I was never a standout. There was nothing particularly special about my abilities as an athlete. I wasn't the fastest or the best on my team. You wouldn't see my name under a list of All Conference or All State selections, and you certainly won't find me in my high school's hall of fame. Even as a captain, I still didn't manage to receive my team's MVP Leadership Award my senior year after 5 long years of tireless dedication to the sport that made me who I am. And for a while, that broke my heart.

By my senior year, I had come to expect that I would probably never be recognized for my efforts on the field. The best I could get out of my coach was an All-District nomination my junior year, which even she didn't vote me for. I would be lying if I said I wasn't somewhat disappointed, but I also knew deep down not to expect anything. I wasn't great, I was good at best, and even that might be arrogant to say. Dribbling circles around the other team and scoring a handful of goals wasn't really my style. I preferred the "dirty" work. Defensive tackles and distributing the ball to my teammates. That is what I was good at. I was also good at leading, bringing a team together. I had spent the previous 4 years of my high school and club experience watching drama unfold, unfair treatment, and lack of inclusiveness possess the culture of my teams. Even though I had strived to be a leader all throughout my years, when I finally got the bid for captain my senior year, I took on the role with pride and responsibility.

I admit, I was not perfect. I made a lot of mistakes. I often got in my own head and let every loss and team mistake become my fault, my responsibility. A pass gone awry: my fault, I should have been better. A 5-game losing streak: my fault, this had never happened. Breaking down in tears in the middle of practice: my fault, I should have never let my personal issues show face as weakness to my team. They were counting on me to be strong, to lead by example, and be the best I could be. I wanted to be perfect so bad that I even tried to quit because I thought my team would be better off without me.

I was sitting at the middle of the table with my teammates and best friends surrounding me. The coaches announced the MVP Leadership award, and all eyes shot to me when it wasn't my name being called. Everyone, including a small part of me, thought it was going to be me. As I looked around, the looks I got from my teammates were sympathetic, but what they didn't know was that this feeling was all too familiar. I was and am genuinely so happy that my best friend and co-captain got this one. We had spent many late nights in the parking lot after games crying and trying to come up with solutions on what we could do to help fix our team. She was truly a fantastic leader and role model, but I definitely choked back tears when she came back to the table and whispered, "This is your award too". For once in my life, I wanted to be recognized as someone worth having on a team. The moment I came home I knew I couldn't choke back tears anymore. I sobbed and sobbed for hours. I told my mom I didn't want to do it anymore. I wasn't sure how much longer I could keep pretending like it didn't hurt. I wasn't sure how much longer I could go without an ounce of validation from the coaches that I looked up to so much. It may seem dramatic of me to be crying over a stupid award that at the end of the day, doesn't really matter, but for me, this was a lifetime's worth of hurt that culminated into this one moment. A moment I thought it would be my time to shine and be recognized for my leadership efforts. I spent a lot of time beating myself up over it. I questioned if I was really as good of a leader as I thought I had tried so hard to be. I decided I wasn't. I wasn't loud enough, I wasn't tough enough, I wasn't confident enough. I thought, simply I wasn't enough.

I was never the type to yell at my teammates loud enough so everyone could hear it. As loud as I was off the field, I was soft spoken and quiet on the field. If there was something I wanted to say to someone, I would wait for a break in the game or a moment to speak face to face, rather than across the field. I waited until halftime to address the team as a whole, when I was calm and had a moment to catch my breath. I never wanted anything I said to come off in the wrong tone, so I was careful about when and where I chose to speak. I was the first one to arrive at practice and the last one to leave, making sure everyone got to where they needed to be. I loved those little moments off the field at a water break or on the bus rides home, where a dance battle or concert might break out. That was where I got to bond with my team, bring everyone together through silliness and laughter. I was the one who stayed after practice, taking shots at an empty net or doing "beast-mode" to refine my skills. I picked up the freshman's backpack who had more to carry than they had hands. I texted that teammate after practice who needed a confidence boost or the one who had a really good practice, because I wanted to let them know to keep up the good work. I pushed a girl down from behind because she was running her mouth to my teammates, and despite getting a yellow, I didn't tolerate anyone coming for my teammates. And it was me who when we lost on my senior night, that wiped my tears and saved them for later, because even if it was my night, it wasn't about me. Despite my disappointment, they needed to know I was proud to be apart of this team and proud of them. Maybe my lack of a voice on the field was a self-doubt thing, a fear to be loud and bold because for so many years I never mustered the strength to be heard. But for me, this is the way I chose to lead. I chose to lead quietly, and by example. And no, it didn't necessarily get me recognition or that award, but I learned to be ok with that. Because what I gained from this experience was far greater than what any award would ever get me.

I'm not writing this out of spite or to justify that I deserved something I didn't get. I'm writing this to tell the athlete that wants to be a leader or doesn't know how to be, to just be yourself. What I realized, is that there is no one way to be leader. There are leaders who are loud, vocal on the field, and make their presence known. They are tough and bold and make it known to the world. But there are also leaders who are quiet, who let their actions speak louder than words. To be quiet or lead in a different way does not make you less of one. So, what I want to ask you is, what kind of leader are you in the face of adversity? When your team is losing every game, when you have a bad practice, or when you are injured? Who are you then? It's easy being a leader when everything is going right. But what kind of an example are you going to set when shit hits the fan? What kind of leader are you when no one is watching? Because these are the kind of moments where showing up as a leader is the only thing that matters, even if it goes unrecognized. Will you run from the responsibility or rise to the occasion? I hope you are the one who chooses to rise, even in the face of adversity.

You don't need to be the best player on your team to be the greatest leader. You don't need justification or validation from your coaches to be the greatest leader. You don't need a title or award to be the greatest leader. You need yourself. You need to bring yourself to show up in moments when your team needs you the most. Your strength as a leader doesn't come from an award or recognition, it comes from the impact you choose to have on those around you. So be the one who carries the ball bag, even if you did it yesterday. Be the one who sits with the lonely and nervous freshman on the bus. Be the one who's presence brings out the best in each and every person and makes everybody feel like a somebody. Be the person you needed when you were younger. To be a leader is not a privilege or a title of "captain", but the responsibility of everyone. A responsibility that needs no recognition to have been meaningful and impactful.

So be loud or quiet, be in the game or on the sidelines, but be brave in your pursuit as a leader. Your voice needs to be heard.

With gratitude,

Ella