In practice and in games, my mind sets—on winning. In order to score the point, I sprawl out on the floor or push myself through two more reps just to get a 1 cm increase on my vertical. Because there stands the deciding factor of who achieves victory and who leaves in defeat.
It dates back six years. And looking back, it’s hard to see how I got here. But I finally feel like I am starting to be on top. Volleyball. The magnitude of training. The dedication.

Passion and drive crowd my stomach after I put the ball down, get a block, or a pass. It’s like the flapping of a bird’s wings.
Referees blow whistles on surrounding courts and people cram in corners. The noise. The chaos. The constant buzz of chatter. For me, these distractions add to this rush. The fear of making the first mistake—it is all part of the game. Maybe that’s what entices me. One block, kill, or dig. That’s all it takes.
The sweat beads on my forehead, and slowly rolls down. A drip stings my eye. It’s game point of our final match at Nationals. My setter gives me the sign and I acknowledge her with a nod. My attention snaps back to the server and the ball races across the net.
Everyone’s focus is up. An over pass.
The ball smashes on my court, but it’s dug up. I swing back to the 10-foot line to take my approach. Adrenaline fuels me. The ball is set. I pound my legs into the ground, gaining momentum, driving my arms back.
As I sore through the air, I look. I look for that one spot. I look for the open spot where I can crush the ball and gain the point. And with a snap of the wrist and pull of my arm, the ball whizzes to the ground. The crowd screams shrills of delight. We won and all I want is to savor this moment. Shaking hands with the other team, my one hope is that we do the same next year.