Sometimes I find myself gazing out of my bedroom window, looking at the pitching mound my dad built for my sister and me so many years ago. Although it’s mostly covered with leaves and the field dirt has been swept away, I know I could still go out there, brush aside the debris, and find the remnants of our old pitching rubber. Mangled from cleats and more yellow than white now, the rubber stays as a regal reminder of our days as softball players. I threw countless pitches on that mound, but now it seems like a lifetime ago.
I first picked up a softball when I was 8 years old, and I didn’t put it down until I was 23. For more than half my life, I spent every year rotating between club ball, fall ball, and high school league. I dedicated countless hours to private batting lessons, pitching sessions, and practicing with my dad four to five times a week. When I was recruited to play in college, my existence was devoted to practices, games, conditioning, therapy with the athletic trainer, packing, traveling, and trying to keep up with school.
Looking back on it now, I didn’t really think I would miss my sport that much. Sure, I would miss all the traveling, my teammates, and the constant support network, but four years of 60-game seasons had worn me out—especially as a pitcher. Standing on the stage at graduation, I saw nothing but life and freedom stretching before me. But in all the chaos, excitement, and celebration of commencement, I was blind to the crisis I would soon endure.
So as the Benchwarmer, I am here to warn current and aspiring collegiate athletes about the challenges of retiring from their respective sports. This piece is written by a former athlete with empathy for collegiate athletes. I can see why it might be hard for people to empathize with us; many of us, after all, were paid to play our sport and go to school—what could be better than that? Through our athletic endeavors, we were given the tools to succeed in our careers and personal lives.
But the problems we face here strike us on a very personal level, and it’s something for which I think nearly 400,000 NCAA athletes aren’t readily prepared. While writing my most recent cover on athletes and their identity after college, I learned a lot about what I went through after retirement and discovered that I wasn’t alone in my struggles.
When I was done playing, I hardly knew what to do with myself. I’d spent 15 years defining myself as a student-athlete; my schedule was consistently regimented. In addition to a poor job market, I struggled to fill all the “free time” I suddenly had. While I didn’t miss the sport, I missed the life I’d built around it. At 23, it would seem silly to look in the mirror and ask “who am I?”—but that’s exactly what I found myself doing. The student-athlete title was something I would never get back.
Games won or lost became memories of seasons played, and an oversized glove grew from a Saturday morning ritual to encompass the entire base of my existence, but not any more. I was softball and softball was me—but post-collegiate play became convincing myself I wasn’t a “has been.”
Essentially, a majority of collegiate athletes experience an identity crisis after they retire from sports. The easiest way I can make people understand is this: Say you were an artist, a pianist, or a dancer. Perhaps you’re injured or the opportunities just aren’t there and, suddenly, that entire part of your existence is gone. For athletes, the foundation of our characters is ripped out, and we struggle to fill the void. Finding yourself in your 20s is no easy task.
It’s easy to see why this happens to athletes: Our identities as players become inextricably linked to our senses of self and self-worth. Sports is closely tied to the community. We spent years with friends, family, and coaches cheering us on in games. When we performed better, we felt better about ourselves. We wore team gear constantly, further signifying our status as athlete.
But once that is gone, on what do we base our self-worth?
As more studies are showing, there are unforeseen consequences when an athlete solely identifies with his or her role as an athlete. We are conditioned to focus on our athletic strengths to the point that we neglect developing other hobbies and strengths.
Not until I spoke with Kim Ensing, the athletic director at Allan Hancock College, did I realize that we need to approach athletes with more of their personhood in mind. Much of this falls on athletic staff and coaches, in the sense that they should be aware of athletes’ personal/professional goals outside of their sports. Taking into account and supporting the person behind the athlete will go a long way toward making a smooth transition.
Perhaps if I had been treated that way, things would have gone more smoothly and I wouldn’t have felt so lost without my athletic role to guide me. Then again, I think it would have been hard either way.
The process of rediscovering yourself after athletics is filled with numerous challenges, sadness, loss, and more questions than answers. While it is hard, I advise athletes to make the best of this time. Now you have the chance to define yourself on your own terms, explore what you do and don’t like outside of a structured organization, and discover your new role in this world. Try new things, stay active, coach a team, and use the determination you gained from your sport to power through the many obstacles of life. Most importantly, plan wisely for your impending careers!
My biggest advice is this: Never let go of who you were as an athlete. Even though that life is gone, those memories will forever be a part of you because they will help make you into the person you’re going to become.
But what do I know? I’m just a Benchwarmer searching for the real me.
Staff Writer Kristina Sewell is building a new identity every day. Contact her at ksewell@santamariasun.com.
This article appears in May 22-29, 2014.