m doing, but who I’m becoming.

Because for a long time, success looked different to me.

When I first started winning, it was more selfish. I wanted to prove myself. I wanted to reach my goals. I wanted people to see what I could do and how far I could go.

That drive mattered. It pushed me. It helped me discover what I was capable of.

But over time, something shifted.

Success stopped being just about me. It became about impact. About how many people I could reach doing something I love. About leaving bowling better than I found it.

And that change gave everything more meaning.

Because goals will always matter. Achievements will always be part of the journey. But they are not the whole story. At some point, you realize it’s not just about what you accomplish, it’s about what you contribute along the way.

I’ve also learned that growth doesn’t always show up on paper.

Some of the biggest growth you’ll experience can’t be measured. It won’t always show up in results or stats. It’s something you feel before you can prove it.

It’s awareness.

It’s realizing you’re not the same person you used to be. You think differently. You handle things better. You stay more steady when things don’t go your way.

You recover faster. You don’t let one moment define you like you used to.

That kind of growth doesn’t always get recognized, but it’s real.

And it matters, because failure is part of all of this.

Failure will either frustrate you or shape you.

It will either take your joy, or force you to find it in a deeper place.

That’s a choice.

And that’s where intentional persistence comes in.

Not just showing up and going through the motions, but choosing to stay locked in. Choosing to keep growing. Choosing to keep your joy, even when things aren’t going your way.

Because if your joy is only tied to results, you’ll always feel like something is missing.

But if you learn to find it in the process, in the growth, in the chance to do what you love, everything changes.

For me, it all comes back to this:

Who I’m becoming matters more than what I’m achieving.

I want to keep growing. I want to make an impact. I want to leave the sport better than I found it.

That’s the legacy I care about.

Not just what I accomplished, but how many people I was able to reach along the way. How many lives I could make better by doing something I love.

The Mental Anchor That Keeps Me Focused All Year

January has a way of turning the volume up.

New goals. Fresh starts. Clean calendars. Resolutions that invite you to stretch into something more disciplined, more focused, more aligned than the year before.

I actually like resolutions. I like clarity. I like deciding, on purpose, what I’m moving toward instead of drifting into another year on autopilot.

What I don’t like is the pressure that can quietly attach itself to them. The unspoken belief that you need to start strong or you’re already behind. That if things feel heavy, uncomfortable, or unclear, you must be doing something wrong.

That’s why I don’t rely on resolutions alone.

I pair them with something steadier.

An anchor.

An anchor doesn’t drag you forward. It doesn’t rush you. It doesn’t demand momentum on days when momentum isn’t available. It simply keeps you grounded when the water gets rough, when emotions spike, when perspective narrows.

Mine is simple, but I return to it constantly.

What is this teaching me in this moment?
And then I ask:
Will this matter in 10 years? Will I even remember it?

If the answer is no, I let it go.

Not in a dismissive way. Not in a pretend-it-doesn’t-hurt way. I don’t skip over the feeling or try to “positive think” my way out of it. I let myself feel it fully. I sit with the discomfort. I marinate in what feels hard long enough to understand it.

Every difficult moment has information in it. Once I’ve listened, once the lesson is clear, I release the rest. The unnecessary weight. The looping thoughts. The emotional charge that wants to follow me into every other part of my day.

That process is the anchor.

I use it anytime I make the wrong decision.
Anytime I feel uneasy about how something unfolded.
Anytime a conversation lingers longer than it should.
Anytime a situation feels heavier in my body than it deserves to.

Sometimes the moment feels so big it takes over everything. It’s the first thing you think about in the morning and the last thing you replay at night. It pulls your focus away from work, from people, from the present. You’re technically moving through the day, but mentally you’re stuck.

In those moments, perspective feels impossible. You’re not observing the storm. You’re inside it.

That’s when this anchor helps me get to the other side.

The questions don’t make the situation disappear. They don’t magically make it easier. What they do is create space. They widen the frame. They remind me that this moment is part of my life, not the definition of it.

Most things that feel overwhelming right now will not carry the same weight with time. Some will fade completely. Others will leave behind a lesson and nothing more. Remembering that doesn’t invalidate the pain. It gives it a container.

And that matters when you’re trying to stay aligned with the bigger picture of who you’re becoming.

If I were helping someone create their own mental anchor, I’d start with one skill before any specific phrase.

The ability to step back.

To look at the situation as if it weren’t your life, but someone else’s. To create just enough distance to see clearly instead of reactively.

Ask yourself this: what would you say to your best friend if they were sitting across from you, explaining the exact same situation?

You wouldn’t rush them. You wouldn’t judge them. You wouldn’t minimize what they’re feeling. You’d probably listen first. Then you’d offer perspective. Compassion. Honesty. You’d remind them of what they can control and what they don’t need to carry.

That voice is already inside you.

With practice, it can become your anchor.

Resolutions give direction. They help you name what matters and where you want to go.

Anchors give stability. They keep you steady when the path feels unclear or the emotions run high.

When you have both, you don’t lose yourself in the process of trying to grow. You move forward with intention, without letting every hard moment knock you off course.

That’s what keeps me focused all year.
Not pressure.
Not perfection.

Perspective.

Permission to Be a Work in Progress

As the year comes to a close, I always feel this subtle pressure to arrive somewhere.

To have answers.
To be clearer.
To be more put together than I actually feel.

But the truth is, this past year didn’t teach me how to finish things perfectly.
It taught me how to keep going imperfectly and with more honesty.

Lately, I’m learning to accept the parts of myself that are still under construction. The parts that don’t have clean edges yet. The parts that are evolving in real time. I’m realizing that growth doesn’t always look like a straight line forward. Sometimes it looks like a pause. Sometimes it looks like a pivot. Sometimes it looks like letting go of an idea that once mattered deeply but no longer fits who you’re becoming.

And there’s magic in that.

Some ideas are only meant to live with us for a season. Some dreams change shape. Some goals expire, not because we failed, but because we grew.
Giving yourself permission to pivot isn’t quitting. It’s listening.

That’s where progress over perfection really comes in.

For me, it shows up in the smallest, most ordinary ways.

It’s tidying up part of the house even when I don’t have time to do it all.
It’s practicing for 25 minutes instead of skipping altogether because I don’t have a full hour.
It’s launching something knowing there will be kinks, adjustments, and lessons waiting on the other side.

Progress over perfection is choosing movement instead of waiting for ideal conditions. It’s understanding that momentum is built through imperfect action, not flawless planning.

And honestly, being a work in progress is what connects us.

I tell the people I work with on the lanes all the time: you will never fully master the sport of bowling. It doesn’t matter if you just picked up a ball for the first time or if you’re a seasoned pro. There is always something to improve. A detail to refine. A lesson to learn.

That’s not discouraging. That’s the beauty of it.

The moment you decide you’re done, you stop paying attention. You become complacent. You stall out. But when you stay curious, when you stay open to learning, you stay alive in the process. You stay connected to yourself and to others walking the same path.

We are all works in progress. Always.

And that’s why self-compassion matters more than we think.

Give yourself grace when things don’t go well.
Be gentle with yourself when you feel overwhelmed.
Give yourself permission to slow down, even when the world tells you to charge ahead.

Self-compassion isn’t weakness. It’s a skill. One that allows you to recover faster, adapt better, and stay in the game longer. It’s what keeps progress sustainable instead of exhausting.

As this year ends, I’m not asking myself if I did everything right.
I’m asking if I stayed honest.
If I kept learning.
If I gave myself room to grow instead of demanding perfection.

Maybe that’s enough.

Maybe the goal was never to arrive fully formed, but to keep becoming.

So if you’re ending this year unfinished, uncertain, or still figuring it out, you’re not behind.

You’re right on time.

The Champion’s Secret: Staying Grounded When Life Gets Loud

The world has a way of getting loud. Not just the kind of loud you can hear, but the kind that fills your head and heart until you can’t tell what’s yours anymore. The noise of expectations. The pull to do more, be more, say yes to everything.

And if you’re wired like me, ambitious, passionate, a little too good at juggling it all, you probably know how easy it is to drown in that noise. I say yes to too much because I want to show up for everyone. I want to be the best version of myself in every lane of life. But sometimes, all that yes adds up to chaos.

Between raising kids, leading a professional career, and trying to carve space for the people and projects I love, I can feel myself getting swept up in the current. The calendar fills. The to-do lists stack. The quiet moments vanish. And then, without even realizing it, I’ve lost my footing.

That’s usually my cue. The overwhelm hits, and it’s loud. I can feel the tension in my chest, the short fuse in my patience, the dull hum of exhaustion that lingers no matter how much coffee I drink. That’s how I know I’m out of alignment. Not because something catastrophic happened, but because I’ve drifted too far from center.

And that’s the thing about being a high performer or a parent or just a human who cares deeply. It’s not always the big failures that throw us off balance. It’s the slow build. The constant motion. The quiet forgetting of ourselves while we try to hold everything else together.

When that happens, I’ve learned to shut off.
Not quit. Just pause.

Sometimes that looks like taking a walk by myself. No phone, no podcast, just my feet on the ground and the sound of my own breathing. Sometimes it’s sleeping in without guilt or watching a reality show where nothing matters except who’s getting voted off the island. Sometimes it’s reading a book that takes me far away from my world for a little while.

We all have our version of escape. The form doesn’t matter. What matters is the pause. The act of stepping away so you can return stronger.

When the Holidays Hit Early

As soon as the calendar turned to November 1, Jersey started building her Christmas list. She has already decorated her room for Christmas, lights, stockings, the whole thing.

I have a personal rule that I don’t decorate for Christmas until December 1. But every time Jersey brings it up, I feel my shoulders tighten a little. Because, let’s be honest, this is the season where moms go crazy. The planning. The ordering. The presents. The events. The cookies. The everything.

It’s funny, isn’t it? This time of year is supposed to be about connection and joy, yet it often becomes the season where we feel most stretched. The pressure to make everything magical can make us forget that we are part of the magic too.

At a time when we should just be enjoying each other, I find myself feeling overwhelmed and, honestly, a bit like I’m drowning. But that’s when I have to stop and remind myself that it’s okay to slow down. It’s okay to enjoy the little things and not do all the things. The holidays don’t have to be perfect to be meaningful.

When I can remember that, I feel my breath return.

Coming Back to Center

When I actually give myself permission to pause, I remember that being grounded isn’t about standing still. It’s about returning, over and over again. Back to what matters. Back to gratitude. Back to myself.

Because gratitude is the anchor. It pulls you back when everything else starts spinning. Even on the busiest days, when I take a moment to list what I’m thankful for, a conversation with my kids, the smell of coffee, the people who make me laugh, it shifts something inside me. Gratitude doesn’t erase the chaos, but it softens it. It gives the noise less power.

And maybe that’s the lesson in this season. Especially as we head into times like Thanksgiving, when emotions and schedules both run high. The holidays are full of joy, but they’re also full of pressure to do it all, to make it perfect, to show up smiling even when we’re stretched thin.

So here’s my reminder to you, and to me:
You don’t have to earn your rest.
You don’t have to prove your worth through productivity.
And you definitely don’t have to be perfect to be present.

If you’re feeling maxed out, take a break. Go somewhere that fills your cup instead of emptying it. Spend time with people who make you laugh until your stomach hurts. Step outside your normal routine. Shake up the monotony.

Because the truth is, being grounded isn’t about doing everything right. It’s about remembering who you are when everything feels wrong.

It’s about holding both, gratitude for what’s good, and grace for what’s hard.

So as the pace picks up and the lists get longer, choose to slow down. Let gratitude steady your breath. Let rest be your rebellion. The world will always demand more, but you don’t have to answer every call. The real power is in knowing when to pause. That’s where champions are made, in the quiet moments when they choose to come back to themselves.

When the Spotlight Fades: Identity Beyond Achievement

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.