My writing: essays from beyond the lanes. Stories, lessons, and the mental game work that builds champions on the lanes and in life. A new letter when the next one's ready.
I was twelve years old when my parents handed me a mental game book. I read it. I didn’t understand half of it. And that turned out to be fine. You don’t have to get it all at once. A sentence that meant nothing at twelve shows up at twenty, right when you need it. The mental game isn’t extra credit. It’s the game.
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My friends were at the football game. I was on my way to a bowling tournament. That was a lot of my high school weekends. I chose that every time. But the part I want to talk about isn't the sacrifice. It's a lie student-athletes tell themselves all the time. That balance means doing everything, all at once, all the way. It doesn't.
Everyone was saying yes. I said no. It wasn't dramatic. It was just clear. I didn't want to do it, so I didn't. That has nothing to do with bowling. And it has everything to do with how I bowl. Some of the most powerful things I bring to the lanes, I learned off them.
There's no skipping to the good part. Everyone wants a shortcut. But you get out what you put in — and that means going through all the bad parts. The moments you feel your worst are the most important moments. A loss is telling you something. If your eyes are open to what it's saying, that lesson is what propels you to win.
For most of my life, "bowler" was practically part of my name. Diandra, the bowler. That is how people introduced me. That is how I introduced myself. And somewhere along the way, I stopped noticing where the word ended and I began. Bowling is not who I am. It is something I do. And that distinction changes everything.
Your average just reset to zero. New sheet. New season. Before you throw the first ball, I want you to ask yourself one question — the same one I ask every bowler I work with, and the same one I've asked myself before every season I ever bowled. When this is over, how will you measure success?
Take off the bowling shirt. No logo. No name on the back. No score next to it. Who's left? I ask athletes that question a lot, and I have watched a few of them go quiet. Not because they don't have an answer. Because nobody ever asked them to find one. A score is one afternoon's handwriting. It is not the whole story of you.
For most of my career, I did not rest. Not really. I trained, I competed, I traveled, I came home, and I did it again. Rest was something that happened to other people — or something you earned — and I was never quite convinced I had earned it. Here is what I know now that I did not know then: rest is not the prize at the end of the work. Rest is part of the work.
Performing on the big stage — presence, pressure, and the privilege of the moment. There’s a moment right before you bowl on the big stage. The ball feels heavier than it did in warm-up. The lights are hot. Really…